The Tyrant’s Tomb

“After that story about Koronis?” Reyna said. “You deserved it.”

“You did,” Meg agreed.

I sighed. “You two are horrible influences on each other.”

Without taking their eyes off me, Reyna and Meg gave each other a silent high five.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “Maybe the Arrow of Dodona can help jog my memory. At least he insults me in flowery Shakespearean language.”

I drew the arrow from my quiver. “O prophetic missile, I need your guidance!”

There was no answer.

I wondered if the arrow had been lulled to sleep by the magic surrounding the storage container. Then I realized there was a simpler explanation. I returned the arrow to my quiver and pulled out a different one.

“You chose the wrong arrow, didn’t you?” Meg guessed.

“No!” I snapped. “You just don’t understand my process. I’m going back into the sphere of silence now.”

“But—”

I marched away before Meg could finish.

Only when I was I surrounded by cold silence again did it occur to me that it might be hard to carry on a conversation with the arrow if I couldn’t talk.

No matter. I was too proud to retreat. If the arrow and I couldn’t communicate telepathically, I would just pretend to have an intelligent conversation while Reyna and Meg looked on.

“O prophetic missile!” I tried again. My vocal cords vibrated, though no sound came out—a disturbing sensation I can only compare to drowning. “I need your guidance!”

CONGRATULATIONS, said the arrow. Its voice resonated in my head—more tactile than audible—rattling my eyeballs.

“Thanks,” I said. “Wait. Congratulations for what?”

THOU HAST FOUND THY GROOVE. AT LEAST THE BEGINNINGS OF THY GROOVE. I SUSPECTED THIS WOULD BE SO, GIVEN TIME. CONGRATULATIONS ARE MERITED.

“Oh.” I stared at the arrow’s point, waiting for a but. None came. I was so surprised, I could only stutter, “Th-thanks.”

THOU ART MOST WELCOME.

“Did we just have a polite exchange?”

AYE, the arrow mused. MOST TROUBLING. BY THE BY, WHAT “PROCESS” WERT THOU SPEAKING OF TO YON MAIDENS? THOU HAST NO PROCESS SAVE FUMBLING.

“Here we go,” I muttered. “Please, my memory needs a jump start. This soundless god…he’s that guy from Egypt, isn’t he?”

WELL-REASONED, SIRRAH, the arrow said. THOU HAST NARROWED IT DOWN TO ALL THE GUYS IN EGYPT.

“You know what I mean. There was that—that one Ptolemaic god. The strange dude. He was a god of silence and secrets. But he wasn’t, exactly. If you can just give me his name, I think the rest of my memories will shake loose.”

IS MY WISDOM SO CHEAPLY BOUGHT? DOST THOU EXPECT TO WIN HIS NAME WITH NO EFFORT?

“What do you call climbing Sutro Tower?” I demanded. “Getting slashed to pieces by ravens, kicked in the face, and forced to sing like Dean Martin?”

AMUSING.

I may have yelled a few choice words, but the sphere of silence censored them, so you will have to use your imagination.

“Fine,” I said. “Can you at least give me a hint?”

VERILY, THE NAME DOTH BEGIN WITH AN H.

“Hephaestus…Hermes…Hera…A lot of gods’ names begin with H!”

HERA? ART THOU SERIOUS?

“I’m just brainstorming. H, you say….”

THINK OF THY FAVORITE PHYSICIAN.

“Me. Wait. My son Asclepius.”

The arrow’s sigh rattled my entire skeleton. YOUR FAVORITE MORTAL PHYSICIAN.

“Doctor Kildare. Doctor Doom. Doctor House. Doctor—Oh! You mean Hippocrates. But he’s not a Ptolemaic god.”

THOU ART KILLING ME, the arrow complained. “HIPPOCRATES” IS THY HINT. THE NAME THOU SEEKEST IS MOST LIKE IT. THOU NEEDEST BUT CHANGE TWO LETTERS.

“Which two?” I felt petulant, but I’d never enjoyed word puzzles, even before my horrific experience in the Burning Maze.

I SHALL GIVE THEE ONE LAST HINT, said the arrow. THINK OF THY FAVORITE MARX BROTHER.

“The Marx Brothers? How do you even know about them? They were from the 1930s! I mean, yes, of course, I loved them. They brightened a dreary decade, but…Wait. The one who played the harp. Harpo. I always found his music sweet and sad and…”

The silence turned colder and heavier around me.

Harpo, I thought. Hippocrates. Put the names together and you got…

“Harpocrates,” I said. “Arrow, please tell me that’s not the answer. Please tell me he’s not waiting in that box.”

The arrow did not reply, which I took as confirmation of my worst fears.

I returned my Shakespearean friend to his quiver and trudged back to Reyna and Meg.

Meg frowned. “I don’t like that look on your face.”

“Me neither,” Reyna said. “What did you learn?”

I gazed out at the fog, wishing we could deal with something as easy as killer giant ravens. As I suspected, the name of the god had shaken loose my memories—bad, unwelcome memories.

“I know which god we face,” I said. “The good news is he’s not very powerful, as gods go. About as obscure as you can imagine. A real D-lister.”

Reyna folded her arms. “What’s the catch?”

“Ah…well.” I cleared my throat. “Harpocrates and I didn’t exactly get along. He might have…er, sworn that someday he’d see me vaporized.”

We all need a hand

On our shoulder sometimes so

We can chew through steel

“VAPORIZED,” SAID REYNA.

“Yes.”

“What did you do to him?” Meg asked.

I tried to look offended. “Nothing! I may have teased him a bit, but he was a very minor god. Rather silly-looking. I may have made some jokes at his expense in front of the other Olympians.”

Reyna knit her eyebrows. “So you bullied him.”

“No! I mean…I did write zap me in glowing letters on the back of his toga. And I suppose I might have been a bit harsh when I tied him up and locked him in the stalls with my fiery horses overnight—”

“OH, MY GODS!” Meg said. “You’re awful!”

I fought down the urge to defend myself. I wanted to shout, Well, at least I didn’t kill him like I did my pregnant girlfriend Koronis! But that wasn’t much of a gotcha.

Looking back on my encounters with Harpocrates, I realized I had been awful. If somebody had treated me, Lester, the way I had treated that puny Ptolemaic god, I would want to crawl in a hole and die. And if I were honest, even back when I was a god, I had been bullied—only the bully had been my father. I should have known better than to share the pain.

I hadn’t thought about Harpocrates in eons. Teasing him had seemed like no big deal. I suppose that’s what made it even worse. I had shrugged off our encounters. I doubted he had.

Koronis’s ravens…Harpocrates…

It was no coincidence they were both haunting me today like the Ghosts of Saturnalias Past. Tarquin had orchestrated all this with me in mind. He was forcing me to confront some of my greatest hits of dreadfulness. Even if I survived the challenges, my friends would see exactly what kind of dirtbag I was. The shame would weigh me down and make me ineffective—the same way Tarquin used to add rocks to a cage around his enemy’s head, until eventually, the burden was too much. The prisoner would collapse and drown in a shallow pool, and Tarquin could claim, I didn’t kill him. He just wasn’t strong enough.