The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan

O insert name here

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What is this, Mad Libs?

TYSON AND ELLA WEREnot 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.

I tried to ignore the sound of explosions in the distance. I spun the arrow until my gut wound felt like it was opening up. My hands became slick with popped blisters. The god of the sun struggling to make fire…The ironies would never cease.

Finally, I succeeded in creating the tiniest of flames. After some desperate cupping, puffing, and praying, the fire was lit.

I stood, trembling from exhaustion. Tyson kept dancing to his own internal music, flinging out his arms and spinning like a three-hundred-pound, heavily tattooed Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music remake Quentin Tarantino always wanted to do. (I convinced him it was a bad idea. You can thank me later.)

Ella began sprinkling her proprietary blend of oils, spices, and herbs into the pit. The smoke smelled like a Mediterranean summer feast. It filled me with a sense of peace—reminding me of happier times when we gods were adored by millions of worshippers. You never appreciate a simple pleasure like that until it is taken away.

The valley turned quiet, as if I’d stepped back into Harpocrates’s sphere of silence. Perhaps it was just a lull in the fighting, but I felt as if all of Camp Jupiter were holding its breath, waiting for me to complete the ritual. With trembling hands, I pulled the Sibyl’s glass jar from my backpack.

“What now?” I asked Ella.

“Tyson,” Ella said, waving him over, “that was good dancing. Now show Apollo your armpit.”

Tyson lumbered over, grinning and sweaty. He lifted his left arm much closer to my face than I would have liked. “See?”

“Oh, gods.” I recoiled. “Ella, why would you write the summoning ritual in his armpit?”

“That’s where it goes,” she said.

“It really tickled!” Tyson laughed.

“I—I will begin.” I tried to focus on the words and not the hairy armpit that they encircled. I tried not to breathe any more than necessary. I will say this, however: Tyson had excellent personal hygiene. Whenever I was forced to inhale, I did not pass out from his body odor, despite his exuberant sweaty dancing. The only smell I detected was a hint of peanut butter. Why? I did not want to know.

“O protector of Rome!” I read aloud. “O insert name here!”

“Uh,” Ella said, “that’s where you—”

“I will start again. O protector of Rome! O Diana, goddess of the hunt! Hear our plea and accept our offering!”

I do not remember all the lines. If I did, I would not record them here for just anyone to use. Summoning Diana with burnt offerings is the very definition of Do Not Try This at Home, Kids. Several times, I choked up. I was tempted to add personal bits, to let Diana know it wasn’t just anyone making a request. This was me! I was special! But I stuck to the armpit script. At the appropriate moment (insert sacrifice here), I dropped the Sibyl’s jelly jar into the fire. I was afraid it might just sit there heating up, but the glass shattered immediately, releasing a sigh of silver fumes. I hoped I hadn’t squandered the soundless god’s final breath.

I finished the incantation. Tyson mercifully lowered his arm. Ella stared at the fire, then at the sky, her nose twitching anxiously. “Apollo hesitated,” she said. “He didn’t read the third line right. He probably messed up. I hope he didn’t mess it up.”

“Your confidence is heartwarming,” I said.

But I shared her concern. I saw no signs of divine help in the night sky. The red full moon continued to leer at me, bathing the landscape in bloody light. No hunting horns trumpeted in the distance—just a fresh round of explosions from the Oakland Hills, and cries of battle from New Rome.

“You messed up,” Ella decided.

“Give it time!” I said. “Gods don’t always show up immediately. Once it took me ten years to answer some prayers from the city of Pompeii, and by the time I got there…Maybe that’s not a good example.”

Ella wrung her hands. “Tyson and Ella will wait here in case the goddess shows up. Apollo should go fight stuff.”

“Aww.” Tyson pouted. “But I wanna fight stuff!”

“Tyson will wait here with Ella,” Ella insisted. “Apollo, go fight.”

I scanned the valley. Several rooftops in New Rome were now on fire. Meg would be fighting in the streets, doing gods-knew-what with her weaponized unicorns. Hazel would be desperately shoring up the defenses as zombies and ghouls boiled up from the sewers, attacking civilians. They needed help, and it would take me less time to reach New Rome than to get to the Caldecott Tunnel.

But just thinking about joining the battle made my stomach flare with pain. I remembered how I’d collapsed in the tyrant’s tomb. I would be of little use against Tarquin. Being near him would just accelerate my promotion to Zombie of the Month.

I gazed at the Oakland Hills, their silhouettes lit by flickering explosions. The emperors must be battling Frank’s defenders at the Caldecott Tunnel by now. Without Arion or a Go-Glo bike, I wasn’t sure I could make it there in time to do any good, but it seemed like my least horrible option.

“Charge,” I said miserably.

I jogged off across the valley.