“Pr-Princeps,” the man stuttered.

“I loved the satire you wrote about me,” Caligula said. “My guards found a copy of it in the Forum and brought it to my attention.”

“S-sire,” said Philo. “It was only a weak jest. I didn’t mean—”

“Nonsense!” Caligula smiled at the crowd. “Isn’t Philo great, everybody? Didn’t you like his work? The way he described me as a rabid dog?”

The crowd was on the verge of full panic. The air was so full of electricity, I wondered if my father was there in disguise.

“I promised that poets would be free to express themselves!” Caligula announced. “No more paranoia like in old Tiberius’s reign. I admire your silver tongue, Philo. I think everyone should have a chance to admire it. I will reward you!”

Philo gulped. “Thank you, lord.”

“Guards,” said Caligula, “take him away. Pull his tongue out, dip it in molten silver, and display it in the Forum where everyone can admire it. Really, Philo—wonderful work!”

Two praetorians hauled away the screaming poet.

“And you there!” Caligula called.

Only then did I realize the crowd had ebbed around me, leaving me exposed. Suddenly, Caligula was in my face. His beautiful eyes narrowed as he studied my costume, my godly physique.

“I don’t recognize you,” he said.

I wanted to speak. I knew that I had nothing to fear from Caesar. If worse came to worst, I could simply say Bye! and vanish in a cloud of glitter. But, I have to admit, in Caligula’s presence, I was awestruck. The young man was wild, powerful, unpredictable. His audacity took my breath away.

At last, I managed a bow. “I am a mere actor, Caesar.”

“Oh, indeed!” Caligula brightened. “And you play the gladiator. Would you fight to the death in my honor?”

I silently reminded myself that I was immortal. It took a little convincing. I drew my gladiator’s sword, which was nothing but a costume blade of soft tin. “Point me to my opponent, Caesar!” I scanned the audience and bellowed, “I will destroy anyone who threatens my lord!”

To demonstrate, I lunged and poked the nearest praetorian guard in the chest. My sword bent against his breastplate. I held aloft my ridiculous weapon, which now resembled the letter Z.

A dangerous silence followed. All eyes fixed on Caesar.

Finally, Caligula laughed. “Well done!” He patted my shoulder, then snapped his fingers. One of his servants shuffled forward and handed me a heavy pouch of gold coins.

Caligula whispered in my ear, “I feel safer already.”

The emperor moved on, leaving onlookers laughing with relief, some casting envious glances at me as if to ask What is your secret?

After that, I stayed away from Rome for decades. It was a rare man who could make a god nervous, but Caligula unsettled me. He almost made a better Apollo than I did.

My dream changed. I saw Herophile again, the Sibyl of Erythraea, reaching out her shackled arms, her face lit red by the roiling lava below.

“Apollo,” she said, “it won’t seem worth it to you. I’m not sure it is myself. But you must come. You must hold them together in their grief.”

I sank into the lava, Herophile still calling my name as my body broke and crumbled into ash.

I woke up screaming, lying on top of a sleeping bag in the Cistern.

Aloe Vera hovered over me, her prickly triangles of hair mostly snapped off, leaving her with a glistening buzz cut.

“You’re okay,” she assured me, putting her cool hand against my fevered forehead. “You’ve been through a lot, though.”

I realized I was wearing only my underwear. My entire body was beet maroon, slathered in aloe. I couldn’t breathe through my nose. I touched my nostrils and discovered I had been fitted with small green aloe nose plugs.

I sneezed them out.

“My friends?” I asked.

Aloe moved aside. Behind her, Grover Underwood sat cross-legged between Piper’s and Meg’s sleeping bags, both girls fast asleep. Like me, they had been slathered with goo. It was a perfect opportunity to take a picture of Meg with green plugs sticking out of her nostrils, for blackmail purposes, but I was too relieved that she was alive. Also, I didn’t have a phone.

“Will they be all right?” I asked.

“They were in worse shape than you,” Grover said. “It was touch and go for a while, but they’ll pull through. I’ve been feeding them nectar and ambrosia.”

Aloe smiled. “Also, my healing properties are legendary. Just wait. They’ll be up and walking around by dinner.”

Dinner…I looked at the dark orange circle of sky above. Either it was late afternoon, or the wildfires were closer, or both.

“Medea?” I asked.

Grover frowned. “Meg told me about the battle before she passed out, but I don’t know what happened to the sorceress. I never saw her.”

I shivered in my aloe gel. I wanted to believe Medea had died in the fiery explosion, but I doubted we could be so lucky. Helios’s fire hadn’t seemed to bother her. Maybe she was naturally immune. Or maybe she had worked some protective magic on herself.

“Your dryad friends?” I asked. “Agave and Money Maker?”

Aloe and Grover exchanged a sorrowful look.

“Agave might pull through,” said Grover. “She went dormant as soon as we got her back to her plant. But Money Maker…” He shook his head.

I had barely met the dryad. Still, the news of her death hit me hard. I felt as if I were dropping green leaf-coins from my body, shedding essential pieces of myself.

I thought about Herophile’s words in my dream: It won’t seem worth it to you. I’m not sure it is myself. But you must come. You must hold them together in their grief.

I feared that Money Maker’s death was only one small part of the grief that awaited us.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Aloe patted my greasy shoulder. “It isn’t your fault, Apollo. By the time you found her, she was too far gone. Unless you’d had…”

She stopped herself, but I knew what she’d intended to say: Unless you’d had your godly healing powers. A lot would have been different if I’d been a god, not a pretender in this pathetic Lester Papadopoulos disguise.

Grover touched the blowgun at Piper’s side. The river-cane tube had been badly charred, pitted with burn holes that would probably make it unusable.

“Something else you should know,” he said. “When Agave and I carried Money Maker out of the maze? That big-eared guard, the guy with the white fur? He was gone.”

I considered this. “You mean he died and disintegrated? Or he got up and walked away?”

“I don’t know,” Grover said. “Does either seem likely?”

Neither did, but I decided we had bigger problems to think about.

“Tonight,” I said, “when Piper and Meg wake up, we need to have another meeting with your dryad friends. We’re going to put this Burning Maze out of business, once and for all.”

OUR council of war was more like a council of wincing.

Thanks to Grover’s magic and Aloe Vera’s constant sliming (I mean attention), Piper and Meg regained consciousness. By dinnertime, the three of us could wash, get dressed, and even walk around without screaming too much, but we still hurt a great deal. Every time I stood up too fast, tiny golden Caligulas danced before my eyes.