The Trials of Apollo, Book Three: The Burning Maze

by Rick Riordan

  At last we gave up searching and grabbed a table at a beachside café. The grilled fish tacos were worthy of an ode by the Muse Euterpe herself.

  “I don’t mind giving up,” I admitted, spooning some spicy seviche into my mouth, “if it comes with dinner.”

  “This is just a break,” Meg warned. “Don’t get comfortable.”

  I wished she hadn’t phrased that as an order. It made it difficult for me to sit still for the rest of my meal.

  We sat at the café, enjoying the breeze, the food, and the iced tea until the sun dipped to the horizon, turning the sky Camp Half-Blood orange. I allowed myself to hope that I’d been mistaken about Caligula’s presence. We’d come here in vain. Hooray! I was about to suggest heading back to the van, perhaps finding a hotel so I wouldn’t have to crash in a sleeping bag at the bottom of a desert well again, when Jason rose from our picnic-table bench.

  “There.” He pointed out to sea.

  The ship seemed to materialize from the sun’s glare, the way my sun chariot used to whenever I pulled into the Stables of Sunset at the end of a long day’s ride. The yacht was a gleaming white monstrosity with five decks above the waterline, its tinted black windows like elongated insect eyes. As with all big ships, it was difficult to judge its size from a distance, but the fact that it had two onboard helicopters, one aft and one forward, plus a small submarine locked in a crane on the starboard side, told me this was not an average pleasure craft. Perhaps there were bigger yachts in the mortal world, but I guessed not many.

  “That has to be it,” Piper said. “What now? You think it will dock?”

  “Hold on,” Meg said. “Look.”

  Another yacht, identical to the first, resolved out of the sunlight about a mile to the south.

  “That must be a mirage, right?” Jason asked uneasily. “Or a decoy?”

  Meg grunted in dismay, pointing out to sea yet again.

  A third yacht shimmered into existence, halfway between the first two.

  “This is crazy,” Piper said. “Each one of those boats has to cost millions.”

  “Half a billion,” I corrected. “Or more. Caligula was never shy about spending money. He is part of the Triumvirate. They’ve been accumulating wealth for centuries.”

  Another yacht popped onto the horizon as if coming out of sunshine warp, then another. Soon there were dozens—a loose armada strung across the mouth of the harbor like a string being fitted on a bow.

  “No way.” Piper rubbed her eyes. “This has to be an illusion.”

  “It’s not.” My heart sank. I’d seen this sort of display before.

  As we watched, the line of super-yachts maneuvered closer together, anchoring themselves stern to bow, forming a glittering, floating blockade from Sycamore Creek all the way to the marina—a mile long at least.

  “The Bridge of Boats,” I said. “He’s done it again.”

  “Again?” Meg asked.

  “Caligula—back in ancient times.” I tried to control the quavering in my voice. “When he was a boy, he received a prophecy. A Roman astrologer told him he had as much chance of becoming emperor as he did of riding a horse across the Bay of Baiae. In other words, it was impossible. But Caligula did become emperor. So he ordered the construction of a fleet of super-yachts”—I gestured feebly at the armada in front of us—“like this. He lined the boats up across the Bay of Baiae, forming a massive bridge. Then he rode across it on his horse. It was the biggest floating construction project ever attempted. Caligula couldn’t even swim. That didn’t faze him. He was determined to thumb his nose at fate.”

  Piper steepled her hands over her mouth. “The mortals have to see this, right? He can’t just cut off all boat traffic in and out of the harbor.”

  “Oh, the mortals notice,” I said. “Look.”

  Smaller boats began to gather around the yachts, like flies drawn to a sumptuous feast. I spotted two Coast Guard vessels, several local police boats, and dozens of inflatable dinghies with outboard motors, manned by dark-clad men with guns—the emperor’s private security, I guessed.

  “They’re helping,” Meg murmured, a hard edge to her voice. “Even Nero never…He paid off the police, had lots of mercenaries, but he never showed off this much.”

  Jason gripped the hilt of his gladius. “Where do we even start? How do we find Caligula in all of that?”

  I didn’t want to find Caligula at all. I wanted to run. The idea of death, permanent death with five whole letters and a d at the beginning, suddenly seemed very close. But I could feel my friends’ confidence wavering. They needed a plan, not a screaming, panicking Lester.

  I pointed toward the center of the floating bridge. “We start in the middle—the weakest point of a chain.”

  JASON Grace ruined that perfectly good line.

  As we tromped toward the surf, he sidled up next to me and murmured, “It’s not true, you know. The middle of a chain has the same tensile strength as everywhere else, assuming force is applied equally along the links.”

  I sighed. “Are you making up for missing your physics lecture? You know what I meant!”

  “I actually don’t,” he said. “Why attack in the middle?”

  “Because…I don’t know!” I said. “They won’t be expecting it?”

  Meg stopped at the water’s edge. “Looks like they’re expecting anything.”

  She was right. As the sunset faded to purple, the yachts lit up like giant Fabergé eggs. Spotlights swept the sky and sea as if advertising the biggest waterbed-mattress sale in history. Dozens of small patrol boats crisscrossed the harbor, just in case any Santa Barbara locals (Santa Barbarians?) had the nerve to try using their own coast.

  I wondered if Caligula always had this much security, or if he was expecting us. By now he certainly knew we’d blown up Macro’s Military Madness. He’d also probably heard about our fight with Medea in the maze, assuming the sorceress had survived.

  Caligula also had the Sibyl of Erythraea, which meant he had access to the same information Herophile had given Jason. The Sibyl might not want to help an evil emperor who kept her in molten shackles, but she couldn’t refuse any earnest petitioner posing direct questions. Such was the nature of oracular magic. I imagined the best she could do was give her answers in the form of really difficult crossword-puzzle clues.

  Jason studied the sweep of the searchlights. “I could fly you guys over, one at a time. Maybe they won’t see us.”

  “I think we should avoid flying, if possible,” I said. “And we should find a way over there before it gets much darker.”

  Piper pushed her windblown hair from her face. “Why? Darkness gives us better cover.”

  “Strixes,” I said. “They become active about an hour after sundown.”

  “Strixes?” Piper asked.

  I recounted our experience with the birds of doom in the Labyrinth. Meg offered helpful editorial comments like yuck, uh-huh, and Apollo’s fault.

  Piper shuddered. “In Cherokee stories, owls are bad news. They tend to be evil spirits or spying medicine men. If these strixes are like giant bloodsucking owls…yeah, let’s not meet them.”

  “Agreed,” Jason said. “But how do we get to the ships?”

  Piper stepped into the waves. “Maybe we ask for a lift.”

  She raised her arms and waved at the nearest dinghy, about fifty yards out, as it swept its light across the beach.

  “Uh, Piper?” Jason asked.

  Meg summoned her swords. “It’s fine. When they get close, I’ll take them out.”

  I stared at my young master. “Meg, those are mortals. First of all, your swords will not work on them. Second, they don’t understand whom they’re working for. We can’t—”

  “They’re working for the B—the bad man,” she said. “Caligula.”

  I noticed her slip of the tongue. I had a feeling she’d been about to say: working for the Beast.

  She put away her blades, but her voice remained cold and determined. I
had a sudden horrible image of McCaffrey the Avenger assaulting the boat with nothing but her fists and packets of gardening seeds.

  Jason looked at me as if to ask Do you need to tie her down, or should I?

  The dinghy veered toward us. Aboard sat three men in dark fatigues, Kevlar vests, and riot helmets. One in back operated the outboard motor. One in front manned the searchlight. The one in the middle, no doubt the friendliest, had an assault rifle propped on his knee.

  Piper waved and smiled at them. “Meg, don’t attack. I’ve got this. All of you, give me some space to work, please. I can charm these guys better if you’re not glowering behind me.”

  This was not a difficult request. The three of us backed away, though Jason and I had to drag Meg.

  “Hello!” Piper called as the boat came closer. “Don’t shoot! We’re friendly!”

  The boat ran aground with such speed I thought it might keep driving right onto Cabrillo Boulevard. Mr. Searchlight jumped out first, surprisingly agile for a guy in body armor. Mr. Assault Rifle followed, providing cover while Mr. Engine cut the outboard motor.

  Searchlight sized us up, his hand on his sidearm. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Piper!” said Piper. “You don’t need to call this in. And you definitely don’t need to train that rifle on us!”

  Searchlight’s face contorted. He started to match Piper’s smile, then seemed to remember that his job required him to glower. Assault Rifle did not lower his gun. Engine reached for his walkie-talkie.

  “IDs,” barked Searchlight. “All of you.”

  Next to me, Meg tensed, ready to become McCaffrey the Avenger. Jason tried to look inconspicuous, but his dress shirt crackled with static electricity.

  “Sure!” Piper agreed. “Although I have a much better idea. I’m just going to reach in my pocket, okay? Don’t get excited.”

  She pulled out a wad of cash—maybe a hundred dollars total. For all I knew, it represented the last of the McLean fortune.

  “My friends and I were talking,” Piper continued, “about how hard you guys work, how difficult it must be patrolling the harbor! We were sitting over there at that café, eating these incredible fish tacos, and we thought, Hey, those guys deserve a break. We should buy them dinner!”

  Searchlight’s eyes seemed to become unmoored from his brain. “Dinner break…?”

  “Absolutely!” Piper said. “You can put down that heavy gun, toss that walkie-talkie away. Heck, you can just leave everything with us. We’ll watch it while you eat. Grilled snapper, homemade corn tortillas, seviche salsa.” She glanced back at us. “Amazing food, right, guys?”

  We mumbled our assent.

  “Yum,” Meg said. She excelled at one-syllable answers.

  Assault Rifle lowered his gun. “I could use some fish tacos.”

  “We’ve been working hard,” Engine agreed. “We deserve a dinner break.”

  “Exactly!” Piper pressed the money into Searchlight’s hand. “Our treat. Thank you for your service!”

  Searchlight stared at the wad of cash. “But we’re really not supposed to—”

  “Eat with all that gear on?” Piper suggested. “You’re absolutely right. Just throw it all in the boat—the Kevlar, the guns, your cell phones. That’s right. Get comfortable!”

  It took several more minutes of cajoling and lighthearted banter, but finally the three mercenaries had stripped down to just their commando pajamas. They thanked Piper, gave her a hug for good measure, then jogged off to assault the beachside café.

  As soon as they were gone, Piper stumbled into Jason’s arms.

  “Whoa, you okay?” he asked.

  “F-fine.” She pushed away awkwardly. “Just harder charming a whole group. I’ll be okay.”

  “That was impressive,” I said. “Aphrodite herself could not have done better.”

  Piper didn’t look pleased by my comparison. “We should hurry. The charm won’t last.”

  Meg grunted. “Still would’ve been easier to kill—”

  “Meg,” I chided.

  “—to beat them unconscious,” she amended.

  “Right.” Jason cleared his throat. “Everybody in the boat!”

  We were thirty yards offshore when we heard the mercenaries shouting, “Hey! Stop!” They ran into the surf, holding half-eaten fish tacos and looking confused.

  Fortunately, Piper had taken all their weapons and communications devices.

  She gave them a friendly wave and Jason gunned the outboard motor.

  Jason, Meg, and I rushed to put on the guards’ Kevlar vests and helmets. This left Piper in civilian clothes, but since she was the only one capable of bluffing her way through a confrontation, she let us have all the fun playing dress-up.

  Jason made a perfect mercenary. Meg looked ridiculous—a little girl swimming in her father’s Kevlar. I didn’t look much better. The body armor chafed around my middle. (Curse you, un-combat-worthy love handles!) The riot helmet was as hot as an Easy-Bake oven, and the visor kept falling down, perhaps anxious to hide my acne-riddled face.

  We tossed the guns overboard. That may sound foolish, but as I’ve said, firearms are fickle weapons in the hands of demigods. They would work on mortals, but no matter what Meg said, I didn’t want to go around mowing down regular humans.

  I had to believe that if these mercenaries truly understood whom they were serving, they too would throw down their arms. Surely humans would not blindly follow such an evil man of their own free will—I mean, except for the few hundred exceptions I could think of from human history….But not Caligula!

  As we approached the yachts, Jason slowed, matching our speed to that of the other patrol vessels.

  He angled toward the nearest yacht. Up close, it towered above us like a white steel fortress. Purple and gold running lights glowed just below the water’s surface so the vessel seemed to float on an ethereal cloud of Imperial Roman power. Painted along the prow of the ship, in black letters taller than me, was the name IVLIA DRVSILLA XXVI.

  “Julia Drusilla the Twenty-Sixth,” Piper said. “Was she an empress?”

  “No,” I said, “the emperor’s favorite sister.”

  My chest tightened as I remembered that poor girl—so pretty, so agreeable, so incredibly out of her depth. Her brother Caligula had doted on her, idolized her. When he became emperor, he insisted she share his every meal, witness his every depraved spectacle, partake in all his violent revels. She had died at twenty-two—crushed by the suffocating love of a sociopath.

  “She was probably the only person Caligula ever cared about,” I said. “But why this boat is numbered twenty-six, I don’t know.”

  “Because that one is twenty-five.” Meg pointed to the next ship in line, its stern resting a few feet from our prow. Sure enough, painted across the back was IVLIA DRVSILLA XXV.

  “I bet the one behind us is number twenty-seven.”

  “Fifty super-yachts,” I mused, “all named for Julia Drusilla. Yes, that sounds like Caligula.”

  Jason scanned the side of the hull. There were no ladders, no hatches, no conveniently labeled red buttons: PRESS HERE FOR CALIGULA’S SHOES!

  We didn’t have much time. We had made it inside the perimeter of patrol vessels and searchlights, but each yacht surely had security cameras. It wouldn’t be long before someone wondered why our little dinghy was floating beside XXVI. Also, the mercenaries we’d left on the beach would be doing their best to attract their comrades’ attention. Then there were the flocks of strixes that I imagined would be waking up any minute, hungry and alert for any sign of disembowel-able intruders.

  “I’ll fly you guys up,” Jason decided. “One at a time.”

  “Me first,” Piper said. “In case someone needs charming.”

  Jason turned and let Piper lock her arms around his neck, as if they’d done this countless times before. The winds kicked up around the dinghy, ruffling my hair, and Jason and Piper floated up the side of the yacht.

  Oh, how I en
vied Jason Grace! Such a simple thing it was to ride the winds. As a god, I could have done it with half my manifestations tied behind my back. Now, stuck in my pathetic body complete with love handles, I could only dream of such freedom.

  “Hey.” Meg nudged me. “Focus.”

  I gave her an indignant harrumph. “I am pure focus. I might, however, ask where your head is.”

  She scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “Your rage,” I said. “The number of times you’ve talked about killing Caligula. Your willingness to…beat his mercenaries unconscious.”

  “They’re the enemy.”

  Her tone was as sharp as scimitars, giving me fair warning that if I continued with this topic, she might add my name to her Beat Unconscious list.

  I decided to take a lesson from Jason—to navigate toward my target at a slower, less direct angle.

  “Meg, have I ever told you about the first time I became mortal?”

  She peered from under the rim of her ridiculously large helmet. “You messed up or something?”

  “I…Yes. I messed up. My father, Zeus, killed one of my favorite sons, Asclepius, for bringing people back from the dead without permission. Long story. The point is…I was furious with Zeus, but he was too powerful and scary for me to fight. He would’ve vaporized me. So I took my revenge out in another way.”

  I peered at the top of the hull. I saw no sign of Jason or Piper. Hopefully that meant they had found Caligula’s shoes and were just waiting for a clerk to bring them a pair in the right size.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “I couldn’t kill Zeus. So I found the guys who had made his lightning bolts, the Cyclopes. I killed them in revenge for Asclepius. As punishment, Zeus made me mortal.”

  Meg kicked me in the shin.

  “Ow!” I yelped. “What was that for?”

  “For being dumb,” she said. “Killing the Cyclopes was dumb.”

  I wanted to protest that this had happened thousands of years ago, but I feared it might just earn me another kick.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It was dumb. But my point is…I was projecting my anger onto someone else, someone safer. I think you might be doing the same thing now, Meg. You’re raging at Caligula because it’s safer than raging at your stepfather.”