The Tyrant’s Tomb

I was now certain Diana wasn’t coming to the rescue. Maybe I had messed up the ritual, as Ella feared. Maybe my sister hadn’t received the call. Or maybe Jupiter had forbidden her from helping on pain of sharing my mortal punishment.

Whatever the case, Frank, too, must have known our situation was hopeless. We were well past the “buying time” phase. We were now into the “dying as a futile gesture sure is painful” phase.

My line of vision was reduced to a blurry red cone, but I focused on Commodus’s calves as he paced in front of me, thanking his adoring fans.

Strapped to the inside of his calf was a sheathed dagger.

He had always carried one of those back in the old days. When you’re an emperor, the paranoia never stops. You could be assassinated by your housekeeper, your waiter, your launderer, your best friend. And then, despite all your precautions, your godly ex-lover disguised as your wrestling trainer ends up drowning you in your bathtub. Surprise!

Hobble Commodus, Frank had told me.

I had no energy left, but I owed Frank a last request.

My body screamed in protest as I stretched out my hand and grabbed the dagger. It slipped easily from its sheath—kept well-oiled for a quick draw. Commodus didn’t even notice. I stabbed him in the back of the left knee, then the right before he had even registered the pain. He screamed and toppled forward, spewing Latin obscenities I hadn’t heard since the reign of Vespasian.

Hobbling accomplished. I dropped the knife, all my willpower gone. I waited to see what would kill me. The emperors? The zombie poison? The suspense?

I craned my neck to see how my friend the common swift was doing. Not well, it turned out. Caligula scored a lucky hit with the flat of his blade, smacking Frank into the wall. The little bird tumbled limply, and Frank shifted back into human form just in time for his face to hit the pavement.

Caligula grinned at me, his wounded eye closed tight, his voice filled with hideous glee. “Are you watching, Apollo? You remember what happens next?”

He raised his sword over Frank’s back.

“NO!” I screamed.

I could not witness another friend’s death. Somehow, I got to my feet, but I was much too slow. Caligula brought down his blade…which bent in half like a pipe cleaner against Frank’s cloak. Thank the gods of military fashion statements! Frank’s praetor’s cape could turn back weapons, even as its ability to transform into a sweater wrap remained unknown.

Caligula snarled in frustration. He drew his dagger, but Frank had recovered enough strength to stand. He slammed Caligula against the wall and wrapped his good hand around the emperor’s throat.

“Time’s up!” he roared.

Time’s up. Wait…that was my cue. I was supposed to run. But I couldn’t. I stared, frozen in horror, as Caligula buried his dagger in Frank’s belly.

“Yes, it is,” Caligula croaked. “For you.”

Frank squeezed harder, crushing the emperor’s throat, making Caligula’s face turn a bloated purple. Using his wounded arm, which must have been excruciating, Frank pulled the piece of firewood from his pouch.

“Frank!” I sobbed.

He glanced over, silently ordering me: GO.

I could not bear it. Not again. Not like Jason. I was dimly aware of Commodus struggling to crawl toward me, to grab my ankles.

Frank raised his piece of firewood to Caligula’s face. The emperor fought and thrashed, but Frank was stronger—drawing, I suspected, on everything that remained of his mortal life.

“If I’m going to burn,” he said, “I might as well burn bright. This is for Jason.”

The firewood spontaneously combusted, as if it had been waiting years for this chance. Caligula’s eyes widened with panic, perhaps just now beginning to understand. Flames roared around Frank’s body, sparking the oil in one of the grooves on the asphalt—a liquid fuse, racing in both directions to the crates and traffic barrels that packed the tunnel. The emperors weren’t the only ones who kept a supply of Greek fire.

I am not proud of what happened next. As Frank became a column of flame, and the emperor Caligula disintegrated into white-hot embers, I followed Frank’s last order. I leaped over Commodus and ran for open air. At my back, the Caldecott Tunnel erupted like a volcano.

I didn’t do it.

Explosion? I don’t know her.

Probably Greg’s fault.

A THIRD-DEGREE BURN was the least painful thing I carried from that tunnel.

I staggered into the open, my back sizzling, my hands steaming, every muscle in my body feeling like it had been scored with razorblades. Before me spread the remaining forces of the emperors: hundreds of battle-ready warriors. In the distance, stretched across the bay, fifty yachts waited, primed to fire their doomsday artillery.

None of that hurt as much as knowing I had left Frank Zhang in the flames.

Caligula was gone. I could feel it—like the earth heaved a sigh of relief as his consciousness disintegrated in a blast of superheated plasma. But, oh, the cost. Frank. Beautiful, awkward, lumbering, brave, strong, sweet, noble Frank.

I would have sobbed, but my tear ducts were as dry as Mojave gulches.

The enemy forces looked as stunned as I was. Even the Germani were slack-jawed. It takes a lot to shock an imperial bodyguard. Watching your bosses get blown up in a massive fiery belch from the side of a mountain—that will do it.

Behind me, a barely human voice gurgled, “URGSSHHH.”

I turned.

I was too dead inside to feel fear or disgust. Of course Commodus was still alive. He crawled out of the smoke-filled cavern on his elbows, his armor half-melted, his skin coated with ash. His once-beautiful face looked like a burnt loaf of tomato bread.

I hadn’t hobbled him well enough. Somehow, I’d missed his ligaments. I’d messed up everything, even Frank’s last request.

None of the troops rushed to the emperor’s aid. They remained frozen in disbelief. Perhaps they didn’t recognize this wrecked creature as Commodus. Perhaps they thought he was doing another one of his spectacles and they were waiting for the right moment to applaud.

Incredibly, Commodus struggled to his feet. He wobbled like a 1975 Elvis.

“SHIPS!” he croaked. He slurred the word so badly, for a moment I thought he’d yelled something else. I suppose his troops thought the same thing, since they did nothing.

“FIRE!” Commodus groaned, which again could have simply meant HEY, LOOK, I’M ON FIRE.

I only understood his order a heartbeat later, when Gregorix yelled, “SIGNAL THE YACHTS!”

I choked on my tongue.

Commodus gave me a ghastly smile. His eyes glittered with hatred.

I don’t know where I found the strength, but I charged and tackled him. We hit the asphalt, my legs straddling his chest, my hands wrapped around his throat as they had been thousands of years before, the first time I killed him. This time, I felt no bittersweet regret, no lingering sense of love. Commodus fought, but his fists were like paper. I let loose a guttural roar—a song with only one note: pure rage, and only one volume: maximum.

Under the onslaught of sound, Commodus crumbled to ash.

My voice faltered. I stared at my empty palms. I stood and backed away, horrified. The charred outline of the emperor’s body remained on the asphalt. I could still feel the pulse of his carotid arteries under my fingers. What had I done? In my thousands of years of life, I’d never destroyed someone with my voice. When I sang, people would often say I “killed it,” but they never meant that literally.