The Tyrant's Tomb

The legionnaires’ faces were streaked with tears. Some sniffled and
wiped their noses. Others embraced and wept silently.
I realized they weren’t just grieving for Jason. The song had unleashed
their collective sorrow about the recent battle, their losses, which—given the
sparseness of the crowd—must have been extreme. Jason’s song became
their song. By honoring him, we honored all the fallen.
On the steps of the principia, the praetors stirred from their private
anguish. Reyna took a long, shaky breath. She exchanged a look with Frank,
who was having difficulty controlling the tremble of his lower lip. The two
leaders seemed to come to silent agreement.
“We will have a state funeral,” Reyna announced.
“And we’ll realize Jason’s dream,” Frank added. “Those temples and—
everything Ja—” His voice caught on Jason’s name. He needed a count of
five to compose himself. “Everything he envisioned. We’ll build it all in one
weekend.”
I could feel the mood of the crowd change, as palpably as a weather
front, their grief hardening into steely determination.
Some nodded and murmured assent. A few shouted Ave! Hail! The rest
of the crowd picked up the chant. Javelins pounded against shields.
No one balked at the idea of rebuilding Temple Hill in a weekend. A task
like that would’ve been impossible even for the most skilled engineering
corps. But this was a Roman legion.
“Apollo and Meg will be guests of Camp Jupiter,” Reyna said. “We will
find them a place to stay—”
“And a bathroom?” Meg pleaded, dancing with her knees crossed.
Reyna managed a faint smile. “Of course. Together, we’ll mourn and
honor our dead. Afterward, we will discuss our plan of war.”
The legionnaires cheered and banged their shields.
I opened my mouth to say something eloquent, to thank Reyna and Frank
for their hospitality.
But all my remaining energy had been expended on my song. My gut
wound burned. My head twirled on my neck like a carousel.
I fell face-first and bit the dirt.