The Tyrant's Tomb

“What do you call climbing Sutro Tower?” I demanded. “Getting slashed
to pieces by ravens, kicked in the face, and forced to sing like Dean Martin?”
AMUSING.
I may have yelled a few choice words, but the sphere of silence censored
them, so you will have to use your imagination.
“Fine,” I said. “Can you at least give me a hint?”
VERILY, THE NAME DOTH BEGIN WITH AN H.
“Hephaestus…Hermes…Hera…A lot of gods’ names begin with H!”
HERA? ART THOU SERIOUS?
“I’m just brainstorming. H, you say….”
THINK OF THY FAVORITE PHYSICIAN.
“Me. Wait. My son Asclepius.”
The arrow’s sigh rattled my entire skeleton. YOUR FAVORITE MORTAL
PHYSICIAN.
“Doctor Kildare. Doctor Doom. Doctor House. Doctor—Oh! You mean
Hippocrates. But he’s not a Ptolemaic god.”
THOU ART KILLING ME, the arrow complained. “HIPPOCRATES” IS
THY HINT. THE NAME THOU SEEKEST IS MOST LIKE IT. THOU
NEEDEST BUT CHANGE TWO LETTERS.
“Which two?” I felt petulant, but I’d never enjoyed word puzzles, even
before my horrific experience in the Burning Maze.
I SHALL GIVE THEE ONE LAST HINT, said the arrow. THINK OF THY
FAVORITE MARX BROTHER.
“The Marx Brothers? How do you even know about them? They were
from the 1930s! I mean, yes, of course, I loved them. They brightened a
dreary decade, but…Wait. The one who played the harp. Harpo. I always
found his music sweet and sad and…”
The silence turned colder and heavier around me.
Harpo, I thought. Hippocrates. Put the names together and you got…
“Harpocrates,” I said. “Arrow, please tell me that’s not the answer. Please
tell me he’s not waiting in that box.”
The arrow did not reply, which I took as confirmation of my worst fears.
I returned my Shakespearean friend to his quiver and trudged back to
Reyna and Meg.
Meg frowned. “I don’t like that look on your face.”
“Me neither,” Reyna said. “What did you learn?”