The Dark Prophecy by Rick Riordan

I tip my hat to

The excellent elephant

Let’s be besties, ’kay?

I NOCKED AN ARROWand fired at the chain.

In most circumstances, my first instinct was to shoot. Usually this worked out. (Unless you count the time Hermes burst into my bathroom without knocking. And, yes, I always keep my bow handy when I’m on the toilet. Why would I not?)

This time, my shot was ill-planned. Peaches struggled and swung so much, my arrow sailed past his chain and felled a random blemmyae in the stands.

“Stop!” Meg shrieked at me. “You might hit Peaches!”

The emperor laughed. “Yes, that would be a shame when he’s about to burn to death!”

Commodus leaped from his box onto the racetrack. Meg raised her sword and prepared to charge, but mercenaries in the stands leveled their rifles. No matter that I was fifty yards away—the snipers had aim worthy of…well, me. A swarm of red targeting dots floated over my chest.

“Now, now, Meg,” the emperor chided, pointing to me. “My game, my rules. Unless you want to lose two friends in the dress rehearsal.”

Meg lifted one sword, then the other, weighing them like options. She was too far away for me to clearly see her expression, but I could sense her agony. How many times had I been caught in such a dilemma? Do I destroy the Trojans or the Greeks? Do I flirt with my sister’s Hunters and risk getting slapped, or do I flirt with Britomartis and risk getting blown up? These are the kinds of choices that define us.

As Meg hesitated, a pit crew in togas rolled another Formula One car onto the track—a bright purple machine with a golden number 1 on the hood. Protruding from the roof was a wiry lance about twenty feet tall, topped with a wad of cloth.

My first thought: Why did Commodus need such a big antenna? Then I looked again at the dangling karpos. In the spotlights, Peaches glistened as if he’d been slathered with grease. His feet, usually bare, were covered in rough sandpaper—like the striking surface of a matchbook.

My gut twisted. The race car’s antenna wasn’t an antenna. It was a giant match, set at just the right height to ignite against Peaches’s feet.

“Once I’m in the car,” Commodus announced, “my mercenaries will not interfere. Meg, you may try to stop me any way you please! My plan is to complete one circuit, light your friend on fire, then circle back around and hit you and Apollo with my car. I believe they call that a victory lap!”

The crowd roared with approval. Commodus leaped into his car. His pit crew scattered, and the purple racer peeled out in a cloud of smoke.

My blood turned to cold-pressed olive oil, pumping sluggishly through my heart. How long would it take for that race car to get around the track? Seconds, at most. I suspected Commodus’s windshield was arrow-proof. He wouldn’t leave me such an easy solution. I didn’t even have time for a decent ukulele riff.

Meanwhile, Meg guided her ostrich under the swinging karpos. She stood on the bird’s back (no easy task) and reached as high as she could, but Peaches was much too far above her.

“Turn into a fruit!” Meg shouted up at him. “Disappear!”

“Peaches!” Peaches wailed, which probably meant: Don’t you think I would if I could? I guessed that the ropes were somehow magically restricting his shape-shifting, confining him to his present form, much as Zeus had shoehorned my awesome divinity into the miserable body of Lester Papadopoulos. For the first time, I felt a kinship with the diapered demon baby.

Commodus was now halfway around the track. He could have gone faster, but he insisted on swerving and waving to the cameras. The other race cars pulled over to let him pass, making me wonder if they understood the concept of racing.

Meg leaped from the ostrich’s back. She caught the goalpost’s crossbeam and began to climb, but I knew she wouldn’t have time to help the karpos.

The purple car rounded the far end zone. If Commodus accelerated in the straightaway, it would all be over. If only I could block his path with something large and heavy.

Oh, wait,thought my genius brain, I am sitting on an elephant.

Engraved across the base of the massive Colts helmet was the name LIVIA. I assumed that was the elephant’s.

I leaned forward. “Livia, my friend, do you feel like stomping an emperor?”

She trumpeted—her first real show of enthusiasm. I knew elephants were intelligent, but her willingness to help surprised me. I got the feeling that Commodus had treated her terribly. Now she wanted to kill him. This, at least, we had in common.

Livia charged toward the track, shouldering other animals aside, sweeping her trunk to smack gladiators out of our path.

“Good elephant!” I cried. “Excellent elephant!”

The Throne of Memory bounced precariously on my back. I spent all my arrows (except for the stupid talking one) shooting down combat ostriches, fire-breathing horses, Cyclopes, and cynocephali. Then I snatched up my combat ukulele and played the bugle call for CHARGE!

Livia barreled down the center lane, heading for the purple race car. Commodus veered straight toward us, his grinning face reflected on every video monitor around the stadium. He looked delighted by the prospect of a head-on collision.

Me, not so much. Commodus was hard to kill. My elephant and I were not, nor was I sure how much protection Livia’s chain mail would give her. I’d been hoping we might force Commodus off the road, but I should’ve known he would never back down in a game of chicken. Without a helmet, his hair flapped wildly around him, making his golden laurels look like they were on fire.

Without a helmet…

I pulled a scalpel from my bandolier. Leaning forward, I sawed through the chin strap off Livia’s football helmet. It snapped easily. Thank the gods for cheap plastic merchandise!

“Livia,” I said. “Throw it!”

The excellent elephant understood.

Still charging full speed ahead, she curled her trunk around her face guard and flung the helmet like a gentleman tipping his hat…if that hat were allowed to hurtle forward as a deadly projectile.

Commodus swerved. The giant white helmet bounced off his windshield, but the real damage had been done. Purple One vaulted onto the field at an impossibly steep angle, canted sideways, and flipped three times, bowling over a herd of ostriches and a couple of unlucky gladiators.

“OHHHHHHH!” The crowd rose to its feet. The music stopped. The remaining gladiators backed toward the edge of the field, eyeing the overturned imperial race car.

Smoke poured from the chassis. The wheels spun, sloughing off shavings of tread.

I wanted to believe the crowd’s silence was a hopeful pause. Perhaps, like me, their fondest wish was that Commodus would not emerge from the wreckage, that he had been reduced to an imperial smear on the artificial turf at the forty-two-yard line.

Alas, a steaming figure crawled from the wreckage. Commodus’s beard smoldered. His face and hands were black with soot. He rose, his smile undimmed, and stretched as if he’d just had a good nap.

“Nice one, Apollo!” He grabbed the chassis of the ruined race car and lifted it over his head. “But it will take more than this to kill me!”

He tossed the car aside, flattening an unfortunate Cyclops.

The audience cheered and stomped.

The emperor called, “CLEAR THE FIELD!”

Immediately dozens of animal handlers, medics, and ball retrievers rushed onto the turf. The surviving gladiators sulked away, as if realizing no fight to the death could compete with what Commodus had just done.

As the emperor ordered his servants around, I glanced toward the end zone. Somehow, Meg had climbed all the way to the top of the goalpost. She leaped toward Peaches and caught his legs, causing a great deal of screeching and cursing from the karpos. For a moment, they swung together from the chain. Then Meg climbed her friend’s body, summoned her sword, and slashed the chain. They dropped twenty feet, landing on the track in a heap. Happily, Peaches acted as a cushion for Meg. Given the soft, squishy nature of peach fruit, I imagined Meg would be fine.

“Well!” Commodus strode toward me. He limped slightly on his right ankle, but if it caused him any serious pain, he gave no sign. “That was a good rehearsal! Tomorrow, more deaths—including yours, of course. We’ll tweak the combat phase. Perhaps add a few more race cars and basketballs? And, Livia, you naughty old elephant!” He wagged his finger at my pachyderm mount. “That’s the sort of energy I was looking for! If you’d showed that much enthusiasm in our previous games, I wouldn’t have had to kill Claudius.”

Livia stomped and trumpeted. I stroked the side of her head, trying to calm her, but I could feel her intense anguish.

“Claudius was your mate,” I guessed. “Commodus killed him.”

The emperor shrugged. “I did warn her: play my games or else. But elephants are so stubborn! They’re big and strong and used to getting their way—rather like gods. Still”—he winked at me—“it’s amazing what a little punishment can accomplish.”

Livia stamped her feet. I knew she wanted to charge, but after seeing Commodus toss a race car, I suspected he would have little trouble hurting Livia.

“We will get him,” I murmured to her. “Just wait.”

“Yes, until tomorrow!” Commodus agreed. “You’ll get another chance to do your worst. But for now—ah, here come my guards to escort you to your cell!”

A squadron of Germani hustled onto the field with Lityerses in the lead.

Across his face, the Cornhusker had an ugly new bruise that looked suspiciously like an ostrich’s footprint. That pleased me. He was also bleeding from several new cuts on his arms, and his pant legs were slashed to ribbons. The rips looked like grazes from small-game arrowheads, as if the Hunters had been toying with their target, doing their best to eliminate his trousers. This pleased me even more. I wished I could add a new arrow wound to Lityerses’s collection—preferably one right in the middle of his sternum—but my quiver was empty except for the Arrow of Dodona. I’d had enough drama for one day without adding bad Shakespearean dialogue.

Lityerses bowed awkwardly. “My lord.”

Commodus and I spoke in unison. “Yes?”

I thought I looked much more lordly sitting atop my chain-mail elephant, but Lityerses just sneered at me.

“My lord, Commodus,” he clarified, “the invaders have been pushed back from the main gates.”

“About time,” the emperor muttered.

“They were Hunters of Artemis, sire.”

“I see.” Commodus didn’t sound particularly concerned. “Did you kill them all?”

“We…” Lit gulped. “No, my lord. They sniped at us from multiple positions and fell back, leading us into a series of traps. We only lost ten men, but—”

“You lost ten.” Commodus examined his soot-stained fingernails. “And how many of these Hunters did you kill?”

Lit edged away. His neck veins pulsed. “I—I am not sure. We found no bodies.”

“So you cannot confirm any kills.” Commodus glanced at me. “What would you advise, Apollo? Should I take time to reflect? Should I consider the consequences? Should I perhaps tell my prefect, Lityerses, not to worry? He will be fine? He will ALWAYS HAVE MY BLESSINGS?”

This last line he screamed, his voice echoing through the stadium. Even the wild centaurs in the stands fell quiet.

“No,” Commodus decided, his tone once again calm. “Alaric, where are you?”

One of the Germani stepped forward. “Sire?”

“Take Apollo and Meg McCaffrey into custody. See that they get nice cells for the night. Put the Throne of Mnemosyne back into storage. Kill the elephant and the karpos. What else? Oh, yes.” From the boot of his racing suit, Commodus pulled a hunting knife. “Hold Lityerses’s arms for me while I cut his throat. It’s time for a new prefect.”

Before Alaric could carry out these orders, the stadium’s roof exploded.