The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(41)

I remembered how the emperor Caligula had died. He’d been on the verge of leaving Rome, planning to sail to Egypt and make a new capital there, in a land where people understood about living gods. He had meant to make himself a living god: Neos Helios, the New Sun – not just in name, but literally. That’s why his praetors were so anxious to kill him on the evening before he left the city.

What’s his endgame? Grover had asked.

My satyr spiritual adviser had been on the right track.

‘Caligula’s always had the same goal,’ I croaked. ‘He wants to be the centre of creation, the new god of the sun. He wants to supplant me, the way I supplanted Helios.’

Medea smiled. ‘And it really couldn’t happen to a nicer god.’

Piper shifted. ‘What do you mean … supplant?’

‘Replace!’ Medea said, then began counting on her fingers as if giving cooking tips on daytime television. ‘First, I extract every bit of Apollo’s immortal essence – which isn’t much at the moment, so that won’t take long. Then I’ll add his essence to what I already have cooking, the leftover power of my dearly departed grandfather.’

‘Helios,’ I said. ‘The flames in the maze. I – I recognized his anger.’

‘Well, Grandpa’s a bit cranky.’ Medea shrugged. ‘That happens when your life force fades to practically nothing, then your granddaughter summons you back a little at a time, until you’re a lovely raging firestorm. I wish you could suffer as Helios has suffered – howling for millennia in a state of semiconsciousness, just aware enough of what you’ve lost to feel the pain and resentment. But, alas, we don’t have that much time. Caligula is anxious. I’ll take what’s left of you and Helios, invest that power in my friend the emperor, and voilà! A new god of the sun!’

Meg grunted. ‘That’s dumb,’ she said, as if Medea had suggested a new rule for hide-and-seek. ‘You can’t do that. You can’t just destroy a god and make a new one!’

Medea didn’t bother answering.

I knew that what she described was entirely possible. The emperors of Rome had made themselves semi-divine simply by instituting worship among the populace. Over the centuries, several mortals had made themselves gods, or were promoted to godhood by the Olympians. My father, Zeus, had made Ganymede an immortal simply because he was cute and knew how to serve wine!

As for destroying gods … most of the Titans had been slain or banished thousands of years ago. And I was standing here now, a mere mortal, stripped of all godliness for the third time, simply because Daddy wanted to teach me a lesson.

For a sorceress of Medea’s power, such magic was within reach, provided her victims were weak enough to be overcome – such as the remnants of a long-faded Titan, or a sixteen-year-old fool named Lester who had strolled right into her trap.

‘You would destroy your own grandfather?’ I asked.

Medea shrugged. ‘Why not? You gods are all family, but you’re constantly trying to kill each other.’

I hate it when evil sorceresses have a point.

Medea extended her hand towards Meg. ‘Now, my dear, hop up here with me. Your place is with Nero. All will be forgiven, I promise.’

Charmspeak flowed through her words like Aloe Vera’s gel – slimy and cold but somehow soothing. I didn’t see how Meg could possibly resist. Her past, her stepfather, especially the Beast – they were never far from her mind.

‘Meg,’ Piper countered, ‘don’t let either of us tell you what to do. Make up your own mind.’

Bless Piper’s intuition, appealing to Meg’s stubborn streak. And bless Meg’s wilful, weed-covered little heart. She interposed herself between me and Medea. ‘Apollo’s my dumb servant. You can’t have him.’

The sorceress sighed. ‘I appreciate your courage, dear. Nero told me you were special. But my patience has limits. Shall I give you a taste of what you are dealing with?’

Medea lashed her reins, and the dragons charged.





17


Phil and Don are dead

Bye-bye, love and happiness

Hello, headlessness





I enjoy running people over in a chariot as much as the next deity, but I did not like the idea of being the guy run over.

As the dragons barrelled towards us, Meg stood her ground, which was either admirable or suicidal. I tried to decide whether to cower behind her or leap out of the way – both options less admirable but also less suicidal – when the choice became irrelevant. Piper threw her dagger, impaling the left dragon’s eye.

Left Dragon shrieked in pain, pushed against Right Dragon, and sent the chariot veering off course. Medea barrelled past us, just out of reach of Meg’s swords, and disappeared into the darkness while screaming insults at her pets in ancient Colchian – a language no longer spoken, but which featured twenty-seven different words for kill and not a single way to say Apollo rocks. I hated the Colchians.

‘You guys okay?’ Piper asked. The tip of her nose was sunburn red. The harpy feather smouldered in her hair. Such things happened during close encounters with superheated lizards.

‘Fine,’ Meg grumbled. ‘I didn’t even get to stab anything.’

I gestured at Piper’s empty knife sheath. ‘Nice shot.’