The Tower of Nero

by Rick Riordan

  We were sitting together on a Greek-style sofa bed, in a white marble chamber with a columned terrace that opened onto a view of Olympus: the sprawling mountaintop city of the gods, high above Manhattan. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle wafted in from the gardens. I heard the heavenly singing of the Nine Muses in the distance—probably their daily lunchtime concert in the agora. I really was back.

  I examined myself. I wore nothing but a bedsheet from the waist down. My chest was bronze and perfectly sculpted. My muscular arms bore no scars or fiery lines glowing beneath the surface. I was gorgeous, which made me feel melancholy. I had worked hard for those scars and bruises. All the suffering my friends and I had been through…

  My sister’s words suddenly sank in: Took you long enough.

  I choked on despair. “How long?”

  Artemis’s silver eyes scanned my face, as if trying to determine what damage my time as a human had done to my mind. “What do you mean?”

  I knew immortals could not have panic attacks. Yet my chest constricted. The ichor in my heart pumped much too fast. I had no idea how long it had taken me to become a god again. I’d lost half a year from the time Zeus zapped me at the Parthenon to the time I plummeted to Manhattan as a mortal. For all I knew, my restorative siesta had taken years, decades, centuries. Everyone I’d known on Earth might be dead.

  I could not bear that. “How long was I out? What century is this?”

  Artemis processed this question. Knowing her as well as I did, I gathered she was tempted to laugh, but hearing the degree of hurt in my voice, she kindly thought better of it.

  “Not to worry, Brother,” she said. “Since you fought Python, only two weeks have passed.”

  Boreas the North Wind could not have exhaled more powerfully than I did.

  I sat upright, throwing aside my sheet. “But what about my friends? They’ll think I’m dead!”

  Artemis studiously regarded the ceiling. “Not to worry. We—I—sent them clear omens of your success. They know you have ascended to Olympus again. Now, please, put on some clothing. I’m your sister, but I would not wish this sight on anyone.”

  “Hmph.” I knew very well she was just teasing me. Godly bodies are expressions of perfection. That’s why we appear naked in ancient statuary, because you simply do not cover up such flawlessness with clothing.

  Nevertheless, her comment resonated with me. I felt awkward and uncomfortable in this form, as if I’d been given a Rolls-Royce to drive but no car insurance to go with it. I’d felt so much more comfortable in my economy-compact Lester.

  “I, um…Yes.” I gazed around the room. “Is there a closet, or—?”

  Her laughter finally escaped. “A closet. That’s adorable. You can just wish yourself into clothes, Little Brother.”

  “I…ah…” I knew she was right, but I felt so flustered I even ignored her little brother comment. It had been too long since I’d relied on my divine power. I feared I might try and fail. I might accidentally turn myself into a camel.

  “Oh, fine,” Artemis said. “Allow me.”

  A wave of her hand, and suddenly I was wearing a knee-length silver dress—the kind my sister’s followers wore—complete with thigh-laced sandals. I suspected I was also wearing a tiara.

  “Um. Perhaps something less Huntery?”

  “I think you look lovely.” Her mouth twitched at the corner. “But very well.”

  A flash of silver light, and I was dressed in a man’s white chiton. Come to think of it, that piece of clothing was pretty much identical to a Hunter’s gown. The sandals were the same. I seemed to be wearing a crown of laurels instead of a tiara, but those weren’t very different, either. Conventions of gender were strange. But I decided that was a mystery for another time.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She nodded. “The others are waiting in the throne room. Are you ready?”

  I shivered, though it should not have been possible for me to feel cold.

  The others.

  I remembered my dream of the throne room—the other Olympians gambling on my success or failure. I wondered how much money they’d lost.

  What could I possibly say to them? I no longer felt like one of them. I wasn’t one of them.

  “In a moment,” I told my sister. “Would you mind…?”

  She seemed to understand. “I’ll let you compose yourself. I’ll tell them you’ll be right in.” She kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I am glad you’re back. I hope I won’t regret saying that.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed.

  She shimmered and vanished.

  I took off the laurel wreath. I did not feel comfortable wearing such a symbol of victory. I ran my finger across the gilded leaves, thinking of Daphne, whom I had treated so horribly. Whether Aphrodite had cursed me or not, it was still my fault that the blameless naiad had turned herself into a laurel tree just to escape me.

  I walked to the balcony. I set the wreath on the edge of the railing, then ran my hand across the hyacinth that grew along the lattice—another reminder of tragic love. My poor Hyacinthus. Had I really created these flowers to commemorate him, or just to wallow in my own grief and guilt? I found myself questioning many things I had done over the centuries. Strangely enough, this uneasiness felt somewhat reassuring.

  I studied my smooth tan arms, wishing again that I had retained a few scars. Lester Papadopoulos had earned his cuts, bruises, broken ribs, blistered feet, acne…Well, perhaps not the acne. No one deserves that. But the rest had felt more like symbols of victory than laurels, and better commemorations of loss than hyacinths.

  I had no great desire to be here in Olympus, my home that was not a home.

  I wanted to see Meg again. I wanted to sit by the fire at Camp Half-Blood and sing ridiculous songs, or joke with the Roman demigods in the Camp Jupiter mess hall while platters of food flew over our heads and ghosts in glowing purple togas regaled us with tales of their former exploits.

  But the world of demigods wasn’t my place. I had been privileged to experience it, and I needed to remember it.

  That didn’t mean I couldn’t go back to visit, though. But first, I had to show myself to my family, such as they were. The gods awaited.

  I turned and strode out of my room, trying to recall how the god Apollo walked.

  WHY SO BIG?

  I’d never really thought about it before, but after six months away, the Olympians’ throne room struck me as ridiculously huge. The interior could have housed an aircraft carrier. The great domed ceiling, spangled with constellations, could have nested all the largest cupolas ever created by humans. The roaring central hearth was just the right size for rotisserie-cooking a pickup truck. And, of course, the thrones themselves were each the size of a siege tower, designed for beings that were twenty feet tall.

  As I hesitated on the threshold, awestruck by the massiveness of it all, I realized I was answering my own question. The point of going big was to make our occasional guests feel small.

  We didn’t often allow lesser beings to visit us, but when we did, we enjoyed the way their jaws dropped, and how they had to crane their necks to see us properly.

  If we then chose to come down from our thrones and shrink to mortal size, so we could pull these visitors aside and have a confidential chat, or give them a pat on the back, it seemed like we were doing something really special for them, descending to their level.

  There was no reason the thrones couldn’t have been human-size, but then we would have seemed too human (and we didn’t like being reminded of the resemblance). Or forty feet tall, but that would have been too awkward—too much shouting to make ourselves heard. We’d need magnifying glasses to see our visitors.

  We could’ve even made the thrones six inches tall. Personally, I would have loved to see that. A demigod hero straggles into our presence after some horrible quest, takes a knee before an assembly of miniature gods, and Zeus squeaks in a Mickey Mouse voice, Welcome to Olympus!

  As I tho
ught all this, it dawned on me that the gods’ conversations had stopped. They had all turned to look at me standing in the doorway. The entire squad was here today, which only happened on special occasions: the solstice, Saturnalia, the World Cup.

  I had a moment’s panic. Did I even know how to turn twenty feet tall anymore? Would they have to summon a booster seat for me?

  I caught Artemis’s eye. She nodded—either a message of encouragement, or a warning that if I didn’t hurry up and enchant myself, she would help by turning me into a twenty-foot-tall camel in an evening gown.

  That gave me just the shot of confidence I needed. I strode into the room. To my great relief, my stature grew with every step. Just the right size, I took my old throne, directly across the hearth from my sister, with Ares on my right and Hephaestus on my left.

  I met the eyes of each god in turn.

  You have heard of imposter syndrome? Everything in me screamed I am a fake! I do not belong here! Even after four thousand years of godhood, six months of mortal life had convinced me that I wasn’t a true deity. Surely, these eleven Olympians would soon realize this unfortunate fact. Zeus would yell, What have you done with the real Apollo? Hephaestus would press a button on his gadget-encrusted chair. A trapdoor would open in the seat of my throne, and I would be flushed unceremoniously back to Manhattan.

  Instead, Zeus simply studied me, his eyes stormy under his bushy black eyebrows. He’d chosen to dress traditionally today in a flowing white chiton, which was not a good look for him given the way he liked to manspread.

  “You have returned,” he noted, supreme lord of stating the obvious.

  “Yes, Father.” I wondered if the word Father sounded as bad as it tasted. I tried to control the bile rising inside me. I mustered a smile and scanned the other gods. “So, who won the betting pool?”

  Next to me, Hephaestus at least had the good manners to shift uncomfortably in his seat, though of course he was always uncomfortable. Athena shot a withering look at Hermes as if to say, I told you that was a bad idea.

  “Hey, man,” Hermes said. “That was just something to keep our nerves under control. We were worried about you!”

  Ares snorted. “Especially because of the way you were fumbling along down there. I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did.” His face turned red, as if he’d just realized he was speaking aloud. “Uh…I mean, good job, man. You came through.”

  “So you lost a bundle,” I summed up.

  Ares cursed under his breath.

  “Athena won the pot.” Hermes rubbed his back pocket, as if his wallet were still hurting.

  “Really?” I asked.

  Athena shrugged. “Wisdom. It comes in handy.”

  It should have been a commercial. The camera zooms in on Athena, who smiles at the screen as the promotional slogan appears below her: Wisdom. It comes in handy.

  “So…” I spread my hands, signaling that I was ready to hear whatever: compliments, insults, constructive criticism. I had no idea what was on the agenda for this meeting, and I found I didn’t much care.

  On the other side of the room, Dionysus drummed his fingers on his leopard-skin-patterned armrests. Being the only god on the “goddess side” of the assembly (long story), he and I often had staring contests or traded eye-rolls when our father got too long-winded. Dionysus was still in his slovenly Mr. D guise, which annoyed Aphrodite, who sat next to him. I could tell from her body language that she wanted to squirm out of her Oscar de la Renta midi.

  Given Dionysus’s exile at Camp Half-Blood, he was rarely allowed to visit Olympus. When he did, he was usually careful not to speak unless spoken to. Today he surprised me.

  “Well, I think you did a marvelous job,” he offered. “I think, in your honor, any god who is currently being punished with a stint on Earth ought to be pardoned immediately—”

  “No,” Zeus snapped.

  Dionysus slumped back with a dejected sigh.

  I couldn’t blame him for trying. His punishment, like mine, seemed completely senseless and disproportionate. But Zeus worked in mysterious ways. We couldn’t always know his plan. That was probably because he didn’t have a plan.

  Demeter had been weaving wheat stalks into new drought-resistant varieties, as she often did while listening to our deliberations, but now she set aside her basket. “I agree with Dionysus. Apollo should be commended.”

  Her smile was warm. Her golden hair rippled in an unseen breeze. I tried to spot any resemblance to her daughter Meg, but they were as different as a kernel and a husk. I decided I preferred the husk.

  “He made a wonderful slave to my daughter,” Demeter continued. “True, it took him a while to adjust, but I can forgive that. If any of you need a slave in the future for your demigod children, I recommend Apollo without hesitation.”

  I hoped this was a joke. But Demeter, like the growing season, was not known for her sense of humor.

  “Thanks?” I said.

  She blew me a kiss.

  Gods, Meg, I thought. I am so, so sorry your mom is your mom.

  Queen Hera lifted her veil. As I’d seen in my dream, her eyes were red and swollen from crying, but when she spoke, her tone was as hard as bronze.

  She glared at her husband. “At least Apollo did something.”

  “Not this again,” Zeus rumbled.

  “My chosen,” Hera said. “Jason Grace. Your son. And you—”

  “I didn’t kill him, woman!” Zeus thundered. “That was Caligula!”

  “Yes,” Hera snapped. “And at least Apollo grieved. At least he got vengeance.”

  Wait.…What was happening? Was my wicked stepmother defending me?

  Much to my shock, when Hera meet my eyes, her gaze wasn’t hostile. She seemed to be looking for solidarity, sympathy, even. You see what I have to deal with? Your father is horrible!

  In that moment, I felt a twinge of compassion for my stepmother for the first time in, oh, ever. Don’t get me wrong. I still disliked her. But it occurred to me that being Hera might not be so easy, given who she was married to. In her place, I might have become a bit of an impossible meddler, too.

  “Whatever the case,” Zeus grumbled, “it does appear that after two weeks, Apollo’s fix is permanent. Python is truly gone. The Oracles are free. The Fates are once again able to spin their thread without encumbrance.”

  Those words settled over me like Vesuvian ashes.

  The Fates’ thread. How had I not considered this before? The three eternal sisters used their loom to spin the life spans of both gods and mortals. They snipped the cord of destiny whenever it was time for someone to die. They were higher and greater than any Oracle. Greater even than the Olympians.

  Apparently, Python’s poison had done more than simply strangle prophecies. If he could interfere with the Fates’ weaving as well, the reptile could have ended or prolonged lives as he saw fit. The implications were horrifying.

  Something else struck me about Zeus’s statement. He had said it appeared my fix was permanent. That implied Zeus wasn’t sure. I suspected that when I fell to the edge of Chaos, Zeus had not been able to watch. There were limits to even his far sight. He did not know exactly what had happened, how I had defeated Python, how I’d come back from the brink. I caught a look from Athena, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Yes, Father,” I said. “Python is gone. The Oracles are free. I hope that meets with your approval.”

  Having spent time in Death Valley, I was confident that my tone was much, much drier.

  Zeus stroked his beard as if pondering the future’s endless possibilities. Poseidon stifled a yawn as if pondering how soon this meeting would end so he could get back to fly-fishing.

  “I am satisfied,” Zeus pronounced.

  The gods let out a collective sigh. As much as we pretended to be a council of twelve, in truth we were a tyranny. Zeus was less a benevolent father and more an iron-fisted leader with the biggest weapons and the ability to strip us of our immortality if we
offended him.

  Somehow, though, I didn’t feel relieved to be off Zeus’s hook. In fact, I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

  “Super,” I said.

  “Yes,” Zeus agreed. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Welcome back to godhood, my son. All has gone according to my plan. You have done admirably. You are forgiven and restored to your throne!”

  There followed a smattering of polite applause from the other deities.

  Artemis was the only one who looked genuinely happy. She even winked at me. Wow. It truly was a day for miracles.

  “What’s the first thing you’ll do now that you’re back?” Hermes asked. “Smite some mortals? Maybe drive your sun chariot too close to the earth and smoke the place?”

  “Ooh, can I come?” Ares asked.

  I gave them a guarded shrug. “I think I may just visit some old friends.”

  Dionysus nodded wistfully. “The Nine Muses. Excellent choice.”

  But those weren’t the friends I had in mind.

  “Well, then.” Zeus scanned the room, in case any of us wanted one last chance to grovel at his feet. “Council is dismissed.”

  The Olympians popped out of existence one after the other—back to whatever godly mischief they’d been managing. Artemis gave me a reassuring nod, then dissolved into silvery light.

  That left only Zeus and me.

  My father coughed into his fist. “I know you think your punishment was harsh, Apollo.”

  I did not answer. I tried my best to keep my expression polite and neutral.

  “But you must understand,” Zeus continued, “only you could have overthrown Python. Only you could have freed the Oracles. And you did it, as I expected. The suffering, the pain along the way…regrettable, but necessary. You have done me proud.”

  Interesting how he put that: I had done him proud. I had been useful in making him look good. My heart did not melt. I did not feel that this was a warm-and-fuzzy reconciliation with my father. Let’s be honest: some fathers don’t deserve that. Some aren’t capable of it.