The Tyrant's Tomb Read online

  Meg, like any reasonable child when confronted with a dozen hairy giants, hopped off her bike, summoned her swords, and charged. I yelped in alarm and drew my bow. I was low on arrows after playing catch with the ravens, but I managed to slay six of the Khromandae before Meg reached them. Despite how exhausted she must’ve been, she handily dispatched the remaining six with a blur of her golden blades.

  I laughed—actually laughed—with satisfaction. It felt so good to be a decent archer again, and to watch Meg at her swordplay. What a team we made!

  That’s one of the dangers of being in a battle. (Along with getting killed.) When things are going well, you tend to get tunnel vision. You zero in on your little area and forget the big picture. As Meg gave the last Khromanda a haircut straight through the chest, I allowed myself to think that we were winning!

  Then I scanned our surroundings, and I realized we were surrounded by a whole lot of not winning. Gargantuan ants trampled their way toward us, spewing acid to clear the hillside of skirmishers. Several steaming bodies in Roman armor sprawled in the underbrush, and I did not want to think about who they might have been or how they had died.

  Pandai in black Kevlar and helmets, almost invisible in the dusk, glided around on their huge parasail ears, dropping onto any unsuspecting demigod they could find. Higher up, giant eagles fought with giant ravens, their wingtips glinting in the bloodred moonlight. Just a hundred yards to my left, wolf-headed cynocephali howled as they bounded into battle, crashing into the shields of the nearest cohort (the Third?), which looked small and alone and critically undermanned in a sea of bad guys.

  That was only on our hill. I could see fires burning across the whole western front along the valley’s borders—maybe half a mile of patchwork battles. Ballistae launched glowing spears from the summits. Catapults hurled boulders that shattered on impact, spraying shards of Imperial gold into the enemy lines. Flaming logs—always a fun Roman party game—rolled down the hillsides, smashing through packs of Earthborn.

  For all the legion’s efforts, the enemy kept advancing. On the empty eastbound lanes of Highway 24, the emperors’ main columns marched toward the Caldecott Tunnel, their gold-and-purple banners raised high. Roman colors. Roman emperors bent on destroying the last true Roman legion. This was how it ended, I thought bitterly. Not fighting threats from the outside, but fighting against the ugliest side of our own history.

  “TESTUDO!” A centurion’s shout brought my attention back to the Third Cohort. They were struggling to form a protective turtle formation with their shields as the cynocephali swarmed over them in a snarling wave of fur and claws.

  “Meg!” I yelled, pointing to the imperiled cohort.

  She ran toward them, me at her heels. As we closed in, I scooped up an abandoned quiver from the ground, trying not to think about why it had been dropped there, and sent a fresh volley of arrows into the pack. Six fell dead. Seven. Eight. But there were still too many. Meg screamed in fury and launched herself at the nearest wolf-headed men. She was quickly surrounded, but our advance had distracted the pack, giving the Third Cohort a few precious seconds to regroup.

  “OFFENSE ROMULUS!” shouted the centurion.

  If you have ever seen a pill bug uncurl, revealing its hundreds of legs, you can imagine what the Third Cohort looked like as it broke testudo and formed a bristling forest of spears, skewering the cynocephali.

  I was so impressed I almost got my face chewed off by a stray charging wolf-man. Just before it reached me, Centurion Larry hurled his javelin. The monster fell at my feet, impaled in the middle of his incredibly un-manscaped back.

  “You made it!” Larry grinned at us. “Where’s Reyna?”

  “She’s okay,” I said. “Er, she’s alive.”

  “Cool! Frank wants to see you, ASAP!”

  Meg stumbled to my side, breathing hard, her swords glistening with monster goo. “Hey, Larry. How’s it going?”

  “Terrible!” Larry sounded delighted. “Carl, Reza—escort these two to Praetor Zhang immediately.”

  “YESSIR!” Our escorts hustled us off toward the Caldecott Tunnel, while behind us, Larry called his troops back to action: “Come on, legionnaires! We’ve drilled for this. We’ve got this!”

  After a few more terrible minutes of dodging pandai, jumping fiery craters, and skirting mobs of monsters, Carl and Reza brought us safely to Frank Zhang’s command post at the mouth of the Caldecott Tunnel. Much to my disappointment, there were no hors d’oeuvres or beverages. There wasn’t even a tent—just a bunch of stressed-out Romans in full battle gear, rushing around carrying orders and shoring up defenses. Above us, on the concrete terrace that stretched over the tunnel’s mouth, Jacob the standard-bearer stood with the legion’s eagle and a couple of spotters, keeping watch on all the approaches. Whenever an enemy got too close, Jacob would zap them like the Oprah Winfrey version of Jupiter: And YOU get a lightning bolt! And YOU get a lightning bolt! Unfortunately, he’d been using the eagle so much that it was beginning to smoke. Even superpowerful magic items have their limits. The legion’s standard was close to total overload.

  When Frank Zhang saw us, a whole g of weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. “Thank the gods! Apollo, your face looks terrible. Where’s Reyna?”

  “Long story.” I was about to launch into the short version of that long story when Hazel Levesque materialized on a horse right next to me, which was an excellent way of testing whether my heart still worked properly.

  “What’s going on?” Hazel asked. “Apollo, your face—”

  “I know.” I sighed.

  Her immortal steed, the lightning-fast Arion, gave me the side-eye and nickered as if to say, This fool ain’t no Apollo.

  “Good to see you too, cuz,” I grumbled.

  I told them all in brief what had happened, with Meg occasionally adding helpful comments like “He was stupid,” and “He was more stupid,” and “He did good; then he got stupid again.”

  When Hazel heard about our encounter in the Target parking lot, she gritted her teeth. “Lavinia. That girl, I swear. If anything happens to Reyna—”

  “Let’s focus on what we can control,” Frank said, though he looked shaken that Reyna wouldn’t be coming back to help. “Apollo, we’ll buy you as much time as possible for your summoning. Terminus is doing what he can to slow the emperors down. Right now, I’ve got ballistae and catapults targeting the myrmekes. If we can’t bring them down, we’ll never stop the advance.”

  Hazel grimaced. “The First through Fourth Cohorts are spread pretty thin across these hills. Arion and I have been zipping back and forth between them as needed, but…” She stopped herself from stating the obvious: We’re losing ground. “Frank, if you can spare me for a minute, I’ll get Apollo and Meg to Temple Hill. Ella and Tyson are waiting.”

  “Go.”

  “Wait,” I said—not that I wasn’t super anxious to summon a god with a jelly jar, but something Hazel said had made me uneasy. “If the First through Fourth Cohorts are here, where’s the Fifth?”

  “Guarding New Rome,” said Hazel. “Dakota’s with them. At the moment, thank the gods, the city is secure. No sign of Tarquin.”

  POP. Right next to me appeared a marble bust of Terminus, dressed in a World War I British Army cap and khaki greatcoat that covered him to the foot of his pedestal. With his loose sleeves, he might have been a double amputee from the trenches of the Somme. Unfortunately, I’d met more than a few of those in the Great War.

  “The city is not secure!” he announced. “Tarquin is attacking!”

  “What?” Hazel looked personally offended. “From where?”

  “Underneath!”

  “The sewers.” Hazel cursed. “But how—?”

  “Tarquin built the original cloaca maxima of Rome,” I reminded her. “He knows sewers.”

  “I remembered that! I sealed the exits myself!”

  “Well, somehow he unsealed them!” Terminus said. “The Fifth Cohort needs help. Immediate
ly!”

  Hazel wavered, clearly rattled by Tarquin outfoxing her.

  “Go,” Frank told her. “I’ll send the Fourth Cohort to reinforce you.”

  Hazel laughed nervously. “And leave you here with only three? No.”

  “It’s fine,” Frank said. “Terminus, can you open our defensive barriers here at the main gate?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “We’ll try the Wakanda thing.”

  “The what?”

  “You know,” Frank said. “We’ll funnel the enemy into one location.”

  Terminus glowered. “I do not recall any ‘Wakanda thing’ in the Roman military manuals. But very well.”

  Hazel frowned. “Frank, you’re not going to do anything stupid—”

  “We’ll concentrate our people here and hold the tunnel. I can do this.” He mustered another confident smile. “Good luck, guys. See you on the other side!”

  Or not, I thought.

  Frank didn’t wait for more protests. He marched off, shouting orders to form up the troops and send the Fourth Cohort into New Rome. I remembered the hazy images I’d seen from the holographic scroll—Frank ordering his workers around in the Caldecott Tunnel, digging and toting urns. I recalled Ella’s cryptic words about bridges and fires…. I didn’t like where those thoughts led me.

  “Saddle up, kids,” Hazel said, offering me a hand.

  Arion whinnied indignantly.

  “Yes, I know,” Hazel said. “You don’t like carrying three. We’ll just drop off these two at Temple Hill and then head straight for the city. There’ll be plenty of undead for you to trample, I promise.”

  That seemed to mollify the horse.

  I climbed on behind Hazel. Meg took the rumble seat on the horse’s rear.

  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

  Please hear us and fill in blank

  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 anno
unced.

  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.