I’m no expert, but I don’t think that’s how gladiator games are supposed to go.

Last night’s competition started out normally. The Colosseum was decked out with purple-and-gold banners and filled with cheering fans. The gladiators circled the arena, waving to the crowd before stopping at the praetors’ box to salute Reyna and Frank. The praetors looked beat—dealing with oatmeal fiascos and faulty poop bags can tire even the strongest among us, apparently—but they smiled and waved back in acknowledgment.

Then the fights began. Swords clashed against shields. Daggers stabbed into exposed flesh. The laquearii pinned arms with their lassoes, the retiarii wrapped heads with their weighted nets, and Ricardo the murmillo champ revealed that yes, he wears undergarments.

It was a fabulous performance that rivaled the best World Wrestling Entertainment matches. I know what I’m talking about, because Dad watches the WWE all the time. Made me a wee bit homesick thinking about him in his chair with the remote.

Thank goodness that gob of blood spattered me in the face when it did, or else I might have gotten all weepy. The Blood Splash Zone was out of wet wipes by then, so I excused myself to go down to the latrines to wash up.

Which is how I almost got caught in the flood.

Romans aren’t known for their navy. A leaky rowboat and a couple tired-looking triremes are all Camp Jupiter has for “ships.” The naiads don’t like it when we boat on the lake, so instead we flood the Colosseum and practice seafaring maneuvers (aka aimless drifting while trying to light cannons with wet matches) in ten feet of water in the arena.

Naval demonstrations weren’t on last night’s program, though. So why someone opened the Colosseum’s floodgates is anybody’s guess. Water gushed in, racing across the arena like a mini tidal wave and sweeping unsuspecting gladiators off their feet. Quick-thinking Colosseum workers saved the day by cranking open the drains. They saved the gladiators, too—at least the ones in heavy armor. If the water had gotten much deeper, there’s no way could those guys have kept their heads above the surface.

It was mayhem in the Colosseum until a shout cut through the noise. It was Praetor Reyna. I thought she was awe-inspiring (in a terrifying way) before. But seeing her standing above the receding water, Imperial gold dagger in hand, purple cape flapping in the wind, her warrior-fierce glare turning her dark eyes even darker…I mean, wow. I’m glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of her fury.

Not that anybody was, not last night, anyway. Her demands to know who had opened the floodgates were met with dead silence. Finally, she had no choice but to send us back to the barracks. She, Frank, and the centurions spent today hunting for the culprit, but with no luck.

Which sucks, because with all the weird stuff that’s been going on, nerves are fraying in the ranks and people are eyeing one another with suspicion.

All right, just what the what is going on?!

First the assembly horn wakes us up before dawn. We all stagger outside like well-trained zombies and form ranks. And then we get shot at! Not from enemies storming the earthen walls surrounding camp, but from our own watchtower crossbows! The weapons usually point outward. But as we lurched into position, they suddenly spun one-eighty degrees and—chzzz! chzzz! chzzz!—fired their arrows directly into camp.

Is that any way to start the day? No!

We would have fought back, but a) no one was manning the crossbows, so there was no one to fight back against, and b) only the most seasoned legionnaires had thought to grab their weapons when the horn blared. As if things weren’t confusing enough, startled Lares kept materializing to see what all the commotion was about—and then dematerializing when they saw what all the commotion was about. So brave, those ancient purple spirits.

The sentries finally got the crossbows under control, but only after the supply of arrows had run out. Thank the gods, no one was seriously hurt, just some scrapes and bruises and one twisted ankle (mine again—all hail the return of Claudia the Clumsy). I hobbled to the infirmary with the other casualties, only to learn the medics’ stores of ambrosia and nectar were missing. So now the medical staff is working overtime making more of both, and other essential supplies too. Pretty sure the unicorns’ horns will be as thin as toothpicks by the time they’re done being cheese-gratered.

Frank and Reyna have canceled our usual activities so they can launch a full-scale investigation into all the troubles going on at camp. And I’m going to do a little investigating myself…in the Temple of Mars Ultor.

Later…

CLOSED BY ORDER OF PRAETOR FRANK. That’s the sign I found hanging on the massive iron door of Mars’s temple. I’ve never heard of a temple being off-limits, but maybe Frank doesn’t want whoever fired on us this morning to have access to Mars’s weapon supply. When I couldn’t go inside, I trooped all around the outside, looking for a window to peek in. Which is how I discovered Elon.

He was curled up in a nest of trash behind the temple, clutching what looked like a lava lamp filled with blobby green goop. On closer inspection—not that close, though, because I didn’t want to wake him and because he still stank to high Olympus—the lava lamp was just an old glass soda bottle. The green stuff looked like swamp scum. Mmm, tasty.

I don’t know if fauns are allowed on Temple Hill. But he looked so cute all snuggled up in that trash that I left him alone with his bottle.

Now I’m back in my bunk. I should be exhausted after playing Dodge the Arrow at the crack of dawn. But every time I close my eyes, I keep picturing that M shape made out of eleven shields. And I can’t help wondering…where is number XII?

I’m an idiot! There’s only one place the original ancile can be—the principia! It’s the most secure building in camp. The elite praetorian guards protect the entrance to the headquarters. Get past them, and you have to deal with Reyna’s vicious metal dogs, not to mention Reyna herself, who is even more ferocious. Frank seems pretty reasonable, but then again, he can turn into a lion and other intimidating creatures with claws and fangs. Plus there’s the golden eagle standard mounted behind the praetors’ desk, which Janice told me zaps laser beams from its eyes.

So basically, the ancile is out of my reach. Which is totally fine! There’s no reason I need to see it! Except…yeah, I really want to see it. I want to know for sure that it’s safe and sound in the principia. Too bad there’s no way to sneak inside. Not even to take a quick peek.

Unless you happen to know about a secret ladder that leads from the aqueduct into the principia, that is. And if you’re descended from the god of thieves…well, that should give you a big advantage in the sneaking-in department, right?

Later…

Oh, my gods. They think it’s me. Frank and Reyna, they think I’m behind the troubles in camp!

I overheard them talking from my hiding place on the ladder below the iron grate. The oatmeal, the dead rats, the faulty poop sacks, the malfunctioning crossbows, even the Colosseum flood—as they pieced together the incidents like tiles in a mosaic, they thought they could see a picture forming.