by Rick Riordan
“In the Sibyl?” she asked. “In those evil shoes?”
I didn’t have an answer for her. Fortunately, I was saved by the belated appearance of the next clue—three golden lines in Latin.
“Oh, Latin!” Grover said. “Hold on. I can do this.” He squinted at the words, then sighed. “No. I can’t.”
“Honestly, no Greek or Latin?” I said. “What do they teach you in satyr school?”
“Mostly, you know, important stuff. Like plants.”
“Thank you,” Meg muttered.
I translated the clue for my less educated friends:
“Now must I tell of the flight of the king.
The last to reign over the Roman people
Was a man unjust yet puissant in arms.”
I nodded. “I believe that’s a quote from Ovid.”
Neither of my comrades looked impressed.
“So what’s the answer?” Meg asked. “The last Roman emperor?”
“No, not an emperor,” I said. “In the very first days of Rome, the city was ruled by kings. The last one, the seventh, was overthrown, and Rome became a republic.”
I tried to cast my thoughts back to the Kingdom of Rome. That whole time period was a little hazy to me. We gods were still based in Greece then. Rome was something of a backwater. The last king, though…he brought back some bad memories.
Meg broke my reverie. “What is puissant?”
“It means powerful,” I said.
“Doesn’t sound like that. If somebody called me puissant, I would hit them.”
“But you are, in fact, puissant in arms.”
She hit me.
“Ow.”
“Guys,” Grover said. “What’s the name of the last Roman king?”
I thought. “Ta…hmm. I just had it, and now it’s gone. Ta-something.”
“Taco?” Grover said helpfully.
“Why would a Roman king be named Taco?”
“I don’t know.” Grover rubbed his stomach. “Because I’m hungry?”
Curse the satyr. Now all I could think of was tacos. Then the answer came back to me. “Tarquin! Or Tarquinius, in the original Latin.”
“Well, which is it?” Meg asked.
I studied the corridors. The tunnel on the far left, the thumb, had ten spaces, enough for Tarquinius. The tunnel in the middle had seven, enough for Tarquin.
“It’s that one,” I decided, pointing to the center tunnel.
“How can you be sure?” Grover asked. “Because the arrow told us the answers would be in English?”
“That,” I conceded, “and also because these tunnels look like five fingers. It makes sense the maze would give me the middle finger.” I raised my voice. “Isn’t that right? The answer is Tarquin, the middle finger? I love you, too, maze.”
We walked the path, the name TARQUIN blazing in gold behind us.
The corridor opened into a square chamber, the largest space we’d seen yet. The walls and floor were tiled in faded Roman mosaics that looked original, though I was fairly sure the Romans had never colonized any part of the Los Angeles metropolitan area.
The air felt even warmer and drier. The floor was hot enough that I could feel it through the soles of my sandals. One positive thing about the room: it offered us only three new tunnels to choose from, rather than five.
Grover sniffed the air. “I don’t like this room. I smell something…monstery.”
Meg gripped her scimitars. “From which direction?”
“Uh…all of them?”
“Oh, look,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, “another clue.”
We approached the nearest mosaic wall, where two golden lines of English glowed across the tiles:
Leaves, body-leaves, growing up above me, above death,
Perennial roots, tall leaves—O the winter shall not freeze you, delicate leaves
Perhaps my brain was still stuck in Latin and Greek, because those lines meant nothing to me, even in plain English.
“I like this one,” Meg said. “It’s about leaves.”
“Yes, lots of leaves,” I agreed. “But it’s nonsense.”
Grover choked. “Nonsense? Don’t you recognize it?”
“Er, should I?”
“You’re the god of poetry!”
I felt my face begin to burn. “I used to be the god of poetry, which does not mean I am a walking encyclopedia of every obscure line ever written—”
“Obscure?” Grover’s shrill voice echoed unnervingly down the corridors. “That’s Walt Whitman! From Leaves of Grass! I don’t remember exactly which poem it’s from, but—”
“You read poetry?” Meg asked.
Grover licked his lips. “You know…mostly nature poetry. Whitman, for a human, had some beautiful things to say about trees.”
“And leaves,” Meg noted. “And roots.”
“Exactly.”
I wanted to lecture them about how overrated Walt Whitman was. The man was always singing songs to himself instead of praising others, like me, for instance. But I decided the critique would have to wait.
“Do you know the answer, then?” I asked Grover. “Is this a fill-in-the-blanks question? Multiple choice? True-False?”
Grover studied the lines. “I think…yeah. There’s a word missing at the beginning. It’s supposed to read Tomb-leaves, body-leaves, et cetera.”
“Tomb-leaves?” Meg asked. “That doesn’t make sense. But neither does body-leaves. Unless he’s talking about a dryad.”
“It’s imagery,” I said. “Clearly, he is describing a place of death, overgrown by nature—”
“Oh, now you’re an expert on Walt Whitman,” Grover said.
“Satyr, don’t test me. When I become a god again—”
“Both of you, stop,” Meg ordered. “Apollo, say the answer.”
“Fine.” I sighed. “Maze, the answer is tomb.”
We took another successful trip down the middle finger…I mean, central hall. The word TOMB blazed in the four squares behind us.
At the end, we arrived in a circular room, even larger and more ornate. Across the domed ceiling spread a silver-on-blue mosaic of zodiac signs. Six new tunnels radiated outward. In the middle of the floor stood an old fountain, unfortunately dry. (A drink would have been much appreciated. Interpreting poetry and solving puzzles is thirsty work.)
“The rooms are getting bigger,” Grover noted. “And more elaborate.”
“Maybe that’s good,” I said. “It might mean we’re getting closer.”
Meg eyed the zodiac images. “You sure we didn’t take a wrong turn? The prophecy doesn’t even make sense so far. Apollo faces death Tarquin tomb.”
“You have to assume the small words,” I said. “I believe the message is Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb.” I gulped. “Actually, I don’t like that message. Perhaps the little words we’re missing are Apollo faces NO death; Tarquin’s tomb…something, something. Maybe the next words are grants him fabulous prizes.”
“Uh-huh.” Meg pointed at the rim of the central fountain, where the next clue had appeared. Three lines in English read:
Named for Apollo’s fallen love, this flower should be planted in autumn.
Set the bulb in the soil with the pointy end up. Cover with soil
And water thoroughly…you are transplanting.
I stifled a sob.
First the maze forced me to read Walt Whitman. Now it taunted me with my own past. To mention my dead love, Hyacinthus, and his tragic death, to reduce him to a bit of Oracle trivia…No. This was too much.
I sat down on the rim of the fountain and cupped my face in my hands.
“What’s wrong?” Grover asked nervously.
Meg answered. “Those lines are talking about his old boyfriend. Hyacinth.”
“Hyacinthus,” I corrected.
I surged to my feet, my sadness converting to anger. My friends edged away. I supposed I must have looked like a crazy man, and that’s indeed how I felt.
“Uh, Apollo?” Meg said. “I don’t think she’s taunting you on purpose. Also, the answer is about the flower, hyacinth. I’m pretty sure those lines are from the Farmer’s Almanac.”
“I don’t care if they’re from the telephone directory!” I bellowed. “Enough is enough. HYACINTH!” I yelled into the corridors. “The answer is HYACINTH! Are you happy?”
Meg yelled, “NO!”
In retrospect, she really should have yelled Apollo, stop! Then I would’ve had no choice but to obey her command. Therefore, what happened next is Meg’s fault.
I marched down the only corridor with eight squares.
Grover and Meg ran after me, but by the time they caught me it was too late.
I looked behind, expecting to see the word HYACINTH spelled out on the floor. Instead, only six of the squares were lit up in glaring correction-pen red:
U
N
L
E
S
S
Under our feet, the tunnel floor disappeared, and we dropped into a pit of fire.
UNDER different circumstances, how delighted I would have been to see that UNLESS.
Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb unless…
Oh, happy conjunction! It meant there was a way to avoid potential death, and I was all about avoiding potential death.
Unfortunately, falling into a pit of fire dampened my newfound hope.
In midair, before I could even process what was happening, I lurched to a halt, my quiver strap yanked tight across my chest, my left foot nearly popping free from my ankle.
I found myself dangling next to the wall of the pit. About twenty feet below, the shaft opened into a lake of fire. Meg was clinging desperately to my foot. Above me, Grover held me by the quiver with one hand, his other gripping a tiny ledge of rock. He kicked off his shoes and tried to find purchase with his hooves on the wall.
“Well done, brave satyr!” I cried. “Pull us up!”
Grover’s eyes bugged. His face dripped with sweat. He made a whimpering sound that seemed to indicate he didn’t have the strength to pull all three of us out of the pit.
If I survived and became a god again, I would have to talk to the Council of Cloven Elders about adding more physical education classes to satyr school.
I clawed at the wall, hoping to find a convenient rail or emergency exit. There was nothing.
Below me, Meg yelled, “REALLY, Apollo? You water hyacinths thoroughly UNLESS you are transplanting them!”
“How was I supposed to know that?” I protested.
“You CREATED hyacinths!”
Ugh. Mortal logic. Just because a god creates something doesn’t mean he understands it. Otherwise, Prometheus would know everything about humans, and I assure you, he does not. I created hyacinths, so I’m supposed to know how to plant and water them?
“Help!” Grover squeaked.
His hooves shifted on the tiny crevices. His fingers trembled, his arms shaking as if he were holding the weight of two extra people, which…oh, actually, he was.
The heat from below made it difficult to think. If you’ve ever stood near a barbecue fire, or had your face too close to an open oven, you can imagine that feeling increased a hundredfold. My eyes dried up. My mouth became parched. A few more breaths of scalding air and I would probably lose consciousness.
The fires below seemed to be sweeping across a stone floor. The drop itself would not be fatal. If only there were a way to turn off the fires…
An idea came to me—a very bad idea, which I blamed on my boiling brain. Those flames were fueled by the essence of Helios. If some small bit of his consciousness remained…it was theoretically possible that I could communicate with him. Perhaps, if I touched the fires directly, I could convince him that we were not the enemy and he should let us live. I would probably have a luxurious three nanoseconds to accomplish this before dying in agony. Besides, if I fell, my friends might stand a chance of climbing out. After all, I was the heaviest person in our party, thanks to Zeus’s cruel curse of flab.
Terrible, terrible idea. I would never have had the courage to try it had I not thought of Jason Grace, and what he had done to save me.
“Meg,” I said, “can you attach yourself to the wall?”
“Do I look like Spider-Man?” she yelled back.
Very few people look as good in tights as Spider-Man. Meg was certainly not one of them.
“Use your swords!” I called.
Holding my ankle with just one hand, she summoned a scimitar. She stabbed at the wall—once, twice. The curve of the blade did not make her job easy. On the third strike, however, the point sank deep into the rock. She gripped the hilt and let go of my ankle, holding herself above the flames with only her sword. “What now?”
“Stay put!”
“I can do that!”
“Grover!” I yelled up. “You can drop me now, but don’t worry. I have a—”
Grover dropped me.
Honestly, what sort of protector just drops you into a fire when you tell him it’s okay to drop you into a fire? I expected a long argument, during which I would assure him that I had a plan to save myself and them. I expected protests from Grover and Meg (well, maybe not from Meg) about how I shouldn’t sacrifice myself for their sake, how I couldn’t possibly survive the flames, and so on. But nope. He dumped me without a thought.
At least it gave me no time for second-guessing.
I couldn’t torture myself with doubts like What if this doesn’t work? What if I cannot survive the solar fires that used to be second nature to me? What if this lovely prophecy we are piecing together, about me dying in the tomb of Tarquin, does NOT automatically mean that I will not die today, in this horrible Burning Maze?
I don’t remember hitting the floor.
My soul seemed to detach from my body. I found myself thousands of years back in time, on the very first morning I became the god of the sun.
Overnight, Helios had vanished. I didn’t know what final prayer to me as the god of the sun had finally tipped the balance—banishing the old Titan to oblivion while promoting me to his spot—but here I was at the Palace of the Sun.
Terrified and nervous, I pushed open the doors of the throne room. The air burned. The light blinded me.
Helios’s oversize golden throne stood empty, his cloak draped over the armrest. His helm, whip, and gilded shoes sat on the dais, ready for their master. But the Titan himself was simply gone.
I am a god, I told myself. I can do this.
I strode toward the throne, willing myself not to combust. If I ran out of the palace screaming with my toga on fire the very first day on the job, I would never hear the end of it.
Slowly, the fires receded before me. By force of will, I grew in size until I could comfortably wear the helm and cloak of my predecessor.
I didn’t try out the throne, though. I had a job to do, and very little time.
I glanced at the whip. Some trainers say you should never show kindness with a new team of horses. They will see you as weak. But I decided to leave the whip. I would not start my new position as a harsh taskmaster.
I strode into the stable. The sun chariot’s beauty brought tears to my eyes. The four sun horses stood already harnessed, their hooves polished gold, their manes rippling fire, their eyes molten ingots.
They regarded me warily. Who are you?
“I am Apollo,” I said, forcing myself to sound confident. “We’re going to have a great day!”
I leaped into the chariot, and off we went.
I’ll admit it was a steep learning curve. About a forty-five-degree arc, to be precise. I may have done a few inadvertent loops in the sky. I may have caused a few new glaciers and deserts until I found the proper cruising altitude. But by the end of the day, the chariot was mine. The horses had shaped themselves to my will, my personality. I was Apollo, god of the
sun.
I tried to hold on to that feeling of confidence, the elation of that successful first day.
I came back to my senses and found myself at the bottom of the pit, crouching in the flames.
“Helios,” I said. “It’s me.”
The blaze swirled around me, trying to incinerate my flesh and dissolve my soul. I could feel the presence of the Titan—bitter, hazy, angry. His whip seemed to be lashing me a thousand times a second.
“I will not be burned,” I said. “I am Apollo. I am your rightful heir.”
The fires raged hotter. Helios resented me…but wait. That wasn’t the full story. He hated being here. He hated this maze, this half-life prison.
“I will free you,” I promised.
Noise crackled and hissed in my ears. Perhaps it was only the sound of my head catching fire, but I thought I heard a voice in the flames: KILL. HER.
Her…
Medea.
Helios’s emotions burned their way into my mind. I felt his loathing for his sorceress granddaughter. All that Medea had told me earlier about holding back Helios’s wrath—that might have been true. But above all, she was holding Helios back from killing her. She had chained him, bound his will to hers, wrapped herself in powerful protections against his godly fire. Helios did not like me, no. But he hated Medea’s presumptuous magic. To be released from his torment, he needed his granddaughter dead.
I wondered, not for the first time, why we Greek deities had never created a god of family therapy. We certainly could have used one. Or perhaps we had one before I was born, and she quit. Or Kronos swallowed her whole.
Whatever the case, I told the flames, “I will do this. I will free you. But you must let us pass.”
Instantly, the fires raced away as if a tear had opened in the universe.
I gasped. My skin steamed. My arctic camouflage was now a lightly toasted gray. But I was alive. The room around me cooled rapidly. The flames, I realized, had retreated down a single tunnel that led from the chamber.
“Meg! Grover!” I called. “You can come down—”
Meg dropped on top of me, squashing me flat.
“Ow!” I screamed. “Not like that!”