The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(13)

After each verse, I sang a refrain about Jason: his final stand on Caligula’s yacht, courageously facing death so that we could survive and continue our quest. Everything we had been through led to Jason’s sacrifice. Everything that might come next, if we were lucky enough to defeat the Triumvirate and Python at Delphi, would be possible because of him.

The song really wasn’t about me at all. (I know. I could hardly believe it, either.) It was “The Fall of Jason Grace.” In the last verses, I sang of Jason’s dream for Temple Hill, his plan to add shrines until every god and goddess, no matter how obscure, was properly honored.

I took the diorama from Meg, lifted it to show the assembled demigods, then set it on Jason’s coffin like a soldier’s flag.

I’m not sure how long I sang. When I finished the last line, the sky was fully dark. My throat felt as hot and dry as a spent bullet cartridge.

The giant eagles had gathered on the nearby rooftops. They stared at me with something like respect.

The legionnaires’ faces were streaked with tears. Some sniffled and wiped their noses. Others embraced and wept silently.

I realized they weren’t just grieving for Jason. The song had unleashed their collective sorrow about the recent battle, their losses, which—given the sparseness of the crowd—must have been extreme. Jason’s song became their song. By honoring him, we honored all the fallen.

On the steps of the principia, the praetors stirred from their private anguish. Reyna took a long, shaky breath. She exchanged a look with Frank, who was having difficulty controlling the tremble of his lower lip. The two leaders seemed to come to silent agreement.

“We will have a state funeral,” Reyna announced.

“And we’ll realize Jason’s dream,” Frank added. “Those temples and—everything Ja—” His voice caught on Jason’s name. He needed a count of five to compose himself. “Everything he envisioned. We’ll build it all in one weekend.”

I could feel the mood of the crowd change, as palpably as a weather front, their grief hardening into steely determination.

Some nodded and murmured assent. A few shouted Ave! Hail! The rest of the crowd picked up the chant. Javelins pounded against shields.

No one balked at the idea of rebuilding Temple Hill in a weekend. A task like that would’ve been impossible even for the most skilled engineering corps. But this was a Roman legion.

“Apollo and Meg will be guests of Camp Jupiter,” Reyna said. “We will find them a place to stay—”

“And a bathroom?” Meg pleaded, dancing with her knees crossed.

Reyna managed a faint smile. “Of course. Together, we’ll mourn and honor our dead. Afterward, we will discuss our plan of war.”

The legionnaires cheered and banged their shields.

I opened my mouth to say something eloquent, to thank Reyna and Frank for their hospitality.

But all my remaining energy had been expended on my song. My gut wound burned. My head twirled on my neck like a carousel.

I fell face-first and bit the dirt.





Sailing north to war

With my Shirley Temple and

Three cherries. Fear me.

OH, THE DREAMS.

Dear reader, if you are tired of hearing about my awful prophetic nightmares, I don’t blame you. Just think how I felt experiencing them firsthand. It was like having the Pythia of Delphi butt-call me all night long, mumbling lines of prophecy I hadn’t asked for and didn’t want to hear.

I saw a line of luxury yachts cutting through moonlit waves off the California coast—fifty boats in a tight chevron formation, strings of lights gleaming along their bows, purple pennants snapping in the wind on illuminated com towers. The decks were crawling with all manner of monsters—Cyclopes, wild centaurs, big-eared pandai, and chest-headed blemmyae. On the aft deck of each yacht, a mob of the creatures seemed to be constructing something like a shed or…or some sort of siege weapon.

My dream zoomed in on the bridge of the lead ship. The crew hustled about, checking monitors and adjusting instruments. Lounging behind them, in matching gold-upholstered La-Z-Boy recliners, were two of my least favorite people in the world.

On the left sat the emperor Commodus. His pastel-blue beach shorts showed off his perfect tanned calves and pedicured bare feet. His gray Indianapolis Colts hoodie was unzipped over his bare chest and perfectly sculpted abs. He had a lot of nerve wearing Colts gear, since we’d humiliated him in the team’s home stadium only a few weeks before. (Of course we’d humiliated ourselves, too, but I wanted to forget that part.)

His face was almost as I remembered: annoyingly handsome, with a haughty chiseled profile and ringlets of golden hair framing his brow. The skin around his eyes, however, looked as if it had been sandblasted. His pupils were cloudy. The last time we’d met, I had blinded him with a burst of godly radiance, and it was obvious he still hadn’t healed. That was the only thing that pleased me about seeing him again.

In the other recliner sat Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, otherwise known as Caligula.

Rage tinted my dream blood-pink. How could he lounge there so relaxed in his ridiculous captain’s outfit—those white slacks and boat shoes, that navy jacket over a striped collarless shirt, that officer’s hat tilted at a rakish angle on his walnut curls—when only a few days before, he had killed Jason Grace? How dare he sip a refreshing iced beverage garnished with three maraschino cherries (Three! Monstrous!) and smile with such self-satisfaction?