The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan

Dearly beloved,

We are gathered here because

Hera stinks. Amen.

IF THERE IS ANYTHINGworse than hearing Death, death, death, it’s hearing those words while having your flab poked.

“Can you be more specific?”

I actually wanted to ask: Can you make all of this go away, and can you also stop poking me? But I doubted I would get either wish.

“Cross references,” Ella said.

“Sorry?”

“Tarquin’s tomb,” she said. “The Burning Maze words. Frank told me: Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb unless the doorway to the soundless god is opened by Bellona’s daughter.”

“I know the prophecy,” I said. “I sort of wish people would stop repeating it. What exactly—?”

“Cross-referenced Tarquin and Bellona and soundless god with Tyson’s index.”

I turned to Frank, who seemed to be the only other comprehensible person in the room. “Tyson has an index?”

Frank shrugged. “He wouldn’t be much of a reference book without an index.”

“On the back of my thigh!” Tyson called, still happily kicking his feet, waiting to be engraved with red-hot needles. “Want to see?”

“No! Gods, no. So you cross-referenced—”

“Yep, yep,” said Ella. “No results for Bellona or the soundless god. Hmm.” She tapped the sides of her head. “Need more words for those. But Tarquin’s tomb. Yep. Found a line.”

She scuttled to the tattoo chair, Aristophanes trotting close behind, swatting at her wings. Ella tapped Tyson’s shoulder blade. “Here.”

Tyson giggled.

“A wildcat near the spinning lights,”Ella read aloud. “The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. To open his door, two-fifty-four.”

Mrow,said Aristophanes.

“No, Aristophanes,” Ella said, her tone softening, “you are not a wildcat.”

The beast purred like a chainsaw.

I waited for more prophecy. Most of the Sibylline Books read like The Joy of Cooking, with sacrificial recipes to placate the gods in the event of certain catastrophes. Plague of locusts ruining your crops? Try the Ceres soufflé with loaves of honey bread roasted over her altar for three days. Earthquake destroying the city? When Neptune comes home tonight, surprise him with three black bulls basted in holy oil and burned in a fire pit with sprigs of rosemary!

But Ella seemed to be done reading.

“Frank,” I said, “did that make any sense to you?”

He frowned. “I thought you would understand it.”

When would people realize that just because I was the god of prophecy didn’t mean I understood prophecies? I was also the god of poetry. Did I understand the metaphors in T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land? No.

“Ella,” I said, “could those lines describe a location?”

“Yep, yep. Close by, probably. But only to go in. Look around. Find out the right things and leave. Not to kill Tarquinius Superbus. Nope. He’s much too dead to kill. For that, hmm…Need more words.”

Frank Zhang picked at the mural-crown badge on his chest. “Tarquinius Superbus. The last king of Rome. He was considered a myth even back in Imperial Roman times. His tomb was never discovered. Why would he be…?” He gestured around us.

“In our neck of the woods?” I finished. “Probably the same reason Mount Olympus is hovering above New York, or Camp Jupiter is in the Bay Area.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Frank admitted. “Still, if the tomb of a Roman king was near Camp Jupiter, why would we just be learning about it now? Why the attack of the undead?”

I didn’t have a ready answer. I’d been so fixated on Caligula and Commodus, I hadn’t given much thought to Tarquinius Superbus. As evil as he might have been, Tarquin had been a minor-league player compared to the emperors. Nor did I understand why a semilegendary, barbaric, apparently undead Roman king would have joined forces with the Triumvirate.

Some distant memory tickled at the base of my skull…. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Tarquin would make himself known just as Ella and Tyson were reconstructing the Sibylline Books.

I remembered my dream of the purple-eyed entity, the deep voice that had possessed the eurynomos in the tunnel: You of all people should understand the fragile boundary between life and death.

The cut across my stomach throbbed. Just once, for variety, I wished I could encounter a tomb where the occupants were actually dead.

“So, Ella,” I said, “you suggest we find this tomb.”

“Yep. Go in the tomb. Tomb Raider for PC, Playstation, and Sega Saturn, 1996. Tombs of Atuan, Ursula Le Guin, Atheneum Press, 1971.”

I barely noticed the extraneous information this time. If I stayed here much longer, I’d probably start speaking in Ella-ese, too, spouting random Wikipedia references after every sentence. I really needed to leave before that happened.

“But we only go in to look around,” I said. “To find out—”

“The right things. Yep, yep.”

“And then?”

“Come back alive. ‘Stayin’ Alive,’ the Bee Gees, second single, Saturday Night Fever motion picture sound track, 1977.”

“Right. And…you’re sure there’s no more information in the Cyclops index that might actually be, oh, helpful?”

“Hmm.” Ella stared at Frank, then trotted over and sniffed his face. “Firewood. Something. No. That’s for later.”

Frank couldn’t have looked more like a cornered animal if he’d actually turned into one. “Um, Ella? We don’t talk about the firewood.”

That reminded me of another reason I liked Frank Zhang. He, too, was a member of the I Hate Hera club. In Frank’s case, Hera had inexplicably tied his life force to a small piece of wood, which I’d heard Frank now carried around with him at all times. If the wood burned up, so did Frank. Such a typical controlling Hera thing to do: I love you and you’re my special hero, and also here’s a stick—when it burns you die HA-HA-HA-HA-HA. I disliked that woman.

Ella ruffled her feathers, providing Aristophanes with lots of new targets to play with. “Fire with…something, something bridge. Twice something, something…Hmm, nope. That’s later. Need more words. Tyson needs a tattoo.”

“Yay!” said Tyson. “Can you also do a picture of Rainbow? He’s my friend! He’s a fish pony!”

“A rainbow is white light,” Ella said. “Refracted through water droplets.”

“Also a fish pony!” Tyson said.

“Hmph,” said Ella.

I got the feeling I had just witnessed the closest the harpy and Cyclops ever came to having an argument.

“You two can go.” Ella brushed us away. “Come back tomorrow. Maybe three days. ‘Eight Days a Week,’ Beatles. First UK release, 1964. Not sure yet.”

I was about to protest that we had only four days before Caligula’s yachts arrived and Camp Jupiter suffered another onslaught of destruction, but Frank stopped me with a touch on the arm. “We should go. Let her work. It’s almost time for evening muster anyway.”

After the mention of firewood, I got the feeling he would have used any faun-level excuse to get out of that bookstore.

My last glimpse of the special-collections room was Ella holding her tattoo gun, etching steaming words on Tyson’s back while the Cyclops giggled, “IT TICKLES!” and Aristophanes used the harpy’s rough leather legs as scratching posts.

Some images, like Cyclops tattoos, are permanent once burned onto your brain.

Frank hustled us back to camp as fast as my wounded gut would tolerate.

I wanted to ask him about Ella’s comments, but Frank wasn’t in a talkative mood. Every so often his hand strayed to the side of his belt, where a cloth pouch hung tucked behind his scabbard. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I assumed this was where he stored his Hera-Cursed Life-Ending Souvenir™.

Or perhaps Frank was somber because he knew what awaited us at evening muster.

The legion had assembled for the funeral procession.

At the head of the column stood Hannibal, the legion’s elephant, decked in Kevlar and black flowers. Harnessed behind him was a wagon with Jason’s coffin, draped in purple and gold. Four of the cohorts had fallen into line behind the coffin, with purple Lares shifting in and out of their ranks. The Fifth Cohort, Jason’s original unit, served as honor guards and torch bearers on either side of the wagon. Standing with them, between Hazel and Lavinia, was Meg McCaffrey. She frowned when she saw me and mouthed, You’re late.

Frank jogged over to join Reyna, who was waiting at Hannibal’s shoulder.

The senior praetor looked drained and weary, as if she’d spent the last few hours weeping in private and then pulled herself back together as best she could. Next to her stood the legion’s standard bearer, holding aloft the eagle of the Twelfth.

Being close to the eagle made my hairs stand on end. The golden icon reeked of Jupiter’s power. The air around it crackled with energy.

“Apollo.” Reyna’s tone was formal, her eyes like empty wells. “Are you prepared?”

“For…?” The question died in my throat.

Everyone was staring at me expectantly. Did they want another song?

No. Of course. The legion had no high priest, no pontifex maximus. Their former augur, my descendant Octavian, had died in the battle against Gaia. (Which I had a hard time feeling sad about, but that’s another story.) Jason would’ve been the logical next choice to officiate, but he was our guest of honor. That meant that I, as a former god, was the ranking spiritual authority. I would be expected to lead the funeral rites.

Romans were all about proper etiquette. I couldn’t excuse myself without that being taken as a bad omen. Besides, I owed Jason my best, even if that was a sad Lester Papadopoulos version of my best.

I tried to remember the correct Roman invocation.

Dearly beloved…?No.

Why is this night different…?No.

Aha.

“Come, my friends,” I said. “Let us escort our brother to his final feast.”

I suppose I did all right. No one looked scandalized. I turned and led the way out of the fort, the entire legion following in eerie silence.

Along the road to Temple Hill, I had a few moments of panic. What if I led the procession in the wrong direction? What if we ended up in the parking lot of an Oakland Safeway?

The golden eagle of the Twelfth loomed over my shoulder, charging the air with ozone. I imagined Jupiter speaking through its crackle and hum, like a voice over shortwave radio: YOUR FAULT. YOUR PUNISHMENT.

Back in January, when I’d fallen to earth, those words had seemed horribly unfair. Now, as I led Jason Grace to his final resting place, I believed them. So much of what had happened was my fault. So much of it could never be made right.

Jason had exacted a promise from me: When you’re a god again, remember. Remember what it’s like to be human.

I meant to keep that promise, if I survived long enough. But in the meantime, there were more pressing ways I needed to honor Jason: by protecting Camp Jupiter, defeating the Triumvirate, and, according to Ella, descending into the tomb of an undead king.

Ella’s words rattled around in my head: A wildcat near the spinning lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. To open his door, two-fifty-four.

Even for a prophecy, the lines seemed like gibberish.

The Sibyl of Cumae had always been vague and verbose. She refused to take editorial direction. She’d written nine entire volumes of Sibylline Books—honestly, who needs nine books to finish a series? I’d secretly felt vindicated when she’d been unable to sell them to the Romans until she whittled them down to a trilogy. The other six volumes had gone straight into the fire when…

I froze.

Behind me, the procession creaked and shuffled to a halt.

“Apollo?” Reyna whispered.

I shouldn’t stop. I was officiating Jason’s funeral. I couldn’t fall down, roll into a ball, and cry. That would be a definite no-no. But, Jupiter’s gym shorts, why did my brain insist on remembering important facts at such inconvenient times?

Of courseTarquin was connected to the Sibylline Books. Of course he would choose now to show himself, and send an army of undead against Camp Jupiter. And the Sibyl of Cumae herself…Was it possible—?

“Apollo,” Reyna said again, more insistently.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

One problem at a time. Jason Grace deserved my full attention. I forced down my turbulent thoughts and kept walking.

When I reached Temple Hill, it was obvious where to go. At the base of Jupiter’s temple stood an elaborate wooden pyre. At each corner, an honor guard waited with a blazing torch. Jason’s coffin would burn in the shadow of our father’s temple. That seemed bitterly appropriate.

The legion’s cohorts fanned out in a semicircle around the pyre, the Lares in their ranks glowing like birthday candles. The Fifth Cohort unloaded Jason’s coffin and bore it to the platform. Hannibal and his funeral cart were led away.

Behind the legion, at the periphery of the torchlight, aura wind spirits swirled about, setting up folding tables and black tablecloths. Others flew in with drink pitchers, stacks of plates, and baskets of food. No Roman funeral would be complete without a final meal for the departed. Only after the food was shared by the mourners would the Romans consider Jason’s spirit safely on its way to the Underworld—immune from indignities like becoming a restless ghost or a zombie.

While the legionnaires got settled, Reyna and Frank joined me at the pyre.

“You had me worried,” Reyna said. “Is your wound still bothering you?”

“It’s getting better,” I said, though I might have been trying to assure myself more than her. Also, why did she have to look so beautiful in the firelight?

“We’ll have the healers look at it again,” Frank promised. “Why did you stop in the road?”

“Just…remembered something. Tell you later. I don’t suppose you guys had any luck notifying Jason’s family? Thalia?”

They exchanged frustrated looks.

“We tried, of course,” Reyna said. “Thalia’s the only earthly family he had. But with the communications problems…”

I nodded, unsurprised. One of the more annoying things the Triumvirate had done was to shut down all forms of magical communication used by demigods. Iris-messages failed. Letters sent by wind spirits never arrived. Even mortal technology—which demigods tried to avoid anyway because it attracted monsters—now wouldn’t work for them at all. How the emperors had managed this, I had no idea.

“I wish we could wait for Thalia,” I said, watching as the last of the Fifth Cohort pallbearers climbed down from the pyre.

“Me too,” Reyna agreed. “But—”

“I know,” I said.

Roman funeral rites were meant to be performed as soon as possible. Cremation was necessary to send Jason’s spirit along. It would allow the community to grieve and heal…or at least turn our attention to the next threat.

“Let’s begin,” I said.

Reyna and Frank rejoined the front line.

I began to speak, the Latin ritual verses pouring out of me. I chanted from instinct, barely aware of the words’ meanings. I had already praised Jason with my song. That had been deeply personal. This was just a necessary formality.

In some corner of my mind, I wondered if this was how mortals felt when they used to pray to me. Perhaps their devotions had been nothing but muscle memory, reciting by rote while their minds drifted elsewhere, uninterested in my glory. I found the idea strangely…understandable. Now that I was a mortal, why should I not practice nonviolent resistance against the gods, too?

I finished my benediction.

I gestured for the aurae to distribute the feast, to place the first serving on Jason’s coffin so he could symbolically share a last meal with his brethren in the mortal world. Once that happened, and the pyre was lit, Jason’s soul would cross the Styx—so Roman tradition said.

Before the torches could be set to the wood, a plaintive howl echoed in the distance. Then another, much closer. An uneasy ripple passed through the assembled demigods. Their expressions weren’t alarmed, exactly, but definitely surprised, as if they hadn’t planned on extra guests. Hannibal grunted and stamped.

At the edges of our gathering, gray wolves emerged from the gloom—dozens of huge beasts, keening for the death of Jason, a member of their pack.

Directly behind the pyre, on the raised steps of Jupiter’s temple, the largest wolf appeared, her silvery hide glowing in the torchlight.

I felt the legion holding its collective breath. No one knelt. When facing Lupa, the wolf goddess, guardian spirit of Rome, you don’t kneel or show any sign of weakness. Instead we stood respectfully, holding our ground, as the pack bayed around us.

At last, Lupa fixed me with her lamp-yellow eyes. With a curl of her lip, she gave me a simple order: Come.

Then she turned and paced into the darkness of the temple.

Reyna approached me.

“Looks like the wolf goddess wants to have a private word.” She frowned with concern. “We’ll get the feast started. You go ahead. Hopefully Lupa isn’t angry. Or hungry.”