by Rick Riordan
She chose your path years ago, Grandmother had told him. And it will not be easy.
Frank glanced at his bow in the corner of the armoury. He’d feel better if Apollo would claim him as a son. Frank had been sure his godly parent would speak up on his sixteenth birthday, which had passed two weeks ago.
Sixteen was an important milestone for Romans. It had been Frank’s first birthday at camp. But nothing had happened. Now Frank hoped he would be claimed on the Feast of Fortuna, though from what Juno had said they’d be in a battle for their lives on that day.
His father had to be Apollo. Archery was the only thing Frank was good at. Years ago, his mother had told him that their family name, Zhang, meant ‘master of bows’ in Chinese. That must have been a hint about his dad.
Frank put down his polishing rags. He looked at the ceiling. ‘Please, Apollo, if you’re my dad, tell me. I want to be an archer like you.’
‘No, you don’t,’ a voice grumbled.
Frank jumped out of his seat. Vitellius, the Fifth Cohort’s Lar, was shimmering behind him. His full name was Gaius Vitellius Reticulus, but the other cohorts called him Vitellius the Ridiculous.
‘Hazel Levesque sent me to check on you,’ Vitellius said, hiking up his sword belt. ‘Good thing, too. Look at the state of this armour!’
Vitellius wasn’t one to talk. His toga was baggy, his tunic barely fitted over his belly and his scabbard fell off his belt every three seconds, but Frank didn’t bother pointing that out.
‘As for archers,’ the ghost said, ‘they’re wimps! Back in my day, archery was a job for barbarians. A good Roman should be in the fray, gutting his enemy with spear and sword like a civilized man! That’s how we did it in the Punic Wars. Roman up, boy!’
Frank sighed. ‘I thought you were in Caesar’s army.’
‘I was!’
‘Vitellius, Caesar was hundreds of years after the Punic Wars. You couldn’t have been alive that long.’
‘Questioning my honour?’ Vitellius looked so mad his purple aura glowed. He drew his ghostly gladius and yelled, ‘Take that!’
He ran the sword, which was about as deadly as a laser pointer, through Frank’s chest a few times.
‘Ouch,’ Frank said, just to be nice.
Vitellius looked satisfied and put his sword away. ‘Perhaps you’ll think twice about doubting your elders next time! Now … it was your sixteenth birthday recently, wasn’t it?’
Frank nodded. He wasn’t sure how Vitellius knew this, since Frank hadn’t told anyone except Hazel, but ghosts had ways of finding out secrets. Eavesdropping while invisible was probably one of them.
‘So that’s why you’re such a grumpy gladiator,’ the Lar said. ‘Understandable. The sixteenth birthday is your day of manhood! Your godly parent should have claimed you, no doubt about it, even if with only a small omen. Perhaps he thought you were younger. You look younger, you know, with that pudgy baby face.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ Frank muttered.
‘Yes, I remember my sixteenth,’ Vitellius said happily. ‘Wonderful omen! A chicken in my underpants.’
‘Excuse me?’
Vitellius puffed up with pride. ‘That’s right! I was at the river changing my clothes for my Liberalia. Rite of passage into manhood, you know. We did things properly back then. I’d taken off my childhood toga and was washing up to don the adult one. Suddenly, a pure-white chicken ran out of nowhere, dived into my loincloth and ran off with it. I wasn’t wearing it at the time.’
‘That’s good,’ Frank said. ‘And can I just say: too much information?’
‘Mm.’ Vitellius wasn’t listening. ‘That was the sign I was descended from Aesculapius, the god of medicine. I took my cognomen, my third name, Reticulus, because it meant undergarment, to remind me of the blessed day when a chicken stole my loincloth.’
‘So … your name means Mr Underwear?’
‘Praise the gods! I became a surgeon in the legion, and the rest is history.’ He spread his arms generously. ‘Don’t give up, boy. Maybe your father is running late. Most omens are not as dramatic as a chicken, of course. I knew a fellow once who got a dung beetle -’
‘Thanks, Vitellius,’ Frank said. ‘But I have to finish polishing this armour -’
‘And the gorgon’s blood?’
Frank froze. He hadn’t told anyone about that. As far as he knew, only Percy had seen him pocket the vials at the river, and they hadn’t had a chance to talk about it.
‘Come now,’ Vitellius chided. ‘I’m a healer. I know the legends about gorgon’s blood. Show me the vials.’
Reluctantly, Frank brought out the two ceramic flasks he’d retrieved from the Little Tiber. Spoils of war were often left behind when a monster dissolved – sometimes a tooth, or a weapon, or even the monster’s entire head. Frank had known what the two vials were immediately. By tradition they belonged to Percy, who had killed the gorgons, but Frank couldn’t help thinking, What if I could use them?
‘Yes.’ Vitellius studied the vials approvingly. ‘Blood taken from the right side of a gorgon’s body can cure any disease, even bring the dead back to life. The goddess Minerva once gave a vial of it to my divine ancestor, Aesculapius. But blood taken from the left side of a gorgon – instantly fatal. So, which is which?’
Frank looked down at the vials. ‘I don’t know. They’re identical.’
‘Ha! But you’re hoping the right vial could solve your problem with the burnt stick, eh? Maybe break your curse?’
Frank was so stunned he couldn’t talk.
‘Oh, don’t worry, boy.’ The ghost chuckled. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I’m a Lar, a protector of the cohort! I wouldn’t do anything to endanger you.’
‘You stabbed me through the chest with your sword.’
‘Trust me, boy! I have sympathy for you, carrying the curse of that Argonaut.’
‘The … what?’
Vitellius waved away the question. ‘Don’t be modest. You’ve got ancient roots. Greek as well as Roman. It’s no wonder Juno -’ He tilted his head, as if listening to a voice from above. His face went slack. His entire aura flickered green. ‘But I’ve said enough! At any rate, I’ll let you work out who gets the gorgon’s blood. I suppose that newcomer Percy could use it, too, with his memory problem.’
Frank wondered what Vitellius had been about to say and what had made him so scared, but he got the feeling that for once Vitellius was going to keep his mouth shut.
He looked down at the two vials. He hadn’t even thought of Percy’s needing them. He felt guilty that he’d been intending to use the blood for himself. ‘Yeah. Of course. He should have it.’
‘Ah, but if you want my advice …’ Vitellius looked up nervously again. ‘You should both wait on that gorgon blood. If my sources are right, you’re going to need it on your quest.’
‘Quest?’
The doors of the armoury flew open.
Reyna stormed in with her metal greyhounds. Vitellius vanished. He might have liked chickens, but he did not like the praetor’s dogs.
‘Frank.’ Reyna looked troubled. ‘That’s enough with the armour. Go find Hazel. Get Percy Jackson down here. He’s been up there too long. I don’t want Octavian …’ She hesitated. ‘Just get Percy down here.’
So Frank had run all the way to Temple Hill.
Walking back, Percy had asked tons of questions about Hazel’s brother, Nico, but Frank didn’t know that much.
‘He’s okay,’ Frank said. ‘He’s not like Hazel -’
‘How do you mean?’ Percy asked.
‘Oh, um …’ Frank coughed. He’d meant that Hazel was better looking and nicer, but he decided not to say that. ‘Nico is kind of mysterious. He makes everybody else nervous, being the son of Pluto, and all.’
‘But not you?’
Frank shrugged. ‘Pluto’s cool. It’s not his fault he runs the Underworld. He just got bad luck when the gods were dividing up the world, you know? Jupiter got the sky, Neptune got th
e sea and Pluto got the shaft.’
‘Death doesn’t scare you?’
Frank almost wanted to laugh. Not at all! Got a match?
Instead he said, ‘Back in the old times, like the Greek times, when Pluto was called Hades, he was more of a death god. When he became Roman, he got more … I don’t know, respectable. He became the god of wealth, too. Everything under the earth belongs to him. So I don’t think of him as being real scary.’
Percy scratched his head. ‘How does a god become Roman? If he’s Greek, wouldn’t he stay Greek?’
Frank walked a few steps, thinking about that. Vitellius would’ve given Percy an hour-long lecture on the subject, probably with a PowerPoint presentation, but Frank took his best shot. ‘The way Romans saw it, they adopted the Greek stuff and perfected it.’
Percy made a sour face. ‘Perfected it? Like there was something wrong with it?’
Frank remembered what Vitellius had said: You’ve got ancient roots. Greek as well as Roman. His grandmother had said something similar.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Rome was more successful than Greece. They made this huge empire. The gods became a bigger deal in Roman times – more powerful and widely known. That’s why they’re still around today. So many civilizations base themselves on Rome. The gods changed to Roman because that’s where the centre of power was. Jupiter was … well, more responsible as a Roman god than he had been when he was Zeus. Mars became a lot more important and disciplined.’
‘And Juno became a hippie bag lady,’ Percy noted. ‘So you’re saying the old Greek gods – they just changed permanently to Roman? There’s nothing left of the Greek?’
‘Uh …’ Frank looked around to make sure there were no campers or Lares nearby, but the main gates were still a hundred yards away. ‘That’s a sensitive topic. Some people say Greek influence is still around, like it’s still a part of the gods’ personalities. I’ve heard stories of demigods occasionally leaving Camp Jupiter. They reject Roman training and try to follow the older Greek style – like being solo heroes instead of working as a team the way the legion does. And back in the ancient days, when Rome fell, the eastern half of the empire survived – the Greek half.’
Percy stared at him. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It was called Byzantium.’ Frank liked saying that word. It sounded cool. ‘The eastern empire lasted another thousand years, but it was always more Greek than Roman. For those of us who follow the Roman way, it’s kind of a sore subject. That’s why, whatever country we settle in, Camp Jupiter is always in the west – the Roman part of the territory. The east is considered bad luck.’
‘Huh.’ Percy frowned.
Frank couldn’t blame him for feeling confused. The Greek/Roman stuff gave him a headache, too.
They reached the gates.
‘I’ll take you to the baths to get you cleaned up,’ Frank said. ‘But first … about those vials I found at the river.’
‘Gorgon’s blood,’ Percy said. ‘One vial heals. One is deadly poison.’
Frank’s eyes widened. ‘You know about that? Listen, I wasn’t going to keep them. I just -’
‘I know why you did it, Frank.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah.’ Percy smiled. ‘If I’d come into camp carrying a vial of poison, that would’ve looked bad. You were trying to protect me.’
‘Oh … right.’ Frank wiped the sweat off his palms. ‘But if we could figure out which vial was which, it might heal your memory.’
Percy’s smile faded. He gazed across the hills. ‘Maybe … I guess. But you should hang on to those vials for now. There’s a battle coming. We may need them to save lives.’
Frank stared at him, a little bit in awe. Percy had a chance to get his memory back, and he was willing to wait in case someone else needed the vial more? Romans were supposed to be unselfish and help their comrades, but Frank wasn’t sure anyone else at camp would have made that choice.
‘So you don’t remember anything?’ Frank asked. ‘Family, friends?’
Percy fingered the clay beads round his neck. ‘Only glimpses. Murky stuff. A girlfriend … I thought she’d be at camp.’ He looked at Frank carefully, as if making a decision. ‘Her name was Annabeth. You don’t know her, do you?’
Frank shook his head. ‘I know everybody at camp, but no Annabeth. What about your family? Is your mom mortal?’
‘I guess so … she’s probably worried out of her mind. Does your mom get to see you much?’
Frank stopped at the bathhouse entrance. He grabbed some towels from the supply shed. ‘She died.’
Percy knitted his brow. ‘How?’
Usually Frank would lie. He’d say an accident and shut off the conversation. Otherwise his emotions got out of control. He couldn’t cry at Camp Jupiter. He couldn’t show weakness. But, with Percy, Frank found it easier to talk.
‘She died in the war,’ he said. ‘Afghanistan.’
‘She was in the military?’
‘Canadian. Yeah.’
‘Canada? I didn’t know -’
‘Most Americans don’t.’ Frank sighed. ‘But, yeah, Canada has troops there. My mom was a captain. She was one of the first women to die in combat. She saved some soldiers who were pinned down by enemy fire. She … she didn’t make it. The funeral was right before I came down here.’
Percy nodded. He didn’t ask for more details, which Frank appreciated. He didn’t say he was sorry, or make any of the well-meaning comments Frank always hated: Oh, you poor guy. That must be so hard on you. You have my deepest condolences.
It was like Percy had faced death before, like he knew about grief. What mattered was listening. You didn’t need to say you were sorry. The only thing that helped was moving on – moving forward.
‘How about you show me the baths now?’ Percy suggested. ‘I’m filthy.’
Frank managed a smile. ‘Yeah. You kind of are.’
As they walked into the steam room, Frank thought of his grandmother, his mom and his cursed childhood, thanks to Juno and her piece of firewood. He almost wished he could forget his past, the way Percy had.
X
Frank
FRANK DIDN’T REMEMBER MUCH ABOUT the funeral itself. But he remembered the hours leading up to it – his grandmother coming out into the backyard to find him shooting arrows at her porcelain collection.
His grandmother’s house was a rambling grey stone mansion on twelve acres in North Vancouver. Her backyard ran straight into Lynn Canyon Park.
The morning was cold and drizzly, but Frank didn’t feel the chill. He wore a black wool suit and a black overcoat that had once belonged to his grandfather. Frank had been startled and upset to find that they fitted him fine. The clothes smelled like wet mothballs and jasmine. The fabric was itchy but warm. With his bow and quiver, he probably looked like a very dangerous butler.
He’d loaded some of his grandmother’s porcelain in a wagon and toted it into the yard, where he set up targets on old fenceposts at the edge of the property. He’d been shooting so long his fingers were starting to lose their feeling. With every arrow, he imagined he was striking down his problems.
Snipers in Afghanistan. Smash. A teapot exploded with an arrow through the middle.
The sacrifice medal, a silver disc on a red-and-black ribbon, given for death in the line of duty, presented to Frank as if it were something important, something that made everything all right. Thwack. A teacup spun into the woods.
The officer who came to tell him: ‘Your mother is a hero. Captain Emily Zhang died trying to save her comrades.’ Crack. A blue-and-white plate split into pieces.
His grandmother’s chastisement: Men do not cry. Especially Zhang men. You will endure, Fai.
No one called him Fai except his grandmother.
What sort of name is Frank? she would scold. That is not a Chinese name.
I’m not Chinese, Frank thought, but he didn’t dare say that. His mother had told him years ago: There is no
arguing with Grandmother. It’ll only make you suffer worse. She’d been right. And now Frank had no one except his grandmother.
Thud. A fourth arrow hit the fencepost and stuck there, quivering.
‘Fai,’ said his grandmother.
Frank turned.
She was clutching a shoebox-sized mahogany chest that Frank had never seen before. With her high-collared black dress and severe bun of grey hair, she looked like a schoolteacher from the 1800s.
She surveyed the carnage: her porcelain in the wagon, the shards of her favourite tea sets scattered over the lawn, Frank’s arrows sticking out of the ground, the trees, the fenceposts and one in the head of a smiling garden gnome.
Frank thought she would yell, or hit him with the box. He’d never done anything this bad before. He’d never felt so angry.
Grandmother’s face was full of bitterness and disapproval. She looked nothing like Frank’s mom. He wondered how his mother had turned out to be so nice – always laughing, always gentle. Frank couldn’t imagine his mom growing up with Grandmother any more than he could imagine her on the battlefield – though the two situations probably weren’t that different.
He waited for Grandmother to explode. Maybe he’d be grounded and wouldn’t have to go to the funeral. He wanted to hurt her for being so mean all the time, for letting his mother go off to war, for scolding him to get over it. All she cared about was her stupid collection.
‘Stop this ridiculous behaviour,’ Grandmother said. She didn’t sound very irritated. ‘It is beneath you.’
To Frank’s astonishment, she kicked aside one of her favourite teacups.
‘The car will be here soon,’ she said. ‘We must talk.’
Frank was dumbfounded. He looked more closely at the mahogany box. For a horrible moment, he wondered if it contained his mother’s ashes, but that was impossible. Grandmother had told him there would be a military burial. Then why did Grandmother hold the box so gingerly, as if its contents grieved her?
‘Come inside,’ she said. Without waiting to see if he would follow, she turned and marched towards the house.
