The Tyrant's Tomb

break. Don’t judge us.)
When I was a god, I would often hover invisibly over the red-tiled
rooftops, or walk the streets in mortal form, enjoying the sights, sounds, and
smells of our imperial heyday.
It was not the same as ancient Rome, of course. They’d made quite a few
improvements. No slavery, for one thing. Better personal hygiene, for
another. Gone was the Subura—the jam-packed slum quarter with its firetrap
apartments.
Nor was New Rome a sad theme-park imitation, like a mock Eiffel
Tower in the middle of Las Vegas. It was a living city where modern and
ancient mixed freely. Walking through the Forum, I heard conversations in a
dozen languages, Latin among them. A band of musicians held a jam session
with lyres, guitars, and a washboard. Children played in the fountains while
adults sat nearby under trellises shaded with grape vines. Lares drifted here
and there, becoming more visible in the long afternoon shadows. All manner
of people mingled and chatted—one-headed, two-headed, even dog-headed
cynocephali who grinned and panted and barked to make their points.
This was a smaller, kinder, much-improved Rome—the Rome we always
thought mortals were capable of but never achieved. And, yes, of course we
gods came here for nostalgia, to relive those wonderful centuries when
mortals worshipped us freely across the empire, perfuming the air with burnt
sacrifices.
That may sound pathetic to you—like an oldies concert cruise, pandering
to over-the-hill fans of washed-up bands. But what can I say? Nostalgia is
one ailment immortality can’t cure.
As we approached the Senate House, I began to see vestiges of the recent
battle. Cracks in the dome glistened with silver adhesive. The walls of some
buildings had been hastily replastered. As with the camp, the city streets
seemed less crowded than I remembered, and every so often—when a
cynocephalus barked, or a blacksmith’s hammer clanged against a piece of
armor—the people nearby flinched at the noise, as if wondering whether
they should seek shelter.
This was a traumatized city, trying very hard to get back to normal. And
based on what I’d seen in my dreams, New Rome was about to be retraumatized
in just a few days.
“How many people did you lose?” I asked Frank.
I was afraid to hear numbers, but I felt compelled to ask.