by Rick Riordan
“So what do we do?” asked Mellie. “I don’t want my son growing up in a burning wasteland.”
Meg took off her glasses. “We kill Caligula.”
It was jarring, hearing a twelve-year-old girl speak so matter-of-factly about assassination. Even more jarring, I was tempted to agree with her.
“Meg,” I said, “that may not be possible. You remember Commodus. He was the weakest of the three emperors, and the best we could do was force him out of Indianapolis. Caligula will be much more powerful, more deeply entrenched.”
“Don’t care,” she muttered. “He hurt my dad. He did…all this.” She gestured around at the old cistern.
“What do you mean all this?” Joshua asked.
Meg shot a look at me as if to say Your turn.
Once again, I explained what I had seen in Meg’s memories—Aeithales as it had once been, the legal and financial pressure Caligula must have used to shut down Phillip McCaffrey’s work, the way Meg and her father had been forced to flee just before the house was firebombed.
Joshua frowned. “I remember a saguaro named Hercules from the first greenhouse. One of the few who survived the house fire. Old, tough dryad, always in pain from his burns, but he kept clinging to life. He used to talk about a little girl who lived in the house. He said he was waiting for her to return.” Joshua turned to Meg in amazement. “That was you?”
Meg brushed a tear from her cheek. “He didn’t make it?”
Josh shook his head. “He died a few years ago. I’m sorry.”
Agave took Meg’s hand. “Your father was a great hero,” she said. “Clearly, he was doing his best to help plants.”
“He was a…botanist,” Meg said, pronouncing the word as if she’d just remembered it.
The dryads lowered their heads. Hedge and Grover removed their hats.
“I wonder what your dad’s big project was,” Piper said, “with those glowing seeds. What did Medea call you…a descendant of Plemnaeus?”
The dryads let out a collective gasp.
“Plemnaeus?” asked Reba. “The Plemnaeus? Even in Argentina, we know of him!”
I stared at her. “You do?”
Prickly Pear snorted. “Oh, come on, Apollo! You’re a god. Surely you know of the great hero Plemnaeus!”
“Um…” I was tempted to blame my faulty mortal memory, but I was pretty sure I had never heard the name, even when I was a god. “What monster did he slay?”
Aloe edged away from me, as if she did not want to be in the line of fire when the other dryads shot their spines at me.
“Apollo,” Reba chided, “a healer god should know better.”
“Er, of course,” I agreed. “But, um, who exactly—?”
“Typical,” Pear muttered. “The killers are remembered as heroes. The growers are forgotten. Except by us nature spirits.”
“Plemnaeus was a Greek king,” Agave explained. “A noble man, but his children were born under a curse. If any of them cried even once during their infancy, they would die instantly.”
I wasn’t sure how that made Plemnaeus noble, but I nodded politely. “What happened?”
“He appealed to Demeter,” said Joshua. “The goddess herself raised his next son, Orthopolis, so that he would live. In gratitude, Plemnaeus built a temple to Demeter. Ever since, his offspring have dedicated themselves to Demeter’s work. They have always been great agriculturalists and botanists.”
Agave squeezed Meg’s hand. “I understand now why your father was able to build Aeithales. His work must have been special indeed. Not only did he come from a long line of Demeter’s heroes, he attracted the personal attention of the goddess, your mother. We are honored that you’ve come home.”
“Home,” agreed Prickly Pear.
“Home,” Joshua echoed.
Meg blinked back tears.
This seemed like an excellent time for a song circle. I imagined the dryads putting their spiky arms around one another and swaying as they sang “In the Garden.” I was even willing to provide ukulele music.
Coach Hedge brought us back to harsh reality.
“That’s great.” He gave Meg a respectful nod. “Kid, your dad must have been something. But unless he was growing some kind of secret weapon, I don’t know how it helps us. We’ve still got an emperor to kill and a maze to destroy.”
“Gleeson…” Mellie chided.
“Hey, am I wrong?”
No one challenged him.
Grover stared disconsolately at his hooves. “What do we do, then?”
“We stick to the plan,” I said. The certainty in my voice seemed to surprise everyone. It definitely surprised me. “We find the Sibyl of Erythraea. She’s more than just bait. She’s the key to everything. I’m sure of it.”
Piper cradled Baby Chuck as he grabbed for her harpy feather. “Apollo, we tried navigating the maze. You saw what happened.”
“Jason Grace made it through,” I said. “He found the Oracle.”
Piper’s expression darkened. “Maybe. But even if you believe Medea, Jason only found the Oracle because Medea wanted him to.”
“She mentioned there was another way to navigate the maze,” I said. “The emperor’s shoes. Apparently, they let Caligula walk through safely. We need those shoes. That’s what the prophecy meant: walk the path in thine own enemy’s boots.”
Meg wiped her nose. “So you’re saying we need to find Caligula’s place and steal his shoes. While we’re there, can’t we just kill him?”
She asked this casually, like Can we stop by Target on the way home?
Hedge wagged his finger at McCaffrey. “See, now that’s a plan. I like this girl.”
“Friends,” I said, wishing I had some of Piper’s charmspeaking skills, “Caligula’s been alive for thousands of years. He’s a minor god. We don’t know how to kill him so he stays dead. We also don’t know how to destroy the maze, and we certainly don’t want to make things worse by unleashing all that godly heat into the upper world. Our priority has to be the Sibyl.”
“Because it’s your priority?” Pear grumbled.
I resisted the urge to yell Duh!
“Either way,” I said, “to learn the emperor’s location, we need to consult Jason Grace. Medea told us the Oracle gave him information on how to find Caligula. Piper, will you take us to Jason?”
Piper frowned. Baby Chuck had her finger in his tiny fist and was moving it dangerously close to his mouth.
“Jason’s living at a boarding school in Pasadena,” she said at last. “I don’t know if he’ll listen to me. I don’t know if he’ll help. But we can try. My friend Annabeth always says information is the most powerful weapon.”
Grover nodded. “I never argue with Annabeth.”
“It’s settled, then,” I said. “Tomorrow we continue our quest by busting Jason Grace out of school.”
I slept poorly.
Are you shocked? I was shocked.
I dreamed of my most famous Oracle, Delphi, though alas, it was not during the good old days when I would have been welcomed with flowers, kisses, candy, and my usual VIP table at Chez Oracle.
Instead, it was modern Delphi—devoid of priests and worshippers, filled instead with the hideous stench of Python, my old enemy, who had reclaimed his ancient lair. His rotten-egg/rancid-meat smell was impossible to forget.
I stood deep in the caverns, where no mortal ever trod. In the distance, two voices conversed, their bodies lost in the swirling volcanic vapors.
“It’s under control,” said the first, in the high nasal tones of Emperor Nero.
The second speaker growled, a sound like a chain pulling an ancient roller coaster uphill.
“Very little has been under control since Apollo fell to earth,” said Python.
His cold voice sent ripples of revulsion through my body. I couldn’t see him, but I could imagine his baleful amber eyes flecked with gold, his enormous dragon form, his wicked claws.
“You have a great opportunity,”
Python continued. “Apollo is weak. He is mortal. He is accompanied by your own stepdaughter. How is it that he is not yet dead?”
Nero’s voice tightened. “We had a difference of opinion, my colleagues and I. Commodus—”
“Is a fool,” Python hissed, “who only cares about spectacle. We both know that. And your great-uncle, Caligula?”
Nero hesitated. “He insisted…He has need of Apollo’s power. He wants the former god to meet his fate in a very, ah, particular way.”
Python’s massive bulk shifted in the darkness—I heard his scales rubbing against the stone. “I know Caligula’s plan. I wonder who is controlling whom? You have assured me—”
“Yes,” Nero snapped. “Meg McCaffrey will come back to me. She will serve me yet. Apollo will die, as I promised.”
“If Caligula succeeds,” Python mused, “then the balance of power will change. I would prefer to back you, of course, but if a new sun god rises in the west—”
“You and I have a deal,” Nero snarled. “You support me once the Triumvirate controls—”
“—all means of prophecy,” Python agreed. “But it does not as yet. You lost Dodona to the Greek demigods. The Cave of Trophonius has been destroyed. I understand the Romans have been alerted to Caligula’s plans for Camp Jupiter. I have no wish to rule the world alone. But if you fail me, if I have to kill Apollo myself—”
“I will hold up my side of the bargain,” Nero said. “You hold up yours.”
Python rasped in an evil approximation of a laugh. “We will see. The next few days should be very instructive.”
I woke with a gasp.
I found myself alone and shivering in the Cistern. Piper’s and Meg’s sleeping bags were empty. Above, the sky shone a brilliant blue. I wanted to believe this meant the wildfires had been brought under control. More likely it meant the winds had simply shifted.
My skin had healed overnight, though I still felt like I’d been dipped in liquid aluminum. With a minimum of grimacing and yelping, I managed to get dressed, get my bow, quiver, and ukulele, and climb the ramp to the hillside.
I spotted Piper at the base of the hill, talking with Grover at the Bedrossian-mobile. I scanned the ruins and saw Meg crouching by the first collapsed greenhouse.
Thinking of my dream, I burned with anger. Had I still been a god, I would have roared my displeasure and cracked a new Grand Canyon across the desert. As it was, I could only clench my fists until my nails cut my palms.
It was bad enough that a trio of evil emperors wanted my Oracles, my life, my very essence. It was bad enough that my ancient enemy Python had retaken Delphi and was waiting for my death. But the idea of Nero using Meg as a pawn in this game…No. I told myself I would never let Nero get Meg in his clutches again. My young friend was strong. She was striving to break free of her stepfather’s vile influence. She and I had been through too much together for her to go back.
Still, Nero’s words unsettled me: Meg McCaffrey will come back to me. She will serve me yet.
I wondered…if my own father, Zeus, appeared to me just then and offered me a way back to Olympus, what price would I be willing to pay? Would I leave Meg to her fate? Would I abandon the demigods and satyrs and dryads who had become my comrades? Would I forget about all the terrible things Zeus had done to me over the centuries and swallow my pride, just so I could regain my place in Olympus, knowing full well I would still be under Zeus’s thumb?
I tamped down those questions. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answers.
I joined Meg at the collapsed greenhouse. “Good morning.”
She did not look up. She’d been digging through the wreckage. Half-melted polycarbonate walls had been turned over and tossed aside. Her hands were dirty from clawing at the soil. Near her sat a grimy glass peanut butter jar, the rusty lid removed and lying next to it. Cupped in her palm were some greenish pebbles.
I sucked in my breath.
No, they weren’t pebbles. In Meg’s hand lay seven coin-size hexagons—green seeds exactly like the ones in the memories she’d shared.
“How?” I asked.
She glanced up. She wore teal camouflage today, which made her look like an entirely different dangerous and scary little girl. Someone had cleaned her glasses (Meg never did), so I could see her eyes. They glinted as hard and clear as the rhinestones in her frames.
“The seeds were buried,” she said. “I…had a dream about them. The saguaro Hercules did it, put them in that jar right before he died. He was saving the seeds…for me, for when it was time.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Congratulations. What nice seeds. Honestly, I didn’t know much about how plants grew. I did notice, however, that the seeds weren’t glowing as they had in Meg’s memories.
“Do you think they’re still, uh, good?” I asked.
“Going to find out,” she said. “Going to plant them.”
I looked around at the desert hillside. “You mean here? Now?”
“Yep. It’s time.”
How could she know that? I also didn’t see how planting a few seeds would make a difference when Caligula’s maze was causing half of California to burn.
On the other hand, we were off on another quest today, hoping to find Caligula’s palace, with no guarantee we would come back alive. I supposed there was no time like the present. And if it made Meg feel better, why not?
“How can I help?” I asked.
“Poke holes.” Then she added, as if I might need extra guidance, “In the dirt.”
I accomplished this with an arrow tip, making seven small impressions in the barren, rocky soil. I couldn’t help thinking that these seed holes didn’t look like very comfortable places to grow.
While Meg placed her green hexagons in their new homes, she directed me to get water from the Cistern’s well.
“It has to be from there,” she warned. “A big cupful.”
A few minutes later I returned with a Big Hombre–size plastic cup from Enchiladas del Rey. Meg drizzled the water over her newly planted friends.
I waited for something dramatic to happen. In Meg’s presence, I’d gotten used to chia seed explosions, demon peach babies, and instant walls of strawberries.
The dirt did not move.
“Guess we wait,” Meg said.
She hugged her knees and scanned the horizon.
The morning sun blazed in the east. It had risen today, as always, but no thanks to me. It didn’t care if I was driving the sun chariot, or if Helios was raging in the tunnels under Los Angeles. No matter what humans believed, the cosmos kept turning, and the sun stayed on course. Under different circumstances, I would have found that reassuring. Now I found the sun’s indifference both cruel and insulting. In only a few days, Caligula might become a solar deity. Under such villainous leadership, you might think the sun would refuse to rise or set. But shockingly, disgustingly, day and night would continue as they always had.
“Where is she?” Meg asked.
I blinked. “Who?”
“If my family is so important to her, thousands of years of blessings, or whatever, why hasn’t she ever…?”
She waved at the vast desert, as if to say So much real estate, so little Demeter.
She was asking why her mother had never appeared to her, why Demeter had allowed Caligula to destroy her father’s work, why she’d let Nero raise her in his poisonous imperial household in New York.
I couldn’t answer Meg’s questions. Or rather, as a former god, I could think of several possible answers, but none that would make Meg feel better: Demeter was too busy watching the crop situation in Tanzania. Demeter got distracted inventing new breakfast cereals. Demeter forgot you existed.
“I don’t know, Meg,” I admitted. “But this…” I pointed at the seven tiny wet circles in the dirt. “This is the sort of thing your mother would be proud of. Growing plants in an impossible place. Stubbornly insisting on creating life. It’s ridiculously optimistic. Demeter would approve.”
“Let’s go,” she decided. “Maybe the seeds will sprout while we’re gone.”
The three of us piled into the Bedrossian-mobile: Meg, Piper, and me.
Grover had decided to stay behind—supposedly to rally the demoralized dryads, but I think he was simply exhausted from his series of near-death excursions with Meg and me. Coach Hedge volunteered to accompany us, but Mellie quickly un-volunteered him. As for the dryads, none seemed anxious to be our plant shields after what had happened to Money Maker and Agave. I couldn’t blame them.
At least Piper agreed to drive. If we got pulled over for possession of a stolen vehicle, she could charmspeak her way out of being arrested. With my luck, I would spend all day in jail, and Lester’s face would not look good in a mug shot.
We retraced our route from yesterday—the same heat-blasted terrain, the same smoke-stained skies, the same clogged traffic. Living the California dream.
None of us felt much like talking. Piper kept her eyes fixed on the road, probably thinking about a reunion she did not want with an ex-boyfriend she had left on awkward terms. (Oh, boy, I could relate.)
Meg traced the swirls on her teal camo pants. I imagined she was reflecting on her father’s final botany project and why Caligula had found it so threatening. It seemed unbelievable that Meg’s entire life had been altered by seven green seeds. Then again, she was a child of Demeter. With the goddess of plants, insignificant-looking things could be very significant.
The smallest seedlings, Demeter often told me, grow into century oaks.
As for me, I had no shortage of problems to think about.
Python awaited. I knew instinctively that I would have to face him one day. If by some miracle I survived the emperors’ various plots on my life, if I defeated the Triumvirate and freed the four other Oracles and single-handedly set everything right in the mortal world, I would still have to find a way to wrest control of Delphi from my most ancient enemy. Only then might Zeus let me become a god again. Because Zeus was just that awesome. Thanks, Dad.
In the meantime, I had to deal with Caligula. I would have to foil his plan to make me the secret ingredient in his sun-god soup. And I would have to do this while having no godly powers at my disposal. My archery skills had deteriorated. My singing and playing weren’t worth olive pits. Divine strength? Charisma? Light? Fire power? All gauges read EMPTY.
