The Tower of Nero

the problem—part of Meg’s indoctrination into the emperor’s twisted family. I worried that Meg was slipping into her old patterns. Perhaps Nero had figured out a way to manipulate her indirectly through this former teacher she admired.
On the other hand, I wasn’t sure how to broach that subject. We were trekking through a maze of subway-maintenance tunnels with only Lu as our guide. She had a lot more weapons than I did. Also, Meg was my master. She’d told me we were going to follow Lu, so that’s what we did.
We continued our march, Meg and Lu trudging side by side, me straggling behind. I’d like to tell you I was “guarding their six,” or performing some other important task, but I think Meg had just forgotten about me.
Overhead, steel-caged work lights cast prison-bar shadows across the brick walls. Mud and slime coated the floor, exuding a smell like the old casks of “wine” Dionysus insisted on keeping in his cellar, despite the fact that they had long ago turned to vinegar. At least Meg’s sneakers would no longer smell like horse poop. They would now be coated with new and different toxic waste.
After stumbling along for another million miles, I ventured to ask, “Miss Lu, where are we going?” I was startled by the volume of my own voice echoing through the dark.
“Away from the search grid,” she said, as if this were obvious. “Nero has tapped most of the closed-circuit cameras in Manhattan. We need to get off his radar.”
It was a bit jarring to hear a Gaulish warrior talking about radar and cameras.
I wondered again how Lu had come into Nero’s service.
As much as I hated to admit it, the emperors of the Triumvirate were basically minor gods. They were picky about which followers they allowed to spend eternity with them. The Germani made sense. Dense and cruel as they might be, the imperial bodyguards were fiercely loyal. But why a Gaul? Luguselwa must have been valuable to Nero for reasons beyond her sword skills. I didn’t trust that such a warrior would turn on her master after two millennia.
My suspicions must have radiated from me like heat from an oven. Lu glanced back and noted my frown. “Apollo, if I wanted you dead, you would already be dead.”
True, I thought, but Lu could have added, If I wanted to trick you into following me so I could deliver you alive to Nero, this is exactly what I’d be doing.
Lu quickened her pace. Meg scowled at me like, Be nice to my Gaul, then she hurried to catch up.
I lost track of time. The adrenaline spike from the train fight faded, leaving me weary and sore. Sure, I was still running for my life, but I’d spent most of the last six months running for my life. I couldn’t maintain a productive state of panic indefinitely. Tunnel goo soaked into my socks. My shoes felt like squishy clay pots.
For a while, I was impressed by how well Lu knew the tunnels. She forged ahead, taking us down one turn after another. Then, when she hesitated at a junction a bit too long, I realized the truth.
“You don’t know where we’re going,” I said.
She scowled. “I told you. Away from the—”
“Search grid. Cameras. Yes. But where are we going?”
“Somewhere. Anywhere safe.”
I laughed. I surprised myself by actually feeling relieved. If Lu was this clueless about our destination, then I felt safer trusting her. She had no grand plan. We were lost. What a relief!
Lu did not seem to appreciate my sense of humor.
“Excuse me if I had to improvise,” she grumbled. “You’re fortunate I found you on that train rather than one of the emperor’s other search parties. Otherwise you’d be in Nero’s holding cell right now.”
Meg gave me another scowl. “Yeah, Lester. Besides, it’s fine.”
She pointed to an old section of Greek-key-design tile along the left-hand corridor, perhaps left over from an abandoned subway line. “I recognize that. There should be an exit up ahead.”
I wanted to ask how she could possibly know this. Then I remembered Meg had spent a great deal of her childhood roaming dark alleys, derelict buildings, and other strange and unusual places in Manhattan with Nero’s blessing—the evil imperial version of free-range parenting.
I could imagine a younger Meg exploring these tunnels, doing cartwheels in the muck, and growing mushrooms in forgotten locations.
We followed her for…I don’t know, six or seven miles? That’s what it felt like, at least. Once, we stopped abruptly when a deep and distant BOOM echoed through the corridor.
“Train?” I asked nervously, though we’d left the tracks behind long ago.
Lu tilted her head. “No. That was thunder.”
I didn’t see how that could be. When we’d entered the tunnel in New Jersey, there’d been no sign of rain. I didn’t like the idea of sudden thunderstorms so close to the Empire State Building—entrance to Mount Olympus, home of Zeus, aka Big Daddy Lightning Bolt.
Undeterred, Meg forged ahead.
Finally, our tunnel dead-ended at a metal ladder. Overhead was a loose manhole cover, light and water spilling from one edge like a weeping crescent moon.
“I remember this opens to an alleyway,” Meg announced. “No cameras—at least there weren’t any last time I was here.”
Lu grunted as if to say, Good work, or maybe just, This is going to suck.
The Gaul ascended first. Moments later, the three of us stood in a storm-lashed alley between two apartment buildings. Lightning forked overhead, lacing the dark clouds with gold. Rain needled my face and poked me in the eyes.
Where had this tempest come from? Was it a welcome-home present from my father, or a warning? Or maybe it was just a regular summer storm. Sadly, my time as Lester had taught me that not every meteorological event was about me.
Thunder rattled the windows on either side of us. Judging from the yellow-brick facades of the buildings, I guessed we were on the Upper East Side somewhere, though that seemed an impossibly long underground walk from Penn