The legionnaires’ faces were streaked with tears. Some sniffled and wiped their noses. Others embraced and wept silently.

I realized they weren’t just grieving for Jason. The song had unleashed their collective sorrow about the recent battle, their losses, which—given the sparseness of the crowd—must have been extreme. Jason’s song became their song. By honoring him, we honored all the fallen.

On the steps of the principia, the praetors stirred from their private anguish. Reyna took a long, shaky breath. She exchanged a look with Frank, who was having difficulty controlling the tremble of his lower lip. The two leaders seemed to come to silent agreement.

“We will have a state funeral,” Reyna announced.

“And we’ll realize Jason’s dream,” Frank added. “Those temples and—everything Ja—” His voice caught on Jason’s name. He needed a count of five to compose himself. “Everything he envisioned. We’ll build it all in one weekend.”

I could feel the mood of the crowd change, as palpably as a weather front, their grief hardening into steely determination.

Some nodded and murmured assent. A few shouted Ave! Hail! The rest of the crowd picked up the chant. Javelins pounded against shields.

No one balked at the idea of rebuilding Temple Hill in a weekend. A task like that would’ve been impossible even for the most skilled engineering corps. But this was a Roman legion.

“Apollo and Meg will be guests of Camp Jupiter,” Reyna said. “We will find them a place to stay—”

“And a bathroom?” Meg pleaded, dancing with her knees crossed.

Reyna managed a faint smile. “Of course. Together, we’ll mourn and honor our dead. Afterward, we will discuss our plan of war.”

The legionnaires cheered and banged their shields.

I opened my mouth to say something eloquent, to thank Reyna and Frank for their hospitality.

But all my remaining energy had been expended on my song. My gut wound burned. My head twirled on my neck like a carousel.

I fell face-first and bit the dirt.

Sailing north to war

With my Shirley Temple and

Three cherries. Fear me.

OH, THE DREAMS.

Dear reader, if you are tired of hearing about my awful prophetic nightmares, I don’t blame you. Just think how I felt experiencing them firsthand. It was like having the Pythia of Delphi butt-call me all night long, mumbling lines of prophecy I hadn’t asked for and didn’t want to hear.

I saw a line of luxury yachts cutting through moonlit waves off the California coast—fifty boats in a tight chevron formation, strings of lights gleaming along their bows, purple pennants snapping in the wind on illuminated com towers. The decks were crawling with all manner of monsters—Cyclopes, wild centaurs, big-eared pandai, and chest-headed blemmyae. On the aft deck of each yacht, a mob of the creatures seemed to be constructing something like a shed or…or some sort of siege weapon.

My dream zoomed in on the bridge of the lead ship. The crew hustled about, checking monitors and adjusting instruments. Lounging behind them, in matching gold-upholstered La-Z-Boy recliners, were two of my least favorite people in the world.

On the left sat the emperor Commodus. His pastel-blue beach shorts showed off his perfect tanned calves and pedicured bare feet. His gray Indianapolis Colts hoodie was unzipped over his bare chest and perfectly sculpted abs. He had a lot of nerve wearing Colts gear, since we’d humiliated him in the team’s home stadium only a few weeks before. (Of course we’d humiliated ourselves, too, but I wanted to forget that part.)

His face was almost as I remembered: annoyingly handsome, with a haughty chiseled profile and ringlets of golden hair framing his brow. The skin around his eyes, however, looked as if it had been sandblasted. His pupils were cloudy. The last time we’d met, I had blinded him with a burst of godly radiance, and it was obvious he still hadn’t healed. That was the only thing that pleased me about seeing him again.

In the other recliner sat Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, otherwise known as Caligula.

Rage tinted my dream blood-pink. How could he lounge there so relaxed in his ridiculous captain’s outfit—those white slacks and boat shoes, that navy jacket over a striped collarless shirt, that officer’s hat tilted at a rakish angle on his walnut curls—when only a few days before, he had killed Jason Grace? How dare he sip a refreshing iced beverage garnished with three maraschino cherries (Three! Monstrous!) and smile with such self-satisfaction?

Caligula looked human enough, but I knew better than to credit him with any sort of compassion. I wanted to strangle him. Alas, I could do nothing except watch and fume.

“Pilot,” Caligula called out lazily. “What’s our speed?”

“Five knots, sir,” said one of the uniformed mortals. “Should I increase?”

“No, no.” Caligula plucked out one of the maraschino cherries and popped it in his mouth. He chewed and grinned, showing bright red teeth. “In fact, let’s slow to four knots. The journey is half the fun!”

“Yessir!”

Commodus scowled. He swirled the ice in his own drink, which was clear and bubbly with red syrup pooled at the bottom. He only had two maraschino cherries, no doubt because Caligula would never allow Commodus to equal him in anything.

“I don’t understand why we’re moving so slowly,” Commodus grumbled. “At top speed, we could have been there by now.”

Caligula chuckled. “My friend, it’s all about timing. We have to allow our deceased ally his best window of attack.”

Commodus shuddered. “I hate our deceased ally. Are you sure he can be controlled—”

“We’ve discussed this.” Caligula’s singsong tone was light and airy and pleasantly homicidal, as if to say: The next time you question me, I will control you with some cyanide in your beverage. “You should trust me, Commodus. Remember who aided you in your hour of need.”

“I’ve thanked you a dozen times already,” Commodus said. “Besides, it wasn’t my fault. How was I supposed to know Apollo still had some light left in him?” He blinked painfully. “He got the better of you—and your horse, too.”

A cloud passed over Caligula’s face. “Yes, well, soon, we’ll make things right. Between your troops and mine, we have more than enough power to overwhelm the battered Twelfth Legion. And if they prove too stubborn to surrender, we always have Plan B.” He called over his shoulder, “Oh, Boost?”

A pandos hurried in from the aft deck, his enormous shaggy ears flopping around him like throw rugs. In his hands was a large sheet of paper, folded into sections like a map or set of instructions. “Y-yes, Princeps?”

“Progress report.”

“Ah.” Boost’s dark furry face twitched. “Good! Good, master! Another week?”

“A week,” Caligula said.

“Well, sir, these instructions…” Boost turned the paper upside down and frowned at it. “We are still locating all the ‘slot A’s’ on ‘assembly piece sevens.’ And they did not send us enough lug nuts. And the batteries required are not standard size, so—”

“A week,” Caligula repeated, his tone still pleasant. “Yet the blood moon will rise in…”