The Tyrant's Tomb

“We’ve discussed this.” Caligula’s singsong tone was light and airy and
pleasantly homicidal, as if to say: The next time you question me, I will
control you with some cyanide in your beverage. “You should trust me,
Commodus. Remember who aided you in your hour of need.”
“I’ve thanked you a dozen times already,” Commodus said. “Besides, it
wasn’t my fault. How was I supposed to know Apollo still had some light
left in him?” He blinked painfully. “He got the better of you—and your
horse, too.”
A cloud passed over Caligula’s face. “Yes, well, soon, we’ll make things
right. Between your troops and mine, we have more than enough power to
overwhelm the battered Twelfth Legion. And if they prove too stubborn to
surrender, we always have Plan B.” He called over his shoulder, “Oh,
Boost?”
A pandos hurried in from the aft deck, his enormous shaggy ears
flopping around him like throw rugs. In his hands was a large sheet of paper,
folded into sections like a map or set of instructions. “Y-yes, Princeps?”
“Progress report.”
“Ah.” Boost’s dark furry face twitched. “Good! Good, master! Another
week?”
“A week,” Caligula said.
“Well, sir, these instructions…” Boost turned the paper upside down and
frowned at it. “We are still locating all the ‘slot A’s’ on ‘assembly piece
sevens.’ And they did not send us enough lug nuts. And the batteries
required are not standard size, so—”
“A week,” Caligula repeated, his tone still pleasant. “Yet the blood moon
will rise in…”
The pandos winced. “Five days?”
“So you can have your work done in five days? Excellent! Carry on.”
Boost gulped, then scuttled away as fast as his furry feet could carry him.
Caligula smiled at his fellow emperor. “You see, Commodus? Soon
Camp Jupiter will be ours. With luck, the Sibylline Books will be in our
hands as well. Then we’ll have some proper bargaining power. When it’s
time to face Python and carve up our portions of the world, you’ll remember
who helped you…and who did not.”
“Oh, I’ll remember. Stupid Nero.” Commodus poked the ice cubes in his
drink. “Which one is this again, the Shirley Temple?”