The Tyrant's Tomb

The most powerful of the Olympians. It was well within his power to
smite the emperors’ armies, heal my zombie wound, and set everything right
at Camp Jupiter (which, after all, was named in his honor). He might even
notice all the heroic things I’d done, decide I’d suffered enough, and free me
from the punishment of my mortal form.
Then again…he might not. Could be he was expecting me to call on him
for help. Once I did, he might make the heavens rumble with his laughter
and a deep, divine Nope!
To my surprise, I realized I did not want my godhood back that badly. I
didn’t even want to live that badly. If Jupiter expected me to crawl to him for
help, begging for mercy, he could stick his lightning bolt right up his cloaca
maxima.
There had only ever been one choice. Deep down, I’d always known
which god I had to call.
“Follow me,” I told Ella and Tyson.
I ran for the temple of Diana.
Now, I’ll admit I’ve never been a huge fan of Artemis’s Roman persona.
As I’ve said before, I never felt like I personally changed that much during
Roman times. I just stayed Apollo. Artemis, though…
You know how it is when your sister goes through her moody teenage
years? She changes her name to Diana, cuts her hair, hangs out with a
different, more hostile set of maiden hunters, starts associating with Hecate
and the moon, and basically acts weird? When we first relocated to Rome,
the two of us were worshipped together like in the old days—twin gods with
our own temple—but soon Diana went off and did her own thing. We just
didn’t talk like we used to when we were young and Greek, you know?
I was apprehensive about summoning her Roman incarnation, but I
needed help, and Artemis—sorry, Diana—was the most likely to respond,
even if she would never let me hear the end of it afterward. Besides, I missed
her terribly. Yes, I said it. If I was going to die tonight, which seemed
increasingly likely, first I wanted to see my sister one last time.
Her temple was an outdoor garden, as one might expect from a goddess
of the wild. Inside a ring of mature oak trees gleamed a silver pool with a
single perpetual geyser burbling in the center. I imagined the place was
meant to evoke Diana’s old oak-grove sanctuary at Lake Nemi, one of the
first places where the Romans had worshipped her. At the edge of the pool
stood a fire pit stacked with wood, ready for lighting. I wondered if the