The Tyrant's Tomb

legion kept every shrine and temple in such good maintenance, just in case
someone got a craving for a last-minute middle-of-the-night burnt offering.
“Apollo should light the fire,” Ella said. “I will mix ingredients.”
“I will dance!” Tyson announced.
I didn’t know whether that was part of the ritual or if he just felt like it,
but when a tattooed Cyclops decides to launch into an interpretive dance
routine, it’s best not to ask questions.
Ella rummaged in her supply pouches, pulling out herbs, spices, and
vials of oils, which made me realize how long it had been since I’d eaten.
Why wasn’t my stomach growling? I glanced at the blood moon rising over
the hilltops. I hoped my next meal would not be braaaaaains.
I looked around for a torch or a box of matches. Nothing. Then I thought:
Of course not. I could have the wood pre-stacked for me, but Diana, always
the wilderness expert, would expect me to create my own fire.
I unslung my bow and pulled out an arrow. I gathered the lightest, driest
kindling into a small pile. It had been a long time since I’d made a fire the
old mortal way—spinning an arrow in a bowstring to create friction—but I
gave it a go. I fumbled half a dozen times, nearly putting my eye out. My
archery student Jacob would’ve been proud.
I tried to ignore the sound of explosions in the distance. I spun the arrow
until my gut wound felt like it was opening up. My hands became slick with
popped blisters. The god of the sun struggling to make fire…The ironies
would never cease.
Finally, I succeeded in creating the tiniest of flames. After some
desperate cupping, puffing, and praying, the fire was lit.
I stood, trembling from exhaustion. Tyson kept dancing to his own
internal music, flinging out his arms and spinning like a three-hundredpound,
heavily tattooed Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music remake
Quentin Tarantino always wanted to do. (I convinced him it was a bad idea.
You can thank me later.)
Ella began sprinkling her proprietary blend of oils, spices, and herbs into
the pit. The smoke smelled like a Mediterranean summer feast. It filled me
with a sense of peace—reminding me of happier times when we gods were
adored by millions of worshippers. You never appreciate a simple pleasure
like that until it is taken away.
The valley turned quiet, as if I’d stepped back into Harpocrates’s sphere
of silence. Perhaps it was just a lull in the fighting, but I felt as if all of Camp