The Tyrant's Tomb

We took one final trip into New Rome, where Tyson and Ella were
expecting us. Over the entrance of the bookstore, a newly painted sign
proclaimed CYCLOPS BOOKS.
“Yay!” Tyson cried as we came through the doorway. “Come in! We are
having our great opening today!”
“Grand opening,” Ella corrected, fussing over a platter of cupcakes and a
bunch of balloons at the information desk. “Welcome to Cyclops Books and
Prophecies and Also an Orange Cat.”
“That wouldn’t all fit on the sign,” Tyson confided.
“It should have fit on the sign,” Ella said. “We need a bigger sign.”
On top of the old-fashioned cash register, Aristophanes yawned as if it
was all the same to him. He was wearing a tiny party hat and an expression
that said, I am only wearing this because demigods don’t have phone
cameras or Instagram.
“Customers can get prophecies for their quests!” Tyson explained,
pointing at his chest, which was covered even more densely with Sibylline
verse. “They can pick up the latest books, too!”
“I recommend the 1924 Farmer’s Almanac,” Ella told us. “Would you
like a copy?”
“Ah…maybe next time,” I said. “We were told you had a prophecy for
us?”
“Yep, yep.” Ella ran her finger down Tyson’s ribs, scanning for the
correct lines.
The Cyclops squirmed and giggled.
“Here,” Ella said. “Over his spleen.”
Wonderful, I thought. The Prophecy of Tyson’s Spleen.
Ella read aloud:
“O son of Zeus the final challenge face
The tow’r of Nero two alone ascend
Dislodge the beast that hast usurped thy place.”
I waited.
Ella nodded. “Yep, yep, yep. That’s it.” She went back to her cupcakes
and balloons.
“That can’t be it,” I complained. “That makes no poetic sense. It’s not a
haiku. It’s not a sonnet. It’s not…Oh.”
Meg squinted at me. “Oh, what?”