The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(3)

I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I apologize to him for his inconvenience? Should I give him a tip? And if he wasn’t the threat that had set off my danger radar, what was?

I was saved from an awkward conversation, and the amphisbaena was saved from his wife killing him, when two crossbow bolts flew across the coach and killed him instead, pinning the poor snake’s necks against the back wall.

I shrieked. Several nearby passengers shushed me.

The amphisbaena disintegrated into yellow dust, leaving nothing behind but a well-tailored suit.

I raised my hands slowly and turned as if pivoting on a land mine. I half expected another crossbow bolt to pierce my chest. There was no way I could dodge an attack from someone with such accuracy. The best I could do was appear nonthreatening. I was good at that.

At the opposite end of the coach stood two hulking figures. One was a Germanus, judging from his beard and scraggly beaded hair, his hide armor, and his Imperial gold greaves and breastplate. I did not recognize him, but I’d met too many of his kind recently. I had no doubt who he worked for. Nero’s people had found us.

Meg was still seated, holding her magical twin golden sica blades, but the Germanus had the edge of his broadsword against her neck, encouraging her to stay put.

His companion was the crossbow-shooter. She was even taller and heavier, wearing an Amtrak conductor’s uniform that fooled no one—except, apparently, all the mortals on the train, who didn’t give the newcomers a second look. Under her conductor’s hat, the shooter’s scalp was shaved on the sides, leaving a lustrous brown mane down the middle that curled over her shoulder in a braided rope. Her short-sleeve shirt stretched so tight against her muscular shoulders I thought her epaulettes and name tag would pop off. Her arms were covered with interlocking circular tattoos, and around her neck was a thick golden ring—a torque.

I hadn’t seen one of those in ages. This woman was a Gaul! The realization made my stomach frost over. In the old days of the Roman Republic, Gauls were feared even more than the Germani.

She had already reloaded her double crossbow and was pointing it at my head. Hanging from her belt was a variety of other weapons: a gladius, a club, and a dagger. Oh, sure, she got a dagger.

Keeping her eyes on me, she jerked her chin toward her shoulder, the universal sign for C’mere or I’ll shoot you.

I calculated my odds of charging down the aisle and tackling our enemies before they killed Meg and me. Zero. My odds of cowering in fear behind a chair while Meg took care of both of them? Slightly better, but still not great.

I made my way down the aisle, my knees wobbling. The mortal passengers frowned as I passed. As near as I could figure, they thought my shriek had been a disturbance unworthy of the quiet car, and the conductor was now calling me out. The fact that the conductor wielded a crossbow and had just killed a two-headed serpentine commuter did not seem to register with them.

I reached my row and glanced at Meg, partly to make sure she was all right, partly because I was curious why she hadn’t attacked. Just holding a sword to Meg’s throat was normally not enough to discourage her.

She was staring in shock at the Gaul. “Luguselwa?”

The woman nodded curtly, which told me two horrifying things: First, Meg knew her. Second, Luguselwa was her name. As she regarded Meg, the fierceness in the Gaul’s eyes dialed back a few notches, from I am going to kill everyone now to I am going to kill everyone soon.

“Yes, Sapling,” said the Gaul. “Now put away your weapons before Gunther is obliged to chop off your head.”





THE SWORD-WIELDER LOOKED DELIGHTED. “Chop off head?”

His name, GUNTHER, was printed on an Amtrak name tag he wore over his armor—his only concession to being in disguise.

“Not yet.” Luguselwa kept her eyes on us. “As you can see, Gunther loves decapitating people, so let’s play nice. Come along—”

“Lu,” Meg said. “Why?”

When it came to expressing hurt, Meg’s voice was a fine-tuned instrument. I’d heard her mourn the deaths of our friends. I’d heard her describe her father’s murder. I’d heard her rage against her foster father, Nero, who had killed her dad and twisted her mind with years of emotional abuse.

But when addressing Luguselwa, Meg’s voice played in an entirely different key. She sounded as if her best friend had just dismembered her favorite doll for no reason and without warning. She sounded hurt, confused, incredulous—as if, in a life full of indignities, this was one indignity she never could have anticipated.

Lu’s jaw muscles tightened. Veins bulged on her temples. I couldn’t tell if she was angry, feeling guilty, or showing us her warm-and-fuzzy side.

“Do you remember what I taught you about duty, Sapling?”

Meg gulped back a sob.

“Do you?” Lu said, her voice sharper.

“Yes,” Meg whispered.

“Then get your things and come along.” Lu pushed Gunther’s sword away from Meg’s neck.

The big man grumbled “Hmph,” which I assumed was Germanic for I never get to have any fun.

Looking bewildered, Meg rose and opened the overhead compartment. I couldn’t understand why she was going along so passively with Luguselwa’s orders. We’d fought against worse odds. Who was this Gaul?

“That’s it?” I whispered as Meg passed me my backpack. “We’re giving up?”