The Tyrant's Tomb

would ever get.
Hazel chewed her bottom lip in concentration, perhaps trying to extract
any good news from what I’d said. She seemed to find this harder than
pulling diamonds from the ground.
“Okay, look, guys, we knew the emperors were assembling secret
weapons. At least now we know what those weapons are. I’ll convey this
information to the praetors, but it doesn’t change anything. You all did a
great job in the morning drills”—she hesitated, then generously decided not
to add except for Apollo, who slept through it all—“and this afternoon, one
of our war games will be about boarding enemy ships. We can get prepared.”
From the expressions around the table, I gathered the Fifth Cohort was
not reassured. The Romans had never been known for their naval prowess.
Last I’d checked, the Camp Jupiter “navy” consisted of some old triremes
they only used for mock naval battles in the Colosseum, and one rowboat
they kept docked in Alameda. Drilling to board enemy ships would be less
about practicing a workable battle plan and more about keeping the
legionnaires busy so they wouldn’t think about their impending doom.
Thomas rubbed his forehead. “I hate my life.”
“Keep it together, legionnaire,” Hazel said. “This is what we signed up
for. Defending the legacy of Rome.”
“From its own emperors,” Thomas said miserably.
“I’m sorry to tell you,” I put in, “but the biggest threat to the empire was
often its own emperors.”
Nobody argued.
At the officers’ table, Frank Zhang stood. All around the room, flying
pitchers and platters froze in midair, waiting respectfully.
“Legionnaires!” Frank announced, managing a confident smile. “Relay
activities will recommence on the Field of Mars in twenty minutes. Drill like
your lives depend on it, because they do!”