The Tyrant's Tomb

Reluctant arrow
Grant me this boon: permission
To skedaddleth
I HAD THE FIELD of Mars all to myself.
Since no war games were scheduled that evening, I could frolic through
the wasteland to my heart’s content, admiring the wreckage of chariots,
broken battlements, smoldering pits, and trenches filled with sharpened
spikes. Another romantic sunset stroll wasted because I had no one to share
it with.
I climbed an old siege tower and sat facing the northern hills. With a
deep breath, I reached into my quiver and pulled out the Arrow of Dodona.
I’d gone several days without talking to my annoying far-sighted projectile
weapon, which I considered a victory, but now, gods help me, I could think
of no one else to turn to.
“I need help,” I told it.
The arrow remained silent, perhaps stunned by my admission. Or
perhaps I’d pulled out the wrong arrow and I was talking to an inanimate
object.
Finally, the shaft rattled in my hand. Its voice resonated in my mind like
a thespian tuning fork: THY WORDS ARE TRUE. BUT IN WHAT SENSE
MEANEST THOU?
Its tone sounded less derisive than usual. That scared me.
“I…I am supposed to show strength,” I said. “According to Lupa, I’m
supposed to save the day somehow, or the pack—New Rome—will die. But