The Tyrant's Tomb

humiliated him in the team’s home stadium only a few weeks before. (Of
course we’d humiliated ourselves, too, but I wanted to forget that part.)
His face was almost as I remembered: annoyingly handsome, with a
haughty chiseled profile and ringlets of golden hair framing his brow. The
skin around his eyes, however, looked as if it had been sandblasted. His
pupils were cloudy. The last time we’d met, I had blinded him with a burst of
godly radiance, and it was obvious he still hadn’t healed. That was the only
thing that pleased me about seeing him again.
In the other recliner sat Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus,
otherwise known as Caligula.
Rage tinted my dream blood-pink. How could he lounge there so relaxed
in his ridiculous captain’s outfit—those white slacks and boat shoes, that
navy jacket over a striped collarless shirt, that officer’s hat tilted at a rakish
angle on his walnut curls—when only a few days before, he had killed Jason
Grace? How dare he sip a refreshing iced beverage garnished with three
maraschino cherries (Three! Monstrous!) and smile with such selfsatisfaction?
Caligula looked human enough, but I knew better than to credit him with
any sort of compassion. I wanted to strangle him. Alas, I could do nothing
except watch and fume.
“Pilot,” Caligula called out lazily. “What’s our speed?”
“Five knots, sir,” said one of the uniformed mortals. “Should I increase?”
“No, no.” Caligula plucked out one of the maraschino cherries and
popped it in his mouth. He chewed and grinned, showing bright red teeth.
“In fact, let’s slow to four knots. The journey is half the fun!”
“Yessir!”
Commodus scowled. He swirled the ice in his own drink, which was
clear and bubbly with red syrup pooled at the bottom. He only had two
maraschino cherries, no doubt because Caligula would never allow
Commodus to equal him in anything.
“I don’t understand why we’re moving so slowly,” Commodus
grumbled. “At top speed, we could have been there by now.”
Caligula chuckled. “My friend, it’s all about timing. We have to allow
our deceased ally his best window of attack.”
Commodus shuddered. “I hate our deceased ally. Are you sure he can be
controlled—”