The Trials of Apollo, Book Three: The Burning Maze

by Rick Riordan

  “W-who was that?” Grover asked. “He smelled like a guy on a horse, but…”

  Coach Hedge’s nunchaku clattered in his hands. “Maybe a centaur?”

  “No.” I put my hand on the dented metal side of the dumpster—which now bore the unmistakable impression of a shod hoof. “He was a horse. A talking horse.”

  The satyrs stared at me.

  “All horses talk,” Grover said. “They just talk in Horse.”

  “Wait.” Hedge frowned at me. “You mean you understood the horse?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That horse spoke in English.”

  They waited for me to explain, but I couldn’t make myself say more. Now that we were out of immediate danger, now that my adrenaline was ebbing, I found myself gripped by a cold, heavy despair. If I’d harbored any last hopes that I might be wrong about the enemy we were facing, those hopes had been torpedoed.

  Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus…strangely enough, that name could have applied to several famous ancient Romans. But the master of Naevius Sutorius Macro? Big C? Neos Helios? The only Roman emperor ever to possess a talking horse? That could mean only one person. One terrible person.

  The flashing lights of emergency vehicles pulsed against the fronds of the nearest palm trees.

  “We need to get out of here,” I said.

  Gleeson stared at the wreckage of the surplus store. “Yeah. Let’s go around front, see if my car survived. I just wish I got some camping supplies out of this deal.”

  “We got something much worse.” I took a shaky breath. “We got the identity of the third emperor.”

  The explosion hadn’t scathed the coach’s yellow 1979 Ford Pinto. Of course it hadn’t. Such a hideous car couldn’t be destroyed by anything less than a worldwide apocalypse. I sat in back, wearing a new pair of hot-pink camo pants we’d salvaged from the army surplus wreckage. I was in such a stupor, I barely remember going through the drive-through lane of Enchiladas del Rey and picking up enough combo plates to feed several dozen nature spirits.

  Back at the hilltop ruins, we convened a council of the cacti.

  The Cistern was packed with desert-plant dryads: Joshua Tree, Prickly Pear, Aloe Vera, and many more, all dressed in bristly clothes and doing their best not to poke each other.

  Mellie fussed over Gleeson, one minute showering him with kisses and telling him how brave he was, the next minute punching him and accusing him of wanting her to raise Baby Hedge by herself as a widow. The infant—whose name, I learned, was Chuck—was awake and none too happy, kicking his little hooves into his father’s stomach as Gleeson tried to hold him, tugging Hedge’s goatee with his chubby little fists.

  “On the bright side,” Hedge told Mellie, “we got enchiladas and I scored some awesome nunchaku!”

  Mellie gazed heavenward, perhaps wishing she could go back to her simple life as an unmarried cloud.

  As for Meg McCaffrey, she had regained consciousness and looked as well as she ever looked—just slightly greasier thanks to the first-aid ministrations of Aloe Vera. Meg sat at the edge of the pool, trailing her bare feet in the water and stealing glances at Joshua Tree, who stood nearby, brooding handsomely in his khakis.

  I asked Meg how she was feeling—because I am nothing if not thoughtful—but she waved me off, insisting she was fine. I think she was just embarrassed by my presence as she tried to discreetly ogle Joshua, which made me roll my eyes.

  Girl, I see you, I felt like saying. You are not subtle, and we really need to have a talk about crushing on dryads.

  I didn’t want her to order me to slap myself, however, so I kept my mouth shut.

  Grover distributed enchilada plates to everyone. He ate nothing himself—a sure sign of how nervous he felt—but paced the circumference of the pool, tapping his fingers against his reed pipes.

  “Guys,” he announced, “we’ve got problems.”

  I would not have imagined Grover Underwood as a leader. Nevertheless, as he spoke, all the other nature spirits gave him their full attention. Even Baby Chuck quieted down, tilting his head toward Grover’s voice as if it was something interesting and possibly worth kicking.

  Grover related everything that had happened to us since we’d met up in Indianapolis. He recounted our days in the Labyrinth—the pits and poison lakes, the sudden wave of fire, the flock of strixes, and the spiral ramp that had led us up to these ruins.

  The dryads looked around nervously, as if imagining the Cistern filled with demonic owls.

  “You sure we’re safe?” asked a short plump girl with a lilting accent and red flowers in her hair (or perhaps sprouting from her hair).

  “I don’t know, Reba.” Grover glanced at Meg and me. “This is Rebutia, guys. Reba, for short. She’s a transplant from Argentina.”

  I waved politely. I’d never met an Argentinian cactus before, but I had a soft spot for Buenos Aires. You haven’t really tangoed until you’ve tangoed with a Greek god at La Ventana.

  Grover continued, “I don’t think that exit from the maze has ever been there before. It’s sealed now. I think the Labyrinth was helping us, bringing us home.”

  “Helping us?” Prickly Pear looked up from her cheese enchiladas. “The same Labyrinth harboring fires that are destroying the whole state? The same Labyrinth we’ve been exploring for months, trying to find the source of those fires, with no luck? The same Labyrinth that’s swallowed a dozen of our search parties? What does it look like when the Labyrinth isn’t helping us?”

  The other dryads grumbled in agreement. Some bristled, literally.

  Grover raised his hands for calm. “I know we’re all worried and frustrated. But the Burning Maze isn’t the entire Labyrinth. And at least now we have some idea why the emperor set it up the way he did. It’s because of Apollo.”

  Dozens of cactus spirits turned to stare at me.

  “Just to clarify,” I said in a small voice, “it’s not my fault. Tell them, Grover. Tell your very nice…very spiny friends it isn’t my fault.”

  Coach Hedge grunted. “Well, it kind of is. Macro said the maze was a trap for you. Probably because of the Oracle thingie you’re looking for.”

  Mellie’s gaze ping-ponged between her husband and me. “Macro? Oracle thingie?”

  I explained how Zeus had me traveling around the country, freeing ancient Oracles as part of my penance, because that’s just the sort of horrible father he was.

  Hedge then recounted our fun shopping expedition to Macro’s Military Madness. When he got sidetracked talking about the various types of land mines he’d found, Grover intervened.

  “So we exploded Macro,” Grover summed up, “who was a Roman follower of this emperor. And he mentioned some kind of a sorceress who wants to…I dunno, do some evil magic on Apollo, I guess. And she’s helping the emperor. And we think they put the next Oracle—”

  “The Sibyl of Erythraea,” I said.

  “Right,” Grover agreed. “We think they put her at the center of the maze as some sort of bait for Apollo. Also, there’s a talking horse.”

  Mellie’s face clouded over, which was unsurprising since she was a cloud. “All horses talk.”

  Grover explained what we’d heard in the dumpster. Then he backed up and explained why we’d been in a dumpster. Then he explained how I’d wet my pants and that was why I was wearing hot-pink camo.

  “Ohhh.” All the dryads nodded, as if this was the real question that had been bothering them.

  “Can we get back to the problem at hand?” I pleaded. “We have a common cause! You want the fires stopped. I have a quest to free the Erythraean Sibyl. Both those things require us to find the heart of the maze. That’s where we’ll find the source of the flames and the Sibyl. I just—I know it.”

  Meg studied me intently, as if trying to decide what embarrassing order she should give me: Jump in the pool? Hug Prickly Pear? Find a shirt that matches your pants?

  “Tell me about the horse,” she said.

  Order received.
I had no choice. “His name is Incitatus.”

  “And he talks,” Meg said. “Like, in a way humans can understand.”

  “Yes, though normally he only speaks to the emperor. Don’t ask me how he talks. Or where he came from. I don’t know. He’s a magical horse. The emperor trusts him, probably more than he trusts anyone. Back when the emperor ruled ancient Rome, he dressed Incitatus in senatorial purple, even tried to make him a consul. People thought the emperor was crazy, but he was never crazy.”

  Meg leaned over the pool, hunching her shoulders as if withdrawing into her mental shell. With Meg, emperors were always a touchy subject. Raised in Nero’s household (though the terms abused and gaslighted were more accurate), she’d betrayed me to Nero at Camp Half-Blood before returning to me in Indianapolis—a subject we’d skirted without really addressing for a while. I did not blame the poor girl. Truly. But getting her to trust my friendship, to trust anyone after her stepfather, Nero, was like training a wild squirrel to eat out of one’s hand. Any loud noise was liable to cause her to flee, or bite, or both.

  (I realize that’s not a fair comparison. Meg bites much harder than a wild squirrel.)

  Finally she said, “That line from the prophecy: The master of the swift white horse.”

  I nodded. “Incitatus belongs to the emperor. Or perhaps belong isn’t the right word. Incitatus is the right-hand horse to the man who now claims the western United States—Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus.”

  This was the dryads’ cue for a collective gasp of horror, and perhaps some ominous background music. Instead, blank faces greeted me. The only ominous background sound was Baby Chuck chewing the Styrofoam lid of his father’s #3 dinner especial.

  “This Gaius person,” said Meg. “Is he famous?”

  I stared at the dark waters of the pool. I almost wished Meg would order me to jump in and drown. Or force me to wear a shirt that matched my hot-pink pants. Either punishment would have been easier than answering her question.

  “The emperor is better known by his childhood nickname,” I said. “Which he despises, by the way. History remembers him as Caligula.”

  DO you know the name Caligula, dear reader?

  If not, consider yourself lucky.

  All around the Cistern, cactus dryads puffed out their spikes. Mellie’s lower half dissolved into mist. Even Baby Chuck coughed up a piece of Styrofoam.

  “Caligula?” Coach Hedge’s eye twitched the same way it had when Mellie threatened to take away his ninja weapons. “Are you sure?”

  I wished I wasn’t. I wished I could announce that the third emperor was kindly old Marcus Aurelius, or noble Hadrian, or bumbling Claudius.

  But Caligula…

  Even for those who knew little about him, the name Caligula conjured the darkest, most depraved images. His reign was bloodier and more infamous than Nero’s, who had grown up in awe of his wicked great-uncle Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus.

  Caligula: a byword for murder, torture, madness, excess. Caligula: the villainous tyrant against whom all other villainous tyrants were measured. Caligula: who had a worse branding problem than the Edsel, the Hindenburg, and the Chicago Black Sox put together.

  Grover shuddered. “I’ve always hated that name. What does it mean, anyway? Satyr Killer? Blood Drinker?”

  “Booties,” I said.

  Joshua’s shaggy olive hair stood straight up, which Meg seemed to find fascinating.

  “Booties?” Joshua glanced around the Cistern, perhaps wondering if he’d missed the joke. No one was laughing.

  “Yes.” I could still remember how cute little Caligula had looked in his miniature legionnaire’s outfit when he accompanied his father, Germanicus, on military campaigns. Why were sociopaths always so adorable as children?

  “His father’s soldiers gave Caligula the nickname when he was a child,” I said. “He wore teeny-weenie legionnaire’s boots, caligae, and they thought that was hysterical. So they called him Caligula—Little Boots, or Baby Shoes, or Booties. Pick your translation.”

  Prickly Pear stabbed her fork into her enchiladas. “I don’t care if the guy’s name is Snookums McCuddleFace. How do we beat him and get our lives back to normal?”

  The other cacti grumbled and nodded. I was starting to suspect that prickly pears were the natural agitators of the cactus world. Get enough of them together, and they would start a revolution and overthrow the animal kingdom.

  “We have to be careful,” I warned. “Caligula is a master at trapping his enemies. The old saying Give them enough rope to hang themselves? That was made for Caligula. He delights in his reputation as a madman, but it’s just a cover. He’s quite sane. He’s also completely amoral, even worse than…”

  I stopped myself. I’d been about to say worse than Nero, but how could I make such a claim in front of Meg, whose entire childhood had been poisoned by Nero and his alter ego, the Beast?

  Careful, Meg, Nero would always say. Don’t misbehave or you’ll wake the Beast. I love you dearly, but the Beast…Well, I would hate to see you do something wrong and get hurt.

  How could I quantify such villainy?

  “Anyway,” I said, “Caligula is smart, patient, and paranoid. If this Burning Maze is some elaborate trap, part of some bigger plan of his, it won’t be easy to shut down. And beating him, even finding him, will be a challenge.” I was tempted to add Perhaps we don’t want to find him. Perhaps we should run away.

  That wouldn’t work for the dryads. They were rooted, quite literally, to the land in which they grew. Transplants like Reba were rare. Few nature spirits could survive being potted and transported to a new environment. Even if every dryad here managed to flee the fires of Southern California, thousands more would stay and burn.

  Grover shuddered. “If half the stuff I’ve heard about Caligula is true…”

  He paused, apparently realizing that everyone was watching him, gauging how much they should panic based on Grover’s reactions. I, for one, did not want to be in the middle of a room filled with cacti that were running around screaming.

  Fortunately, Grover kept his cool.

  “Nobody is unbeatable,” he declared. “Not Titans, giants, or gods—and definitely not some Roman emperor named Booties. This guy is causing Southern California to wither and die. He’s behind the droughts, the heat, the fires. We have to find a way to stop him. Apollo, how did Caligula die the first time?”

  I tried to remember. As usual, my mortal hard drive of a brain was shot full of holes, but I seemed to recall a dark tunnel packed with praetorian guards, crowding around the emperor, their knives flashing and glistening with blood.

  “His own guards killed him,” I said, “which I’m sure has made him even more paranoid. Macro mentioned that the emperor kept changing his personal guard. First automatons replaced the praetors. Then he changed them again to mercenaries and strixes and…big ears? I don’t know what that means.”

  One of the dryads huffed indignantly. I guessed she was Cholla, since she looked like a cholla plant—wispy white hair, a fuzzy white beard, and large paddle-shaped ears covered with bristles. “No decent big-eared person would work for such a villain! What about other weaknesses? The emperor must have some!”

  “Yeah!” Coach Hedge chimed in. “Is he scared of goats?”

  “Is he allergic to cactus sap?” Aloe Vera asked hopefully.

  “Not that I know of,” I said.

  The assembled dryads looked disappointed.

  “You said you got a prophecy in Indiana?” Joshua asked. “Any clues there?”

  His tone was skeptical, which I could understand. A Hoosier prophecy just doesn’t have the same ring to it as a Delphic prophecy.

  “I have to find the westward palace,” I said. “Which must mean Caligula’s base.”

  “No one knows where that is,” grumbled Pear.

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but Mellie and Gleeson seemed to exchange an anxious look. I waited for them to say something else, but they did not.r />
  “Also from the prophecy…” I continued. “I have to wrest from him the crossword speaker’s breath. Meaning, I think, that I have to free the Erythraean Sibyl from his control.”

  “Does this Sibyl like crosswords?” Reba asked. “I like crosswords.”

  “The Oracle gave her prophecies in the form of word puzzles,” I explained. “Like crosswords. Or acrostics. The prophecy also talks about Grover bringing us here, and a lot of terrible things that will happen at Camp Jupiter in the next few days—”

  “The new moon,” Meg muttered. “Coming very soon.”

  “Yes.” I tried to contain my annoyance. Meg seemed to want me to be in two places at once, which would have been no problem for Apollo the god. For Lester the human, I could barely manage being in one place at once.

  “There’s another line,” Grover remembered. “Walk the path in thine own enemy’s boots? Could that have something to do with Caligula’s booties?”

  I imagined my ginormous sixteen-year-old feet crammed into a Roman toddler’s military-issued leather baby shoes. My toes began to throb.

  “I hope not,” I said. “But if we could free the Sibyl from the maze, I’m sure she would help us. I’d like to have more guidance before I charge off to confront Caligula in person.”

  Other things I would have liked: my godly powers back, the entire firearms department of Macro’s Military Madness locked and loaded in the hands of a demigod army, an apology letter from my father, Zeus, promising never again to turn me into a human, and a bath. But, as they say, Lesters can’t be choosers.

  “That brings us back to where we started,” Joshua said. “You need the Oracle freed. We need the fires shut off. To do that, we need to get through the maze, but nobody knows how.”

  Gleeson Hedge cleared his throat. “Maybe somebody does.”

  Never before had so many cacti stared at a satyr.

  Cholla stroked her wispy white beard. “Who is this somebody?”

  Hedge turned to his wife, as if to say All you, sweetie.

  Mellie spent a few more microseconds pondering the night sky, and possibly her former life as a nebulous bachelorette.