The Tyrant’s Tomb

I stopped in my tracks, as if my own legs had turned into a marble pedestal. In my dream, Caligula had insisted that his pandai finish their work by the time the blood moon rose in five days. If what I observed had happened last night…that meant there were only four days left from today, which would make doomsday April 8, Lester’s birthday.

“What is it?” Frank asked. “Why is your face gray?”

“I—I think my father left me a warning,” I said. “Or perhaps a threat? And Terminus just pointed it out to me.”

“How can your birthday be a threat?”

“I’m mortal now. Birthdays are always a threat.” I fought down a wave of anxiety. I wanted to turn and run, but there was nowhere to go—only forward into New Rome, to gather more unwelcome information about my impending doom.

“Lead on, Frank Zhang,” I said halfheartedly, slipping my license back in my wallet. “Perhaps Tyson and Ella will have some answers.”



New Rome…the likeliest city on earth to find Olympian gods lurking in disguise. (Followed closely by New York, then Cozumel during spring 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 re-traumatized 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.

Frank glanced around us, checking if anyone else was in earshot. We were heading up one of New Rome’s many winding cobblestone streets into the residential neighborhoods.

“Hard to say,” he told me. “From the legion itself, at least twenty-five. That’s how many are missing from the roster. Our maximum strength is…was two hundred and fifty. Not that we actually have that many in camp at any given time, but still. The battle literally decimated us.”

I felt as if a Lar had passed through me. Decimation, the ancient punishment for bad legions, was a grim business: every tenth soldier was killed whether they were guilty or innocent.

“I’m so sorry, Frank. I should have…”

I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. I should have what? I was no longer a god. I could no longer snap my fingers and cause zombies to explode from a thousand miles away. I had never adequately appreciated such simple pleasures.

Frank pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “It was hardest on the civilians. A lot of retired legionnaires from New Rome came out to help. They’ve always acted as our reserves. Anyway, that line of prophecy you mentioned: Bodies fill the Tiber beyond count? That didn’t mean there were many bodies after the battle. It meant we couldn’t count our dead, because they disappeared.”

My gut wound began to seethe. “Disappeared how?”

“Some were dragged away when the undead retreated. We tried to get them all, but…” He turned up his palms. “A few got swallowed by the ground. Even Hazel couldn’t explain it. Most went underwater during the fight in the Little Tiber. The naiads tried to search and recover for us. No luck.”

He didn’t vocalize the truly horrible thing about this news, but I imagined he was thinking it. Their dead had not simply disappeared. They would be back—as enemies.

Frank kept his gaze on the cobblestones. “I try not to dwell on it. I’m supposed to lead, stay confident, you know? But like today, when we saw Terminus…There’s usually a little girl, Julia, who helps him out. She’s about seven. Adorable kid.”

“She wasn’t there today.”

“No,” Frank agreed. “She’s with a foster family. Her father and mother both died in the fight.”

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 bare-chested, grinning Cyclops.

“Come in!” said Tyson. “I am getting a tattoo!”