The Mark of Athena hoo-3

by Rick Riordan

  A sudden thought chilled her even more than the water. A few years ago, Percy and she had gone on a quest in Daedalus’s labyrinth—a secret network of tunnels and rooms, heavily enchanted and trapped, which ran under all the cities of America.

  When Daedalus died in the Battle of the Labyrinth, the entire maze had collapsed—or so Annabeth believed. But what if that was only in America? What if this was an older version of the labyrinth? Daedalus once told her that his maze had a life of its own. It was constantly growing and changing. Maybe the labyrinth could regenerate, like monsters. That would make sense. It was an archetypal force, as Chiron would say—something that could never really die.

  If this was part of the labyrinth…

  Annabeth decided not to dwell on that, but she also decided not to assume her directions were accurate. The labyrinth made distance meaningless. If she wasn’t careful, she could walk twenty feet in the wrong direction and end up in Poland.

  Just to be safe, she tied a new ball of string to the end of her rope ladder. She could unravel it behind her as she explored. An old trick, but a good one.

  She debated which way to go. The tunnel seemed the same in both directions. Then, about fifty feet to her left, the Mark of Athena blazed against the wall. Annabeth could swear it was glaring at her with those big fiery eyes, as if to say, What’s your problem? Hurry up!

  She was really starting to hate that owl.

  By the time she reached the spot, the image had faded, and she’d run out of string on her first spool.

  As she was attaching a new line, she glanced across the tunnel. There was a broken section in the brickwork, as if a sledgehammer had knocked a hole in the wall. She crossed to take a look. Sticking her dagger through the opening for light, Annabeth could see a lower chamber, long and narrow, with a mosaic floor, painted walls, and benches running down either side. It was shaped sort of like a subway car.

  She stuck her head into the hole, hoping nothing would bite it off. At the near end of the room was a bricked-off doorway. At the far end was a stone table, or maybe an altar.

  Hmm…The water tunnel kept going, but Annabeth was sure this was the way. She remembered what Tiberinus had said: Find the altar of the foreign god. There didn’t seem to be any exits from the altar room, but it was a short drop onto the bench below. She should be able to climb out again with no problem.

  Still holding her string, she lowered herself down.

  The room’s ceiling was barrel-shaped with brick arches, but Annabeth didn’t like the look of the supports. Directly above her head, on the arch nearest to the bricked-in doorway, the capstone was cracked in half. Stress fractures ran across the ceiling. The place had probably been intact for two thousand years, but she decided she’d rather not spend too much time here. With her luck, it would collapse in the next two minutes.

  The floor was a long narrow mosaic with seven pictures in a row, like a time line. At Annabeth’s feet was a raven. Next was a lion. Several others looked like Roman warriors with various weapons. The rest were too damaged or covered in dust for Annabeth to make out details. The benches on either side were littered with broken pottery. The walls were painted with scenes of a banquet: a robed man with a curved cap like an ice cream scoop, sitting next to a larger guy who radiated sunbeams. Standing around them were torchbearers and servants, and various animals like crows and lions wandered in the background. Annabeth wasn’t sure what the picture represented, but it didn’t remind her of any Greek legends that she knew.

  At the far end of the room, the altar was elaborately carved with a frieze showing the man with the ice-cream-scoop hat holding a knife to the neck of a bull. On the altar stood a stone figure of a man sunk to his knees in rock, a dagger and a torch in his outraised hands. Again, Annabeth had no idea what those images meant.

  She took one step toward the altar. Her foot went CRUNCH. She looked down and realized she’d just put her shoe through a human rib cage.

  Annabeth swallowed back a scream. Where had that come from? She had glanced down only a moment before and hadn’t seen any bones. Now the floor was littered with them. The rib cage was obviously old. It crumbled to dust as she removed her foot. Nearby lay a corroded bronze dagger very much like her own. Either this dead person had been carrying the weapon, or it had killed him.

  She held out her blade to see in front of her. A little farther down the mosaic path sprawled a more complete skeleton in the remains of an embroidered red doublet, like a man from the Renaissance. His frilled collar and skull had been badly burned, as if the guy had decided to wash his hair with a blowtorch.

  Wonderful, Annabeth thought. She lifted her eyes to the altar statue, which held a dagger and a torch.

  Some kind of test, Annabeth decided. These two guys had failed. Correction: not just two guys. More bones and scraps of clothing were scattered all the way to the altar. She couldn’t guess how many skeletons were represented, but she was willing to bet they were all demigods from the past, children of Athena on the same quest.

  “I will not be another skeleton on your floor,” she called to the statue, hoping she sounded brave.

  A girl, said a watery voice, echoing through the room. Girls are not allowed.

  A female demigod, said a second voice. Inexcusable.

  The chamber rumbled. Dust fell from the cracked ceiling. Annabeth bolted for the hole she’d come through, but it had disappeared. Her string had been severed. She clambered up on the bench and pounded on the wall where the hole had been, hoping the hole’s absence was just an illusion, but the wall felt solid.

  She was trapped.

  Along the benches, a dozen ghosts shimmered into existence—glowing purple men in Roman togas, like the Lares she’d seen at Camp Jupiter. They glared at her as if she’d interrupted their meeting.

  She did the only thing she could. She stepped down from the bench and put her back to the bricked-in doorway. She tried to look confident, though the scowling purple ghosts and the demigod skeletons at her feet made her want to turtle in her T-shirt and scream.

  “I’m a child of Athena,” she said, as boldly as she could manage.

  “A Greek,” one of the ghosts said with disgust. “That is even worse.”

  At the other end of the chamber, an old-looking ghost rose with some difficulty (do ghosts have arthritis?) and stood by the altar, his dark eyes fixed on Annabeth. Her first thought was that he looked like the pope. He had a glittering robe, a pointed hat, and a shepherd’s crook.

  “This is the cavern of Mithras,” said the old ghost. “You have disturbed our sacred rituals. You cannot look upon our mysteries and live.”

  “I don’t want to look upon your mysteries,” Annabeth assured him. “I’m following the Mark of Athena. Show me the exit, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Her voice sounded calm, which surprised her. She had no idea how to get out of here, but she knew she had to succeed where her siblings had failed. Her path led farther on—deeper into the underground layers of Rome.

  The failures of your predecessors will guide you, Tiberinus had said. After that…I do not know.

  The ghosts mumbled to each other in Latin. Annabeth caught a few unkind words about female demigods and Athena.

  Finally the ghost with the pope hat struck his shepherd’s crook against the floor. The other Lares fell silent.

  “Your Greek goddess is powerless here,” said the pope. “Mithras is the god of Roman warriors! He is the god of the legion, the god of the empire!”

  “He wasn’t even Roman,” Annabeth protested. “Wasn’t he, like, Persian or something?”

  “Sacrilege!” the old man yelped, banging his staff on the floor a few more times. “Mithras protects us! I am the pater of this brotherhood—”

  “The father,” Annabeth translated.

  “Do not interrupt! As pater, I must protect our mysteries.”

  “What mysteries?” Annabeth asked. “A dozen dead guys in togas sitting around in a cave?”

&nbs
p; The ghosts muttered and complained, until the pater got them under control with a taxicab whistle. The old guy had a good set of lungs. “You are clearly an unbeliever. Like the others, you must die.”

  The others. Annabeth made an effort not to look at the skeletons.

  Her mind worked furiously, grasping for anything she knew about Mithras. He had a secret cult for warriors. He was popular in the legion. He was one of the gods who’d supplanted Athena as a war deity. Aphrodite had mentioned him during their teatime chat in Charleston. Aside from that, Annabeth had no idea. Mithras just wasn’t one of the gods they talked about at Camp Half-Blood. She doubted the ghosts would wait while she whipped out Daedalus’s laptop and did a search.

  She scanned the floor mosaic—seven pictures in a row. She studied the ghosts and noticed all of them wore some sort of badge on their toga—a raven, or a torch, or a bow.

  “You have rites of passage,” she blurted out. “Seven levels of membership. And the top level is the pater.”

  The ghosts let out a collective gasp. Then they all began shouting at once.

  “How does she know this?” one demanded.

  “The girl has gleaned our secrets!”

  “Silence!” the pater ordered.

  “But she might know about the ordeals!” another cried.

  “The ordeals!” Annabeth said. “I know about them!”

  Another round of incredulous gasping.

  “Ridiculous!” The pater yelled. “The girl lies! Daughter of Athena, choose your way of death. If you do not choose, the god will choose for you!”

  “Fire or dagger,” Annabeth guessed.

  Even the pater looked stunned. Apparently he hadn’t remembered there were victims of past punishments lying on the floor.

  “How—how did you… ?” He gulped. “Who are you?”

  “A child of Athena,” Annabeth said again. “But not just any child. I am…uh, the mater in my sisterhood. The magna mater, in fact. There are no mysteries to me. Mithras cannot hide anything from my sight.”

  “The magna mater!” a ghost wailed in despair. “The big mother!”

  “Kill her!” One of the ghosts charged, his hands out to strangle her, but he passed right through her.

  “You’re dead,” Annabeth reminded him. “Sit down.”

  The ghost looked embarrassed and took his seat.

  “We do not need to kill you ourselves,” the pater growled. “Mithras shall do that for us!”

  The statue on the altar began to glow.

  Annabeth pressed her hands against the bricked-in doorway at her back. That had to be the exit. The mortar was crumbling, but it was not weak enough for her to break through with brute force.

  She looked desperately around the room—the cracked ceiling, the floor mosaic, the wall paintings, and the carved altar. She began to talk, pulling deductions from the top of her head.

  “It is no good,” she said. “I know all. You test your initiates with fire because the torch is the symbol of Mithras. His other symbol is the dagger, which is why you can also be tested with the blade. You want to kill me, just as…uh, as Mithras killed the sacred bull.”

  It was a total guess, but the altar showed Mithras killing a bull, so Annabeth figured it must be important. The ghosts wailed and covered their ears. Some slapped their faces as if to wake up from a bad dream.

  “The big mother knows!” one said. “It is impossible!”

  Unless you look around the room, Annabeth thought, her confidence growing.

  She glared at the ghost who had just spoken. He had a raven badge on his toga—the same symbol as on the floor at her feet.

  “You are just a raven,” she scolded. “That is the lowest rank. Be silent and let me speak to your pater.”

  The ghost cringed. “Mercy! Mercy!”

  At the front of the room, the pater trembled—either from rage or fear, Annabeth wasn’t sure which. His pope hat tilted sideways on his head like a gas gauge dropping toward empty. “Truly, you know much, big mother. Your wisdom is great, but that is all the more reason why you cannot leave. The weaver warned us you would come.”

  “The weaver…” Annabeth realized with a sinking feeling what the pater was talking about: the thing in the dark from Percy’s dream, the guardian of the shrine. This was one time she wished she didn’t know the answer, but she tried to maintain her calm. “The weaver fears me. She doesn’t want me to follow the Mark of Athena. But you will let me pass.”

  “You must choose an ordeal!” the pater insisted. “Fire or dagger! Survive one, and then, perhaps!”

  Annabeth looked down at the bones of her siblings. The failures of your predecessors will guide you.

  They’d all chosen one or the other: fire or dagger. Maybe they’d thought they could beat the ordeal. But they had all died. Annabeth needed a third choice.

  She stared at the altar statue, which was glowing brighter by the second. She could feel its heat across the room. Her instinct was to focus on the dagger or the torch, but instead she concentrated on the statue’s base. She wondered why its legs were stuck in stone. Then it occurred to her: maybe the little statue of Mithras wasn’t stuck in the rock. Maybe he was emerging from the rock.

  “Neither torch nor dagger,” Annabeth said firmly. “There is a third test, which I will pass.”

  “A third test?” the pater demanded.

  “Mithras was born from rock,” Annabeth said, hoping she was right. “He emerged fully grown from the stone, holding his dagger and torch.”

  The screaming and wailing told her she had guessed correctly.

  “The big mother knows all!” a ghost cried. “That is our most closely guarded secret!”

  Then maybe you shouldn’t put a statue of it on your altar, Annabeth thought. But she was thankful for stupid male ghosts. If they’d let women warriors into their cult, they might have learned some common sense.

  Annabeth gestured dramatically to the wall she’d come from. “I was born from stone, just as Mithras was! Therefore, I have already passed your ordeal!”

  “Bah!” the pater spat. “You came from a hole in the wall! That’s not the same thing.”

  Okay. So apparently the pater wasn’t a complete moron, but Annabeth remained confident. She glanced at the ceiling, and another idea came to her—all the details clicking together.

  “I have control over the very stones.” She raised her arms. “I will prove my power is greater than Mithras. With a single strike, I will bring down this chamber.”

  The ghosts wailed and trembled and looked at the ceiling, but Annabeth knew they didn’t see what she saw. These ghosts were warriors, not engineers. The children of Athena had many skills, and not just in combat. Annabeth had studied architecture for years. She knew this ancient chamber was on the verge of collapse. She recognized what the stress fractures in the ceiling meant, all emanating from a single point—the top of the stone arch just above her. The capstone was about to crumble, and when that happened, assuming she could time it correctly…

  “Impossible!” the pater shouted. “The weaver has paid us much tribute to destroy any children of Athena who would dare enter our shrine. We have never let her down. We cannot let you pass.”

  “Then you fear my power!” Annabeth said. “You admit that I could destroy your sacred chamber!”

  The pater scowled. He straightened his hat uneasily. Annabeth knew she’d put him in an impossible position. He couldn’t back down without looking cowardly.

  “Do your worst, child of Athena,” he decided. “No one can bring down the cavern of Mithras, especially with one strike. Especially not a girl!”

  Annabeth hefted her dagger. The ceiling was low. She could reach the capstone easily, but she’d have to make her one strike count.

  The doorway behind her was blocked, but in theory, if the room started to collapse, those bricks should weaken and crumble. She should be able to bust her way through before the entire ceiling came down—assuming, of course, that there w
as something behind the brick wall, not just solid earth; and assuming that Annabeth was quick enough and strong enough and lucky enough. Otherwise, she was about to be a demigod pancake.

  “Well, boys,” she said. “Looks like you chose the wrong war god.”

  She struck the capstone. The Celestial bronze blade shattered it like a sugar cube. For a moment, nothing happened.

  “Ha!” the pater gloated. “You see? Athena has no power here!”

  The room shook. A fissure ran across the length of the ceiling and the far end of the cavern collapsed, burying the altar and the pater. More cracks widened. Bricks fell from the arches. Ghosts screamed and ran, but they couldn’t seem to pass through the walls. Apparently they were bound to this chamber even in death.

  Annabeth turned. She slammed against the blocked entrance with all her might, and the bricks gave way. As the cavern of Mithras imploded behind her, she lunged into darkness and found herself falling.

  A NNABETH THOUGHT SHE KNEW PAIN. She had fallen off the lava wall at Camp Half-Blood. She’d been stabbed in the arm with a poison blade on the Williamsburg Bridge. She had even held the weight of the sky on her shoulders.

  But that was nothing compared to landing hard on her ankle.

  She immediately knew she’d broken it. Pain like a hot steel wire jabbed its way up her leg and into her hip. The world narrowed to just her, her ankle, and the agony.

  She almost blacked out. Her head spun. Her breath became short and rapid.

  No, she told herself. You can’t go into shock.

  She tried to breathe more slowly. She lay as still as possible until the pain subsided from absolute torture to just horrible throbbing.

  Part of her wanted to howl at the world for being so unfair. All this way, just to be stopped by something as common as a broken ankle?

  She forced her emotions back down. At camp, she’d been trained to survive in all sorts of bad situations, including injuries like this.

  She looked around her. Her dagger had skittered a few feet away. In its dim light she could make out the features of the room. She was lying on a cold floor of sandstone blocks. The ceiling was two stories tall. The doorway through which she’d fallen was ten feet off the ground, now completely blocked with debris that had cascaded into the room, making a rockslide. Scattered around her were old pieces of lumber—some cracked and desiccated, others broken into kindling.