The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5) - Rick Riordan Page 0,85
emperor, I had no chance of beating him…unless Lu had succeeded in getting his fasces from the leontocephaline, and that mission also seemed impossible.
On the other hand, I didn’t have much choice but to hope. I had a part to play. Stall Nero. Find Meg.
I marched out of the bedroom.
Fifteen minutes. Then I would end Nero, or he would end me.
THE BLAST DOORS WERE A NICE TOUCH.
I’d found my way back to the throne room level with no problem. The elevators cooperated. The halls were eerily quiet. This time, no one greeted me in the antechamber.
Where the ornamental golden doors had stood before, the entrance to Nero’s inner sanctum was now sealed by massive panels of titanium and Imperial gold. Hephaestus would have salivated at the sight—so much beautiful metalwork, inscribed with sorcerous charms of protection worthy of Hecate. All to keep one slimy emperor safe in his panic room.
Finding no doorbell, I rapped my knuckles on the titanium: Shave and a haircut…
No one gave the proper response, because barbarians. Instead, at the upper left-hand corner of the wall, a security camera light blinked from red to green.
“Good.” Nero’s voice crackled from a speaker in the ceiling. “You’re alone. Smart boy.”
I could have gotten offended by his boy comment, but there was so much else to feel offended by, I figured I’d better pace myself. The doors rumbled, parting just enough for me to squeeze through. They closed behind me.
I scanned the room for Meg. She was nowhere in sight, which made me want to smack a Nero.
The room was mostly unchanged. At the foot of Nero’s dais, the Persian rugs had been replaced to get rid of those annoying bloodstains from Luguselwa’s double amputation. The servants had been cleared out. Forming a semicircle behind Nero’s throne were a dozen Germani, some looking like they’d served as target practice for Camp Half-Blood’s “field trip.” Where Lu and Gunther had stood before, at the emperor’s right hand, a new Germanus had taken their place. He had a stark white beard, a deep vertical scar on the side of his face, and armor stitched from shaggy pelts that would have won him no friends in the animal-rights community.
Rows of Imperial-gold bars had been lowered over all the windows, making the entire throne room feel appropriately like a cage. Enslaved dryads hovered nervously near their potted plants. The children of the Imperial Household—only seven of them, now—stood next to each plant with burning torches in their hands. Since Nero had raised them to be despicable, I supposed they would burn the dryads if I didn’t cooperate.
My hand rested against my pants pocket, where I’d tucked Meg’s golden rings. I was relieved that at least she wasn’t standing with her siblings. I was glad young Cassius had run away from this place. I wondered where the other three missing adoptees had gone—if they’d been captured or had fallen in battle to Camp Half-Blood. I tried not to feel any satisfaction at the thought, but it was difficult.
“Hello!” Nero sounded genuinely happy to see me. He reclined on his couch, popping grapes in his mouth from a silver platter at his side. “Weapons on the floor, please.”
“Where is Meg?” I demanded.
“Meg…?” Nero feigned confusion. He scanned the line of his torch-bearing children. “Meg. Let’s see…where did I leave her? Which one is Meg?”
The other demigods gave him forced smiles, perhaps not sure if Dear Old Dad was joking.
“She’s close,” Nero assured me, his expression hardening. “But first, weapons on the floor. I am taking no chances that you will harm my daughter.”
“You—” I was so angry I couldn’t finish the sentence.
How could someone twist the truth with such brazenness, telling you the exact opposite of what was clear and obvious, and still sound like they believed what they were saying? How could you defend against lies that were so blatant and brash they should have required no challenge?
I put down my bow and quivers. I doubted they would matter. Nero wouldn’t have let me into his presence if he thought they were a threat.
“And the ukulele,” he said. “And the backpack.”
Oh, he was good.
I set these next to my quivers.
I realized that even if I tried something—even if I could throw flames at Nero or shoot him in the face or Apollo-smash his horrible purple love seat—it wouldn’t matter if his fasces was still intact. He looked completely at ease, as if he knew he was invulnerable.