by my admission. Or perhaps I’d pulled out the wrong arrow and I was talking to an inanimate object.
Finally, the shaft rattled in my hand. Its voice resonated in my mind like a thespian tuning fork: THY WORDS ARE TRUE. BUT IN WHAT SENSE MEANEST THOU?
Its tone sounded less derisive than usual. That scared me.
“I…I am supposed to show strength,” I said. “According to Lupa, I’m supposed to save the day somehow, or the pack—New Rome—will die. But how do I do that?”
I told the arrow all that had happened in the last few days: my encounter with the eurynomoi, my dreams about the emperors and Tarquin, my conversation with Lupa, our quest from the Roman senate. To my surprise, it felt good to pour out my troubles. Considering the arrow didn’t have ears, it was a good listener. It never looked bored, shocked, or disgusted, because it had no face.
“I crossed the Tiber alive,” I summed up, “just like the prophecy said. Now, how do I ‘start to jive’? Does this mortal body have a reset switch?”
The arrow buzzed: I SHALL THINK UPON THIS.
“That’s it? No advice? No snarky comments?”
GIVE ME TIME TO CONSIDER, O IMPATIENT LESTER.
“But I don’t have time! We’re leaving for Tarquin’s tomb, like”—I glanced to the west, where the sun was beginning to sink behind the hills—“basically now!”
THE JOURNEY INTO THE TOMB WILL NOT BE THY FINAL CHALLENGE. UNLESS THOU SUCKEST MOST WOEFULLY.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
FIGHT NOT THE KING, said the arrow. HEAREST THOU WHAT THOU NEEDEST, AND SKEDADDLETH.
“Did you just use the term skedaddleth?”
I TRY TO SPEAK PLAINLY TO THEE, TO GRANT THEE A BOON, AND STILL THOU COMPLAINEST.
“I appreciate a good boon as much as the next person. But if I’m going to contribute to this quest and not just cower in the corner, I need to know how”—my voice cracked—“how to be me again.”
The vibration of the arrow felt almost like a cat purring, trying to soothe an ill human. ART THOU SURE THAT IS THY WISH?
“What do you mean?” I demanded. “That’s the whole point! Everything I’m doing is so—”
“Are you talking to that arrow?” said a voice below me.
At the base of the siege tower stood Frank Zhang. Next to him was Hannibal the Elephant, impatiently pawing the mud.
I’d been so distracted, I’d let an elephant get the drop on me.
“Hi,” I squeaked, my voice still ragged with emotion. “I was just…This arrow gives prophetic advice. It talks. In my head.”
Bless him, Frank managed to maintain a poker face. “Okay. I can leave if—”
“No, no.” I slipped the arrow back in my quiver. “It needs time to process. What brings you out here?”
“Walking the elephant.” Frank pointed to Hannibal, in case I might be wondering which elephant. “He gets stir-crazy when we don’t have war games. Bobby used to be our elephant handler, but…”
Frank shrugged helplessly. I got his meaning: Bobby had been another casualty of the battle. Killed…or maybe worse.
Hannibal grunted deep in his chest. He wrapped his trunk around a broken battering ram, picked it up, and started pounding it into the ground like a pestle.
I remembered my elephant friend Livia back at the Waystation in Indianapolis. She, too, had been grief-stricken, having lost her mate to Commodus’s brutal games. If we survived this upcoming battle, perhaps I should try to introduce Livia and Hannibal. They’d make a cute couple.
I mentally slapped myself. What was I thinking? I had enough to worry about without playing matchmaker to pachyderms.
I climbed down from my perch, careful to protect my bandaged gut.
Frank studied me, perhaps worried by how stiffly I was moving.
“You ready for your quest?” he asked.
“Is the answer to that question ever yes?”
“Good point.”
“And what will you do while we’re gone?”
Frank ran a hand across his buzz cut. “Everything we can. Shore up the valley’s defenses. Keep Ella and Tyson working on the Sibylline Books. Send eagles to scout the coast. Keep the legion drilling so they don’t have time to worry about what’s coming. Mostly, though? It’s about being with the troops, assuring them that everything is going to be okay.”
Lying to them, in other words, I thought, though that was bitter and uncharitable.
Hannibal stuck his battering ram upright in a sinkhole. He patted the old tree trunk as if to say, There you go, little fella. Now you can start growing again.
Even the elephant was hopelessly optimistic.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I admitted. “Staying positive after all that’s happened.”
Frank kicked a