The arrow hummed thoughtfully. METHINKS THE ANSWER SHALT BEEST IN THE COMMON TONGUE OF ENGLISH. ’TWOULD BEEST THE NAME BY WHICH THOU ART MOST FAMILIAR IN THE PRESENT DAY.

“He sayeth—” I sighed. “He says the answer will be in English. I hope he means modern English and not the strange Shakespearean lingo he speaks—”

’TIS NOT STRANGE! the arrow objected.

“Because we don’t have enough spaces to spell Apollonius beest thy answereth.”

OH, HA-HA. A JEST AS WEAK AS THY MUSCLES.

“Thanks for playing.” I sheathed the arrow. “So, friends, the tunnel with six squares. Apollo. Shall we?”

“What if we choose wrong?” Grover asked.

“Well,” I said, “perhaps the magic sandals will help. Or perhaps the sandals only allow us to play this game in the first place, and if we stray from the right path, despite the Sibyl’s efforts to assist us, we will open ourselves up to the fury of the maze—”

“And we burn to death,” Meg said.

“I love games,” Grover said. “Lead on.”

“The answer is Apollo!” I said, just for the record.

As soon as I stepped to the next square, a large capital A appeared at my feet.

I took this as a good sign. I stepped again, and a P appeared. My two friends followed close behind.

At last we stepped off the sixth square, into a small chamber identical to the last. Looking back, the entire word APOLLO blazed in our wake. Before us, three more corridors with golden rows of squares led onward—left, right, and forward.

“There’s another clue.” Meg pointed to the wall. “Why is this one in English?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Then I read aloud the glowing words: “‘Herald of new entrances, opener of the softly gliding year, Janus, of the double.’”

“Oh, that guy. Roman god of doorways.” Grover shuddered. “I met him once.” He looked around suspiciously. “I hope he doesn’t pop up. He would love this place.”

Meg traced her fingers across the golden lines. “Kinda easy, isn’t it? His name’s right there in the clue. Five letters, J-A-N-U-S, so it’s got to be that way.” She pointed down the hallway on the right, which was the only one with five spaces.

I stared at the clue, then the squares. I was beginning to sense something even more unsettling than the heat, but I wasn’t sure what it was.

“Janus isn’t the answer,” I decided. “This is more of a fill-in-the-blanks situation, don’t you think? Janus of the double what?”

“Faces,” Grover said. “He had two faces, neither of which I need to see again.”

I announced aloud to the empty corridor: “The correct answer is faces!”

I received no response, but as we proceeded down the right-hand corridor, the word FACES appeared. Reassuringly, we were not roasted alive by Titan fire.

In the next chamber, new corridors once again led in three directions. This time, the glowing clue on the wall was again in ancient Greek.

A thrill went through me as I read the lines. “I know this! It’s from a poem by Bacchylides.” I translated for my friends: “But the highest god, mighty with his thunderbolt, sent Hypnos and his twin from snowy Olympus to the fearless fighter Sarpedon.”

Meg and Grover stared at me blankly. Honestly, just because I was wearing the Caligula shoes, did I have to do everything?

“Something is altered in this line,” I said. “I remember the scene. Sarpedon dies. Zeus has his body carried away from the battlefield. But the wording—”

“Hypnos is the god of sleep,” Grover said. “That cabin makes excellent milk and cookies. But who’s his twin?”

My heart ka-thumped. “That’s what’s different. In the actual line, it doesn’t say his twin. It names the twin: Thanatos. Or Death, in English.”

I looked at the three tunnels. No corridor had eight squares for Thanatos. One had ten spaces, one had four, and one had five—just enough to fit DEATH.

“Oh, no…” I leaned against the nearest wall. I felt like one of Aloe Vera’s spikes was making its slimy way down my back.

“Why do you look so scared?” Meg asked. “You’re doing great so far.”

“Because, Meg,” I said, “we are not just solving random puzzles. We are putting together a word-puzzle prophecy. And so far, it says APOLLO FACES DEATH.”

I hated being right.

When we got to the end of the tunnel, the word DEATH blazed on the floor behind us. We found ourselves in a larger circular chamber, five new tunnels branching out before us like the fingers and thumb of a giant automaton hand.

I waited for a new clue to appear on the wall. Whatever it was, I desperately wanted the answer to be NOT REALLY. Or perhaps AND DEFEATS IT EASILY!

“Why is nothing happening?” Grover asked.

Meg tilted her head. “Listen.”

Blood roared in my ears, but at last I heard what Meg was talking about: a distant cry of pain—deep and guttural, more beast than human—along with the dull crackle of fire, as if…oh, gods. As if someone or something had been grazed by Titan heat and now lay dying a slow death.

“Sounds like a monster,” Grover decided. “Should we help it?”

“How?” Meg asked.

She had a point. The noise echoed, so diffuse I couldn’t tell which corridor it came from, even if we were free to pick our path without answering riddles.

“We’ll have to keep going,” I decided. “I imagine Medea has monsters on guard down here. That must be one of them. I doubt she’s too concerned about them occasionally getting caught in the fires.”

Grover winced. “Doesn’t seem right, letting it suffer.”

“Also,” Meg added, “what if one of those monsters triggers a flash fire and it comes our way?”

I stared at my young master. “You are a fountain of dark questions today. We have to have faith.”

“In the Sibyl?” she asked. “In those evil shoes?”

I didn’t have an answer for her. Fortunately, I was saved by the belated appearance of the next clue—three golden lines in Latin.

“Oh, Latin!” Grover said. “Hold on. I can do this.” He squinted at the words, then sighed. “No. I can’t.”

“Honestly, no Greek or Latin?” I said. “What do they teach you in satyr school?”

“Mostly, you know, important stuff. Like plants.”

“Thank you,” Meg muttered.

I translated the clue for my less educated friends:

“Now must I tell of the flight of the king.

The last to reign over the Roman people

Was a man unjust yet puissant in arms.”

I nodded. “I believe that’s a quote from Ovid.”

Neither of my comrades looked impressed.

“So what’s the answer?” Meg asked. “The last Roman emperor?”

“No, not an emperor,” I said. “In the very first days of Rome, the city was ruled by kings. The last one, the seventh, was overthrown, and Rome became a republic.”

I tried to cast my thoughts back to the Kingdom of Rome. That whole time period was a little hazy to me. We gods were still based in Greece then. Rome was something of a backwater. The last king, though…he brought back some bad memories.