The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(32)

“That’s a good question, Senator Larry,” I admitted. “It would probably be somewhere between those extremes. But I’m confident it would be real help, capable of turning the tide. It may be the only way to save New Rome. And I have to believe Zeus—I mean Jupiter—set my supposed birthday as April eighth for a reason. It’s meant to be a turning point, the day I finally…”

My voice cracked. I didn’t share the other side of that thought: that April 8 might either be the day I began to prove myself worthy of rejoining the gods, or my last birthday ever, the day I went up in flames once and for all.

More murmuring from the crowd. Lots of grave expressions. But I detected no panic. Even the Lares didn’t scream, We’re all going to die! The assembled demigods were Romans, after all. They were used to facing dire predicaments, long odds, and strong enemies.

“Okay.” Hazel Levesque spoke for the first time. “So how do we find this correct recipe? Where do we start?”

I appreciated her confident tone. She might have been asking if she could help with something completely doable—like carrying groceries, or impaling ghouls with quartz spikes.

“The first step,” I said, “is to find and explore Tarquin’s tomb—”

“And kill him!” yelled one of the Lares.

“No, Marcus Apulius!” scolded one of his peers. “Tarquin is as dead as we are!”

“Well, what, then?” grumbled Marcus Apulius. “Ask him nicely to leave us alone? This is Tarquin the Proud we’re talking about! He’s a maniac!”

“The first step,” I said, “is only to explore the tomb and, ah, find out the right things, as Ella said.”

“Yep,” the harpy agreed. “Ella said that.”

“I have to assume,” I continued, “that if we succeed in this, and come out alive, we will know more about how to proceed. Right now, all I can say with certainty is that the next step will involve finding a soundless god, whatever that means.”

Frank sat forward in his praetor’s chair. “But don’t you know all the gods, Apollo? I mean, you are one. Or were one. Is there a god of silence?”

I sighed. “Frank, I can barely keep my own family of gods straight. There are hundreds of minor gods. I don’t remember any silent gods. Of course, if there is one, I doubt we would’ve hung out, me being the god of music.”

Frank looked crestfallen, which made me feel bad. I hadn’t meant to take out my frustrations on one of the few people who still called me Apollo unironically.

“Let’s tackle one thing at a time,” Reyna suggested. “First, the tomb of Tarquin. We have a lead on its location, right, Ella?”

“Yep, yep.” The harpy closed her eyes and recited, “A wildcat near the spinning lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. To open his door, two-fifty-four.”

“That is a prophecy!” Tyson said. “I have it on my back!” The Cyclops stood and ripped off his shirt so fast he must have been waiting for any excuse. “See?”

The spectators all leaned forward, though it would’ve been impossible to read the tattoos from any distance.

“I also have a fish pony by my kidney,” he announced proudly. “Isn’t it cute?”

Hazel averted her eyes as if she might pass out from embarrassment. “Tyson, could you…? I’m sure it’s a lovely fish pony, but…shirt back on, please? I don’t suppose anyone knows what those lines mean?”

The Romans observed a moment of silence for the death of clarity that all prophecies symbolized.

Lavinia snorted. “Seriously? Nobody gets it?”

“Lavinia,” Reyna said, her voice strained, “are you suggesting you—”

“Know where the tomb is?” Lavinia spread her hands. “Well, I mean, A wildcat near the spinning lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. There’s a Wildcat Drive in Tilden Park, right over the hills.” She pointed north. “And horses bright, spinning lights? That would be the Tilden Park carousel, wouldn’t it?”

“Ohhhh.” Several Lares nodded in recognition, as if they spent all their free time riding the local merry-go-rounds.

Frank shifted in his chair. “You think the tomb of an evil Roman king is under a carousel?”

“Hey, I didn’t write the prophecy,” Lavinia said. “Besides, it makes as much sense as anything else we’ve faced.”

Nobody disputed that. Demigods eat weirdness for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“All right, then,” Reyna said. “We have a goal. We need a quest. A short quest, since time is very limited. We must designate a team of heroes and have them approved by the senate.”

“Us.” Meg stood. “Gotta be Lester and me.”

I gulped. “She’s right,” I said, which counted as my heroic act for the day. “This is part of my greater quest to regain my place among the gods. I’ve brought this trouble to your doorstep. I need to make it right. Please, don’t anyone try to talk me out of it.”

I waited desperately, in vain, for someone to try to talk me out of it.

Hazel Levesque rose. “I’ll go, too. A centurion is required to lead a quest. If this place is underground, well, that’s kind of my specialty.”