The Tyrant's Tomb

Jupiter were holding its breath, waiting for me to complete the ritual. With
trembling hands, I pulled the Sibyl’s glass jar from my backpack.
“What now?” I asked Ella.
“Tyson,” Ella said, waving him over, “that was good dancing. Now show
Apollo your armpit.”
Tyson lumbered over, grinning and sweaty. He lifted his left arm much
closer to my face than I would have liked. “See?”
“Oh, gods.” I recoiled. “Ella, why would you write the summoning ritual
in his armpit?”
“That’s where it goes,” she said.
“It really tickled!” Tyson laughed.
“I—I will begin.” I tried to focus on the words and not the hairy armpit
that they encircled. I tried not to breathe any more than necessary. I will say
this, however: Tyson had excellent personal hygiene. Whenever I was forced
to inhale, I did not pass out from his body odor, despite his exuberant sweaty
dancing. The only smell I detected was a hint of peanut butter. Why? I did
not want to know.
“O protector of Rome!” I read aloud. “O insert name here!”
“Uh,” Ella said, “that’s where you—”
“I will start again. O protector of Rome! O Diana, goddess of the hunt!
Hear our plea and accept our offering!”
I do not remember all the lines. If I did, I would not record them here for
just anyone to use. Summoning Diana with burnt offerings is the very
definition of Do Not Try This at Home, Kids. Several times, I choked up. I
was tempted to add personal bits, to let Diana know it wasn’t just anyone
making a request. This was me! I was special! But I stuck to the armpit
script. At the appropriate moment (insert sacrifice here), I dropped the
Sibyl’s jelly jar into the fire. I was afraid it might just sit there heating up,
but the glass shattered immediately, releasing a sigh of silver fumes. I hoped
I hadn’t squandered the soundless god’s final breath.
I finished the incantation. Tyson mercifully lowered his arm. Ella stared
at the fire, then at the sky, her nose twitching anxiously. “Apollo hesitated,”
she said. “He didn’t read the third line right. He probably messed up. I hope
he didn’t mess it up.”
“Your confidence is heartwarming,” I said.
But I shared her concern. I saw no signs of divine help in the night sky.
The red full moon continued to leer at me, bathing the landscape in bloody