The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(92)

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 thought 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.”