Eye-watering stink aside, the class was cool. I learned the proper technique for making medicinal unicorn-horn shavings (cheese grater applied gently to horn). I scrubbed Hannibal behind the ears with a sudsy push broom (if elephants could purr, his motor would have been rumbling overtime). I fed dead rats—probably the ones I’d collected earlier in the week—to hungry giant eagles.

And I stepped in a catastrophic amount of poop. The Elephants, Unicorns, and Giant Eagles class should come with a no sandals warning. After my third encounter, I asked the instructors a two-part question: Whose job is it to clean up all this poop, and where does the poop go?

Answer: Here’s a shovel and a compostable garbage bag. Use one to fill the other. Tie the bag up tight. And then get out of the way, pronto.

Well, my pronto wasn’t pronto enough. Which is why I suddenly went airborne when a giant female eagle named Aquila (Latin for eagle; wonder which clever legionnaire named her?) swooped in and snatched my poop bag in her talons.

Full disclosure: I clung to that smelly sack as if my life depended on it. Actually, I’m pretty sure it did, because oh my gods we flew high. Camp Jupiter disappeared in the distance. Or where I guessed the camp was, because the Mist, that magical force that shields our world from mortals, had disguised it as open hills and forests. I’m still learning to look through the Mist, but when I squinted, I could just make out the Little Tiber ribboning through the meadow and the lake at the foot of Temple Hill.

We flew on, Aquila, the poop bag, and me, until a rolling expanse of rotting garbage—the local landfill—came into view. The eagle dove to deposit her load. The descent was like the worst kind of roller coaster ride—full speed straight down, no twists or turns—and the garbage odor was even worse than the stables. (Ooh! Another outlet for Bombilo’s Café Scent!) I scrambled up on Aquila’s back to get my nose above the stink.

Not a second too soon, either. A worker in a hard hat and a bright yellow safety vest emerged from her trailer. I flattened myself into the eagle’s neck feathers just in case the Mist wasn’t working. I risked a peek when we took off, though.

The worker had taken off her sunglasses. I couldn’t see her eyes under her hard hat, but I could tell she was watching us. And she was smiling. Not a nice thanks for the giant bag of poop, come again soon smile—a nasty, knowing smile that gave me the shivers. I couldn’t get away from her and that landfill fast enough.

Not that I was eager to get back to camp, because I figured I’d be in trouble. But my instructors were too relieved to see me in one piece to yell at me. Well, not too loudly or for too long, anyway.

Here’s the thing, though: I’d do it again. Not the poop-bag flight or the landfill part, but the return journey. Because open-air soaring via giant-eagle express was a-maz-ing. And maybe I’m crazy, but I think Aquila liked having me along for the ride. That’s how I interpreted the little beak nudge she gave me when I slipped off, anyway. Sure, I’d get stuck with extra chores if I took her for an unauthorized flight, but honestly? It’d be worth it!

Someone has been messing with my stuff! Specifically, with my Mercury action figure. Before Janice and I left to visit Temple Hill, I posed him like the statue in Great-Granddad’s sanctuary—leaning casually against a post, ankles crossed, his sack of coins in one hand and his caduceus in the crook of his other elbow.

But now his legs are bent as if he’s about to spring into action. One arm is raised overhead, his caduceus held like a spear. Posed like that, he doesn’t look like Mercury anymore. He looks like a warrior. Almost like Mars, minus the threatening snarl. And his coin purse is missing.

I’m sure someone’s just playing a prank on me, but still…I’m going to ask Janice if I should say something to our centurions.

Later…

I took Janice’s advice and didn’t bother Leila. I’m glad I didn’t, because I just found the coin purse tucked under my pillow. Inside was a slip of parchment with two words, Invenient MV, inside an oval with a squiggly bottom. No clue what that oval signifies, but I’ve got chills. Because the handwriting is the same as in my XII note.

I know invenient is Latin for find, and it’s used when the thing to be found is male. Which means MV is a boy or a man. But who is he? I don’t know anyone here with those initials. Why am I supposed to look for him, and what am I supposed to do if and when I find him? And what, if anything, does the message have to do with XII or my Mercury figure being posed to look like Mars? Argh!!!

Well, I guess the only one who can answer those questions is the mysterious MV. So tomorrow, I’ll start looking for him. It shouldn’t take long. After all, there are only two hundred of us in the legion, and not all of us are male.

Of course, if MV isn’t a member of the Twelfth…it could be a while before I invenient him.

Welp, today has been totally awesome, she wrote sarcastically.

I spent the morning asking if anyone knew who MV was. No luck, and when I started getting funny looks, I decided to back-burner the investigation for the time being. Then this afternoon I was trapped digging a trench with a chatterbox who spoke in question marks: “My name is, like, Lynda? I’m in the Second Cohort? My favorite store is the Sandal Shoppe?” The only time she shut up was when I accidentally-on-purpose tossed a shovelful of dirt in her face.

And then there was tonight, when I played in my first deathball match. (DeathballTM! Like paintball, only with poison and acid and fireballs launched from a mini manubalista! Painful for all ages!) It should have been exciting, especially since Janice and I came up with a totally boss strategy we called the Janus. Basically, we fired our projectiles while crouched back to back behind our scutum (which I kept calling sputum until Janice explained that one was a large curved shield and the other was the wet mucusy stuff we cough up when we’re sick; I probably won’t confuse the two again). We looked like a two-headed, four-footed garbage bin shuffling around the field. But we withstood all attacks!

Or we did until I slipped on a loose deathball and fell in the trench I’d dug with Question Mark Lynda. Janice escaped unscathed, but it was pretty much open season on me. My bruises will heal, but my scutum is dinged up worse than the hood of a car caught in a hailstorm. I’ll have to take it to the forges to get the dents banged out.

The icing on the cake? I twisted my ankle. So, if the ambrosia and nectar don’t heal it, people will now have a legit reason to call me Claudia the Clumsy.

Things were ugly in the mess hall this morning, and not just because an unprecedented number of legionnaires stumbled in with serious bed head. No, the trouble was because the food service was on the fritz. Instead of pancakes, bacon, and fruit, the wind spirits delivered nothing but hot, steamy oatmeal. Not a problem for me, but for the others…yikes.

Hangry legionnaires were gearing up to storm the kitchens when a big black raven—aka Praetor Frank—flew in and announced that donuts from Bombilo’s were on the way.

Much as I like oatmeal, I wasn’t going to pass up free donuts. So I headed outside to scrape my half-eaten bowl into a waste bin.