The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan

Nightmare carousel

Totally let your kids ride

I’m sure they’ll be fine

“NICE NIGHT FOR Ahike,” Lavinia said.

The sad thing was, I think she meant it.

By that point, we’d been trekking through the Berkeley Hills for over an hour. Despite the cool weather, I was dripping sweat and gasping for breath. Why did hilltops have to be uphill? Lavinia wasn’t satisfied with sticking to the valleys, either. Oh, no. She wanted to conquer every summit for no apparent reason. Like fools, we followed her.

We had crossed the borders of Camp Jupiter without a problem. Terminus hadn’t even popped up to check our passports. So far we had not been accosted by ghouls or panhandling fauns.

The scenery was pleasant enough. The trail wound through sweet-smelling sage and bay laurel. To our left, silver luminescent fog blanketed the San Francisco Bay. Before us, the hills formed an archipelago of darkness in the ocean of city lights. Regional parks and nature reserves kept the area mostly wild, Lavinia explained.

“Just be on the lookout for mountain lions,” she said. “They’re all over these hills.”

“We’re going to face the undead,” I said, “and you’re warning us about mountain lions?”

Lavinia shot me a look like, Dude.

She was right, of course. With my luck, I would probably come all this way, fighting monsters and evil emperors, only to get killed by an overgrown house cat.

“How much farther?” I asked.

“Not this again,” Lavinia said. “You aren’t even carrying a coffin this time. We’re about halfway there.”

“Halfway. And we couldn’t have taken a car, or a giant eagle, or an elephant?”

Hazel patted me on the shoulder. “Relax, Apollo. Sneaking up on foot draws less attention. Besides, this is an easy quest. Most of mine have been like Go to Alaska and fight literally everything along the way, or Sail halfway across the world and be seasick for months. This is just Go over that hill and check on a merry-go-round.”

“A zombie-infested merry-go-round,” I corrected. “And we’ve been over several hills.”

Hazel glanced at Meg. “Does he always complain this much?”

“He used to be a lot whinier.”

Hazel whistled softly.

“I know,” Meg agreed. “Big baby.”

“I beg your pardon!” I said.

“Shh,” Lavinia said, before blowing and popping a giant pink bubble. “Stealth, remember?”

We continued along the trail for another hour or so. As we passed a silver lake nestled between the hills, I couldn’t help thinking it was just the sort of place my sister would love. Oh, how I wished she would appear with her Hunters!

Despite our differences, Artemis understood me. Well, okay, she tolerated me. Most of the time. All right, some of the time. I longed to see her beautiful, annoying face again. That’s how lonely and pathetic I had become.

Meg walked a few yards ahead of me, flanking Lavinia so they could share bubble gum and talk unicorns. Hazel hiked at my side, though I got the feeling she was mostly trying to make sure I didn’t collapse.

“You don’t look so good,” she noted.

“What gave it away? The cold sweat? The rapid breathing?”

In the darkness, Hazel’s gold eyes reminded me of an owl’s: supremely alert, ready to fly or pounce as needed. “How’s the gut wound?”

“Better,” I said, though I was having more and more trouble convincing myself.

Hazel redid her ponytail, but it was a losing battle. Her hair was so long, curly, and luxurious it kept escaping its scrunchie. “Just no more cuts, all right? Is there anything else you can tell me about Tarquin? Weaknesses? Blind spots? Pet peeves?”

“Don’t they teach you Roman history as part of legion training?”

“Well, yes. But I may have tuned out during the lectures. I went to Catholic school back in New Orleans in the 1930s. I have a lot of experience in tuning out teachers.”

“Mmm. I can relate. Socrates. Very smart. But his discussion groups…not exactly riveting entertainment.”

“So, Tarquin.”

“Right. He was power-mad. Arrogant. Violent. Would kill anyone who got in his way.”

“Like the emperors.”

“But without any of their refinement. Tarquin was also obsessed with building projects. He started the Temple of Jupiter. Also, Rome’s main sewer.”

“Claim to fame.”

“His subjects finally got so weary of taxes and forced labor that they rebelled.”

“They didn’t like digging a sewer? I can’t imagine why.”

It occurred to me that Hazel wasn’t so much interested in information as she was in distracting me from my worries. I appreciated that, but I had trouble returning her smile. I kept thinking about Tarquin’s voice speaking through the ghoul in the tunnel. He had known Hazel’s name. He had promised her a special place among his undead horde.

“Tarquin is sly,” I said. “Like any true psychopath, he has always been good at manipulating people. As for weaknesses, I don’t know. His relentlessness, maybe. Even after he got kicked out of Rome, he never stopped trying to win back the crown. He kept gathering new allies, attacking the city over and over again, even when it was clear he didn’t have the strength to win.”

“Apparently he still hasn’t given up.” Hazel pushed a eucalyptus branch out of our way. “Well, we’ll stick to the plan: get in quietly, investigate, leave. At least Frank is safe back at camp.”

“Because you value his life more than ours?”

“No. Well…”

“You can leave it at no.”

Hazel shrugged. “It’s just that Frank seems to be looking for danger these days. I don’t suppose he told you what he did at the Battle of the New Moon?”

“He said the battle turned at the Little Tiber. Zombies don’t like running water.”

“Frank turned the tide of battle, almost single-handedly. Demigods were falling all around him. He just kept fighting—shape-shifting into a giant snake, then a dragon, then a hippopotamus.” She shuddered. “He makes a terrifying hippo. By the time Reyna and I managed to bring up reinforcements, the enemy was already in retreat. Frank had no fear. I just…” Her voice tightened. “I don’t want to lose him. Especially after what happened to Jason.”

I tried to reconcile Hazel’s story of Frank Zhang, fearless-hippo killing machine, with the easygoing, big cuddly praetor who slept in a yellow silk jammie shirt decorated with eagles and bears. I remembered the casual way he’d flipped his stick of firewood. He’d assured me he didn’t have a death wish. Then again, neither had Jason Grace.

“I don’t intend to lose anyone else,” I told Hazel.

I stopped short of making a promise.

The goddess of the River Styx had excoriated me for my broken oaths. She’d warned that everyone around me would pay for my crimes. Lupa, too, had foreseen more blood and sacrifice. How could I promise Hazel that any of us would be safe?

Lavinia and Meg halted so abruptly I almost ran into them.

“See?” Lavinia pointed through a break in the trees. “We’re almost there.”

In the valley below, an empty parking lot and picnic area occupied a clearing in the redwoods. At the far end of the meadow, silent and still, stood a carousel, all its lights blazing.

“Why is it lit up?” I wondered.

“Maybe somebody’s home,” said Hazel.

“I like merry-go-rounds,” said Meg, and she started down the path.

The carousel was topped by a tan dome like a giant pith helmet. Behind a barricade of teal and yellow metal railings, the ride blazed with hundreds of lights. The painted animals threw long distorted shadows across the grass. The horses looked frozen in panic, their eyes wild, their forelegs kicking. A zebra’s head was raised as if in agony. A giant rooster flared its red comb and stretched its talons. There was even a hippocampus like Tyson’s friend Rainbow, but this fish pony had a snarling face. What sort of parents would let their children ride such nightmarish creatures? Maybe Zeus, I thought.

We approached cautiously, but nothing challenged us, neither living nor dead. The place seemed empty, just inexplicably lit up.

Meg’s glowing swords made the grass shimmer at her feet. Lavinia held her manubalista, primed and ready. With her pink hair and gangly limbs, she stood the best chance of sneaking up on the carousel animals and blending in with them, but I decided not to share that observation, as it would no doubt get me shot. Hazel left her sword in its sheath. Even empty-handed, she radiated a more intimidating demeanor than any of us.

I wondered if I should pull out my bow. Then I looked down and realized I had instinctively readied my combat ukulele. Okay. I could provide a jolly tune if we found ourselves in battle. Did that count as heroism?

“Something’s not right,” Lavinia murmured.

“You think?” Meg crouched. She put down one of her swords and touched the grass with her fingertips. Her hand sent a ripple across the lawn like a stone thrown in water.

“Something’s wrong with the soil here,” she announced. “The roots don’t want to grow too deep.”

Hazel arched her eyebrows. “You can talk to plants.”

“It’s not really talking,” Meg said. “But yeah. Even the trees don’t like this place. They’re trying to grow away from that carousel as fast as they can.”

“Which, since they’re trees,” I said, “is not very fast.”

Hazel studied our surroundings. “Let’s see what I can find out.”

She knelt at the edge of the carousel’s base and pressed her palm against the concrete. There were no visible ripples, no rumbling or shaking, but after a count of three, Hazel snatched her hand away. She staggered backward, almost falling over Lavinia.

“Gods.” Hazel’s whole body trembled. “There’s…there’s a massive complex of tunnels under here.”

My mouth went dry. “Part of the Labyrinth?”

“No. I don’t think so. It feels self-contained. The structure is ancient, but—but it also hasn’t been here very long. I know that doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” I said, “if the tomb relocated.”

“Or regrew,” Meg offered. “Like a tree clipping. Or a fungal spore.”

“Gross,” said Lavinia.

Hazel hugged her elbows. “The place is full of death. I mean, I’m a child of Pluto. I’ve been to the Underworld. But this is worse somehow.”

“I don’t love that,” Lavinia muttered.

I looked down at my ukulele, wishing I’d brought a bigger instrument to hide behind. A stand-up bass, perhaps. “How do we get in?”

I hoped the answer would be Gosh darn it, we can’t.

“There.” Hazel pointed to a section of concrete that looked no different from the rest.

We followed her over. She ran her fingers across the dark surface, leaving glowing silver grooves that outlined a rectangular slab the size of a coffin. Oh, why did I have to make that particular analogy?

Her hand hovered over the middle of the rectangle. “I think I’m supposed to write something here. A combination, maybe?”

“To open his door,”Lavinia recalled, “two-fifty-four.”

“Wait!” I fought down a wave of panic. “There are lots of ways to write ‘two-fifty-four.’”

Hazel nodded. “Roman numerals, then?”

“Yes. But two-five-four would be written differently in Roman numerals than two hundred and fifty-four, which is different from two and fifty-four.”

“Which is it, then?” Meg asked.

I tried to think. “Tarquin would have a reason to choose that number. He’d make it about himself.”

Lavinia popped a small, stealthy pink bubble. “Like using your birthday for your password?”

“Exactly,” I said. “But he wouldn’t use his birthday. Not for his tomb. Perhaps his date of death? Except that can’t be right. No one’s sure when he died, since he was in exile and buried in secret, but it had to have been around 495 BCE, not 254.”

“Wrong date system,” Meg said.

We all stared at her.

“What?” she demanded. “I got raised in an evil emperor’s palace. We dated everything from the founding of Rome. AUC. Ab urbe condita, right?”

“My gods,” I said. “Good catch, Meg. 254 AUC would be…let’s see…500 BCE. That’s pretty close to 495.”

Hazel’s fingers still hesitated over the concrete. “Close enough to risk it?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to channel my inner Frank Zhang confidence. “Write it as a date: Two hundred and fifty-four. C-C-L-I-V.”

Hazel did. The numbers glowed silver. The entire stone slab dissipated into smoke, revealing steps leading down into darkness.

“Okay, then,” Hazel said. “I have a feeling the next part is going to be harder. Follow me. Step only where I step. And don’t make any noise.”