The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(90)

‘Also,’ Meg added, ‘what if one of those monsters triggers a flash fire and it comes our way?’

I stared at my young master. ‘You are a fountain of dark questions today. We have to have faith.’

‘In the Sibyl?’ she asked. ‘In those evil shoes?’

I didn’t have an answer for her. Fortunately, I was saved by the belated appearance of the next clue – three golden lines in Latin.

‘Oh, Latin!’ Grover said. ‘Hold on. I can do this.’ He squinted at the words, then sighed. ‘No. I can’t.’

‘Honestly, no Greek or Latin?’ I said. ‘What do they teach you in satyr school?’

‘Mostly, you know, important stuff. Like plants.’

‘Thank you,’ Meg muttered.

I translated the clue for my less educated friends:

‘Now must I tell of the flight of the king.

The last to reign over the Roman people

Was a man unjust yet puissant in arms.’



I nodded. ‘I believe that’s a quote from Ovid.’

Neither of my comrades looked impressed.

‘So what’s the answer?’ Meg asked. ‘The last Roman emperor?’

‘No, not an emperor,’ I said. ‘In the very first days of Rome, the city was ruled by kings. The last one, the seventh, was overthrown, and Rome became a republic.’

I tried to cast my thoughts back to the Kingdom of Rome. That whole time period was a little hazy to me. We gods were still based in Greece then. Rome was something of a backwater. The last king, though … he brought back some bad memories.

Meg broke my reverie. ‘What is puissant?’

‘It means powerful,’ I said.

‘Doesn’t sound like that. If somebody called me puissant, I would hit them.’

‘But you are, in fact, puissant in arms.’

She hit me.

‘Ow.’

‘Guys,’ Grover said. ‘What’s the name of the last Roman king?’

I thought. ‘Ta … hmm. I just had it, and now it’s gone. Ta-something.’

‘Taco?’ Grover said helpfully.

‘Why would a Roman king be named Taco?’

‘I don’t know.’ Grover rubbed his stomach. ‘Because I’m hungry?’

Curse the satyr. Now all I could think of was tacos. Then the answer came back to me. ‘Tarquin! Or Tarquinius, in the original Latin.’

‘Well, which is it?’ Meg asked.

I studied the corridors. The tunnel on the far left, the thumb, had ten spaces, enough for Tarquinius. The tunnel in the middle had seven, enough for Tarquin.

‘It’s that one,’ I decided, pointing to the centre tunnel.

‘How can you be sure?’ Grover asked. ‘Because the arrow told us the answers would be in English?’

‘That,’ I conceded, ‘and also because these tunnels look like five fingers. It makes sense the maze would give me the middle finger.’ I raised my voice. ‘Isn’t that right? The answer is Tarquin, the middle finger? I love you, too, maze.’

We walked the path, the name TARQUIN blazing in gold behind us.

The corridor opened into a square chamber, the largest space we’d seen yet. The walls and floor were tiled in faded Roman mosaics that looked original, though I was fairly sure the Romans had never colonized any part of the Los Angeles metropolitan area.

The air felt even warmer and drier. The floor was hot enough that I could feel it through the soles of my sandals. One positive thing about the room: it offered us only three new tunnels to choose from, rather than five.

Grover sniffed the air. ‘I don’t like this room. I smell something … monstery.’

Meg gripped her scimitars. ‘From which direction?’

‘Uh … all of them?’

‘Oh, look,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful, ‘another clue.’

We approached the nearest mosaic wall, where two golden lines of English glowed across the tiles:

Leaves, body-leaves, growing up above me, above death,

Perennial roots, tall leaves – O the winter shall not freeze you, delicate leaves



Perhaps my brain was still stuck in Latin and Greek, because those lines meant nothing to me, even in plain English.

‘I like this one,’ Meg said. ‘It’s about leaves.’

‘Yes, lots of leaves,’ I agreed. ‘But it’s nonsense.’

Grover choked. ‘Nonsense? Don’t you recognize it?’

‘Er, should I?’

‘You’re the god of poetry!’

I felt my face begin to burn. ‘I used to be the god of poetry, which does not mean I am a walking encyclopedia of every obscure line ever written –’

‘Obscure?’ Grover’s shrill voice echoed unnervingly down the corridors. ‘That’s Walt Whitman! From Leaves of Grass! I don’t remember exactly which poem it’s from, but –’

‘You read poetry?’ Meg asked.

Grover licked his lips. ‘You know … mostly nature poetry. Whitman, for a human, had some beautiful things to say about trees.’

‘And leaves,’ Meg noted. ‘And roots.’

‘Exactly.’