The Tyrant's Tomb
I blinked, still groggy, the smell of smoke, moldy straw, and sweatyRomans lingering in my nostrils. “A toga? But I’m not a senator.”“You’re honorary, because you used to be a god or whatever.” Megpouted. “I don’t get to wear a sheet.”I had a horrible mental image of Meg in a traffic-light-colored toga,gardening seeds spilling from the folds of the cloth. She would just have tomake do with her glittery unicorn T-shirt.Bombilo gave me his usual Good morning glare when I came downstairsto appropriate the café bathroom. I washed up, then changed my bandageswith a kit the healers had thoughtfully left in our room. The ghoul scratchlooked no worse, but it was still puckered and angry red. It still burned. Thatwas normal, right? I tried to convince myself it was. As they say, doctor godsmake the worst patient gods.I got dressed, trying to remember how to fold a toga, and mulled over thethings I’d learned from my dream. Number one: I was a terrible person whoruined lives. Number two: There was not a single bad thing I’d done in thelast four thousand years that was not going to come back and bite me in theclunis, and I was beginning to think I deserved it.The Cumaean Sibyl. Oh, Apollo, what had you been thinking?Alas, I knew what I’d been thinking—that she was a pretty youngwoman I wanted to get with, despite the fact that she was my Sibyl. Thenshe’d outsmarted me, and being the bad loser that I was, I had cursed her.No wonder I was now paying the price: tracking down the evil Romanking to whom she’d once sold her Sibylline Books. If Tarquin was stillclinging to some horrible undead existence, could the Cumaean Sibyl bealive as well? I shuddered to think what she might be like after all thesecenturies, and how much her hatred for me would have grown.First things first: I had to tell the senate my marvelous plan to makethings right and save us all. Did I have a marvelous plan? Shockingly,maybe. Or at least the beginnings of a marvelous plan. The marvelous indexof one.On our way out, Meg and I grabbed Lemurian-spice lattes and a coupleof blueberry muffins—because Meg clearly needed more sugar and caffeine—then we joined the loose procession of demigods heading for the city.By the time we got to the Senate House, everyone was taking their seats.Flanking the rostrum, Praetors Reyna and Frank were arrayed in their finestgold and purple. The first row of benches was occupied by the camp’s ten
senators—each in a white toga trimmed in purple—along with the seniormostveterans, those with accessibility needs, and Ella and Tyson. Ellafidgeted, doing her best to avoid brushing shoulders with the senator on herleft. Tyson grinned at the Lar on his right, wriggling his fingers inside theghost’s vaporous rib cage.Behind them, the semicircle of tiered seats was packed to overflowingwith legionnaires, Lares, retired veterans, and other citizens of New Rome. Ihadn’t seen a lecture hall this crowded since Charles Dickens’s 1867 SecondAmerican Tour. (Great show. I still have the autographed T-shirt framed inmy bedroom in the Palace of the Sun.)I thought I should sit in front, being an honorary wearer of bed linens,but there was simply no room. Then I spotted Lavinia (thank you, pink hair)waving at us from the back row. She patted the bench next to her, indicatingthat she’d saved us seats. A thoughtful gesture. Or maybe she wantedsomething.Once Meg and I had settled on either side of her, Lavinia gave Meg thesupersecret Unicorn Sisterhood fist bump, then turned and ribbed me withher sharp elbow. “So, you’re really Apollo, after all! You must know mymom.”“I—what?”Her eyebrows were extra distracting today. The dark roots had started togrow out under the pink dye, which made them seem to hover slightly offcenter, as if they were about to float off her face.“My mom?” she repeated, popping her bubble gum. “Terpsichore?”“The—the Muse of Dance. Are you asking me if she’s your mother, or ifI know her?”“Of course she’s my mother.”“Of course I know her.”“Well, then!” Lavinia drummed a riff on her knees, as if to prove she hada dancer’s rhythm despite being so gangly. “I wanna hear the dirt!”“The dirt?”“I’ve never met her.”“Oh. Um…” Over the centuries, I’d had many conversations withdemigods who wanted to know more about their absentee godly parents.Those talks rarely went well. I tried to conjure a picture of Terpsichore, butmy memories of Olympus were getting fuzzier by the day. I vaguely recalledthe Muse frolicking around one of the parks on Mount Olympus, casting
- Page 38 and 39: looked normal—the gleaming white
- Page 40 and 41: Hi, everybody,Here’s a little tun
- Page 42 and 43: really supposed to be here?That fee
- Page 44 and 45: explain the many months of horrifyi
- Page 46 and 47: Sailing north to warWith my Shirley
- Page 48 and 49: “We’ve discussed this.” Calig
- Page 50 and 51: more comfortable. (Yes, I am sure.
- Page 52 and 53: Judging from the angle of the sun,
- Page 54 and 55: Nice stroll into townHappy birthday
- Page 56 and 57: “It’s the only way,” he agree
- Page 58 and 59: “Terminus,” I protested, “you
- Page 60 and 61: break. Don’t judge us.)When I was
- Page 62 and 63: It was too much. I put my hand agai
- Page 64 and 65: I liked. His gentle big brown eye a
- Page 66 and 67: gleamed under an LED magnifying lam
- Page 68 and 69: “Thanks,” I grumbled.Frank shif
- Page 70 and 71: “Yep, yep,” said Ella. “No re
- Page 72 and 73: his life force to a small piece of
- Page 74 and 75: Aha.“Come, my friends,” I said.
- Page 76 and 77: demigods. Iris-messages failed. Let
- Page 78 and 79: Sing it with me: Who’sAfraid of t
- Page 80 and 81: But, of course, I knew the answer.
- Page 82 and 83: “Thank you.” I looked up, but L
- Page 84 and 85: Dirt and bubble gumLavinia brought
- Page 86 and 87: out of mind? How could I have been
- Page 90 and 91: rose petals in her wake as she twir
- Page 92 and 93: I now have a planTo make a plan con
- Page 94 and 95: is on April eighth, yep. Farmer’s
- Page 96 and 97: unbelievable. On the other hand, no
- Page 98 and 99: “Ohhhh.” Several Lares nodded i
- Page 100 and 101: Romance disasterI’m poison for gu
- Page 102 and 103: “It’s always dark underground,
- Page 104 and 105: I remembered the day we had sat tog
- Page 106 and 107: curse, I couldn’t have taken it b
- Page 108 and 109: Reluctant arrowGrant me this boon:
- Page 110 and 111: Bless him, Frank managed to maintai
- Page 112 and 113: “Shouldn’t that stick be locked
- Page 114 and 115: Nightmare carouselTotally let your
- Page 116 and 117: “Better,” I said, though I was
- Page 118 and 119: The carousel was topped by a tan do
- Page 120 and 121: “What?” she demanded. “I got
- Page 122 and 123: I glanced back at Meg and Lavinia.
- Page 124 and 125: and see us. Or smell us. Oh, human
- Page 126 and 127: Caelius whimpered. “Yes, my king.
- Page 128 and 129: Imperial gold bolt hit the zombie b
- Page 130 and 131: eventually, once the poison took ho
- Page 132 and 133: trunk of the tree. The root chute s
- Page 134 and 135: Cooking with PranjalChickweed and u
- Page 136 and 137: faces. One belonged to a handsome y
senators—each in a white toga trimmed in purple—along with the seniormost
veterans, those with accessibility needs, and Ella and Tyson. Ella
fidgeted, doing her best to avoid brushing shoulders with the senator on her
left. Tyson grinned at the Lar on his right, wriggling his fingers inside the
ghost’s vaporous rib cage.
Behind them, the semicircle of tiered seats was packed to overflowing
with legionnaires, Lares, retired veterans, and other citizens of New Rome. I
hadn’t seen a lecture hall this crowded since Charles Dickens’s 1867 Second
American Tour. (Great show. I still have the autographed T-shirt framed in
my bedroom in the Palace of the Sun.)
I thought I should sit in front, being an honorary wearer of bed linens,
but there was simply no room. Then I spotted Lavinia (thank you, pink hair)
waving at us from the back row. She patted the bench next to her, indicating
that she’d saved us seats. A thoughtful gesture. Or maybe she wanted
something.
Once Meg and I had settled on either side of her, Lavinia gave Meg the
supersecret Unicorn Sisterhood fist bump, then turned and ribbed me with
her sharp elbow. “So, you’re really Apollo, after all! You must know my
mom.”
“I—what?”
Her eyebrows were extra distracting today. The dark roots had started to
grow out under the pink dye, which made them seem to hover slightly off
center, as if they were about to float off her face.
“My mom?” she repeated, popping her bubble gum. “Terpsichore?”
“The—the Muse of Dance. Are you asking me if she’s your mother, or if
I know her?”
“Of course she’s my mother.”
“Of course I know her.”
“Well, then!” Lavinia drummed a riff on her knees, as if to prove she had
a dancer’s rhythm despite being so gangly. “I wanna hear the dirt!”
“The dirt?”
“I’ve never met her.”
“Oh. Um…” Over the centuries, I’d had many conversations with
demigods who wanted to know more about their absentee godly parents.
Those talks rarely went well. I tried to conjure a picture of Terpsichore, but
my memories of Olympus were getting fuzzier by the day. I vaguely recalled
the Muse frolicking around one of the parks on Mount Olympus, casting
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