their eyes wild, their forelegs kicking. A zebra’s head was raised as if in agony. A giant rooster flared its red comb and stretched its talons. There was even a hippocampus like Tyson’s friend Rainbow, but this fish pony had a snarling face. What sort of parents would let their children ride such nightmarish creatures? Maybe Zeus, I thought.
We approached cautiously, but nothing challenged us, neither living nor dead. The place seemed empty, just inexplicably lit up.
Meg’s glowing swords made the grass shimmer at her feet. Lavinia held her manubalista, primed and ready. With her pink hair and gangly limbs, she stood the best chance of sneaking up on the carousel animals and blending in with them, but I decided not to share that observation, as it would no doubt get me shot. Hazel left her sword in its sheath. Even empty-handed, she radiated a more intimidating demeanor than any of us.
I wondered if I should pull out my bow. Then I looked down and realized I had instinctively readied my combat ukulele. Okay. I could provide a jolly tune if we found ourselves in battle. Did that count as heroism?
“Something’s not right,” Lavinia murmured.
“You think?” Meg crouched. She put down one of her swords and touched the grass with her fingertips. Her hand sent a ripple across the lawn like a stone thrown in water.
“Something’s wrong with the soil here,” she announced. “The roots don’t want to grow too deep.”
Hazel arched her eyebrows. “You can talk to plants.”
“It’s not really talking,” Meg said. “But yeah. Even the trees don’t like this place. They’re trying to grow away from that carousel as fast as they can.”
“Which, since they’re trees,” I said, “is not very fast.”
Hazel studied our surroundings. “Let’s see what I can find out.”
She knelt at the edge of the carousel’s base and pressed her palm against the concrete. There were no visible ripples, no rumbling or shaking, but after a count of three, Hazel snatched her hand away. She staggered backward, almost falling over Lavinia.
“Gods.” Hazel’s whole body trembled. “There’s…there’s a massive complex of tunnels under here.”
My mouth went dry. “Part of the Labyrinth?”
“No. I don’t think so. It feels self-contained. The structure is ancient, but—but it also hasn’t been here very long. I know that doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” I said, “if the tomb relocated.”
“Or regrew,” Meg offered. “Like a tree clipping. Or a fungal spore.”
“Gross,” said Lavinia.
Hazel hugged her elbows. “The place is full of death. I mean, I’m a child of Pluto. I’ve been to the Underworld. But this is worse somehow.”
“I don’t love that,” Lavinia muttered.
I looked down at my ukulele, wishing I’d brought a bigger instrument to hide behind. A stand-up bass, perhaps. “How do we get in?”
I hoped the answer would be Gosh darn it, we can’t.
“There.” Hazel pointed to a section of concrete that looked no different from the rest.
We followed her over. She ran her fingers across the dark surface, leaving glowing silver grooves that outlined a rectangular slab the size of a coffin. Oh, why did I have to make that particular analogy?
Her hand hovered over the middle of the rectangle. “I think I’m supposed to write something here. A combination, maybe?”
“To open his door,” Lavinia recalled, “two-fifty-four.”
“Wait!” I fought down a wave of panic. “There are lots of ways to write ‘two-fifty-four.’”
Hazel nodded. “Roman numerals, then?”
“Yes. But two-five-four would be written differently in Roman numerals than two hundred and fifty-four, which is different from two and fifty-four.”
“Which is it, then?” Meg asked.
I tried to think. “Tarquin would have a reason to choose that number. He’d make it about himself.”
Lavinia popped a small, stealthy pink bubble. “Like using your birthday for your password?”
“Exactly,” I said. “But he wouldn’t use his birthday. Not for his tomb. Perhaps his date of death? Except that can’t be right. No one’s sure when he died, since he was in exile and buried in secret, but it had to have been around 495 BCE, not 254.”
“Wrong date system,” Meg said.
We all stared at her.
“What?” she demanded. “I got raised in an evil emperor’s palace. We dated everything from the founding of Rome. AUC. Ab urbe condita, right?”
“My gods,” I said. “Good catch, Meg. 254 AUC would be…let’s see…500 BCE. That’s pretty close to 495.”
Hazel’s fingers still hesitated over the concrete. “Close enough to risk it?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to channel my inner Frank Zhang confidence. “Write it as a date: Two hundred and fifty-four. C-C-L-I-V.”
Hazel did. The numbers glowed silver. The entire stone slab