The Tyrant’s Tomb

Nevertheless, I followed her into Jupiter’s massive temple. I had little choice.

Ringing the open-air pavilion, columns the size of redwoods supported a domed, gilded ceiling. The floor was a colorful mosaic of Latin inscriptions: prophecies, memorials, dire warnings to praise Jupiter or face his lightning. In the center, behind a marble altar, rose a massive golden statue of Dad himself: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, draped in a purple silk toga big enough to be a ship’s sail. He looked stern, wise, and paternal, though he was only one of those in real life.

Seeing him tower above me, lightning bolt raised, I had to fight the urge to cower and plead. I knew it was only a statue, but if you’ve ever been traumatized by someone, you’ll understand. It doesn’t take much to trigger those old fears: a look, a sound, a familiar situation. Or a fifty-foot-tall golden statue of your abuser—that does the trick.

Lupa stood before the altar. Mist shrouded her fur as if she were off-gassing quicksilver.

It is your time, she told me.

Or something like that. Her gestures conveyed expectation and urgency. She wanted me to do something. Her scent told me she wasn’t sure I was capable of it.

I swallowed dryly, which in itself was Wolf for I’m scared. No doubt Lupa already smelled my fear. It wasn’t possible to lie in Lupa’s language. Threaten, bully, cajole…yes. But not outright lie.

“My time,” I said. “For what, exactly?”

She nipped the air in annoyance. To be Apollo. The pack needs you.

I wanted to scream I’ve been trying to be Apollo! It’s not that easy!

But I restrained my body language from broadcasting that message.

Talking face-to-face with any god is dangerous business. I was out of practice. True, I’d seen Britomartis back in Indianapolis, but she didn’t count. She liked torturing me too much to want to kill me. With Lupa, though…I had to be careful.

Even when I’d been a god myself, I’d never been able to get a good read on the Wolf Mother. She didn’t hang out with the Olympians. She never came to the family Saturnalia dinners. Not once had she attended our monthly book group, even when we discussed Dances with Wolves.

“Fine,” I relented. “I know what you mean. The last lines from the Dark Prophecy. I’ve reached the Tiber alive, et cetera, et cetera. Now I am supposed to ‘jive.’ I assume that entails more than dancing and snapping my fingers?”

Lupa’s stomach growled. The more I talked, the tastier I smelled.

The pack is weak, she signaled with a glance toward the funeral pyre. Too many have died. When the enemy surrounds this place, you must show strength. You must summon help.

I tried to suppress another wolfish display of irritation. Lupa was a goddess. This was her city, her camp. She had a pack of supernatural wolves at her command. Why couldn’t she help?

But, of course, I knew the answer. Wolves are not frontline fighters. They are hunters who attack only when they have overwhelming numbers. Lupa expected her Romans to solve their own problems. To be self-sufficient or die. She would advise. She would teach and guide and warn. But she would not fight their battles. Our battles.

Which made me wonder why she was telling me to summon help. And what help?

My expression and body language must have conveyed the question.

She flicked her ears. North. Scout the tomb. Find answers. That is the first step.

Outside, at the base of the temple, the funeral pyre crackled and roared. Smoke drifted through the open rotunda, buffeting the statue of Jupiter. I hoped, somewhere up on Mount Olympus, Dad’s divine sinuses were suffering.

“Tarquinius Superbus,” I said. “He’s the one who sent the undead. He’ll attack again at the blood moon.”

Lupa’s nostrils twitched in confirmation. His stench is on you. Be careful in his tomb. The emperors were foolish to call him forth.

Emperor was a difficult concept to express in Wolf. The term for it could mean alpha wolf, pack leader, or submit to me now before I rip out your jugular. I was fairly sure I interpreted Lupa’s meaning correctly. Her pheromones read danger, disgust, apprehension, outrage, more danger.

I put a hand over my bandaged abdomen. I was getting better…wasn’t I? I’d been slathered with enough Lemurian spice and unicorn-horn shavings to kill a zombie mastodon. But I didn’t like Lupa’s worried look, or the idea of anyone’s stench being on me, especially not an undead king’s.

“Once I explore this tomb,” I said, “and get out alive…what then?”

The way will be clearer. To defeat the great silence. Then summon help. Without this, the pack will die.

I was less sure I comprehended those lines. “Defeat the silence. You mean the soundless god? The doorway that Reyna is supposed to open?”

Her response was frustratingly ambivalent. It could have meant Yes and no, or Sort of, or Why are you so dense?

I stared up at Large Golden Dad.

Zeus had thrown me into the middle of all this trouble. He’d stripped me of my power, then kicked me to the earth to free the Oracles, defeat the emperors, and—Oh, wait! I got a bonus undead king and a silent god, too! I hoped the soot from the funeral pyre was really annoying Jupiter. I wanted to climb up his legs and finger-write across his chest WASH ME!

I closed my eyes. This probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do when facing a giant wolf, but I had too many half-formed ideas swirling around in my head. I thought about the Sibylline Books, the various prescriptions they contained for warding off disasters. I considered what Lupa might mean by the great silence. And summoning help.

My eyes snapped open. “Help. As in godly help. You mean if I survive the tomb and—and defeat the soundless whatever-it-is, I might be able to summon godly help?”

Lupa made a rumbling sound deep in her chest. Finally, he understands. This will be the beginning. The first step to rejoining your own pack.

My heart ka-thumped like it was falling down a flight of stairs. Lupa’s message seemed too good to be true. I could contact my fellow Olympians, despite Zeus’s standing orders that they shun me while I was human. I might even be able to invoke their aid to save Camp Jupiter. Suddenly, I really did feel better. My gut didn’t hurt. My nerves tingled with a sensation I hadn’t felt for so long I almost didn’t recognize it: hope.

Beware. Lupa brought me back to reality with a low snarl. The way is hard. You will face more sacrifices. Death. Blood.

“No.” I met her eyes—a dangerous sign of challenge that surprised me as much as it did her. “No, I will succeed. I won’t allow any more losses. There has to be a way.”

I managed maybe three seconds of eye contact before looking away.

Lupa sniffed—a dismissive noise like Of course I won, but I thought I detected a hint of grudging approval, too. It dawned on me that Lupa appreciated my bluster and determination, even if she didn’t believe I was capable of doing what I said. Maybe especially because she didn’t believe it.

Rejoin the feast, she ordered. Tell them you have my blessing. Continue to act strong. It is how we start.

I studied the old prophecies set in the floor mosaic. I had lost friends to the Triumvirate. I had suffered. But I realized that Lupa had suffered, too. Her Roman children had been decimated. She carried the pain of all their deaths. Yet she had to act strong, even as her pack faced possible extinction.