The Tyrant’s Tomb

Back in January, when I’d fallen to earth, those words had seemed horribly unfair. Now, as I led Jason Grace to his final resting place, I believed them. So much of what had happened was my fault. So much of it could never be made right.

Jason had exacted a promise from me: When you’re a god again, remember. Remember what it’s like to be human.

I meant to keep that promise, if I survived long enough. But in the meantime, there were more pressing ways I needed to honor Jason: by protecting Camp Jupiter, defeating the Triumvirate, and, according to Ella, descending into the tomb of an undead king.

Ella’s words rattled around in my head: A wildcat near the spinning lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. To open his door, two-fifty-four.

Even for a prophecy, the lines seemed like gibberish.

The Sibyl of Cumae had always been vague and verbose. She refused to take editorial direction. She’d written nine entire volumes of Sibylline Books—honestly, who needs nine books to finish a series? I’d secretly felt vindicated when she’d been unable to sell them to the Romans until she whittled them down to a trilogy. The other six volumes had gone straight into the fire when…

I froze.

Behind me, the procession creaked and shuffled to a halt.

“Apollo?” Reyna whispered.

I shouldn’t stop. I was officiating Jason’s funeral. I couldn’t fall down, roll into a ball, and cry. That would be a definite no-no. But, Jupiter’s gym shorts, why did my brain insist on remembering important facts at such inconvenient times?

Of course Tarquin was connected to the Sibylline Books. Of course he would choose now to show himself, and send an army of undead against Camp Jupiter. And the Sibyl of Cumae herself…Was it possible—?

“Apollo,” Reyna said again, more insistently.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

One problem at a time. Jason Grace deserved my full attention. I forced down my turbulent thoughts and kept walking.

When I reached Temple Hill, it was obvious where to go. At the base of Jupiter’s temple stood an elaborate wooden pyre. At each corner, an honor guard waited with a blazing torch. Jason’s coffin would burn in the shadow of our father’s temple. That seemed bitterly appropriate.

The legion’s cohorts fanned out in a semicircle around the pyre, the Lares in their ranks glowing like birthday candles. The Fifth Cohort unloaded Jason’s coffin and bore it to the platform. Hannibal and his funeral cart were led away.

Behind the legion, at the periphery of the torchlight, aura wind spirits swirled about, setting up folding tables and black tablecloths. Others flew in with drink pitchers, stacks of plates, and baskets of food. No Roman funeral would be complete without a final meal for the departed. Only after the food was shared by the mourners would the Romans consider Jason’s spirit safely on its way to the Underworld—immune from indignities like becoming a restless ghost or a zombie.

While the legionnaires got settled, Reyna and Frank joined me at the pyre.

“You had me worried,” Reyna said. “Is your wound still bothering you?”

“It’s getting better,” I said, though I might have been trying to assure myself more than her. Also, why did she have to look so beautiful in the firelight?

“We’ll have the healers look at it again,” Frank promised. “Why did you stop in the road?”

“Just…remembered something. Tell you later. I don’t suppose you guys had any luck notifying Jason’s family? Thalia?”

They exchanged frustrated looks.

“We tried, of course,” Reyna said. “Thalia’s the only earthly family he had. But with the communications problems…”

I nodded, unsurprised. One of the more annoying things the Triumvirate had done was to shut down all forms of magical communication used by demigods. Iris-messages failed. Letters sent by wind spirits never arrived. Even mortal technology—which demigods tried to avoid anyway because it attracted monsters—now wouldn’t work for them at all. How the emperors had managed this, I had no idea.

“I wish we could wait for Thalia,” I said, watching as the last of the Fifth Cohort pallbearers climbed down from the pyre.

“Me too,” Reyna agreed. “But—”

“I know,” I said.

Roman funeral rites were meant to be performed as soon as possible. Cremation was necessary to send Jason’s spirit along. It would allow the community to grieve and heal…or at least turn our attention to the next threat.

“Let’s begin,” I said.

Reyna and Frank rejoined the front line.

I began to speak, the Latin ritual verses pouring out of me. I chanted from instinct, barely aware of the words’ meanings. I had already praised Jason with my song. That had been deeply personal. This was just a necessary formality.

In some corner of my mind, I wondered if this was how mortals felt when they used to pray to me. Perhaps their devotions had been nothing but muscle memory, reciting by rote while their minds drifted elsewhere, uninterested in my glory. I found the idea strangely…understandable. Now that I was a mortal, why should I not practice nonviolent resistance against the gods, too?

I finished my benediction.

I gestured for the aurae to distribute the feast, to place the first serving on Jason’s coffin so he could symbolically share a last meal with his brethren in the mortal world. Once that happened, and the pyre was lit, Jason’s soul would cross the Styx—so Roman tradition said.

Before the torches could be set to the wood, a plaintive howl echoed in the distance. Then another, much closer. An uneasy ripple passed through the assembled demigods. Their expressions weren’t alarmed, exactly, but definitely surprised, as if they hadn’t planned on extra guests. Hannibal grunted and stamped.

At the edges of our gathering, gray wolves emerged from the gloom—dozens of huge beasts, keening for the death of Jason, a member of their pack.

Directly behind the pyre, on the raised steps of Jupiter’s temple, the largest wolf appeared, her silvery hide glowing in the torchlight.

I felt the legion holding its collective breath. No one knelt. When facing Lupa, the wolf goddess, guardian spirit of Rome, you don’t kneel or show any sign of weakness. Instead we stood respectfully, holding our ground, as the pack bayed around us.

At last, Lupa fixed me with her lamp-yellow eyes. With a curl of her lip, she gave me a simple order: Come.

Then she turned and paced into the darkness of the temple.

Reyna approached me.

“Looks like the wolf goddess wants to have a private word.” She frowned with concern. “We’ll get the feast started. You go ahead. Hopefully Lupa isn’t angry. Or hungry.”

Sing it with me: Who’s

Afraid of the Big Good Wolf?

Me. That would be me.

LUPA WAS BOTH ANGRY and hungry.

I didn’t claim to be fluent in Wolf, but I’d spent enough time around my sister’s pack to understand the basics. Feelings were the easiest to read. Lupa, like all her kind, spoke in a combination of glances, snarls, ear twitches, postures, and pheromones. It was quite an elegant language, though not well-suited to rhyming couplets. Believe me, I’d tried. Nothing rhymes with grr-rrr-row-rrr.

Lupa was trembling with fury over Jason’s death. The ketones on her breath indicated she had not eaten in days. The anger made her hungry. The hunger made her angry. And her twitching nostrils told her that I was the nearest, most convenient sack of mortal meat.