Later, she asked me—nicely—how I ever managed to survive Lupa’s training. I told her the truth: booby traps. I admitted that tricks like covering a pit with branches or dropping a net from the treetops on an unsuspecting enemy weren’t very Roman, but they’d kept me alive. To my surprise, she pointed out that they dug trenches for the camp’s war games all the time, and that a weighted net, along with a trident and dagger, were the weapons favored by the retiarius, a type of gladiator. She promised to introduce me to the current retiarius champion after the next gladiator games. If we hit it off, he might even let me test-drive his weapons.

So maybe I’m not a lost cause after all.

On a less positive note, I still have no clue as to what XII means. I’ll visit Mercury’s temple again before classes start tomorrow. Maybe a new message has appeared.

If Mercury sent any other messages, someone else got to them first. Still, the morning wasn’t a total waste. I had some time to kill before my first lecture—“Great Roman Inventions: Concrete,” which was actually more interesting than it sounds (not) and taught by Vitellius, a purple-hued Lar with a captivating speaking voice (double not)—so I toured a few other temples. I loved Bellona’s fierce-warrior vibe and Jupiter’s blinged-out sanctuary. Pluto’s zombie-apocalypse theme? Not so much.

But the one that really spoke to me was the Temple of Mars Ultor. I mean, who wouldn’t dig that red marble crypt with its cast-iron doors? And inside, that massive statue of the Avenger (no, not one of those Avengers), his scarred face scowling and his spear raised as if to strike whoever dares to enter. Let’s not forget the display wall of human skulls and assorted weapons, from the kind that slice and dice to the kind that leave bullet-shaped holes. Even the ceiling pays tribute, with eleven identical and bizarre-looking shields that form the letter M.

That military man-cave—sorry, god-crypt—was built to intimidate, but the decor was so over-the-top, I broke into giggles while looking at it. I got out of there before I lost control, though. I’m not stupid enough to risk insulting the war god.

But I’m pretty sure I insulted his son. When I came out of Mars’s temple, I ran right into Praetor Frank Zhang. It was like hitting a brick wall, the guy is so solid. That should have sobered me up, but I took one look at him and started laughing all over again. I couldn’t even explain what was so funny. What would I have said? Your face reminds me of how ridiculous your dad’s temple is?

I feel bad about it, though. I would have apologized at dinner, but Praetor Frank wasn’t there.

Time to go—gotta review the recipe for Roman concrete in case there’s a quiz tomorrow.

It was touch-and-go there for a moment when the centurions spun the chore wheel this afternoon. After the full-fledged legionnaires got the fun jobs—testing the catapults, taking Hannibal the elephant for a lumber, clapping chalk dust out of the erasers—I was sure it would land on SEWER UNCLOGGING when it was my turn.

Instead, I hit the jackpot with AQUEDUCT CLEAN-OUT. Or so I thought. Turns out aqueduct clean-out does not mean plucking a leaf or two from the structure that ferries clean water into camp. No, it means slogging, sometimes crawling, through a maze of underground tunnels filled with ice-cold water and removing anything that isn’t ice-cold water. This includes dead rats, hair of both human and unknown origin, plastic trash bags (Come on, people! Reduce, reuse, recycle, remember?), and other disgusting flotsam and jetsam that could contaminate our bathing and drinking supply.

My partner in slime was a demigod son of Vulcan named Blaise. Yes, the god of forges and fire has a son named Blaise. But I didn’t laugh. After all, I’m named for Emperor Claudius, who everyone believed was a fool because he stuttered and had a limp. He ended up being a decent ruler—even conquered Britain, the only emperor to do so—but still. I’m not going to get all judgy about someone else’s name when mine conjures up a word like clod.

I figured Blaise and I would hang out together, chitchat about life as a probatio, maybe sing a few rousing clean-out songs to get us in the mood. But he just grabbed his sack and his trash picker and sloshed off. I showed him, though. I trucked right after him down that tunnel…and instantly got lost. Ha-ha! Being descended from the god of travelers doesn’t do anything for you in underground waterways, apparently.

I wandered around for an hour, shoving rat carcasses into my sack and praying my headlamp didn’t go out, before I finally spotted a ladder illuminated by daylight. When I reached it, I saw that it led up to a circular opening blocked by iron bars. I figured it was either a dead end or an exit, and I was definitely ready to exit. I climbed to the top as best I could with my hands full, and the grate opened easily when I pushed it. I swung my rat bag and picker up onto the ledge and then lifted myself out of the hole…

Right into a big fat load of trouble that began with two metal dogs and ended with Praetor Reyna.

How was I supposed to know that ladder was a secret back entrance into the principia? That’s what I would have said if I could have. But I was too busy screaming in terror as the silver and gold dogs flew at me. Luckily, Praetor Reyna called them off before they could rip open my throat, which allowed me the opportunity to explain that I was lost. I showed her my sack full of dead rodents as proof of my chore duty. Then I demonstrated that the grate she insisted was magically locked was, in fact, not. She had a frowny face while I was talking, but she sent me on my way with zero metal-dog bites, so I guess she believed me.

Either that, or she wanted the dead rats out of her office. Don’t know, don’t care, just happy to be alive!

I made a friend in the Fourth today! Her name is Janice, and she’s the daughter of—wait for it—Janus, the two-faced god of choices, doorways, and beginnings and endings. (Blaise, Janice…What is it with godly parents and their demigod kids’ names? Who’s next? A kid named Roman?) Janice is in her second month on probatio, but she knows a ton about Camp Jupiter because she was born and raised in New Rome. How cool is that?

Man, I would have loved to have grown up there. Marble, gold, and red-tile roof buildings, ginormous fountains and gardens, cobblestone streets with shops that sell togas and chariots—it’s like time-warping back to ancient Rome. Janice says gods and goddesses sometimes sneak down from Olympus to hang out there. Some even disguise themselves as humans and start families with retired legionnaires! I don’t know if that’s true, but if it is…mind = blown.

In fact, the only negative about New Rome might be the panhandling fauns, and they’re mostly harmless hippies who like lazing in the sun, scratching themselves, and snacking on trash. (I’d judge, but I eat junk food, so…) I got a little sad when I saw one young faun named Elon nibbling on soda-can tabs strung on a string. Not because I felt bad for him. (Well, maybe a little–the kid was sitting all alone next to a trash can.) But mostly because the tabs reminded me of the candy necklaces Dad used to buy me when I was little.

Back to Janice. We met on the Field of Mars—the pockmarked, boulder-and-rubble-strewn meadow where weekly war games among cohorts take place—during Fort-Building 101. (Today’s assignment: Build a fort. Tomorrow’s assignment: Build a fort. Day after tomorrow’s assignment: Build a fort.) My job was to construct an arched doorway. Since I aced wooden-gate installation in the previous class—picked up a little hinge knowledge from watching Dad, apparently—I figured an arch would be no sweat. But the stupid stone blocks wouldn’t stay in place. When they fell on me a third time, I blurted some inappropriate words.