The Tyrant's Tomb

“Yes, yes,” Caligula said. “If possible.”
He seemed to savor those words like a beautiful lie. His eyes glittered in
the green artificial sunset. “Either way, this will be fun.”
I woke up alone, the sun baking my face. For a second I thought I might be
in a deck chair next to Commodus, a tanning bib around my neck. But no.
The days when Commodus and I hung out together were long gone.
I sat up, groggy, disoriented, and dehydrated. Why was it still light
outside?
Then I realized, judging from the angle of the sun coming in the room, it
must have been about noon. Once again, I’d slept through the night and half
a day. I still felt exhausted.
I pressed gently on my bandaged gut. I was horrified to find the wound
tender again. The purple lines of infection had darkened. This could only
mean one thing: it was time for a long-sleeved shirt. No matter what
happened over the next twenty-four hours, I would not add to Meg’s worries.
I would tough it out until the moment I keeled over.
Wow. Who even was I?
By the time I changed clothes and hobbled out of Bombilo’s coffee shop,
most of the legion had gathered at the mess hall for lunch. As usual, the
dining room bustled with activity. Demigods, grouped by cohort, reclined on
couches around low tables while aurae whisked overhead with platters of
food and pitchers of drink. Hanging from the cedar rafters, war-game
pennants and cohort standards rippled in the constant breeze. When they’d
finished eating, diners rose cautiously and walked away hunched over, lest
they get decapitated by a flying plate of cold cuts. Except for the Lares, of
course. They didn’t care what sort of delicacies flew through their
ectoplasmic noggins.
I spotted Frank at the officers’ table, deep in conversation with Hazel and
the rest of the centurions. Reyna was nowhere in sight—perhaps she was
catching a nap or preparing for the afternoon’s war drills. Given what we
were facing tomorrow, Frank looked remarkably relaxed. As he chatted with
his officers, he even cracked a smile, which seemed to put the others at ease.
How simple it would be to destroy their fragile confidence, I thought,
just by describing the flotilla of artillery yachts I’d seen in my dream. Not
yet, I decided. No sense spoiling their meal.