The Burning Maze

by Rick Riordan

  Meg staggered to my side. She was steaming and red but still alive, her toasted flowers stubbornly rooted in her ears. I had shielded her from the worst of the heat.

  From somewhere across the parking garage, Piper’s voice echoed, ‘Hey, Medea! Your aim sucks!’

  I peeked around the column as Medea turned towards the sound. The sorceress stood fixed in place, encircled in fire, releasing slices of white heat in every direction like spokes from the centre of a wheel. One wave blasted in the direction of Piper’s voice.

  A moment later, Piper called, ‘Nope! Getting colder!’

  Meg shook my arm. ‘WHAT DO WE DO?’

  My skin felt like a cooked sausage casing. Blood sang in my veins, the lyrics being HOT, HOT, HOT!

  I knew I would die if I suffered even another glancing blast from that fire. But Meg was right. We had to do something. We couldn’t let Piper take all the (quite literal) heat.

  ‘Come out, Apollo!’ Medea taunted. ‘Say hello to your old friend! Together you will fuel the New Sun!’

  Another curtain of heat flashed past, a few columns away. The essence of Helios did not roar or dazzle with many colours. It was ghostly white, almost transparent, but it would kill us as fast as exposure to a nuclear core. (Public safety announcement: reader, do not go to your local nuclear power plant and stand in the reactor chamber.)

  I had no strategy to defeat Medea. I had no godly powers, no godly wisdom, nothing but a terrified feeling that, if I survived this, I would need another set of pink camo pants.

  Meg must have seen the hopelessness in my face.

  ‘ASK THE ARROW!’ she yelled. ‘I WILL KEEP MAGIC LADY DISTRACTED!’

  I hated that idea. I was tempted to yell back, WHAT?

  Before I could, Meg darted off.

  I fumbled for my quiver and pulled forth the Arrow of Dodona. ‘O Wise Projectile, we need help!’

  IS’T HOT IN HITHER? the arrow asked. OR IS’T JUST ME?

  ‘We have a sorceress throwing Titan heat around!’ I yelled. ‘Look!’

  I wasn’t sure if the arrow had magical eyes, or radar, or some other way to sense its environment, but I stuck its point around the corner of the pillar, where Piper and Meg were now playing a deadly game of chicken – fried chicken – with Medea’s blasts of grandfather fire.

  HAST YON WENCH A BLOWPIPE? the arrow demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  FIE! A BOW AND ARROWS ART FAR SUPERIOR!

  ‘She’s half Cherokee,’ I said. ‘It’s a traditional Cherokee weapon. Now can you please tell me how to defeat Medea?’

  HMM, the arrow mused. THOU MUST USE THE BLOWPIPE.

  ‘But you just said –’

  REMIND ME NOT! ’TIS BITTER TO SPEAK OF! THOU HAST THY ANSWER!

  The arrow went silent. The one time I wanted it to elaborate, the arrow shut up. Naturally.

  I shoved it back in my quiver and ran to the next column, taking cover under a sign that read HONK!

  ‘Piper!’ I yelled.

  She glanced over from five pillars away. Her face was pulled in a tight grimace. Her arms looked like cooked lobster shells. My medical mind told me she had a few hours at best before heatstroke set in – nausea, dizziness, unconsciousness, probably death. But I focused on the few hours part. I needed to believe we would live long enough to die from such causes.

  I mimed shooting a blowpipe, then pointed in Medea’s direction.

  Piper stared at me like I was crazy. I couldn’t blame her. Even if Medea didn’t bat away the dart with a gust of wind, the missile would never make it through that swirling wall of heat. I could only shrug and mouth the words Trust me. I asked my arrow.

  What Piper thought of that, I couldn’t tell, but she unslung her blowpipe.

  Meanwhile, across the parking garage, Meg taunted Medea in typical Meg fashion.

  ‘DUMMY!’ she yelled.

  Medea sent out a vertical blade of heat, though, judging from her aim, she was trying to scare Meg rather than kill her.

  ‘Come out and stop this foolishness, dear!’ she called, filling her words with concern. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, but the Titan is hard to control!’

  I ground my teeth. Her words were a little too close to Nero’s mind games, holding Meg in check with the threat of his alter ego, the Beast. I just hoped Meg couldn’t hear a word through her smouldering wild-flower earbuds.

  While Medea had her back turned, looking for Meg, Piper stepped into the open.

  She took her shot.

  The dart flew straight through the wall of fire and speared Medea between the shoulder blades. How? I can only speculate. Perhaps, being a Cherokee weapon, it was not subject to the rules of Greek magic. Perhaps, just as Celestial bronze will pass straight through regular mortals, not recognizing them as legitimate targets, the fires of Helios could not be bothered to disintegrate a puny blowpipe dart.

  Whatever the case, the sorceress arched her back and screamed. She turned, glowering, then reached behind her and pulled out the missile. She stared at it incredulously. ‘A blowpipe dart? Are you kidding me?’

  The fires continued to swirl around her, but none shot towards Piper. Medea staggered. Her eyes crossed.

  ‘And it’s poisoned?’ The sorceress laughed, her voice tinged with hysteria. ‘You would try to poison me, the world’s foremost expert on poisons? There is no poison I can’t cure! You cannot –’

  She dropped to her knees. Green spittle flew from her mouth. ‘Wh-what is this concoction?’

  ‘Compliments of my Grandpa Tom,’ Piper said. ‘Old family recipe.’

  Medea’s complexion turned as pale as the fire. She forced out a few words, interspersed with gagging. ‘You think … changes anything? My power … doesn’t summon Helios … I hold him back!’

  She fell over sideways. Rather than dissipating, the cone of fire swirled even more furiously around her.

  ‘Run,’ I croaked. Then I yelled for all I was worth, ‘RUN NOW!’

  We were halfway back to the corridor when the parking lot behind us went supernova.

  19

  In my underclothes

  Slathered with grease. Really not

  As fun as it sounds

  I am not sure how we got out of the maze.

  Lacking any evidence to the contrary, I will credit my own courage and fortitude. Yes, that must have been it. Having escaped the worst of the Titan’s heat, I bravely supported Piper and Meg and exhorted them to keep going. Smoking and half conscious but still alive, we stumbled through the corridors, retracing our steps until we arrived at the freight elevator. With one last heroic burst of strength, I flipped the lever and we ascended.

  We spilled into the sunlight – regular sunlight, not the vicious zombie sunlight of a quasi-dead Titan – and collapsed on the sidewalk. Grover’s shocked face hovered over me.

  ‘Hot,’ I whimpered.

  Grover pulled out his panpipes. He began to play, and I lost consciousness.

  In my dreams, I found myself at a party in Ancient Rome. Caligula had just opened his newest palace at the base of the Palatine Hill, making a daring architectural statement by knocking out the back wall of the Temple of Castor and Pollux and using it as his front entrance. Since Caligula considered himself a god, he saw no problem with this, but the Roman elites were horrified. This was sacrilege akin to setting up a big-screen TV on a church altar and having a Super Bowl party with communion wine.

  That didn’t stop the crowd from attending the festivities. Some gods had even shown up (in disguise). How could we resist such an audacious, blasphemous party with free appetizers? Throngs of costumed revellers moved through vast torchlit halls. In every corner, musicians played songs from across the empire: Gaul, Hispania, Greece, Egypt.

  I myself was dressed as a gladiator. (Back then, with my godly physique, I could totally pull that off.) I mingled with senators who were disguised as slave girls, slave girls who were disguised as senators, a few unimaginative toga ghosts and a couple of enterprisin
g patricians who had crafted the world’s first two-man donkey costume.

  Personally, I did not mind the sacrilegious temple/palace. It wasn’t my temple, after all. And in those first years of the Roman Empire I found the Caesars refreshingly risqué. Besides, why should we gods punish our biggest benefactors?

  When the emperors expanded their power, they expanded our power. Rome had spread our influence across a huge part of the world. Now we Olympians were the gods of the empire! Move over, Horus. Forget about it, Marduk. The Olympians were in the ascendant!

  We weren’t about to mess with success just because the emperors got big-headed, especially when they modelled their arrogance on ours.

  I wandered the party incognito, enjoying being among all the pretty people, when he finally appeared: the young emperor himself, in a golden chariot pulled by his favourite white stallion, Incitatus.

  Flanked by praetorian guards – the only people not in costume – Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus was buck naked, painted in gold from head to foot, with a spiky crown of sun rays across his brow. He was pretending to be me, obviously. But when I saw him my first feeling wasn’t anger. It was admiration. This beautiful, shameless mortal pulled off the role perfectly.

  ‘I am the New Sun!’ he announced, beaming at the crowd as if his smile were responsible for all the warmth in the world. ‘I am Helios. I am Apollo. I am Caesar. You may now bask in my light!’

  Nervous applause from the crowd. Should they grovel? Should they laugh? It was always hard to tell with Caligula, and if you got it wrong you usually died.

  The emperor climbed down from his chariot. His horse was led to the hors d’oeuvres table while Caligula and his guards made their way through the crowd.

  Caligula stopped and shook hands with a senator dressed as a slave. ‘You look lovely, Cassius Agrippa! Will you be my slave, then?’

  The senator bowed. ‘I am your loyal servant, Caesar.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Caligula turned to his guards. ‘You heard the man. He is now my slave. Take him to my slave master. Confiscate all his property and money. Let his family go free, though. I’m feeling generous.’

  The senator spluttered, but he could not form the words to protest. Two guards hustled him away as Caligula called after him, ‘Thank you for your loyalty!’

  The crowd shifted like a herd of cattle in a thunderstorm. Those who had been surging forward, anxious to catch the emperor’s eye and perhaps win his favour, now tried their best to melt into the pack.

  ‘It’s a bad night,’ some whispered in warning to their colleagues. ‘He’s having a bad night.’

  ‘Marcus Philo!’ cried the emperor, cornering a poor young man who had been attempting to hide behind the two-man donkey. ‘Come out here, you scoundrel!’

  ‘Pr-Princeps,’ the man stuttered.

  ‘I loved the satire you wrote about me,’ Caligula said. ‘My guards found a copy of it in the Forum and brought it to my attention.’

  ‘S-sire,’ said Philo. ‘It was only a weak jest. I didn’t mean –’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Caligula smiled at the crowd. ‘Isn’t Philo great, everybody? Didn’t you like his work? The way he described me as a rabid dog?’

  The crowd was on the verge of full panic. The air was so full of electricity that I wondered if my father was there in disguise.

  ‘I promised that poets would be free to express themselves!’ Caligula announced. ‘No more paranoia like in old Tiberius’s reign. I admire your silver tongue, Philo. I think everyone should have a chance to admire it. I will reward you!’

  Philo gulped. ‘Thank you, lord.’

  ‘Guards,’ said Caligula, ‘take him away. Pull his tongue out, dip it in molten silver and display it in the Forum where everyone can admire it. Really, Philo – wonderful work!’

  Two praetorians hauled away the screaming poet.

  ‘And you there!’ Caligula called.

  Only then did I realize the crowd had ebbed around me, leaving me exposed. Suddenly, Caligula was in my face. His beautiful eyes narrowed as he studied my costume, my godly physique.

  ‘I don’t recognize you,’ he said.

  I wanted to speak. I knew that I had nothing to fear from Caesar. If it came to the worst, I could simply say, Bye! and vanish in a cloud of glitter. But, I have to admit, in Caligula’s presence, I was awestruck. The young man was wild, powerful, unpredictable. His audacity took my breath away.

  At last, I managed a bow. ‘I am a mere actor, Caesar.’

  ‘Oh, indeed!’ Caligula brightened. ‘And you play the gladiator. Would you fight to the death in my honour?’

  I silently reminded myself that I was immortal. It took a little convincing. I drew my gladiator’s sword, which was nothing but a costume blade of soft tin. ‘Point me to my opponent, Caesar!’ I scanned the audience and bellowed, ‘I will destroy anyone who threatens my lord!’

  To demonstrate, I lunged and poked the nearest praetorian guard in the chest. My sword bent against his breastplate. I held aloft my ridiculous weapon, which now resembled the letter Z.

  A dangerous silence followed. All eyes fixed on Caesar.

  Finally, Caligula laughed. ‘Well done!’ He patted my shoulder, then snapped his fingers. One of his servants shuffled forward and handed me a heavy pouch of gold coins.

  Caligula whispered in my ear, ‘I feel safer already.’

  The emperor moved on, leaving onlookers laughing with relief, some casting envious glances at me as if to ask, What is your secret?

  After that, I stayed away from Rome for decades. It was a rare man who could make a god nervous, but Caligula unsettled me. He almost made a better Apollo than I did.

  My dream changed. I saw Herophile again, the Sibyl of Erythraea, reaching out her shackled arms, her face lit red by the roiling lava below.

  ‘Apollo,’ she said, ‘it won’t seem worth it to you. I’m not sure it is myself. But you must come. You must hold them together in their grief.’

  I sank into the lava, Herophile still calling my name as my body broke and crumbled into ash.

  I woke up screaming, lying on top of a sleeping bag in the Cistern.

  Aloe Vera hovered over me, her prickly triangles of hair mostly snapped off, leaving her with a glistening buzz cut.

  ‘You’re okay,’ she assured me, putting her cool hand against my fevered forehead. ‘You’ve been through a lot, though.’

  I realized I was wearing only my underwear. My entire body was beet maroon, slathered in aloe. I couldn’t breathe through my nose. I touched my nostrils and discovered I had been fitted with small green aloe nose plugs.

  I sneezed them out.

  ‘My friends?’ I asked.

  Aloe moved aside. Behind her, Grover Underwood sat cross-legged between Piper’s and Meg’s sleeping bags, both girls fast asleep. Like me, they had been slathered with goo. It was a perfect opportunity to take a picture of Meg with green plugs sticking out of her nostrils, for blackmail purposes, but I was too relieved that she was alive. Also, I didn’t have a phone.

  ‘Will they be all right?’ I asked.

  ‘They were in worse shape than you,’ Grover said. ‘It was touch and go for a while, but they’ll pull through. I’ve been feeding them nectar and ambrosia.’

  Aloe smiled. ‘Also, my healing properties are legendary. Just wait. They’ll be up and walking around by dinner.’

  Dinner … I looked at the dark orange circle of sky above. Either it was late afternoon, or the wildfires were closer, or both.

  ‘Medea?’ I asked.

  Grover frowned. ‘Meg told me about the battle before she passed out, but I don’t know what happened to the sorceress. I never saw her.’

  I shivered in my aloe gel. I wanted to believe Medea had died in the fiery explosion, but I doubted we could be so lucky. Helios’s fire hadn’t seemed to bother her. Maybe she was naturally immune. Or maybe she had worked some protective magic on herself.

  ‘Your dryad friends?’ I asked. ‘Agave and Mone
y Maker?’

  Aloe and Grover exchanged a sorrowful look.

  ‘Agave might pull through,’ said Grover. ‘She went dormant as soon as we got her back to her plant. But Money Maker …’ He shook his head.

  I had barely met the dryad. Still, the news of her death hit me hard. I felt as if I were dropping green leaf-coins from my body, shedding essential pieces of myself.

  I thought about Herophile’s words in my dream: It won’t seem worth it to you. I’m not sure it is myself. But you must come. You must hold them together in their grief.

  I feared that Money Maker’s death was only one small part of the grief that awaited us.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  Aloe patted my greasy shoulder. ‘It isn’t your fault, Apollo. By the time you found her, she was too far gone. Unless you’d had …’

  She stopped herself, but I knew what she’d intended to say: Unless you’d had your godly healing powers. A lot would have been different if I’d been a god, not a pretender in this pathetic Lester Papadopoulos disguise.

  Grover touched the blowpipe at Piper’s side. The river-cane tube had been badly charred, pitted with burn holes that would probably make it unusable.

  ‘Something else you should know,’ he said. ‘When Agave and I carried Money Maker out of the maze? That big-eared guard, the guy with the white fur? He was gone.’

  I considered this. ‘You mean he died and disintegrated? Or he got up and walked away?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grover said. ‘Does either seem likely?’

  Neither did, but I decided we had bigger problems to think about.

  ‘Tonight,’ I said, ‘when Piper and Meg wake up, we need to have another meeting with your dryad friends. We’re going to put this Burning Maze out of business, once and for all.’

  20

  O Muse, let us now

  Sing in praise of botanists!

  They do plant stuff. Yay.