The Tyrant's Tomb

Not again. My heart.
How many syllables is
“Total hopelessness”?
EVEN IN MY WEAKENED condition, you’d think I would be able to stay
out of reach of a blind opponent.
You’d be wrong.
Commodus was only ten yards away when I shot my next arrow at him.
Somehow he dodged it, rushed in, and yanked the bow out of my hands. He
broke the weapon over his knee.
“RUDE!” I yelled.
In retrospect, that was not the way I should have spent that millisecond.
Commodus punched me square in the chest. I staggered backward and
collapsed on my butt, my lungs on fire, my sternum throbbing. A hit like that
should have killed me. I wondered if my godly strength had decided to make
a cameo appearance. If so, I squandered the opportunity to strike back. I was
too busy crawling away, crying in pain.
Commodus laughed, turning to his troops. “You see? He’s always the
one whimpering!”
His followers cheered. Commodus wasted valuable time basking in their
adulation. He couldn’t help being a showman. He also must’ve known I
wasn’t going anywhere.
I glanced at Frank. He and Caligula circled each other, occasionally
trading blows, testing each other’s defenses. With the arrowheads in his
shoulder, Frank had no choice but to favor his left side. He moved stiffly,