The Tyrant’s Tomb

“Meg,” I said, “of all the things you could have chosen to tell them, you told them about that?”

“Wasn’t my idea.” Meg somehow managed to enunciate with half a hot dog in her mouth. “Lavinia likes shoes.”

“Well, what did you think I was going to ask about?” Lavinia demanded. “You tell me the emperor has an entire boatload of shoes, of course I’m going to wonder if you saw any dancing ones! So it’s true, then, Lester?”

“I mean…yes. We saw a pair of—”

“Wow.” Lavinia sat back, crossed her arms, and glared at me. “Just wow. You wait until now to tell me this? Do you know how rare those shoes are? How important…” She seemed to choke on her own indignation. “Wow.”

Around the table, Lavinia’s comrades showed a mixture of reactions. Some rolled their eyes, some smirked, some kept eating as if nothing Lavinia did could surprise them anymore.

An older boy with shaggy brown hair dared to stick up for me. “Lavinia, Apollo has had a few other things going on.”

“Oh, my gods, Thomas!” Lavinia shot back. “Naturally, you wouldn’t understand! You never take off those boots!”

Thomas frowned at his standard-issue combat stompers. “What? They’ve got good arch support.”

“Yeesh.” Lavinia turned to Meg. “We have to figure out a way to get aboard that ship and rescue those shoes.”

“Nah.” Meg sucked a glob of relish off her thumb. “Way too dangerous.”

“But—”

“Lavinia,” I interrupted, “you can’t.”

She must have heard the fear and urgency in my voice. Over the past few days, I had developed a strange fondness for Lavinia. I didn’t want to see her charge into a slaughter, especially after my dream about those mortars primed with Greek fire.

She ran her Star of David pendant back and forth on its chain. “You’ve got new information? Dish.”

Before I could reply, a plate of food flew into my hands. The aurae had decided I needed chicken fingers and fries. Lots of them. Either that or they’d heard the word dish and taken it as an order.

A moment later, Hazel and the other Fifth Cohort centurion joined us—a dark-haired young man with strange red stains around his mouth. Ah, yes. Dakota, child of Bacchus.

“What’s going on?” Dakota asked.

“Lester has news.” Lavinia stared at me expectantly, as if I might be withholding the location of Terpsichore’s magical tutu (which, for the record, I hadn’t seen in centuries).

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure if this was the right forum for sharing my dream. I should probably report it to the praetors first. But Hazel nodded at me as if to say, Go on. I decided that was good enough.

I described what I’d seen—a top-of-the-line IKEA heavy mortar, fully assembled, shooting a giant hamster ball of green flaming death that blew up the Pacific Ocean. I explained that, apparently, the emperors had fifty such mortars, one on each ship, which would be ready to obliterate Camp Jupiter as soon as they took up positions in the bay.

Dakota’s face turned as red as his mouth. “I need more Kool-Aid.”

The fact that no goblets flew into his hand told me the aurae disagreed.

Lavinia looked like she’d been slapped with one of her mother’s ballet slippers. Meg kept eating hot dogs as if they might be the last ones she would ever get.

Hazel chewed her bottom lip in concentration, perhaps trying to extract any good news from what I’d said. She seemed to find this harder than pulling diamonds from the ground.

“Okay, look, guys, we knew the emperors were assembling secret weapons. At least now we know what those weapons are. I’ll convey this information to the praetors, but it doesn’t change anything. You all did a great job in the morning drills”—she hesitated, then generously decided not to add except for Apollo, who slept through it all—“and this afternoon, one of our war games will be about boarding enemy ships. We can get prepared.”

From the expressions around the table, I gathered the Fifth Cohort was not reassured. The Romans had never been known for their naval prowess. Last I’d checked, the Camp Jupiter “navy” consisted of some old triremes they only used for mock naval battles in the Colosseum, and one rowboat they kept docked in Alameda. Drilling to board enemy ships would be less about practicing a workable battle plan and more about keeping the legionnaires busy so they wouldn’t think about their impending doom.

Thomas rubbed his forehead. “I hate my life.”

“Keep it together, legionnaire,” Hazel said. “This is what we signed up for. Defending the legacy of Rome.”

“From its own emperors,” Thomas said miserably.

“I’m sorry to tell you,” I put in, “but the biggest threat to the empire was often its own emperors.”

Nobody argued.

At the officers’ table, Frank Zhang stood. All around the room, flying pitchers and platters froze in midair, waiting respectfully.

“Legionnaires!” Frank announced, managing a confident smile. “Relay activities will recommence on the Field of Mars in twenty minutes. Drill like your lives depend on it, because they do!”

See this right here, kids?

This is how you don’t do it.

Questions? Class dismissed.

“HOW’S THE WOUND?” HAZEL asked.

I knew she meant well, but I was getting very tired of that question, and even more tired of the wound.

We walked side by side out the main gates, heading for the Field of Mars. Just ahead of us, Meg cartwheeled down the road, though how she did this without regurgitating the four hot dogs she’d eaten, I had no idea.

“Oh, you know,” I said, in a terrible attempt to sound upbeat, “all things considered, I’m okay.”

My old immortal self would have laughed at that. Okay? Are you joking?

Over the last few months, I had drastically scaled back my expectations. At this point, okay meant still able to walk and breathe.

“I should have realized earlier,” Hazel said. “Your death aura is getting stronger by the hour—”

“Can we not talk about my death aura?”

“Sorry, it’s just…I wish Nico were here. He might know how to fix you.”

I wouldn’t have minded seeing Hazel’s half brother. Nico di Angelo, son of Hades, had been quite valuable when we fought Nero at Camp Half-Blood. And of course his boyfriend, my son Will Solace, was an excellent healer. Yet I suspected they wouldn’t be able to help me any more than Pranjal had. If Will and Nico were here, they would just be two more people for me to worry about—two more loved ones watching me with concern, wondering how long until I went full-on zombie.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” I said, “but…What is Lavinia doing?”

About a hundred yards away, Lavinia and Don the faun stood on a bridge across the Little Tiber—which was very much not on the way to the Field of Mars—having what looked like a serious argument. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought this to Hazel’s attention. Then again, if Lavinia wanted to go unnoticed, she should have chosen a different hair color—like camouflage, for instance—and not waved her arms around so much.