The Blood of Olympus (The Heroes of Olympus, #5)(26)

Saved by the Zhang, Leo thought.

He and Percy jogged over to meet their friends.

‘This place is huge,’ Frank reported. ‘The ruins stretch from the river to the base of that mountain over there, about half a kilometre.’

‘How far is that in regular measurements?’ Percy asked.

Frank rolled his eyes. ‘That is a regular measurement in Canada and the rest of the world. Only you Americans –’

‘About five or six football fields,’ Hazel interceded, feeding Arion a big chunk of gold.

Percy spread his hands. ‘That’s all you needed to say.’

‘Anyway,’ Frank continued, ‘from overhead, I didn’t see anything suspicious.’

‘Neither did I,’ Hazel said. ‘Arion took me on a complete loop around the perimeter. A lot of tourists, but no crazy goddess.’

The big stallion nickered and tossed his head, his neck muscles rippling under his butterscotch coat.

‘Man, your horse can cuss.’ Percy shook his head. ‘He doesn’t think much of Olympia.’

For once, Leo agreed with the horse. He didn’t like the idea of tromping through fields full of ruins under a blazing sun, shoving his way through hordes of sweaty tourists while searching for a split-personality victory goddess. Besides, Frank had already flown over the whole valley as an eagle. If his sharp eyes hadn’t seen anything, maybe there was nothing to see.

On the other hand, Leo’s tool-belt pockets were full of dangerous toys. He would hate to go home without blowing anything up.

‘So we blunder around together,’ he said, ‘and let trouble find us. It’s always worked before.’

They poked about for a while, avoiding tour groups and ducking from one patch of shade to the next. Not for the first time, Leo was struck by how similar Greece was to his home state of Texas – the low hills, the scrubby trees, the drone of cicadas and the oppressive summer heat. Switch out the ancient columns and ruined temples for cows and barbed wire, and Leo would’ve felt right at home.

Frank found a tourist pamphlet (seriously, that dude would read the ingredients on a soup can) and gave them a running commentary on what was what.

‘This is the Propylon.’ He waved towards a stone path lined with crumbling columns. ‘One of the main gates into the Olympic valley.’

‘Rubble!’ said Leo.

‘And over there –’ Frank pointed to a square foundation that looked like the patio for a Mexican restaurant – ‘is the Temple of Hera, one of the oldest structures here.’

‘More rubble!’ Leo said.

‘And that round bandstand-looking thing – that’s the Philipeon, dedicated to Philip of Macedonia.’

‘Even more rubble! First-rate rubble!’

Hazel, who was still riding Arion, kicked Leo in the arm. ‘Doesn’t anything impress you?’

Leo glanced up. Her curly gold-brown hair and golden eyes matched her helmet and sword so well she might’ve been engineered from Imperial gold. Leo doubted Hazel would consider that a compliment, but, as far as humans went, Hazel was first-rate craftsmanship.

Leo remembered their trip together through the House of Hades. Hazel had led him through that creepy maze of illusions. She’d made the sorceress Pasipha? disappear through an imaginary hole in the floor. She’d battled the giant Clytius while Leo choked in the giant’s cloud of darkness. She’d cut the chains binding the Doors of Death. Meanwhile Leo had done … well, pretty much nothing.

He wasn’t infatuated with Hazel any more. His heart was far away on the island of Ogygia. Still, Hazel Levesque impressed him – even when she wasn’t sitting atop a scary immortal supersonic horse who cussed like a sailor.

He didn’t say any of this, but Hazel must have picked up on his thoughts. She looked away, flustered.

Happily oblivious, Frank continued his guided tour. ‘And over there … oh.’ He glanced at Percy. ‘Uh, that semicircular depression in the hill, with the niches … that’s a nymphaeum, built in Roman times.’

Percy’s face turned the colour of limeade. ‘Here’s an idea: let’s not go there.’

Leo had heard all about his near-death experience in the nymphaeum in Rome with Jason and Piper. ‘I love that idea.’

They kept walking.

Once in a while, Leo’s hands drifted to his tool belt. Ever since the Kerkopes had stolen it in Bologna, he was scared he might get belt-jacked again, though he doubted any monster was as good at thievery as those dwarfs. He wondered how the little crud monkeys were doing in New York. He hoped they were still having fun harassing Romans, stealing lots of shiny zippers and causing legionnaires’ trousers to fall down.

‘This is the Pelopion,’ Frank said, pointing to another fascinating pile of stones.

‘Come on, Zhang,’ Leo said. ‘Pelopion isn’t even a word. What was it – a sacred spot for plopping?’

Frank looked offended. ‘It’s the burial site of Pelops. This whole part of Greece, the Peloponnese, was named after him.’

Leo resisted the urge to throw a grenade in Frank’s face. ‘I suppose I should know who Pelops was?’

‘He was a prince, won his wife in a chariot race. Supposedly he started the Olympic games in honour of that.’