by Rick Riordan
“I wouldn’t,” Incitatus said.
I stiffened. “What?”
“Use the knife. That’d be a bad move.”
“Are—are you a mind-reader?”
The horse scoffed. “I don’t need to read minds. You know how much you can tell from somebody’s body language when they’re riding your back?”
“I—I can’t say that I’ve had the experience.”
“Well, I could tell what you were planning. So don’t. I’d have to throw you off. Then you and your girlfriend would probably crack your heads and die—”
“She’s not my girlfriend!”
“—and Big C would be annoyed. He wants you to die in a certain way.”
“Ah.” My stomach felt as bruised as my ribs. I wondered if there was a special term for motion sickness while riding a horse on a boat. “So, when you said Caligula would eat me for breakfast—”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that literally.”
“Thank the gods.”
“I meant the sorceress Medea will put you in chains and flay your human form to extract whatever remains of your godly essence. Then Caligula will consume your essence—yours and Helios’s both—and make himself the new god of the sun.”
“Oh.” I felt faint. I assumed I still had some godly essence inside me—some tiny spark of my former awesomeness that allowed me to remember who I was and what I had once been capable of. I didn’t want those last vestiges of divinity taken away, especially if the process involved flaying. The idea made my stomach churn. I hoped Piper wouldn’t mind terribly if I threw up on her. “You—you seem like a reasonable horse, Incitatus. Why are you helping someone as volatile and treacherous as Caligula?”
Incitatus whinnied. “Volatile, schmolatile. The boy listens to me. He needs me. Doesn’t matter how violent or unpredictable he may seem to others. I can keep him under control, use him to push through my agenda. I’m backing the right horse.”
He didn’t seem to recognize the irony of a horse backing the right horse. Also, I was surprised to hear that Incitatus had an agenda. Most equine agendas were fairly straight-forward: food, running, more food, a good brushing. Repeat as desired.
“Does Caligula know that you’re, ah, using him?”
“Of course!” said the horse. “Kid’s not stupid. Once he gets what he wants, well…then we part ways. I intend to overthrow the human race and institute a government by the horses, for the horses.”
“You…what?”
“You think equine self-governance is any crazier than a world ruled by the Olympian gods?”
“I never thought about it.”
“You wouldn’t, would you? You, with your bipedal arrogance! You don’t spend your life with humans constantly expecting to ride you or have you pull their carts. Ah, I’m wasting my breath. You won’t be around long enough to see the revolution.”
Oh, reader, I can’t express to you my terror—not at the idea of a horse revolution, but at the thought that my life was about to end! Yes, I know mortals face death, too, but it’s worse for a god, I tell you! I’d spent millennia knowing I was immune to the great cycle of life and death. Then suddenly I find out—LOL, not so much! I was going to be flayed and consumed by a man who took his cues from a militant talking horse!
As we progressed down the chain of super-yachts, we saw more and more signs of recent battle. Boat twenty looked like it had been struck repeatedly with lightning. Its superstructure was a charred, smoking ruin, the blackened upper decks spackled with fire-extinguisher foam.
Boat eighteen had been converted into a triage center. The wounded were sprawled everywhere, groaning from bashed heads, broken limbs, bleeding noses, and bruised groins. Many of their injuries were at knee level or below—just where Meg McCaffrey liked to kick. A flock of strixes wheeled overhead, screeching hungrily. Perhaps they were just on guard duty, but I got the feeling they were waiting to see which of the wounded did not pull through.
Boat fourteen was Meg McCaffrey’s coup de grace. Boston ivy had engulfed the entire yacht, including most of the crew, who were stitched to the walls by a thick web of crawlers. A cadre of horticulturists—no doubt called up from the botanical gardens on boat sixteen—were now trying to free their comrades using clippers and weed-whackers.
I was heartened to see that our friends had made it this far and caused so much damage. Perhaps Crest had been mistaken about them being captured. Surely two capable demigods like Jason and Meg would have managed to escape if they got cornered. I was counting on it, since I now needed them to rescue me.
But what if they could not? I racked my brain for clever ideas and devious schemes. Rather than racing, my mind moved at a wheezing jog.
I managed to come up with phase one of my master plan: I would escape without getting myself killed, then free my friends. I was hard at work on phase two—how do I do that?—when I ran out of time. Incitatus crossed to the deck of Julia Drusilla XII, cantered through a set of double golden doors, and carried us down a ramp into the ship’s interior, which contained a single massive room—the audience chamber of Caligula.
Entering this space was like plunging down the throat of a sea monster. I’m sure the effect was intentional. The emperor wanted you to feel a sense of panic and helplessness.
You have been swallowed, the room seemed to say. Now you will be digested.
No windows here. The fifty-foot-high walls screamed with garishly painted frescoes of battles, volcanoes, storms, wild parties—all images of power gone amok, boundaries erased, nature overturned.
The tiled floor was a similar study in chaos—intricate, nightmarish mosaics of the gods being devoured by various monsters. Far above, the ceiling was painted black, and dangling from it were golden candelabras, skeletons in cages, and bare swords that hung by the thinnest of cords and looked ready to impale anyone below.
I found myself tilting sideways on Incitatus’s back, trying to find my equilibrium, but it was impossible. The chamber offered no safe place to rest my gaze. The rocking of the yacht didn’t help.
Standing guard along the length of the throne room were a dozen pandai—six to port and six to starboard. They held gold-tipped spears and wore golden chain mail from head to foot, including giant metal flaps over their ears that, when struck, must have given them terrible tinnitus.
At the far end of the room, where the boat’s hull narrowed to a point, the emperor had set his dais—putting his back to the corner like any good paranoid ruler. Before him swirled two columns of wind and debris that I couldn’t quite make sense of—some sort of ventus performance art?
At the emperor’s right hand stood another pandos dressed in the full regalia of a praetorian commander—Reverb, I guessed, captain of the guard. To the emperor’s left stood Medea, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
The emperor himself was much as I remembered—young and lithe, handsome enough, though his eyes were too far apart, his ears too prominent (but not in comparison to the pandai), his smile too thin.
He was dressed in white slacks, white boat shoes, a striped blue-and-white shirt, a blue blazer, and a captain’s hat. I had a horrible flashback to 1975, when I’d made the mistake of blessing Captain and Tennille with their hit single “Love Will Keep Us Together.” If Caligula was the Captain, that made Medea Tennille, which felt wrong on so many levels. I tried to push the thought from my mind.
As our procession approached the throne, Caligula leaned forward and rubbed his hands, as if the next course of his dinner had just arrived.
“Perfect timing!” he said. “I’ve been having the most fascinating conversation with your friends.”
My friends?
Only then did my brain allow me to process what was inside the swirling columns of wind.
In one hovered Jason Grace. In the other, Meg McCaffrey. Both struggled helplessly. Both screamed without making a sound. Their tornado prisons whirled with glittering shrapnel—tiny pieces of Celestial bronze and Imperial gold that sliced at their
clothes and skin, slowly cutting them to pieces.
Caligula rose, his placid brown eyes fixed on me. “Incitatus, this can’t actually be him, can it?”
“Afraid so, pal,” said the horse. “May I present the pathetic excuse for a god, Apollo, also known as Lester Papadopoulos.”
The stallion knelt on his forelegs, spilling Piper and me onto the floor.
I could think of many names to call Caligula. Pal was not one of them.
Nevertheless, Incitatus seemed perfectly at home in the emperor’s presence. He trotted to starboard, where two pandai began brushing his coat while a third knelt to offer him oats from a golden bucket.
Jason Grace lashed out in his wind tunnel of shrapnel, trying to break free. He cast a distressed look at Piper and yelled something I couldn’t hear. In the other wind column, Meg floated with her arms and legs crossed, scowling like an angry genie, ignoring the bits of metal cutting her face.
Caligula stepped down from his dais. He strolled between the wind columns with a jaunty lilt in his step, no doubt the effect of wearing a yacht-captain outfit. He stopped a few feet in front of me. In his open palm, he bounced two small bits of gold—Meg McCaffrey’s rings.
“This must be the lovely Piper McLean.” He frowned down at her, as if just realizing she was barely conscious. “Why is she like this? I can’t taunt her in this condition. Reverb!”
The praetor commander snapped his fingers. Two guards shuffled forward and dragged Piper to her feet. One waved a small bottle under her nose—smelling salts, perhaps, or some vile magical equivalent of Medea’s.
Piper’s head snapped back. A shudder ran through her body, then she pushed the pandai away.
“I’m fine.” She blinked at her surroundings, saw Jason and Meg in their wind columns, then glared at Caligula. She struggled to pull her knife, but her fingers didn’t seem to work. “I’ll kill you.”
Caligula chuckled. “That would be amusing, my love. But let’s not kill each other quite yet, eh? Tonight, I have other priorities.”
He beamed at me. “Oh, Lester. What a gift Jupiter has given me!” He walked a circuit around me, running his fingertips along my shoulders as if checking for dust. I suppose I should have attacked him, but Caligula radiated such cool confidence, such a powerful aura that it befuddled my mind.
“Not much left of your godliness, is there?” he said. “Don’t worry. Medea will coax it out of you. Then I’ll take revenge on Zeus for you. Have some comfort in that.”
“I—I don’t want revenge.”
“Of course you do! It will be wonderful, just wait and see….Well, actually, you’ll be dead, but you’ll have to trust me. I’ll make you proud.”
“Caesar,” Medea called from her side of the dais, “perhaps we could begin soon?”
She did her best to hide it, but I heard the strain in her voice. As I’d seen in the parking garage of death, even Medea had her limits. Keeping Meg and Jason in twin tornadoes must have required a great deal of her strength. She couldn’t possibly maintain her ventus prisons and do whatever magic she needed to de-god me. If only I could figure out how to exploit that weakness…
Annoyance flickered across Caligula’s face. “Yes, yes, Medea. In a moment. First, I must greet my loyal servants….” He turned to the pandai who’d accompanied us from the ship of shoes. “Which of you is Wah-Wah?”
Wah-Wah bowed, his ears spreading across the mosaic floor. “H-here, sire.”
“Served me well, have you?”
“Yes, sire!”
“Until today.”
The pandos looked like he was trying to swallow Tiny Tim’s ukulele. “They—they tricked us, lord! With horrible music!”
“I see,” Caligula said. “And how do you intend to make this right? How can I be sure of your loyalty?”
“I—I pledge you my heart, sire! Now and always! My men and I—” He clamped his huge hands over his mouth.
Caligula smiled blandly. “Oh, Reverb?”
His praetor commander stepped forward. “Lord?”
“You heard Wah-Wah?”
“Yes, lord,” Reverb agreed. “His heart is yours. And also his men’s hearts.”
“Well, then.” Caligula flicked his fingers in a vague go away gesture. “Take them outside and collect what is mine.”
The throne-room guards from the port side marched forward and seized Wah-Wah and his two lieutenants by the arms.
“No!” Wah-Wah screamed. “No, I—I didn’t mean—!”
He and his men thrashed and sobbed, but it was no use. The golden-armored pandai dragged them away.
Reverb gestured at Crest, who stood trembling and whimpering next to Piper. “What about this one, sire?”
Caligula narrowed his eyes. “Remind me why this one has white fur?”
“He’s young, sire,” Reverb said, not a trace of sympathy in his voice. “Our people’s fur darkens with age.”
“I see.” Caligula stroked Crest’s face with the back of his hand, causing the young pandos to whimper even louder. “Leave him. He’s amusing, and he seems harmless enough. Now shoo, Commander. Bring me those hearts.”
Reverb bowed and hurried after his men.
My pulse hammered in my temples. I wanted to convince myself things were not so bad. Half the emperor’s guards and their commander had just left. Medea was under the strain of controlling two venti. That meant only six elite pandai, a killer horse, and an immortal emperor to deal with. Now was the optimal time for me to execute my clever plan…if only I had one.
Caligula stepped to my side. He threw his arm around me like an old friend. “You see, Apollo? I’m not crazy. I’m not cruel. I just take people at their word. If you promise me your life, or your heart, or your wealth…then you should mean it, don’t you think?”
My eyes watered. I was too afraid to blink.
“Your friend Piper, for instance,” Caligula said. “She wanted to spend time with her dad. She resented his career. So, guess what? I took that career away! If she’d just gone to Oklahoma with him, like they’d planned, she could’ve gotten what she wanted! But does she thank me? No. She comes here to kill me.”
“I will,” Piper said, her voice a bit steadier. “Take my word on that.”
“Exactly my point,” Caligula said. “No gratitude.”
He patted me on the chest, sending starbursts of pain across my bruised ribs. “And Jason Grace? He wants to be a priest or something, build shrines to the gods. Fine! I am a god. I have no problem with that! Then he comes here to wreck my yachts with lightning. Is that priestlike behavior? I don’t think so.”
He strolled toward the swirling columns of wind. This left his back exposed, but neither Piper nor I moved to attack him. Even now, recalling it, I cannot tell you why. I felt so powerless, as if I were caught in a vision that had happened centuries before. For the first time, I sensed what it would be like if the Triumvirate controlled every Oracle. They would not just foresee the future—they would shape it. Their every word would become inexorable destiny.
“And this one.” Caligula studied Meg McCaffrey. “Her father once swore he wouldn’t rest until he reincarnated the blood-born, the silver wives! Can you believe it?”
Blood-born. Silver wives. Those words sent a jolt through my nervous system. I felt I should know what they meant, how they related to the seven green seeds Meg had planted on the hillside. As usual, my human brain screamed in protest as I attempted to dredge the information from its depths. I could almost see the annoying FILE NOT FOUND message flashing behind my eyes.
Caligula grinned. “Well, of course I took Dr. McCaffrey at his word! I burned his stronghold to the ground. But honestly, I thought I was quite generous to let him and his daughter live. Little Meg had a wonderful life with my nephew Nero. If she’d just kept her promises to him…” He wagged his finger disapprovingly at her.
On the starboard side of the room, Incitatus looked up from his golden oat bucket and belched. “Hey, Big C? Great speech
and all. But shouldn’t we kill the two in the whirlwinds so Medea can turn her attention to flaying Lester alive? I really want to see that.”
“Yes, please,” Medea agreed, her teeth clenched.
“NO!” Piper shouted. “Caligula, let my friends go.”
Unfortunately, she could barely stand up straight. Her voice shook.
Caligula chuckled. “My love, I’ve been trained to resist charmspeak by Medea herself. You’ll have to do better than that if—”
“Incitatus,” Piper called, her voice a little stronger, “kick Medea in the head.”
Incitatus flared his nostrils. “I think I’ll kick Medea in the head.”
“No, you won’t!” Medea shrieked in a sharp burst of charmspeak. “Caligula, silence the girl!”
Caligula strode over to Piper. “Sorry, love.”
He backhanded her across the mouth so hard she turned a full circle before collapsing.
“OHHH!” Incitatus whinnied with pleasure. “Good one!”
I broke.
Never had I felt such rage. Not when I destroyed the entire family of Niobids for their insults. Not when I fought Heracles in the chamber of Delphi. Not even when I struck down the Cyclopes who had made my father’s murderous lightning.
I decided at that moment Piper McLean would not die tonight. I charged Caligula, intent on wrapping my hands around his neck. I wanted to strangle him to death, if only to wipe that smug smile off his face.
I felt sure my godly power would return. I would rip the emperor apart in my righteous fury.
Instead, Caligula pushed me to the floor with hardly a glance.
“Please, Lester,” he said. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Piper lay shivering as if she were cold.
Crest crouched nearby, trying in vain to cover his massive ears. No doubt he was regretting his decision to follow his dream of taking music lessons.
I fixed my eyes on the twin cyclones, hoping that Jason and Meg had somehow escaped. They had not, but strangely, as if by silent agreement, they seemed to have switched roles.
