The Tyrant's Tomb

Meet the new Tarquin
Same as the old Tarquin, but
With a lot less flesh
SO…NO JOLLY TUNES on the ukulele, then.
Fine.
I silently followed Hazel down the steps into the merry-go-tomb.
As we descended, I wondered why Tarquin had chosen to reside under a
carousel. He had watched his wife run over her own father in a chariot.
Perhaps he liked the idea of an endless ring of horses and monsters circling
above his resting place, keeping guard with their fierce faces, even if they
were ridden mostly by mortal toddlers. (Who, I suppose, were fierce in their
own way.) Tarquin had a brutal sense of humor. He enjoyed tearing families
apart, turning their joy into anguish. He was not above using children as
human shields. No doubt he found it amusing to place his tomb under a
brightly colored kiddie ride.
My ankles wobbled in terror. I reminded myself there was a reason I was
climbing into this murderer’s lair. I couldn’t remember what that reason was
at the moment, but there had to be one.
The steps ended in a long corridor, its limestone walls decorated with
rows of plaster death masks. At first, this did not strike me as odd. Most
wealthy Romans kept a collection of death masks to honor their ancestors.
Then I noticed the masks’ expressions. Like the carousel animals above, the
plaster faces were frozen in panic, agony, rage, terror. These were not
tributes. They were trophies.