The Tyrant’s Tomb

I barely had time to hug Hazel’s waist before Arion zoomed off, leaving my stomach on the Oakland side of the hills.

O insert name here

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What is this, Mad Libs?

TYSON AND ELLA WERE not good at waiting.

We found them at the steps of Jupiter’s temple, Ella pacing and wringing her hands, Tyson bouncing up and down in excitement like a boxer ready for round one.

The heavy burlap bags hanging from a belt around Ella’s waist swung and clunked together, reminding me of Hephaestus’s office desk toy—the one with the ball bearings that bounced against each other. (I hated visiting Hephaestus’s office. His desk toys were so mesmerizing I found myself staring at them for hours, sometimes decades. I missed the entire 1480s that way.)

Tyson’s bare chest was now completely covered with tattooed lines of prophecy. When he saw us, he broke into a grin.

“Yay!” he exclaimed. “Zoom Pony!”

I was not surprised Tyson had dubbed Arion “Zoom Pony,” or that he seemed happier to see the horse than me. I was surprised that Arion, despite some resentful snorting, allowed the Cyclops to pet his snout. Arion had never struck me as the cuddly type. Then, again, Tyson and Arion were both related through Poseidon, which made them brothers of a sort, and…You know what? I’m going to stop thinking about this before my brain melts.

Ella scuttled over. “Late. Very late. Come on, Apollo. You’re late.”

I bit back the urge to tell her that we’d had a few things going on. I climbed off Arion’s back and waited for Meg, but she stayed on with Hazel.

“You don’t need me for the summoning thing,” Meg said. “I’m gonna help Hazel and unleash the unicorns.”

“But—”

“Gods’ speed,” Hazel told me.

Arion vanished, leaving a trail of smoke down the hillside and Tyson patting empty air.

“Aww.” The Cyclops pouted. “Zoom Pony left.”

“Yes, he does that.” I tried to convince myself Meg would be fine. I’d see her soon. The last words I ever heard from her would not be unleash the unicorns. “Now, if we’re ready—?”

“Late. Later than ready,” Ella complained. “Pick a temple. Yes. Need to pick.”

“I need to—”

“Single-god summoning!” Tyson did his best to roll up his pants leg while hopping over to me on one foot. “Here, I will show you again. It is on my thigh.”

“That’s okay!” I told him. “I remember. It’s just…”

I scanned the hill. So many temples and shrines—even more now that the legion had completed its Jason-inspired building spree. So many statues of gods staring at me.

As a member of a pantheon, I had an aversion to picking only one god. That was like picking your favorite child or your favorite musician. If you were capable of picking only one, you were doing something wrong.

Also, picking one god meant all the other gods would be mad at me. It didn’t matter if they wouldn’t have wanted to help me or would’ve laughed in my face if I’d asked. They would still be offended that I hadn’t put them at the top of my list. I knew how they thought. I used to be one of them.

Sure, there were some obvious nos. I would not be summoning Juno. I would not bother with Venus, especially since Friday night was her spa night with the Three Graces. Somnus was a nonstarter. He’d answer my call, promise to be right over, and then fall asleep again.

I gazed at the giant statue of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, his purple toga rippling like a matador’s cape.

C’mon, he seemed to be telling me. You know you want to.

The most powerful of the Olympians. It was well within his power to smite the emperors’ armies, heal my zombie wound, and set everything right at Camp Jupiter (which, after all, was named in his honor). He might even notice all the heroic things I’d done, decide I’d suffered enough, and free me from the punishment of my mortal form.

Then again…he might not. Could be he was expecting me to call on him for help. Once I did, he might make the heavens rumble with his laughter and a deep, divine Nope!

To my surprise, I realized I did not want my godhood back that badly. I didn’t even want to live that badly. If Jupiter expected me to crawl to him for help, begging for mercy, he could stick his lightning bolt right up his cloaca maxima.

There had only ever been one choice. Deep down, I’d always known which god I had to call.

“Follow me,” I told Ella and Tyson.

I ran for the temple of Diana.

Now, I’ll admit I’ve never been a huge fan of Artemis’s Roman persona. As I’ve said before, I never felt like I personally changed that much during Roman times. I just stayed Apollo. Artemis, though…

You know how it is when your sister goes through her moody teenage years? She changes her name to Diana, cuts her hair, hangs out with a different, more hostile set of maiden hunters, starts associating with Hecate and the moon, and basically acts weird? When we first relocated to Rome, the two of us were worshipped together like in the old days—twin gods with our own temple—but soon Diana went off and did her own thing. We just didn’t talk like we used to when we were young and Greek, you know?

I was apprehensive about summoning her Roman incarnation, but I needed help, and Artemis—sorry, Diana—was the most likely to respond, even if she would never let me hear the end of it afterward. Besides, I missed her terribly. Yes, I said it. If I was going to die tonight, which seemed increasingly likely, first I wanted to see my sister one last time.

Her temple was an outdoor garden, as one might expect from a goddess of the wild. Inside a ring of mature oak trees gleamed a silver pool with a single perpetual geyser burbling in the center. I imagined the place was meant to evoke Diana’s old oak-grove sanctuary at Lake Nemi, one of the first places where the Romans had worshipped her. At the edge of the pool stood a fire pit stacked with wood, ready for lighting. I wondered if the legion kept every shrine and temple in such good maintenance, just in case someone got a craving for a last-minute middle-of-the-night burnt offering.

“Apollo should light the fire,” Ella said. “I will mix ingredients.”

“I will dance!” Tyson announced.

I didn’t know whether that was part of the ritual or if he just felt like it, but when a tattooed Cyclops decides to launch into an interpretive dance routine, it’s best not to ask questions.

Ella rummaged in her supply pouches, pulling out herbs, spices, and vials of oils, which made me realize how long it had been since I’d eaten. Why wasn’t my stomach growling? I glanced at the blood moon rising over the hilltops. I hoped my next meal would not be braaaaaains.

I looked around for a torch or a box of matches. Nothing. Then I thought: Of course not. I could have the wood pre-stacked for me, but Diana, always the wilderness expert, would expect me to create my own fire.

I unslung my bow and pulled out an arrow. I gathered the lightest, driest kindling into a small pile. It had been a long time since I’d made a fire the old mortal way—spinning an arrow in a bowstring to create friction—but I gave it a go. I fumbled half a dozen times, nearly putting my eye out. My archery student Jacob would’ve been proud.