The Tyrant's Tomb

Commodus was still struggling to get up.
Caligula stabbed at Frank’s chest, but the praetor wasn’t there. Instead, a
small bird—a common swift, judging from its boomerang-shaped tail—shot
straight toward the emperor’s face.
Frank knew his birds. Swifts aren’t large or impressive. They aren’t
obvious threats like falcons or eagles, but they are incredibly fast and
maneuverable.
He drove his beak into Caligula’s left eye and zoomed away, leaving the
emperor shrieking and swatting at the air.
Frank materialized in human form right next me. His eyes looked sunken
and glazed. His bad arm hung limp at his side.
“If you really want to help,” he said in a low voice, “hobble Commodus.
I don’t think I can hold them both.”
“What—?”
He transformed back into a swift and was gone—darting at Caligula,
who cursed and slashed at the tiny bird.
Commodus charged me once more. This time he was smart enough not
to announce himself by howling. By the time I noticed him bearing down on
me—blood bubbling from his nostrils, a deep guardrail-shaped groove in his
forehead—it was too late.
He slammed his fist into my gut, the exact spot I didn’t want to be hit. I
collapsed in a moaning, boneless heap.
Outside, the enemy troops erupted in a fresh round of cheering.
Commodus again turned to accept their adulation. I’m ashamed to admit that
instead of feeling relieved to have a few extra seconds of life, I was annoyed
that he wasn’t executing me faster.
Every cell in my miserable mortal body screamed, Just finish it! Getting
killed could not hurt any worse than the way I already felt. If I died, maybe
I’d at least come back as a zombie and get to bite off Commodus’s nose.
I was now certain Diana wasn’t coming to the rescue. Maybe I had
messed up the ritual, as Ella feared. Maybe my sister hadn’t received the
call. Or maybe Jupiter had forbidden her from helping on pain of sharing my
mortal punishment.
Whatever the case, Frank, too, must have known our situation was
hopeless. We were well past the “buying time” phase. We were now into the
“dying as a futile gesture sure is painful” phase.