by Rick Riordan
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 course Tarquin 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.”
Sing it with me: Who’s
Afraid of the Big Good Wolf?
Me. That would be me.
LUPA WAS BOTH ANGRY and hungry.
I didn’t claim to be fluent in Wolf, but I’d spent enough time around my sister’s pack to understand the basics. Feelings were the easiest to read. Lupa, like all her kind, spoke i
n a combination of glances, snarls, ear twitches, postures, and pheromones. It was quite an elegant language, though not well-suited to rhyming couplets. Believe me, I’d tried. Nothing rhymes with grr-rrr-row-rrr.
Lupa was trembling with fury over Jason’s death. The ketones on her breath indicated she had not eaten in days. The anger made her hungry. The hunger made her angry. And her twitching nostrils told her that I was the nearest, most convenient sack of mortal meat.
Nevertheless, I followed her into Jupiter’s massive temple. I had little choice.
Ringing the open-air pavilion, columns the size of redwoods supported a domed, gilded ceiling. The floor was a colorful mosaic of Latin inscriptions: prophecies, memorials, dire warnings to praise Jupiter or face his lightning. In the center, behind a marble altar, rose a massive golden statue of Dad himself: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, draped in a purple silk toga big enough to be a ship’s sail. He looked stern, wise, and paternal, though he was only one of those in real life.
Seeing him tower above me, lightning bolt raised, I had to fight the urge to cower and plead. I knew it was only a statue, but if you’ve ever been traumatized by someone, you’ll understand. It doesn’t take much to trigger those old fears: a look, a sound, a familiar situation. Or a fifty-foot-tall golden statue of your abuser—that does the trick.
Lupa stood before the altar. Mist shrouded her fur as if she were off-gassing quicksilver.
It is your time, she told me.
Or something like that. Her gestures conveyed expectation and urgency. She wanted me to do something. Her scent told me she wasn’t sure I was capable of it.
I swallowed dryly, which in itself was Wolf for I’m scared. No doubt Lupa already smelled my fear. It wasn’t possible to lie in Lupa’s language. Threaten, bully, cajole…yes. But not outright lie.
“My time,” I said. “For what, exactly?”
She nipped the air in annoyance. To be Apollo. The pack needs you.
I wanted to scream I’ve been trying to be Apollo! It’s not that easy!
But I restrained my body language from broadcasting that message.
Talking face-to-face with any god is dangerous business. I was out of practice. True, I’d seen Britomartis back in Indianapolis, but she didn’t count. She liked torturing me too much to want to kill me. With Lupa, though…I had to be careful.
Even when I’d been a god myself, I’d never been able to get a good read on the Wolf Mother. She didn’t hang out with the Olympians. She never came to the family Saturnalia dinners. Not once had she attended our monthly book group, even when we discussed Dances with Wolves.
“Fine,” I relented. “I know what you mean. The last lines from the Dark Prophecy. I’ve reached the Tiber alive, et cetera, et cetera. Now I am supposed to ‘jive.’ I assume that entails more than dancing and snapping my fingers?”
Lupa’s stomach growled. The more I talked, the tastier I smelled.
The pack is weak, she signaled with a glance toward the funeral pyre. Too many have died. When the enemy surrounds this place, you must show strength. You must summon help.
I tried to suppress another wolfish display of irritation. Lupa was a goddess. This was her city, her camp. She had a pack of supernatural wolves at her command. Why couldn’t she help?
But, of course, I knew the answer. Wolves are not frontline fighters. They are hunters who attack only when they have overwhelming numbers. Lupa expected her Romans to solve their own problems. To be self-sufficient or die. She would advise. She would teach and guide and warn. But she would not fight their battles. Our battles.
Which made me wonder why she was telling me to summon help. And what help?
My expression and body language must have conveyed the question.
She flicked her ears. North. Scout the tomb. Find answers. That is the first step.
Outside, at the base of the temple, the funeral pyre crackled and roared. Smoke drifted through the open rotunda, buffeting the statue of Jupiter. I hoped, somewhere up on Mount Olympus, Dad’s divine sinuses were suffering.
“Tarquinius Superbus,” I said. “He’s the one who sent the undead. He’ll attack again at the blood moon.”
Lupa’s nostrils twitched in confirmation. His stench is on you. Be careful in his tomb. The emperors were foolish to call him forth.
Emperor was a difficult concept to express in Wolf. The term for it could mean alpha wolf, pack leader, or submit to me now before I rip out your jugular. I was fairly sure I interpreted Lupa’s meaning correctly. Her pheromones read danger, disgust, apprehension, outrage, more danger.
I put a hand over my bandaged abdomen. I was getting better…wasn’t I? I’d been slathered with enough Lemurian spice and unicorn-horn shavings to kill a zombie mastodon. But I didn’t like Lupa’s worried look, or the idea of anyone’s stench being on me, especially not an undead king’s.
“Once I explore this tomb,” I said, “and get out alive…what then?”
The way will be clearer. To defeat the great silence. Then summon help. Without this, the pack will die.
I was less sure I comprehended those lines. “Defeat the silence. You mean the soundless god? The doorway that Reyna is supposed to open?”
Her response was frustratingly ambivalent. It could have meant Yes and no, or Sort of, or Why are you so dense?
I stared up at Large Golden Dad.
Zeus had thrown me into the middle of all this trouble. He’d stripped me of my power, then kicked me to the earth to free the Oracles, defeat the emperors, and—Oh, wait! I got a bonus undead king and a silent god, too! I hoped the soot from the funeral pyre was really annoying Jupiter. I wanted to climb up his legs and finger-write across his chest WASH ME!
I closed my eyes. This probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do when facing a giant wolf, but I had too many half-formed ideas swirling around in my head. I thought about the Sibylline Books, the various prescriptions they contained for warding off disasters. I considered what Lupa might mean by the great silence. And summoning help.
My eyes snapped open. “Help. As in godly help. You mean if I survive the tomb and—and defeat the soundless whatever-it-is, I might be able to summon godly help?”
Lupa made a rumbling sound deep in her chest. Finally, he understands. This will be the beginning. The first step to rejoining your own pack.
My heart ka-thumped like it was falling down a flight of stairs. Lupa’s message seemed too good to be true. I could contact my fellow Olympians, despite Zeus’s standing orders that they shun me while I was human. I might even be able to invoke their aid to save Camp Jupiter. Suddenly, I really did feel better. My gut didn’t hurt. My nerves tingled with a sensation I hadn’t felt for so long I almost didn’t recognize it: hope.
Beware. Lupa brought me back to reality with a low snarl. The way is hard. You will face more sacrifices. Death. Blood.
“No.” I met her eyes—a dangerous sign of challenge that surprised me as much as it did her. “No, I will succeed. I won’t allow any more losses. There has to be a way.”
I managed maybe three seconds of eye contact before looking away.
Lupa sniffed—a dismissive noise like Of course I won, but I thought I detected a hint of grudging approval, too. It dawned on me that Lupa appreciated my bluster and determination, even if she didn’t believe I was capable of doing what I said. Maybe especially because she didn’t believe it.
Rejoin the feast, she ordered. Tell them you have my blessing. Continue to act strong. It is how we start.
I studied the old prophecies set in the floor mosaic. I had lost friends to the Triumvirate. I had suffered. But I realized that Lupa had suffered, too. Her Roman children had been decimated. She carried the pain of all their deaths. Yet she had to act strong, even as her pack faced possible extinction.
You couldn’t lie in Wolf. But you could bluff. Sometimes you had to bluff to keep a grieving pack together. What do mortals say? Fake it till you make it? That is a very wolfish philosophy.
“Thank you.” I looked up, but Lupa was gone. Nothing remained except silver mist, blending with the smoke from Jason’s pyre.
I gave Reyna and Frank the simplest version: I had received the wolf goddess’s blessing. I promised to tell them more the next day, once I’d had time to make sense of it. Meanwhile, I trusted that word would spread among the legion about Lupa giving me guidance. That would be enough for now. These demigods needed all the reassurance they could get.
As the pyre burned, Frank and Hazel stood hand in hand, keeping vigil as Jason made his final voyage. I sat on a funeral picnic blanket with Meg, who ate everything in sight and went on and on about her excellent afternoon tending unicorns with Lavinia. Meg boasted that Lavinia had even let her clean out the stables.
“She pulled a Tom Sawyer on you,” I observed.
Meg frowned, her mouth filled with hamburger. “Whad’ya mean?”
“Nothing. You were saying, about unicorn poop?”
I tried to eat my dinner, but despite how hungry I was, the food tasted like dust.
When the pyre’s last embers died and the wind spirits cleared away the remnants of the feast, we followed the legionnaires back to camp.
Up in Bombilo’s spare room, I lay on my cot and studied the cracks in the ceiling. I imagined they were lines of tattooed script across a Cyclops’s back. If I stared at them long enough, maybe they would start to make sense, or at least I could find the index.
Meg threw a shoe at me. “You gotta rest. Tomorrow’s the senate meeting.”
I brushed her red high-top off my chest. “You’re not asleep, either.”
“Yeah, but you’ll have to speak. They’ll wanna hear your plan.”
“My plan?”
“You know, like an oration. Inspire them and stuff. Convince them what to do. They’ll vote on it and everything.”