The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan

Sailing north to war

With my Shirley Temple and

Three cherries. Fear me.

OH, THE DREAMS.

Dear reader, if you are tired of hearing about my awful prophetic nightmares, I don’t blame you. Just think how I felt experiencing them firsthand. It was like having the Pythia of Delphi butt-call me all night long, mumbling lines of prophecy I hadn’t asked for and didn’t want to hear.

I saw a line of luxury yachts cutting through moonlit waves off the California coast—fifty boats in a tight chevron formation, strings of lights gleaming along their bows, purple pennants snapping in the wind on illuminated com towers. The decks were crawling with all manner of monsters—Cyclopes, wild centaurs, big-eared pandai, and chest-headed blemmyae. On the aft deck of each yacht, a mob of the creatures seemed to be constructing something like a shed or…or some sort of siege weapon.

My dream zoomed in on the bridge of the lead ship. The crew hustled about, checking monitors and adjusting instruments. Lounging behind them, in matching gold-upholstered La-Z-Boy recliners, were two of my least favorite people in the world.

On the left sat the emperor Commodus. His pastel-blue beach shorts showed off his perfect tanned calves and pedicured bare feet. His gray Indianapolis Colts hoodie was unzipped over his bare chest and perfectly sculpted abs. He had a lot of nerve wearing Colts gear, since we’d humiliated him in the team’s home stadium only a few weeks before. (Of course we’d humiliated ourselves, too, but I wanted to forget that part.)

His face was almost as I remembered: annoyingly handsome, with a haughty chiseled profile and ringlets of golden hair framing his brow. The skin around his eyes, however, looked as if it had been sandblasted. His pupils were cloudy. The last time we’d met, I had blinded him with a burst of godly radiance, and it was obvious he still hadn’t healed. That was the only thing that pleased me about seeing him again.

In the other recliner sat Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, otherwise known as Caligula.

Rage tinted my dream blood-pink. How could he lounge there so relaxed in his ridiculous captain’s outfit—those white slacks and boat shoes, that navy jacket over a striped collarless shirt, that officer’s hat tilted at a rakish angle on his walnut curls—when only a few days before, he had killed Jason Grace? How dare he sip a refreshing iced beverage garnished with three maraschino cherries (Three! Monstrous!) and smile with such self-satisfaction?

Caligula looked human enough, but I knew better than to credit him with any sort of compassion. I wanted to strangle him. Alas, I could do nothing except watch and fume.

“Pilot,” Caligula called out lazily. “What’s our speed?”

“Five knots, sir,” said one of the uniformed mortals. “Should I increase?”

“No, no.” Caligula plucked out one of the maraschino cherries and popped it in his mouth. He chewed and grinned, showing bright red teeth. “In fact, let’s slow to four knots. The journey is half the fun!”

“Yessir!”

Commodus scowled. He swirled the ice in his own drink, which was clear and bubbly with red syrup pooled at the bottom. He only had two maraschino cherries, no doubt because Caligula would never allow Commodus to equal him in anything.

“I don’t understand why we’re moving so slowly,” Commodus grumbled. “At top speed, we could have been there by now.”

Caligula chuckled. “My friend, it’s all about timing. We have to allow our deceased ally his best window of attack.”

Commodus shuddered. “I hate our deceased ally. Are you sure he can be controlled—”

“We’ve discussed this.” Caligula’s singsong tone was light and airy and pleasantly homicidal, as if to say: The next time you question me, I will control you with some cyanide in your beverage. “You should trust me, Commodus. Remember who aided you in your hour of need.”

“I’ve thanked you a dozen times already,” Commodus said. “Besides, it wasn’t my fault. How was I supposed to know Apollo still had some light left in him?” He blinked painfully. “He got the better of you—and your horse, too.”

A cloud passed over Caligula’s face. “Yes, well, soon, we’ll make things right. Between your troops and mine, we have more than enough power to overwhelm the battered Twelfth Legion. And if they prove too stubborn to surrender, we always have Plan B.” He called over his shoulder, “Oh, Boost?”

A pandos hurried in from the aft deck, his enormous shaggy ears flopping around him like throw rugs. In his hands was a large sheet of paper, folded into sections like a map or set of instructions. “Y-yes, Princeps?”

“Progress report.”

“Ah.” Boost’s dark furry face twitched. “Good! Good, master! Another week?”

“A week,” Caligula said.

“Well, sir, these instructions…” Boost turned the paper upside down and frowned at it. “We are still locating all the ‘slot A’s’ on ‘assembly piece sevens.’ And they did not send us enough lug nuts. And the batteries required are not standard size, so—”

“A week,” Caligula repeated, his tone still pleasant. “Yet the blood moon will rise in…”

The pandos winced. “Five days?”

“So you can have your work done in five days? Excellent! Carry on.”

Boost gulped, then scuttled away as fast as his furry feet could carry him.

Caligula smiled at his fellow emperor. “You see, Commodus? Soon Camp Jupiter will be ours. With luck, the Sibylline Books will be in our hands as well. Then we’ll have some proper bargaining power. When it’s time to face Python and carve up our portions of the world, you’ll remember who helped you…and who did not.”

“Oh, I’ll remember. Stupid Nero.” Commodus poked the ice cubes in his drink. “Which one is this again, the Shirley Temple?”

“No, that’s the Roy Rogers,” Caligula said. “Mine is the Shirley Temple.”

“And you’re sure this is what modern warriors drink when they go into battle?”

“Absolutely,” Caligula said. “Now enjoy the ride, my friend. You have five whole days to work on your tan and get your vision back. Then we’ll have some lovely carnage in the Bay Area!”

The scene vanished, and I fell into cold darkness.

I found myself in a dimly lit stone chamber filled with shuffling, stinking, groaning undead. Some were as withered as Egyptian mummies. Others looked almost alive except for the ghastly wounds that had killed them. At the far end of the room, between two rough-hewn columns, sat…a presence, wreathed in a magenta haze. It raised its skeletal visage, fixing me with its burning purple eyes—the same eyes that had stared out at me from the possessed ghoul in the tunnel—and began to laugh.

My gut wound ignited like a line of gunpowder.

I woke, screaming in agony. I found myself shaking and sweating in a strange room.

“You too?” Meg asked.

She stood next to my cot, leaning out an open window and digging in a flower box. Her gardening belt’s pockets sagged with bulbs, seed packets, and tools. In one muddy hand, she held a trowel. Children of Demeter. You can’t take them anywhere without them playing in the dirt.

“Wh-what’s going on?” I tried to sit up, which was a mistake.

My gut wound really was a fiery line of agony. I looked down and found my bare midsection wrapped in bandages that smelled of healing herbs and ointments. If the camp’s healers had already treated me, why was I still in so much pain?

“Where are we?” I croaked.

“Coffee shop.”

Even by Meg’s standards, that statement seemed ridiculous.

Our room had no coffee bar, no espresso machine, no barista, no yummy pastries. It was a simple whitewashed cube with a cot against either wall, an open window between them, and a trapdoor in the far corner, which led me to believe we were on an upper story. We might have been in a prison cell, except there were no bars on the window, and a prison cot would have been more comfortable. (Yes, I am sure. I did some research on Folsom Prison with Johnny Cash. Long story.)

“The coffee shop is downstairs,” Meg clarified. “This is Bombilo’s spare room.”

I remembered the two-headed, green-aproned barista who had scowled at us on the Via Praetoria. I wondered why he would’ve been kind enough to give us lodging, and why, of all places, the legion had decided to put us here. “Why, exactly—?”

“Lemurian spice,” Meg said. “Bombilo had the nearest supply. The healers needed it for your wound.”

She shrugged, like, Healers, what can you do? Then she went back to planting iris bulbs.

I sniffed at my bandages. One of the scents I detected was indeed Lemurian spice. Effective stuff against the undead, though the Lemurian Festival wasn’t until June, and it was barely April…. Ah, no wonder we’d ended up in the coffee shop. Every year, retailers seemed to start Lemurian season earlier and earlier—Lemurian-spice lattes, Lemurian-spice muffins—as if we couldn’t wait to celebrate the season of exorcising evil spirits with pastries that tasted faintly of lima beans and grave dust. Yum.

What else did I smell in that healing balm…crocus, myrrh, unicorn-horn shavings? Oh, these Roman healers were good. Then why didn’t I feel better?

“They didn’t want to move you too many times,” Meg said. “So we just kind of stayed here. It’s okay. Bathroom downstairs. And free coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee.”

“I do now.”

I shuddered. “A caffeinated Meg. Just what I need. How long have I been out?”

“Day and a half.”

“What?!”

“You needed sleep. Also, you’re less annoying unconscious.”

I didn’t have the energy for a proper retort. I rubbed the gunk out of my eyes, then I forced myself to sit up, fighting down the pain and nausea.

Meg studied me with concern, which must have meant I looked even worse than I felt.

“How bad?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” I lied. “What did you mean earlier, when you said, ‘You too’?”

Her expression closed up like a hurricane shutter. “Nightmares. I woke up screaming a couple of times. You slept through it, but…” She picked a clod of dirt off her trowel. “This place reminds me of…you know.”

I regretted I hadn’t thought about that sooner. After Meg’s experience growing up in Nero’s Imperial Household, surrounded by Latin-speaking servants and guards in Roman armor, purple banners, all the regalia of the old empire—of course Camp Jupiter must have triggered unwelcome memories.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you dream…anything I should know about?”

“The usual.” Her tone made it clear she didn’t want to elaborate. “What about you?”

I thought about my dream of the two emperors sailing leisurely in our direction, drinking cherry-garnished mocktails while their troops rushed to assemble secret weapons they’d ordered from IKEA.

Our deceased ally. Plan B. Five days.

I saw those burning purple eyes in a chamber filled with the undead. The king’s dead.

“The usual,” I agreed. “Help me up?”

It hurt to stand, but if I’d been lying in that cot for a day and a half, I wanted to move before my muscles turned to tapioca. Also, I was beginning to realize I was hungry and thirsty and, in the immortal words of Meg McCaffrey, I needed to pee. Human bodies are annoying that way.

I braced myself against the windowsill and peered outside. Below, demigods bustled along the Via Praetoria—carrying supplies, reporting for duty assignments, hurrying between the barracks and the mess hall. The pall of shock and grief seemed to have faded. Now everyone looked busy and determined. Craning my head and looking south, I could see Temple Hill abuzz with activity. Siege engines had been converted to cranes and earthmovers. Scaffolds had been erected in a dozen locations. The sounds of hammering and stone-cutting echoed across the valley. From my vantage point, I could identify at least ten new small shrines and two large temples that hadn’t been there when we arrived, with more in the works.

“Wow,” I murmured. “Those Romans don’t mess around.”

“Tonight’s the funeral for Jason,” Meg informed me. “They’re trying to finish up work before then.”

Judging from the angle of the sun, I guessed it was about two in the afternoon. Given their pace so far, I figured that would give the legion ample time to finish Temple Hill and maybe construct a sports stadium or two before dinner.

Jason would have been proud. I wished he could be here to see what he had inspired.

My vision fluttered and darkened. I thought I might be passing out again. Then I realized something large and dark had in fact fluttered right by my face, straight from the open window.

I turned and found a raven sitting on my cot. It ruffled its oily feathers, regarding me with a beady black eye. SQUAWK!

“Meg,” I said, “are you seeing this?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t even look up from her iris bulbs. “Hey, Frank. What’s up?”

The bird shape-shifted, its form swelling into that of a bulky human, its feathers melting into clothes, until Frank Zhang sat before us, his hair now properly washed and combed, his silk nightshirt changed for a purple Camp Jupiter tee.

“Hey, Meg,” he said, as if it were completely normal to change species during a conversation. “Everything’s on schedule. I was just checking to see if Apollo was awake, which…obviously, he is.” He gave me an awkward wave. “I mean, you are. Since, er, I’m sitting on your cot. I should get up.”

He rose, tugged at his shirt, then didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. At one time, I would have been used to such nervous behavior from mortals I encountered, but now, it took me a moment to realize Frank was still in awe of me. Perhaps, being a shape-shifter, Frank was more willing than most to believe that, despite my unimpressive mortal appearance, I was still the same old god of archery inside.

You see? I told you Frank was adorable.

“Anyway,” he continued, “Meg and I have been talking, the last day or so, while you were passed out—I mean, recovering—sleeping, you know. It’s fine. You needed sleep. Hope you feel better.”

Despite how terrible I felt, I couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve been very kind to us, Praetor Zhang. Thank you.”

“Erm, sure. It’s, you know, an honor, seeing as you’re…or you were—”

“Ugh, Frank.” Meg turned from her flower box. “It’s just Lester. Don’t treat him like a big deal.”

“Now, Meg,” I said, “if Frank wants to treat me like a big deal—”

“Frank, just tell him.”

The praetor glanced back and forth between us, as if making sure the Meg and Apollo Show was over for now. “So, Meg explained the prophecy you got in the Burning Maze. Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb unless the doorway to the soundless god is opened by Bellona’s daughter, right?”

I shivered. I didn’t want to be reminded of those words, especially given my dreams, and the implication that I would soon face death. Been there. Done that. Got the belly wound.

“Yes,” I said warily. “I don’t suppose you’ve figured out what those lines mean and have already undertaken the necessary quests?”

“Um, not exactly,” Frank said. “But the prophecy did answer a few questions about…well, about what’s been happening around here. It gave Ella and Tyson enough information to work with. They think they might have a lead.”

“Ella and Tyson…” I said, sifting through my foggy mortal brain. “The harpy and the Cyclops who have been working to reconstruct the Sibylline Books.”

“Those are the ones,” Frank agreed. “If you’re feeling up to it, I thought we could take a walk into New Rome.”