The Tyrant's Tomb

He clapped me on my back and let me go.
I wanted to protest, You’re not the boss of me! I hadn’t come here to run
away on command. I could do that quite well on my own. I certainly wasn’t
going to allow another friend to sacrifice himself for my sake.
On the other hand, I didn’t know Frank’s plan. I’d have to wait and see
what he had in mind. Then I could decide what to do. Besides, if we stood
any chance of winning a death match against Commodus and Caligula, it
wouldn’t be on account of our superior strength and charming personalities.
We needed some serious, industrial-strength cheating.
The emperors strode toward us across the scorched and buckled asphalt.
Up close, their armor was even more hideous. Caligula’s breastplate
looked like it had been coated with glue, then rolled through the display
cases at Tiffany & Co.
“Well.” He gave us a smile as bright and cold as his jewel collection.
“Shall we?”
Commodus took off his gauntlets. His hands were huge and rough,
callused as if he’d been punching brick walls in his spare time. It was hard to
believe I had ever held those hands with affection.
“Caligula, you take Zhang,” he said. “I’ll take Apollo. I don’t need my
eyesight to find him. I’ll just follow my ears. He’ll be the one whimpering.”
I hated that he knew me so well.
Frank drew his sword. Blood still oozed from his shoulder wounds. I
wasn’t sure how he planned to remain standing, much less do battle. His
other hand brushed the cloth pouch that held his piece of firewood.
“So we’re clear on the rules,” he said. “There aren’t any. We kill you,
you die.”
Then he gestured at the emperors: Come and get it.