The Son of Neptune (The Heroes of Olympus #2)(41)

Frank probably didn’t mean to guilt him, but Percy’she art felt pulled like taffy. He had sympathy for Frank. Getting claimed by the war god in front of the whole camp—what a nightmare. Plus, how could Percy say no to that big pouty baby face? Frank had been given a huge task that would most likely get him killed. He was scared. He needed Percy’s help.

And the three of them had made a good team last night. Hazel and Frank were solid, dependable people. They’d accepted Percy like family. Still, he didn’t like the idea of this quest, especially since it came from Mars, and especially after his dreams.

“I, um…I’d better get ready.…” He climbed out of bed and got dressed. The whole time, he thought about Annabeth. Help was on the way. He could have his old life back. All he had to do was stay put.

At breakfast, Percy was conscious of everyone looking at him. They were whispering about the previous night:

“Two gods in one day…”

“Un-Roman fighting…”

“Water cannon up my nose…”

He was too hungry to care. He filled up on pancakes, eggs, bacon, waffles, apples, and several glasses of orange juice. He probably would have eaten more, but Reyna announced that the senate would now convene in the city, and all the folks in togas got up to leave.

“Here we go.” Hazel fidgeted with a stone that looked like a two-carat ruby.

The ghost Vitellius appeared next to them in a purple shimmer. “Bona fortuna, you three! Ah, senate meetings. I remember the one when Caesar was assassinated. Why, the amount of blood on his toga—”

“Thanks, Vitellius,” Frank interrupted. “We should get going.”

Reyna and Octavian led the procession of senators out of camp, with Reyna’s metal greyhounds dashing back and forth along the road. Hazel, Frank, and Percy trailed behind. Percynoticed Nico di Angelo in the group, wearing a black toga and talking with Gwen, who looked a little pale but surprisingly good considering she’d been dead the night before. Nico waved at Percy, then went back to his conversation, leaving Percy more sure than ever that Hazel’s brother was trying to avoid him.

Dakota stumbled along in his red-speckled robe. A lot of other senators seemed to be having trouble with their togas, too—hiking up their hems, trying to keep the cloth from slipping off their shoulders. Percy was glad he was wearing a regular purple T-shirt and jeans.

“How could Romans move, in those things?” he wondered.

“They were just for formal occasions,” Hazel said. “Like tuxedos. I bet the ancient Romans hated togas as much as we do. By the way, you didn’t bring any weapons, did you?”

Percy’s hand went to his pocket, where his pen always stayed. “Why? Are we not supposed to?”

“No weapons allowed inside the Pomerian Line,” she said.

“The what line?”

“Pomerian,” Frank said. “The city limits. Inside is a sacred ‘safe zone.’ Legions can’t march through. No weapons allowed. That’s so senate meetings don’t get bloody.”

“Like Julius Caesar getting assassinated?” Percy asked.

Frank nodded. “Don’t worry. Nothing like that has happened in months.”

Percy hoped he was kidding.

As they got closer to the city, Percy could appreciate how beautiful it was. The tiled roofs and gold domes gleamed in the sun. Gardens bloomed with honeysuckle and roses. The central plaza was paved in white and gray stone, decorated with statues, fountains, and gilded columns. In the surrounding neighborhoods, cobblestone streets were lined with freshly painted town houses, shops, cafés, and parks. In the distance rose the coliseum and the horse racing arena.

Percy didn’t notice they’d reached the city limits until the senators in front of him started slowing down.

On the side of the road stood a white marble statue—a life-size muscular man with curly hair, no arms, and an irritated expression. Maybe he looked mad because he’d been carved only from the waist up. Below that, he was just a big block of marble.

“Single file, please!” the statue said. “Have your IDs ready.”

Percy looked to his left and right. He hadn’t noticed before, but a line of identical statues ringed the city at intervals of about a hundred yards.

The senators passed through easily. The statue checked the tattoos on their forearms and called each senator by name. “Gwendolyn, senator, Fifth Cohort, yes. Nico di Angelo, ambassador of Pluto—very well. Reyna, praetor, of course. Hank, senator, Third Cohort—oh, nice shoes, Hank! Ah, who have we here?”

Hazel, Frank, and Percy were the last ones.

“Terminus,” Hazel said, “this is Percy Jackson. Percy, this is Terminus, the god of boundaries.”

“New, eh?” said the god. “Yes, probatio tablet. Fine. Ah, weapon in your pocket? Take it out! Take it out!”

Percy didn’t know how Terminus could tell, but he took out his pen.

“Quite dangerous,” Terminus said. “Leave it in the tray. Wait, where’s my assistant? Julia!”

A little girl about six years old peeked out from behind the base of the statue. She had pigtails, a pink dress, and an impish grin with two missing teeth.

“Julia?” Terminus glanced behind him, and Julia scurried in the other direction. “Where did that girl go?”