cohorts had fallen into line behind the coffin, with purple Lares shifting in and out of their ranks. The Fifth Cohort, Jason’s original unit, served as honor guards and torch bearers on either side of the wagon. Standing with them, between Hazel and Lavinia, was Meg McCaffrey. She frowned when she saw me and mouthed, You’re late.
Frank jogged over to join Reyna, who was waiting at Hannibal’s shoulder.
The senior praetor looked drained and weary, as if she’d spent the last few hours weeping in private and then pulled herself back together as best she could. Next to her stood the legion’s standard bearer, holding aloft the eagle of the Twelfth.
Being close to the eagle made my hairs stand on end. The golden icon reeked of Jupiter’s power. The air around it crackled with energy.
“Apollo.” Reyna’s tone was formal, her eyes like empty wells. “Are you prepared?”
“For…?” The question died in my throat.
Everyone was staring at me expectantly. Did they want another song?
No. Of course. The legion had no high priest, no pontifex maximus. Their former augur, my descendant Octavian, had died in the battle against Gaia. (Which I had a hard time feeling sad about, but that’s another story.) Jason would’ve been the logical next choice to officiate, but he was our guest of honor. That meant that I, as a former god, was the ranking spiritual authority. I would be expected to lead the funeral rites.
Romans were all about proper etiquette. I couldn’t excuse myself without that being taken as a bad omen. Besides, I owed Jason my best, even if that was a sad Lester Papadopoulos version of my best.
I tried to remember the correct Roman invocation.
Dearly beloved…? No.
Why is this night different…? No.
Aha.
“Come, my friends,” I said. “Let us escort our brother to his final feast.”
I suppose I did all right. No one looked scandalized. I turned and led the way out of the fort, the entire legion following in eerie silence.
Along the road to Temple Hill, I had a few moments of panic. What if I led the procession in the wrong direction? What if we ended up in the parking lot of an Oakland Safeway?
The golden eagle of the Twelfth loomed over my shoulder, charging the air with ozone. I imagined Jupiter speaking through its crackle and hum, like a voice over shortwave radio: YOUR FAULT. YOUR PUNISHMENT.
Back in January, when I’d fallen to earth, those words had seemed horribly unfair. Now, as I led Jason Grace to his final resting place, I believed them. So much of what had happened was my fault. So much of it could never be made right.
Jason had exacted a promise from me: When you’re a god again, remember. Remember what it’s like to be human.
I meant to keep that promise, if I survived long enough. But in the meantime, there were more pressing ways I needed to honor Jason: by protecting Camp Jupiter, defeating the Triumvirate, and, according to Ella, descending into the tomb of an undead king.
Ella’s words rattled around in my head: A wildcat near the spinning lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. To open his door, two-fifty-four.
Even for a prophecy, the lines seemed like gibberish.
The Sibyl of Cumae had always been vague and verbose. She refused to take editorial direction. She’d written nine entire volumes of Sibylline Books—honestly, who needs nine books to finish a series? I’d secretly felt vindicated when she’d been unable to sell them to the Romans until she whittled them down to a trilogy. The other six volumes had gone straight into the fire when…
I froze.
Behind me, the procession creaked and shuffled to a halt.
“Apollo?” Reyna whispered.
I shouldn’t stop. I was officiating Jason’s funeral. I couldn’t fall down, roll into a ball, and cry. That would be a definite no-no. But, Jupiter’s gym shorts, why did my brain insist on remembering important facts at such inconvenient times?
Of course Tarquin was connected to the Sibylline Books. Of course he would choose now to show himself, and send an army of undead against Camp Jupiter. And the Sibyl of Cumae herself…Was it possible—?
“Apollo,” Reyna said again, more insistently.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
One problem at a time. Jason Grace deserved my full attention. I forced down my turbulent thoughts and kept walking.
When I reached Temple Hill, it was obvious where to go. At the base of Jupiter’s temple stood an elaborate wooden pyre. At each corner, an honor guard waited with a blazing torch. Jason’s coffin would burn in the shadow of our