The Tyrant's Tomb

by Rick Riordan

  “It’s a song Dean Martin covered,” I said. “It—it might be unacceptable to birds. I’m not sure.”

  “Well, be sure!” Reyna yelled. Ravens furiously scratched and pecked at her cloak, unable to tear the magical fabric, but her front side was unprotected. Every time she swung her sword, a bird swooped in, stabbing at her exposed chest and arms. Her long-sleeve tee was quickly turning into a short-sleeve tee.

  I channeled my worst King of Cool. I imagined I was on a Las Vegas stage, a line of empty martini glasses on the piano behind me. I was wearing a velvet tuxedo. I had just smoked a pack of cigarettes. In front of me sat a crowd full of adoring, tone-deaf fans.

  “VOOO-LAR-RAAAAY!” I cried, modulating my voice to add about twenty syllables to the word. “WHOA! OH!”

  The response from the ravens was immediate. They recoiled as if we’d suddenly become vegetarian entrées. Some threw themselves bodily against the metal girders, making the whole tower shudder.

  “Keep going!” Meg yelled.

  Phrased as an order, her words forced me to comply. With apologies to Domenico Modugno, who wrote the song, I gave “Volare” the full Dean Martin treatment.

  It had once been such a lovely, obscure little tune. Originally, Modugno called it “Nel blu, dipinto di blu,” which, granted, was a bad title. I don’t know why artists insist on doing that. Like the Wallflowers’ “One Headlight” obviously should have been titled “Me and Cinderella.” And Ed Sheerhan’s “The A-Team” should clearly have been called “Too Cold for Angels to Fly.” I mean, come on, guys, you’re burying the lede.

  At any rate, “Nel blu, dipinto di blu” might have faded into obscurity had Dean Martin not gotten ahold of it, repackaged it as “Volare,” added seven thousand violins and backup singers, and turned it into a sleazy lounge-singer classic.

  I didn’t have backup singers. All I had was my voice, but I did my best to be terrible. Even when I was a god and could speak any language I wanted, I’d never sung well in Italian. I kept mixing it up with Latin, so I came off sounding like Julius Caesar with a head cold. My newly busted nose just added to the awfulness.

  I bellowed and warbled, screwing my eyes shut and clinging to the ladder as ravens flapped around me, croaking in horror at my travesty of a song. Far below, Reyna’s greyhounds bayed as if they’d lost their mothers.

  I became so engrossed in murdering “Volare,” I didn’t notice that the ravens had gone silent until Meg shouted, “APOLLO, ENOUGH!”

  I faltered halfway through a chorus. When I opened my eyes, the ravens were nowhere in sight. From somewhere in the fog, their indignant caws grew fainter and fainter as the flock moved off in search of quieter, less revolting prey.

  “My ears,” Reyna complained. “Oh, gods, my ears will never heal.”

  “The ravens will be back,” I warned. My throat felt like the chute of a cement mixer. “As soon as they manage to purchase enough raven-size noise-canceling headphones, they’ll be back. Now climb! I don’t have another Dean Martin song in me.”

  Let’s play guess the god.

  Starts with H. Wants to kill me.

  (Besides my stepmom.)

  AS SOON AS I reached the catwalk, I gripped the rail. I wasn’t sure if my legs were wobbly or if the entire tower was swaying. I felt like I was back on Poseidon’s pleasure trireme—the one pulled by blue whales. Oh, it’s a smooth ride, he’d promised. You’ll love it.

  Below, San Francisco stretched out in a rumpled quilt of green and gray, the edges frayed with fog. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for my days on the sun chariot. Oh, San Francisco! Whenever I saw that beautiful city below, I knew my day’s journey was almost done. I could finally park my chariot at the Palace of the Sun, relax for the night, and let whatever other forces that controlled night and day take over for me. (Sorry, Hawaii. I love you, but I wasn’t about to work overtime to give you a sunrise.)

  The ravens were nowhere in sight. That didn’t mean anything. A blanket of fog still obscured the top of the tower. The killers might swoop out of it at any minute. It wasn’t fair that birds with twenty-foot wingspans could sneak up on us so easily.

  At the far end of the catwalk sat the shipping container. The scent of roses was so strong now even I could smell it, and it seemed to be coming from the box. I took a step toward it and immediately stumbled.

  “Careful.” Reyna grabbed my arm.

  A jolt of energy went through me, steadying my legs. Perhaps I imagined it. Or maybe I was just shocked that she had made physical contact with me and it did not involve placing her boot in my face.

  “I’m okay,” I said. One godly skill had not abandoned me: lying.

  “You need medical attention,” Reyna said. “Your face is a horror show.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ve got supplies,” Meg announced.

  She rummaged through the pouches of her gardening belt. I was terrified she might try to patch my face with flowering bougainvillea, but instead she pulled out tape, gauze, and alcohol wipes. I supposed her time with Pranjal had taught her more than just how to use a cheese grater.

  She fussed over my face, then checked me and Reyna for any especially deep cuts and punctures. We had plenty. Soon all three of us looked like refugees from George Washington’s camp at Valley Forge. We could have spent the whole afternoon bandaging each other, but we didn’t have that much time.

  Meg turned to regard the shipping container. She still had a stubborn geranium stuck in her hair. Her tattered dress rippled around her like shreds of seaweed.

  “What is that thing?” she wondered. “What’s it doing up here, and why does it smell like roses?”

  Good questions.

  Judging scale and distance on the tower was difficult. Tucked against the girders, the shipping container looked close and small, but it was probably a full city block away from us, and larger than Marlon Brando’s personal trailer on the set of The Godfather. (Wow, where did that memory come from? Crazy times.) Installing that huge red box on Sutro Tower would have been a massive undertaking. Then again, the Triumvirate had enough cash to purchase fifty luxury yachts, so they could probably afford a few cargo helicopters.

  The bigger question was why?

  From the sides of the container, glimmering bronze and gold cables snaked outward, weaving around the pylon and crossbeams like grounding wires, connecting to satellite dishes, cellular arrays, and power boxes. Was there some sort of monitoring station inside? The world’s most expensive hothouse for roses? Or perhaps the most elaborate scheme ever to steal premium cable-TV channels.

  The closest end of the box was fitted with cargo doors, the vertical locking rods laced with rows of heavy chains. Whatever was inside was meant to stay there.

  “Any ideas?” Reyna asked.

  “Try to get inside that container,” I said. “It’s a terrible idea. But it’s the only one I have.”

  “Yeah.” Reyna scanned the fog over our heads. “Let’s move before the ravens come back for an encore.”

  Meg summoned her swords. She led the way across the catwalk, but after twenty feet or so, she stopped abruptly, as if she’d run into an invisible wall.

  She turned to face us. “Guys, is…me or…feel weird?”

  I thought the kick to my face might have short-circuited my brain. “What, Meg?”

  “I said…wrong, like…cold and…”

  I glanced at Reyna. “Did you hear that?”

  “Only half of her words are coming through. Why aren’t our voices affected?”

  I studied the short expanse of catwalk separating us from Meg. An unpleasant suspicion wriggled in my head. “Meg, take a step back toward me, please.”

  “Why…want…?”

  “Just humor me.”

  She did. “So are you guys feeling weird, too? Like, kinda cold?” She frowned. “Wait…it’s better now.”

  “You were dropping words,” Reyna said.

  “I was?”

  The girls looked at me fo
r an explanation. Sadly, I thought I might have one—or at least the beginnings of one. The metaphorical truck with the metaphorical headlights was getting closer to metaphorically running me over.

  “You two wait here for a second,” I said. “I want to try something.”

  I took a few steps toward the shipping container. When I reached the spot where Meg had been standing, I felt the difference—as if I’d stepped across the threshold of a walk-in freezer.

  Another ten feet and I couldn’t hear the wind anymore, or the pinging of metal cables against the sides of the tower, or the blood rushing in my ears. I snapped my fingers. No sound.

  Panic rose in my chest. Complete silence—a music god’s worst nightmare.

  I faced Reyna and Meg. I tried to shout, “Can you hear me now?”

  Nothing. My vocal cords vibrated, but the sound waves seemed to die before they left my mouth.

  Meg said something I couldn’t hear. Reyna spread her arms.

  I gestured for them to wait. Then I took a deep breath and forced myself to keep going toward the box. I stopped within an arm’s length of the cargo doors.

  The rose-bouquet smell was definitely coming from inside. The chains across the locking rods were heavy Imperial gold—enough rare magical metal to buy a decent-size palace on Mount Olympus. Even in my mortal form, I could feel the power radiating from the container—not just the heavy silence, but the cold, needling aura of wards and curses placed on the metal doors and walls. To keep us out. To keep something in.

  On the left-hand door, stenciled in white paint, was a single word in Arabic:

  My Arabic was even rustier than my Dean Martin Italian, but I was fairly sure it was the name of a city. ALEXANDRIA. As in Alexandria, Egypt.

  My knees almost buckled. My vision swam. I might have sobbed, though I couldn’t hear it.

  Slowly, gripping the rail for support, I staggered back to my friends. I only knew I’d left the zone of silence when I could hear myself muttering, “No, no, no, no.”

  Meg caught me before I could fall over. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “I think I understand,” I said. “The soundless god.”

  “Who is it?” Reyna asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Reyna blinked. “But you just said—”

  “I think I understand. Remembering who it is exactly—that’s harder. I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with a Ptolemaic god, from back in the days when the Greeks ruled Egypt.”

  Meg looked past me at the container. “So there’s a god in the box.”

  I shuddered, remembering the short-lived fast food franchise Hermes had once tried to open on Mount Olympus. Thankfully, God-in-the-Box never took off. “Yes, Meg. A very minor Egyptian-Greek hybrid god, I think, which is most likely why he couldn’t be found in the Camp Jupiter archives.”

  “If he’s so minor,” Reyna said, “why do you look so scared?”

  A bit of my old Olympian haughtiness surged through me. Mortals. They could never understand.

  “Ptolemaic gods are awful,” I said. “They’re unpredictable, temperamental, dangerous, insecure—”

  “Like a normal god, then,” Meg said.

  “I hate you,” I said.

  “I thought you loved me.”

  “I’m multitasking. Roses were this god’s symbol. I—I don’t remember why. A connection to Venus? He was in charge of secrets. In the old days, if leaders hung a rose from the ceiling of a conference room, it meant everybody in that conversation was sworn to secrecy. They called it sub rosa, under the rose.”

  “So you know all that,” Reyna said, “but you don’t know the god’s name?”

  “I—He’s—” A frustrated growl rose from my throat. “I almost have it. I should have it. But I haven’t thought about this god in millennia. He’s very obscure. It’s like asking me to remember the name of a particular backup singer I worked with during the Renaissance. Perhaps if you hadn’t kicked me in the head—”

  “After that story about Koronis?” Reyna said. “You deserved it.”

  “You did,” Meg agreed.

  I sighed. “You two are horrible influences on each other.”

  Without taking their eyes off me, Reyna and Meg gave each other a silent high five.

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “Maybe the Arrow of Dodona can help jog my memory. At least he insults me in flowery Shakespearean language.”

  I drew the arrow from my quiver. “O prophetic missile, I need your guidance!”

  There was no answer.

  I wondered if the arrow had been lulled to sleep by the magic surrounding the storage container. Then I realized there was a simpler explanation. I returned the arrow to my quiver and pulled out a different one.

  “You chose the wrong arrow, didn’t you?” Meg guessed.

  “No!” I snapped. “You just don’t understand my process. I’m going back into the sphere of silence now.”

  “But—”

  I marched away before Meg could finish.

  Only when I was I surrounded by cold silence again did it occur to me that it might be hard to carry on a conversation with the arrow if I couldn’t talk.

  No matter. I was too proud to retreat. If the arrow and I couldn’t communicate telepathically, I would just pretend to have an intelligent conversation while Reyna and Meg looked on.

  “O prophetic missile!” I tried again. My vocal cords vibrated, though no sound came out—a disturbing sensation I can only compare to drowning. “I need your guidance!”

  CONGRATULATIONS, said the arrow. Its voice resonated in my head—more tactile than audible—rattling my eyeballs.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Wait. Congratulations for what?”

  THOU HAST FOUND THY GROOVE. AT LEAST THE BEGINNINGS OF THY GROOVE. I SUSPECTED THIS WOULD BE SO, GIVEN TIME. CONGRATULATIONS ARE MERITED.

  “Oh.” I stared at the arrow’s point, waiting for a but. None came. I was so surprised, I could only stutter, “Th-thanks.”

  THOU ART MOST WELCOME.

  “Did we just have a polite exchange?”

  AYE, the arrow mused. MOST TROUBLING. BY THE BY, WHAT “PROCESS” WERT THOU SPEAKING OF TO YON MAIDENS? THOU HAST NO PROCESS SAVE FUMBLING.

  “Here we go,” I muttered. “Please, my memory needs a jump start. This soundless god…he’s that guy from Egypt, isn’t he?”

  WELL-REASONED, SIRRAH, the arrow said. THOU HAST NARROWED IT DOWN TO ALL THE GUYS IN EGYPT.

  “You know what I mean. There was that—that one Ptolemaic god. The strange dude. He was a god of silence and secrets. But he wasn’t, exactly. If you can just give me his name, I think the rest of my memories will shake loose.”

  IS MY WISDOM SO CHEAPLY BOUGHT? DOST THOU EXPECT TO WIN HIS NAME WITH NO EFFORT?

  “What do you call climbing Sutro Tower?” I demanded. “Getting slashed to pieces by ravens, kicked in the face, and forced to sing like Dean Martin?”

  AMUSING.

  I may have yelled a few choice words, but the sphere of silence censored them, so you will have to use your imagination.

  “Fine,” I said. “Can you at least give me a hint?”

  VERILY, THE NAME DOTH BEGIN WITH AN H.

  “Hephaestus…Hermes…Hera…A lot of gods’ names begin with H!”

  HERA? ART THOU SERIOUS?

  “I’m just brainstorming. H, you say….”

  THINK OF THY FAVORITE PHYSICIAN.

  “Me. Wait. My son Asclepius.”

  The arrow’s sigh rattled my entire skeleton. YOUR FAVORITE MORTAL PHYSICIAN.

  “Doctor Kildare. Doctor Doom. Doctor House. Doctor—Oh! You mean Hippocrates. But he’s not a Ptolemaic god.”

  THOU ART KILLING ME, the arrow complained. “HIPPOCRATES” IS THY HINT. THE NAME THOU SEEKEST IS MOST LIKE IT. THOU NEEDEST BUT CHANGE TWO LETTERS.

  “Which two?” I felt petulant, but I’d never enjoyed word puzzles, even before my horrific experience in the Burning Maze.

  I SHALL GIVE THEE ONE LAST HINT
, said the arrow. THINK OF THY FAVORITE MARX BROTHER.

  “The Marx Brothers? How do you even know about them? They were from the 1930s! I mean, yes, of course, I loved them. They brightened a dreary decade, but…Wait. The one who played the harp. Harpo. I always found his music sweet and sad and…”

  The silence turned colder and heavier around me.

  Harpo, I thought. Hippocrates. Put the names together and you got…

  “Harpocrates,” I said. “Arrow, please tell me that’s not the answer. Please tell me he’s not waiting in that box.”

  The arrow did not reply, which I took as confirmation of my worst fears.

  I returned my Shakespearean friend to his quiver and trudged back to Reyna and Meg.

  Meg frowned. “I don’t like that look on your face.”

  “Me neither,” Reyna said. “What did you learn?”

  I gazed out at the fog, wishing we could deal with something as easy as killer giant ravens. As I suspected, the name of the god had shaken loose my memories—bad, unwelcome memories.

  “I know which god we face,” I said. “The good news is he’s not very powerful, as gods go. About as obscure as you can imagine. A real D-lister.”

  Reyna folded her arms. “What’s the catch?”

  “Ah…well.” I cleared my throat. “Harpocrates and I didn’t exactly get along. He might have…er, sworn that someday he’d see me vaporized.”

  We all need a hand

  On our shoulder sometimes so

  We can chew through steel

  “VAPORIZED,” SAID REYNA.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do to him?” Meg asked.

  I tried to look offended. “Nothing! I may have teased him a bit, but he was a very minor god. Rather silly-looking. I may have made some jokes at his expense in front of the other Olympians.”

  Reyna knit her eyebrows. “So you bullied him.”

  “No! I mean…I did write zap me in glowing letters on the back of his toga. And I suppose I might have been a bit harsh when I tied him up and locked him in the stalls with my fiery horses overnight—”

  “OH, MY GODS!” Meg said. “You’re awful!”