by Rick Riordan
Annabeth didn’t know where the harpy had come from, but her heart warmed to see Tyson in his tattered flannel and denim with the backward SPQR banner across his chest. She’d had some pretty bad experiences with Cyclopes, but Tyson was a sweetheart. He was also Percy’s half brother (long story), which made him almost like family.
Tyson stopped by their couch and wrung his meaty hands. His big brown eye was full of concern. “Ella is scared,” he said.
“N-n-no more boats,” the harpy muttered to herself, picking furiously at her feathers. “Titanic, Lusitania, Pax…boats are not for harpies.”
Leo squinted. He looked at Hazel, who was seated next to him. “Did that chicken girl just compare my ship to the Titanic?”
“She’s not a chicken.” Hazel averted her eyes, as if Leo made her nervous. “Ella’s a harpy. She’s just a little…high-strung.”
“Ella is pretty,” Tyson said. “And scared. We need to take her away, but she will not go on the ship.”
“No ships,” Ella repeated. She looked straight at Annabeth. “Bad luck. There she is. Wisdom’s daughter walks alone—”
“Ella!” Frank stood suddenly. “Maybe it’s not the best time—”
“The Mark of Athena burns through Rome,” Ella continued, cupping her hands over her ears and raising her voice. “Twins snuff out the angel’s breath, Who holds the key to endless death. Giants’ bane stands gold and pale, Won through pain from a woven jail.”
The effect was like someone dropping a flash grenade on the table. Everyone stared at the harpy. No one spoke. Annabeth’s heart was pounding. The Mark of Athena…She resisted the urge to check her pocket, but she could feel the silver coin growing warmer—the cursed gift from her mother. Follow the Mark of Athena. Avenge me.
Around them, the sounds of the feast continued, but muted and distant, as if their little cluster of couches had slipped into a quieter dimension.
Percy was the first to recover. He stood and took Tyson’s arm.
“I know!” he said with feigned enthusiasm. “How about you take Ella to get some fresh air? You and Mrs. O’Leary—”
“Hold on.” Octavian gripped one of his teddy bears, strangling it with shaking hands. His eyes fixed on Ella. “What was that she said? It sounded like—”
“Ella reads a lot,” Frank blurted out. “We found her at a library.”
“Yes!” Hazel said. “Probably just something she read in a book.”
“Books,” Ella muttered helpfully. “Ella likes books.”
Now that she’d said her piece, the harpy seemed more relaxed. She sat cross-legged on Mrs. O’Leary’s back, preening her wings.
Annabeth gave Percy a curious glance. Obviously, he and Frank and Hazel were hiding something. Just as obviously, Ella had recited a prophecy—a prophecy that concerned her.
Percy’s expression said, Help.
“That was a prophecy,” Octavian insisted. “It sounded like a prophecy.”
No one answered.
Annabeth wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but she understood that Percy was on the verge of big trouble.
She forced a laugh. “Really, Octavian? Maybe harpies are different here, on the Roman side. Ours have just enough intelligence to clean cabins and cook lunches. Do yours usually foretell the future? Do you consult them for your auguries?”
Her words had the intended effect. The Roman officers laughed nervously. Some sized up Ella, then looked at Octavian and snorted. The idea of a chicken lady issuing prophecies was apparently just as ridiculous to Romans as it was to Greeks.
“I, uh…” Octavian dropped his teddy bear. “No, but—”
“She’s just spouting lines from some book,” Annabeth said, “like Hazel suggested. Besides, we already have a real prophecy to worry about.”
She turned to Tyson. “Percy’s right. Why don’t you take Ella and Mrs. O’Leary and shadow-travel somewhere for a while. Is Ella okay with that?”
“‘Large dogs are good,’” Ella said. “Old Yeller, 1957, screenplay by Fred Gipson and William Tunberg.”
Annabeth wasn’t sure how to take that answer, but Percy smiled like the problem was solved.
“Great!” Percy said. “We’ll Iris-message you guys when we’re done and catch up with you later.”
The Romans looked at Reyna, waiting for her ruling. Annabeth held her breath.
Reyna had an excellent poker face. She studied Ella, but Annabeth couldn’t guess what she was thinking.
“Fine,” the praetor said at last. “Go.”
“Yay!” Tyson went around the couches and gave everyone a big hug—even Octavian, who didn’t look happy about it. Then he climbed on Mrs. O’Leary’s back with Ella, and the hellhound bounded out of the forum. They dove straight into a shadow on the Senate House wall and disappeared.
“Well.” Reyna set down her uneaten apple. “Octavian is right about one thing. We must gain the senate’s approval before we let any of our legionnaires go on a quest—especially one as dangerous as you’re suggesting.”
“This whole thing smells of treachery,” Octavian grumbled. “That trireme is not a ship of peace!”
“Come aboard, man,” Leo offered. “I’ll give you a tour. You can steer the boat, and if you’re really good I’ll give you a little paper captain’s hat to wear.”
Octavian’s nostrils flared. “How dare you—”
“It’s a good idea,” Reyna said. “Octavian, go with him. See the ship. We’ll convene a senate meeting in one hour.”
“But…” Octavian stopped. Apparently he could tell from Reyna’s expression that further arguing would not be good for his health. “Fine.”
Leo got up. He turned to Annabeth, and his smile changed. It happened so quickly, Annabeth thought she’d imagined it; but just for a moment someone else seemed to be standing in Leo’s place, smiling coldly with a cruel light in his eyes. Then Annabeth blinked, and Leo was just regular old Leo again, with his usual impish grin.
“Back soon,” he promised. “This is gonna be epic.”
A horrible chill settled over her. As Leo and Octavian headed for the rope ladder, she thought about calling them back—but how could she explain that? Tell everyone she was going crazy, seeing things and feeling cold?
The wind spirits began clearing the plates.
“Uh, Reyna,” Jason said, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to show Piper around before the senate meeting. She’s never seen New Rome.”
Reyna’s expression hardened.
Annabeth wondered how Jason could be so dense. Was it possible he really didn’t understand how much Reyna liked him? It was obvious enough to Annabeth. Asking to show his new girlfriend around Reyna’s city was rubbing salt in a wound.
“Of course,” Reyna said coldly.
Percy took Annabeth’s hand. “Yeah, me, too. I’d like to show Annabeth—”
“No,” Reyna snapped.
Percy knit his eyebrows. “Sorry?”
“I’d like a few words with Annabeth,” Reyna said. “Alone. If you don’t mind, my fellow praetor.”
Her tone made it clear she wasn’t really asking permission.
The chill spread down Annabeth’s back. She wondered what Reyna was up to. Maybe the praetor didn’t like the idea of two guys who had rejected her giving their girlfriends tours of her city. Or maybe there was something she wanted to say in private. Either way, Annabeth was reluctant to be alone and unarmed with the Roman leader.
“Come, daughter of Athena.” Reyna rose from her couch. “Walk with me.”
A NNABETH WANTED TO HATE N EW R OME. But as an aspiring architect, she couldn’t help admiring the terraced gardens, the fountains and temples, the winding cobblestone streets and gleaming white villas. After the Titan War last summer, she’d gotten her dream job of redesigning the palaces of Mount Olympus. Now, walking through this miniature city, she kept thinking, I should have made a dome like that. I love the way those columns lead into that courtyard. Whoever designed New Ro
me had clearly poured a lot of time and love into the project.
“We have the best architects and builders in the world,” Reyna said, as if reading her thoughts. “Rome always did, in the ancient times. Many demigods stay on to live here after their time in the legion. They go to our university. They settle down to raise families. Percy seemed interested in this fact.”
Annabeth wondered what that meant. She must have scowled more fiercely than she realized, because Reyna laughed.
“You’re a warrior, all right,” the praetor said. “You’ve got fire in your eyes.”
“Sorry.” Annabeth tried to tone down the glare.
“Don’t be. I’m the daughter of Bellona.”
“Roman goddess of war?”
Reyna nodded. She turned and whistled like she was hailing a cab. A moment later, two metal dogs raced toward them—automaton greyhounds, one silver and one gold. They brushed against Reyna’s legs and regarded Annabeth with glistening ruby eyes.
“My pets,” Reyna explained. “Aurum and Argentum. You don’t mind if they walk with us?”
Again, Annabeth got the feeling it wasn’t really a request. She noted that the greyhounds had teeth like steel arrowheads. Maybe weapons weren’t allowed inside the city, but Reyna’s pets could still tear her to pieces if they chose.
Reyna led her to an outdoor café, where the waiter clearly knew her. He smiled and handed her a to-go cup, then offered one to Annabeth.
“Would you like some?” Reyna asked. “They make wonderful hot chocolate. Not really a Roman drink—”
“But chocolate is universal,” Annabeth said.
“Exactly.”
It was a warm June afternoon, but Annabeth accepted the cup with thanks. The two of them walked on, Reyna’s gold and silver dogs roaming nearby.
“In our camp,” Reyna said, “Athena is Minerva. Are you familiar with how her Roman form is different?”
Annabeth hadn’t really considered it before. She remembered the way Terminus had called Athena that goddess, as if she were scandalous. Octavian had acted like Annabeth’s very existence was an insult.
“I take it Minerva isn’t…uh, quite as respected here?”
Reyna blew steam from her cup. “We respect Minerva. She’s the goddess of crafts and wisdom…but she isn’t really a goddess of war. Not for Romans. She’s also a maiden goddess, like Diana…the one you call Artemis. You won’t find any children of Minerva here. The idea that Minerva would have children—frankly, it’s a little shocking to us.”
“Oh.” Annabeth felt her face flush. She didn’t want to get into the details of Athena’s children—how they were born straight from the mind of the goddess, just as Athena herself had sprung from the head of Zeus. Talking about that always made Annabeth feel self-conscious, like she was some sort of freak. People usually asked her whether or not she had a belly button, since she had been born magically. Of course she had a belly button. She couldn’t explain how. She didn’t really want to know.
“I understand that you Greeks don’t see things the same way,” Reyna continued. “But Romans take vows of maidenhood very seriously. The Vestal Virgins, for instance…if they broke their vows and fell in love with anyone, they would be buried alive. So the idea that a maiden goddess would have children—”
“Got it.” Annabeth’s hot chocolate suddenly tasted like dust. No wonder the Romans had been giving her strange looks. “I’m not supposed to exist. And even if your camp had children of Minerva—”
“They wouldn’t be like you,” Reyna said. “They might be craftsmen, artists, maybe advisers, but not warriors. Not leaders of dangerous quests.”
Annabeth started to object that she wasn’t the leader of the quest. Not officially. But she wondered if her friends on the Argo II would agree. The past few days, they had been looking to her for orders—even Jason, who could have pulled rank as the son of Jupiter, and Coach Hedge, who didn’t take orders from anyone.
“There’s more.” Reyna snapped her fingers, and her golden dog, Aurum, trotted over. The praetor stroked his ears. “The harpy Ella…it was a prophecy she spoke. We both know that, don’t we?”
Annabeth swallowed. Something about Aurum’s ruby eyes made her uneasy. She had heard that dogs could smell fear, even detect changes in a human’s breathing and heartbeat. She didn’t know if that applied to magical metal dogs, but she decided it would be better to tell the truth.
“It sounded like a prophecy,” she admitted. “But I’ve never met Ella before today, and I’ve never heard those lines exactly.”
“I have,” Reyna murmured. “At least some of them—”
A few yards away, the silver dog barked. A group of children spilled out of a nearby alleyway and gathered around Argentum, petting the dog and laughing, unfazed by its razor-sharp teeth.
“We should move on,” Reyna said.
They wound their way up the hill. The greyhounds followed, leaving the children behind. Annabeth kept glancing at Reyna’s face. A vague memory started tugging at her—the way Reyna brushed her hair behind her ear, the silver ring she wore with the torch and sword design.
“We’ve met before,” Annabeth ventured. “You were younger, I think.”
Reyna gave her a dry smile. “Very good. Percy didn’t remember me. Of course you spoke mostly with my older sister Hylla, who is now queen of the Amazons. She left just this morning, before you arrived. At any rate, when we last met, I was a mere handmaiden in the house of Circe.”
“Circe…” Annabeth remembered her trip to the island of the sorceress. She’d been thirteen. Percy and she had washed ashore from the Sea of Monsters. Hylla had welcomed them. She had helped Annabeth get cleaned up and given her a beautiful new dress and a complete makeover. Then Circe had made her sales pitch: if Annabeth stayed on the island, she could have magical training and incredible power. Annabeth had been tempted, maybe just a little, until she realized the place was a trap, and Percy had been turned into a rodent. (That last part seemed funny afterward; but at the time, it had been terrifying.) As for Reyna…she’d been one of the servants who had combed Annabeth’s hair.
“You…” Annabeth said in amazement. “And Hylla is queen of the Amazons? How did you two—?”
“Long story,” Reyna said. “But I remember you well. You were brave. I’d never seen anyone refuse Circe’s hospitality, much less outwit her. It’s no wonder Percy cares for you.”
Her voice was wistful. Annabeth thought it might be safer not to respond.
They reached the top of the hill, where a terrace overlooked the entire valley.
“This is my favorite spot,” Reyna said. “The Garden of Bacchus.”
Grapevine trellises made a canopy overhead. Bees buzzed through honeysuckle and jasmine, which filled the afternoon air with a dizzying mix of perfumes. In the middle of the terrace stood a statue of Bacchus in a sort of ballet position, wearing nothing but a loincloth, his cheeks puffed out and lips pursed, spouting water into a fountain.
Despite her worries, Annabeth almost laughed. She knew the god in his Greek form, Dionysus—or Mr. D, as they called him back at Camp Half-Blood. Seeing their cranky old camp director immortalized in stone, wearing a diaper and spewing water from his mouth, made her feel a little better.
Reyna stopped at the edge of the terrace. The view was worth the climb. The whole city spread out below them like a 3-D mosaic. To the south, beyond the lake, a cluster of temples perched on a hill. To the north, an aqueduct marched toward the Berkeley Hills. Work crews were repairing a broken section, probably damaged in the recent battle.
“I wanted to hear it from you,” Reyna said.
Annabeth turned. “Hear what from me?”
“The truth,” Reyna said. “Convince me that I’m not making a mistake by trusting you. Tell me about yourself. Tell me about Camp Half-Blood. Your friend Piper has sorcery in her words. I spent enough time with Circe to know charmspeak when I hear it. I can’t trust what she says. And Jason…well, he has chan
ged. He seems distant, no longer quite Roman.”
The hurt in her voice was as sharp as broken glass. Annabeth wondered if she had sounded that way, all the months she’d spent searching for Percy. At least she’d found her boyfriend. Reyna had no one. She was responsible for running an entire camp all by herself. Annabeth could sense that Reyna wanted Jason to love her. But he had disappeared, only to come back with a new girlfriend. Meanwhile, Percy had risen to praetor, but he had rebuffed Reyna too. Now Annabeth had come to take him away. Reyna would be left alone again, shouldering a job meant for two people.
When Annabeth had arrived at Camp Jupiter, she’d been prepared to negotiate with Reyna or even fight her if needed. She hadn’t been prepared to feel sorry for her.
She kept that feeling hidden. Reyna didn’t strike her as someone who would appreciate pity.
Instead, she told Reyna about her own life. She talked about her dad and stepmom and her two stepbrothers in San Francisco, and how she had felt like an outsider in her own family. She talked about how she had run away when she was only seven, finding her friends Luke and Thalia and making her way to Camp Half-Blood on Long Island. She described the camp and her years growing up there. She talked about meeting Percy and the adventures they’d had together.
Reyna was a good listener.
Annabeth was tempted to tell her about more recent problems: her fight with her mom, the gift of the silver coin, and the nightmares she’d been having—about an old fear so paralyzing, she’d almost decided that she couldn’t go on this quest. But she couldn’t bring herself to open up quite that much.
When Annabeth was done talking, Reyna gazed over New Rome. Her metal greyhounds sniffed around the garden, snapping at bees in the honeysuckle. Finally Reyna pointed to the cluster of temples on the distant hill.
“The small red building,” she said, “there on the northern side? That’s the temple of my mother, Bellona.” Reyna turned toward Annabeth. “Unlike your mother, Bellona has no Greek equivalent. She is fully, truly Roman. She’s the goddess of protecting the homeland.”
