The Son of Neptune (The Heroes of Olympus #2)(28)

After the incident at the river, Reyna had sent Frank to the armory, which had given him way too much time to think.

While he polished swords, he remembered Juno, warning them to unleash Death.

Unfortunately Frank had a pretty good idea of what the goddess meant. He had tried to hide his shock when Juno had appeared, but she looked exactly like his grandmother had described—right down to the goatskin cape.

She chose your path years ago, Grandmother had told him. And it will not be easy.

Frank glanced at his bow in the corner of the armory. He’d feel better if Apollo would claim him as a son. Frank had been sure his godly parent would speak up on his sixteenth birthday, which had passed two weeks ago.

Sixteen was an important milestone for Romans. It had been Frank’s first birthday at camp. But nothing had happened. Now Frank hoped he would be claimed on the Feast of Fortuna, though from what Juno had said, they’d be in a battle for their lives on that day.

His father had to be Apollo. Archery was the only thing Frank was good at. Years ago, his mother had told him that their family name, Zhang, meant “master of bows” in Chinese. That must have been a hint about his dad.

Frank put down his polishing rags. He looked at the ceiling. “Please, Apollo, if you’re my dad, tell me. I want to be an archer like you.”

“No, you don’t,” a voice grumbled.

Frank jumped out of his seat. Vitellius, the Fifth Cohort’s Lar, was shimmering behind him. His full name was Gaius Vitellius Reticulus, but the other cohorts called him Vitellius the Ridiculous.

“Hazel Levesque sent me to check on you,” Vitellius said, hiking up his sword belt. “Good thing, too. Look at the state of this armor!”

Vitellius wasn’t one to talk. His toga was baggy, his tunic barely fit over his belly, and his scabbard fell off his belt every three seconds, but Frank didn’t bother pointing that out.

“As for archers,” the ghost said, “they’re wimps! Back in my day, archery was a job for barbarians. A good Roman should be in the fray, gutting his enemy with spear and sword like a civilized man! That’s how we did it in the Punic Wars. Roman up, boy!”

Frank sighed. “I thought you were in Caesar’s army.”

“I was!”

“Vitellius, Caesar was hundreds of years after the Punic Wars. You couldn’t have been alive that long.”

“Questioning my honor?” Vitellius looked so mad, his purple aura glowed. He drew his ghostly gladius and yelled, “Take that!”

He ran the sword, which was about as deadly as a laser pointer, through Frank’s chest a few times.

“Ouch,” Frank said, just to be nice.

Vitellius looked satisfied and put his sword away. “Perhaps you’ll think twice about doubting your elders next time! Now…it was your sixteenth birthday recently, wasn’t it?”

Frank nodded. He wasn’t sure how Vitellius knew this, since Frank hadn’t told anyone except Hazel, but ghosts had ways of finding out secrets. Eavesdropping while invisible was probably one of them.

“So that’s why you’re such a grumpy gladiator,” the Lar said. “Understandable. The sixteenth birthday is your day of manhood! Your godly parent should have claimed you, no doubt about it, even if with only a small omen. Perhaps he thought you were younger. You look younger, you know, with that pudgy baby face.”“Thanks for reminding me,” Frank muttered.

“Yes, I remember my sixteenth,” Vitellius said happily. “Wonderful omen! A chicken in my underpants.”

“Excuse me?”

Vitellius puffed up with pride. “That’s right! I was at the river changing my clothes for my Liberalia. Rite of passage into manhood, you know. We did things properly back then. I’d taken off my childhood toga and was washing up to don the adult one. Suddenly, a pure-white chicken ran out of nowhere, dove into my loincloth, and ran off with it. I wasn’t wearing it at the time.”

“That’s good,” Frank said. “And can I just say: Too much information?”

“Mm.” Vitellius wasn’t listening. “That was the sign I was descended from Aesculapius, the god of medicine. I took my cognomen, my third name, Reticulus, because it meant undergarment, to remind me of the blessed day when a chicken stole my loincloth.”

“So…your name means Mr. Underwear?”

“Praise the gods! I became a surgeon in the legion, and the rest is history.” He spread his arms generously. “Don’t give up, boy. Maybe your father is running late. Most omens are not as dramatic as a chicken, of course. I knew a fellow once who got a dung beetle—”

“Thanks, Vitellius,” Frank said. “But I have to finish polishing this armor—”

“And the gorgon’s blood?”

Frank froze. He hadn’t told anyone about that. As far as he knew, only Percy had seen him pocket the vials at the river, and they hadn’t had a chance to talk about it.

“Come now,” Vitellius chided. “I’m a healer. I know the legends about gorgon’s blood. Show me the vials.”

Reluctantly, Frank brought out the two ceramic flask she’d retrieved from the Little Tiber. Spoils of war were often left behind when a monster dissolved—sometimes a tooth, or a weapon, or even the monster’s entire head. Frank had known what the two vials were immediately. By tradition they belonged to Percy, who had killed the gorgons, but Frank couldn’t help thinking, What if I could use them?