The Mark of Athena (The Heroes of Olympus #3)(107)

Annabeth swallowed back a scream. Where had that come from? She had glanced down only a moment before and hadn’t seen any bones. Now the floor was littered with them. The rib cage was obviously old. It crumbled to dust as she removed her foot. Nearby lay a corroded bronze dagger very much like her own. Either this dead person had been carrying the weapon, or it had killed him.

She held out her blade to see in front of her. A little farther down the mosaic path sprawled a more complete skeleton in the remains of an embroidered red doublet, like a man from the Renaissance. His frilled collar and skull had been badly burned, as if the guy had decided to wash his hair with a blowtorch.

Wonderful, Annabeth thought. She lifted her eyes to the altar statue, which held a dagger and a torch.

Some kind of test, Annabeth decided. These two guys had failed. Correction: not just two guys. More bones and scraps of clothing were scattered all the way to the altar. She couldn’t guess how many skeletons were represented, but she was willing to bet they were all demigods from the past, children of Athena on the same quest.

“I will not be another skeleton on your floor,” she called to the statue, hoping she sounded brave.

A girl, said a watery voice, echoing through the room. Girls are not allowed.

A female demigod, said a second voice. Inexcusable.

The chamber rumbled. Dust fell from the cracked ceiling. Annabeth bolted for the hole she’d come through, but it had disappeared. Her string had been severed. She clambered up on the bench and pounded on the wall where the hole had been, hoping the hole’s absence was just an illusion, but the wall felt solid.

She was trapped.

Along the benches, a dozen ghosts shimmered into existence—glowing purple men in Roman togas, like the Lares she’d seen at Camp Jupiter. They glared at her as if she’d interrupted their meeting.

She did the only thing she could. She stepped down from the bench and put her back to the bricked-in doorway. She tried to look confident, though the scowling purple ghosts and the demigod skeletons at her feet made her want to turtle in her T-shirt and scream.

“I’m a child of Athena,” she said, as boldly as she could manage.

“A Greek,” one of the ghosts said with disgust. “That is even worse.”

At the other end of the chamber, an old-looking ghost rose with some difficulty (do ghosts have arthritis?) and stood by the altar, his dark eyes fixed on Annabeth. Her first thought was that he looked like the pope. He had a glittering robe, a pointed hat, and a shepherd’s crook.

“This is the cavern of Mithras,” said the old ghost. “You have disturbed our sacred rituals. You cannot look upon our mysteries and live.”

“I don’t want to look upon your mysteries,” Annabeth assured him. “I’m following the Mark of Athena. Show me the exit, and I’ll be on my way.”

Her voice sounded calm, which surprised her. She had no idea how to get out of here, but she knew she had to succeed where her siblings had failed. Her path led farther on—deeper into the underground layers of Rome.

The failures of your predecessors will guide you, Tiberinus had said. After that…I do not know.

The ghosts mumbled to each other in Latin. Annabeth caught a few unkind words about female demigods and Athena.

Finally the ghost with the pope hat struck his shepherd’s crook against the floor. The other Lares fell silent.

“Your Greek goddess is powerless here,” said the pope. “Mithras is the god of Roman warriors! He is the god of the legion, the god of the empire!”

“He wasn’t even Roman,” Annabeth protested. “Wasn’t he, like, Persian or something?”

“Sacrilege!” the old man yelped, banging his staff on the floor a few more times. “Mithras protects us! I am the pater of this brotherhood—”

“The father,” Annabeth translated.

“Do not interrupt! As pater, I must protect our mysteries.”

“What mysteries?” Annabeth asked. “A dozen dead guys in togas sitting around in a cave?”

The ghosts muttered and complained, until the pater got them under control with a taxicab whistle. The old guy had a good set of lungs. “You are clearly an unbeliever. Like the others, you must die.”

The others. Annabeth made an effort not to look at the skeletons.

Her mind worked furiously, grasping for anything she knew about Mithras. He had a secret cult for warriors. He was popular in the legion. He was one of the gods who’d supplanted Athena as a war deity. Aphrodite had mentioned him during their teatime chat in Charleston. Aside from that, Annabeth had no idea. Mithras just wasn’t one of the gods they talked about at Camp Half-Blood. She doubted the ghosts would wait while she whipped out Daedalus’s laptop and did a search.

She scanned the floor mosaic—seven pictures in a row. She studied the ghosts and noticed all of them wore some sort of badge on their toga—a raven, or a torch, or a bow.

“You have rites of passage,” she blurted out. “Seven levels of membership. And the top level is the pater.”

The ghosts let out a collective gasp. Then they all began shouting at once.

“How does she know this?” one demanded.

“The girl has gleaned our secrets!”

“Silence!” the pater ordered.

“But she might know about the ordeals!” another cried.