The Tyrant's Tomb

I sing of dead plants
And heroic shrubberies
Inspiring stuff
SNEAKING OUT OF A Roman military camp should not have been so
easy.
Once we were safely through a hole in the fence, down a trench, through
a tunnel, past the pickets, and out of sight of the camp’s sentry towers, Don
was happy to explain how he’d arranged it all. “Dude, the place is designed
to keep out armies. It’s not meant to keep in individual legionnaires, or keep
out, you know, the occasional well-meaning faun who’s just looking for a
hot meal. If you know the patrol schedule and are willing to keep changing
up your entry points, it’s easy.”
“That seems remarkably industrious for a faun,” I noted.
Don grinned. “Hey, man. Slacking is hard work.”
“We’ve got a long walk,” Lavinia said. “Best keep moving.”
I tried not to groan. Another nighttime hike with Lavinia had not been on
my evening’s agenda. But I had to admit I was curious. What had she and
Don been arguing about before? Why had she wanted to talk to me earlier?
And where were we going? With her stormy eyes and the black cap over her
hair, Lavinia looked troubled and determined, less like a gawky giraffe, more
like a tense gazelle. I’d seen her father, Sergei Asimov, perform once with
the Moscow Ballet. He’d had that exact expression on his face before
launching into a grand jeté.