The Tyrant's Tomb

It was too much. I put my hand against the nearest wall. Another
innocent little girl made to suffer, like Meg McCaffrey, when Nero killed her
father…Like Georgina, when she was taken from her mothers in
Indianapolis. These three monstrous Roman emperors had shattered so many
lives. I had to put a stop to it.
Frank took my arm gently. “One foot in front of the other. That’s the only
way to do it.”
I had come here to support the Romans. Instead this Roman was
supporting me.
We made our way past cafés and storefronts. I tried to focus on anything
positive. The grape vines were budding. The fountains still had running
water. The buildings in this neighborhood were all intact.
“At least—at least the city didn’t burn,” I ventured.
Frank frowned like he didn’t see the cause for optimism. “What do you
mean?”
“That other line of prophecy: The words that memory wrought are set to
fire. That refers to Ella and Tyson’s work on the Sibylline Books, doesn’t it?
The Books must be safe, since you prevented the city from burning.”
“Oh.” Frank made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh.
“Yeah, funny thing about that…”
He stopped in front of a quaint-looking bookstore. Painted on the green
awning was the simple word LIBRI. Racks of used hardcovers were set out on
the sidewalk for browsing. Inside the window, a large orange cat sunned
itself atop a stack of dictionaries.
“Prophecy lines don’t always mean what you think they do.” Frank
rapped on the door: three sharp taps, two slow ones, then two fast ones.
Immediately, the door flew inward. Standing in the entrance was a barechested,
grinning Cyclops.
“Come in!” said Tyson. “I am getting a tattoo!”