The Tyrant’s Tomb
“And kill him!” yelled one of the Lares.
“No, Marcus Apulius!” scolded one of his peers. “Tarquin is as dead as we are!”
“Well, what, then?” grumbled Marcus Apulius. “Ask him nicely to leave us alone? This is Tarquin the Proud we’re talking about! He’s a maniac!”
“The first step,” I said, “is only to explore the tomb and, ah, find out the right things, as Ella said.”
“Yep,” the harpy agreed. “Ella said that.”
“I have to assume,” I continued, “that if we succeed in this, and come out alive, we will know more about how to proceed. Right now, all I can say with certainty is that the next step will involve finding a soundless god, whatever that means.”
Frank sat forward in his praetor’s chair. “But don’t you know all the gods, Apollo? I mean, you are one. Or were one. Is there a god of silence?”
I sighed. “Frank, I can barely keep my own family of gods straight. There are hundreds of minor gods. I don’t remember any silent gods. Of course, if there is one, I doubt we would’ve hung out, me being the god of music.”
Frank looked crestfallen, which made me feel bad. I hadn’t meant to take out my frustrations on one of the few people who still called me Apollo unironically.
“Let’s tackle one thing at a time,” Reyna suggested. “First, the tomb of Tarquin. We have a lead on its location, right, Ella?”
“Yep, yep.” The harpy closed her eyes and recited, “A wildcat near the spinning lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. To open his door, two-fifty-four.”
“That is a prophecy!” Tyson said. “I have it on my back!” The Cyclops stood and ripped off his shirt so fast he must have been waiting for any excuse. “See?”
The spectators all leaned forward, though it would’ve been impossible to read the tattoos from any distance.
“I also have a fish pony by my kidney,” he announced proudly. “Isn’t it cute?”
Hazel averted her eyes as if she might pass out from embarrassment. “Tyson, could you…? I’m sure it’s a lovely fish pony, but…shirt back on, please? I don’t suppose anyone knows what those lines mean?”
The Romans observed a moment of silence for the death of clarity that all prophecies symbolized.
Lavinia snorted. “Seriously? Nobody gets it?”
“Lavinia,” Reyna said, her voice strained, “are you suggesting you—”
“Know where the tomb is?” Lavinia spread her hands. “Well, I mean, A wildcat near the spinning lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. There’s a Wildcat Drive in Tilden Park, right over the hills.” She pointed north. “And horses bright, spinning lights? That would be the Tilden Park carousel, wouldn’t it?”
“Ohhhh.” Several Lares nodded in recognition, as if they spent all their free time riding the local merry-go-rounds.
Frank shifted in his chair. “You think the tomb of an evil Roman king is under a carousel?”
“Hey, I didn’t write the prophecy,” Lavinia said. “Besides, it makes as much sense as anything else we’ve faced.”
Nobody disputed that. Demigods eat weirdness for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“All right, then,” Reyna said. “We have a goal. We need a quest. A short quest, since time is very limited. We must designate a team of heroes and have them approved by the senate.”
“Us.” Meg stood. “Gotta be Lester and me.”
I gulped. “She’s right,” I said, which counted as my heroic act for the day. “This is part of my greater quest to regain my place among the gods. I’ve brought this trouble to your doorstep. I need to make it right. Please, don’t anyone try to talk me out of it.”
I waited desperately, in vain, for someone to try to talk me out of it.
Hazel Levesque rose. “I’ll go, too. A centurion is required to lead a quest. If this place is underground, well, that’s kind of my specialty.”
Her tone also said I have a score to settle.
Which was fine, except I remembered how Hazel had collapsed that tunnel we’d taken into camp. I had a sudden terrifying vision of being crushed under a merry-go-round.
“That’s three questers, then,” Reyna said. “The correct number for a quest. Now—”
“Two and a half,” Meg interrupted.
Reyna frowned. “Sorry?”
“Lester’s my servant. We’re kind of a team. He shouldn’t count as a full quester.”
“Oh, come on!” I protested.
“So we can take one more,” Meg offered.
Frank sat up. “I’d be happy to—”
“If you didn’t have praetor duties to attend to,” Reyna finished, giving him a look like, You are not leaving me alone, dude. “While the questers are out, the rest of us have to prepare the valley’s defenses. There’s a lot to do.”
“Right.” Frank slumped. “So, is there anyone else—?”
POP!
The sound was so loud, half the Lares disintegrated in alarm. Several senators ducked under their seats.
In the back row, Lavinia had a flattened pink gum bubble smeared across her face. She quickly peeled it away and stuck it back in her mouth.
“Lavinia,” Reyna said. “Perfect. Thanks for volunteering.”
“I—But—”
“I call for a senate vote!” Reyna said. “Do we send Hazel, Lester, Meg, and Lavinia on a quest to find the tomb of Tarquin?”
The measure passed unanimously.
We were given full senate approval to find a tomb under a carousel and confront the worst king in Roman history, who also happened to be an undead zombie lord.
My day just kept getting better.
Romance disaster
I’m poison for guys and gals
You wanna hang out?
“LIKE CHEWING GUM IS a crime.” Lavinia tossed a piece of her sandwich off the roof, where it was immediately snatched up by a seagull.
For our picnic lunch, she had brought me, Hazel, and Meg to her favorite thinking place: the rooftop of New Rome University’s bell tower, which Lavinia had discovered access to on her own. People were not exactly encouraged to be up here, but it was not strictly forbidden, either, which seemed to be the space Lavinia most liked inhabiting.
She explained that she enjoyed sitting here because it was directly above the Garden of Faunus, Reyna’s favorite thinking spot. Reyna was not in the garden at present, but whenever she was, Lavinia could look down at the praetor, a hundred feet below, and gloat Ha-ha, my thinking spot is higher than your thinking spot.
Now, as I sat on the precariously slanted red clay tiles, a half-eaten focaccia in my lap, I could see the entire city and valley spread out below us—everything we stood to lose in the coming invasion. Beyond stretched the flatlands of Oakland, and the San Francisco Bay, which in just a few days would be dotted with Caligula’s luxury battle yachts.
“Honestly.” Lavinia threw another piece of her grilled cheese to the seagulls. “If the legionnaires went for a stupid hike once in a while, they’d know about Wildcat Drive.”
I nodded, though I suspected that most legionnaires, who spent a good deal of their time marching in heavy armor, probably wouldn’t consider hiking much fun. Lavinia, however, seemed to know every back road, trail, and secret tunnel within twenty miles of Camp Jupiter—I suppose because you never knew when you’d need to sneak out for a date with some pretty Hemlock or Deadly Nightshade.