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.
In the parlour, Frank sat on a velvet sofa, surrounded by
vintage family photos, porcelain vases that had been too
large for his wagon and red Chinese calligraphy banners.
Frank didn’t know what the calligraphy said. He’d never
had much interest in learning. He didn’t know most of the
people in the photographs, either.
Whenever Grandmother started lecturing him about his
ancestors – how they’d come over from China and
prospered in the import/export business, eventually
becoming one of the wealthiest Chinese families in
Vancouver – well, it was boring. Frank was fourthgeneration
Canadian. He didn’t care about China and all
these musty antiques. The only Chinese characters he
could recognize were his family name: Zhang. Master of
bows. That was cool.
Grandmother sat next to him, her posture stiff, her
hands folded over the box.
‘Your mother wanted you to have this,’ she said with
reluctance. ‘She kept it since you were a baby. When she
went away to the war, she entrusted it to me. But now she
is gone. And soon you will be going, too.’
Frank’s stomach fluttered. ‘Going? Where?’
‘I am old,’ Grandmother said, as if that were a surprising
announcement. ‘I have my own appointment with Death
soon enough. I cannot teach you the skills you will need,
and I cannot keep this burden. If something were to
happen to it, I would never forgive myself. You would die.’
Frank wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. It sounded like
she had said his life depended on that box. He wondered
why he’d never seen it before. She must have kept it
locked in the attic – the one room Frank was forbidden to
explore. She’d always said she kept her most valuable
treasures up there.
She handed the box to him. He opened the lid with
trembling fingers. Inside, cushioned in velvet lining, was a
terrifying, life-altering, incredibly important … piece of
wood.
It looked like driftwood – hard and smooth, sculpted into
a wavy shape. It was about the size of a TV remote control.
The tip was charred. Frank touched the burnt end. It still
felt warm. The ashes left a black smudge on his finger.
‘It’s a stick,’ he said. He couldn’t figure out why
Grandmother was acting so tense and serious about it.
Her eyes glittered. ‘Fai, do you know of prophecies? Do
you know of the gods?’
The questions made him uncomfortable. He thought
about Grandmother’s silly gold statues of Chinese
immortals, her superstitions about putting furniture in
certain places and avoiding unlucky numbers.
Prophecies made him think of fortune cookies, which
weren’t even Chinese – not really – but the bullies at
school teased him about stupid stuff like that: Confucius
say … all that garbage. Frank had never even been to
China. He wanted nothing to do with it. But, of course,
Grandmother didn’t want to hear that.
‘A little, Grandmother,’ he said. ‘Not much.’
‘Most would have scoffed at your mother’s tale,’ she
said, ‘But I did not. I know of prophecies and gods. Greek,
Roman, Chinese – they intertwine in our family. I did not
question what she told me about your father.’
‘Wait … what?’
‘Your father was a god,’ she said plainly.
If Grandmother had had a sense of humour, Frank
would have thought she was kidding. But Grandmother
never teased. Was she going senile?
‘Stop gaping at me!’ she snapped. ‘My mind is not
addled. Haven’t you ever wondered why your father never
came back?’
‘He was …’ Frank faltered. Losing his mother was
painful enough. He didn’t want to think about his father,
too. ‘He was in the army, like Mom. He went missing in
action. In Iraq.’
‘Bah. He was a god. He fell in love with your mother
because she was a natural warrior. She was like me –
strong, brave, good, beautiful.’
Strong and brave, Frank could believe. Picturing
Grandmother as good or beautiful was more difficult.
He still suspected she might be losing her marbles, but
he asked, ‘What kind of god?’
‘Roman,’ she said. ‘Beyond that, I don’t know. Your
mother wouldn’t say, or perhaps she didn’t know herself. It
is no surprise a god would fall in love with her, given our
family. He must have known she was of ancient blood.’
‘Wait … we’re Chinese. Why would Roman gods want to
date Chinese Canadians?’
Grandmother’s nostrils flared. ‘If you bothered to learn
the family history, Fai, you might know this. China and
Rome are not so different, nor as separate as you might
believe. Our family is from Gansu Province, a town once
called Li-Jien. And before that … as I said, ancient blood.
The blood of princes and heroes.’
Frank just stared at her.
She sighed in exasperation. ‘My words are wasted on
this young ox! You will learn the truth when you go to
camp. Perhaps your father will claim you. But, for now, I
must explain the firewood.’
She pointed at the big stone fireplace. ‘Shortly after you
were born, a visitor appeared at our hearth. Your mother
and I sat here on the couch, just where you and I are
sitting. You were a tiny thing, swaddled in a blue blanket,
and she cradled you in her arms.’
It sounded like a sweet memory, but Grandmother told it
in a bitter tone, as if she knew, even then, that Frank would
turn into a big lumbering oaf.
‘A woman appeared at the fire,’ she continued. ‘She was
a white woman – a gwai poh – dressed in blue silk, with a
strange cloak like the skin of a goat.’
‘A goat,’ Frank said numbly.
Grandmother scowled. ‘Yes, clean your ears, Fai
Zhang! I’m too old to tell every story twice! The woman with
the goat-skin was a goddess. I can always tell these
things. She smiled at the baby – at you – and she told
your mother, in perfect Mandarin, no less: “He will close
the circle. He will return your family to its roots and bring
you great honour.”’
Grandmother snorted. ‘I do not argue with goddesses,
but perhaps this one did not see the future clearly.
Whatever the case, she said, “He will go to camp and
restore your reputation there. He will free Thanatos from
his icy chains –”’
‘Wait, who?’
‘Thanatos,’ Grandmother said impatiently. ‘The Greek
name for Death. Now may I continue without
interruptions? The goddess said, “The blood of Pylos is
strong in this child from his mother’s side. He will have the
Zhang family gift, but he will also have the powers of his
father.”’
Suddenly Frank’s family history didn’t seem so boring.
He desperately wanted to ask what it all meant – powers,
gifts, blood of Pylos. What was this camp, and who was his
father? But he didn’t want to interrupt Grandmother again.
He wanted her to keep talking.
‘No power comes without a price, Fai,’ she said. ‘Before
the goddess disappeared, she pointed at the fire and
said, “He will be the strongest of your clan, and the
greatest. But the Fates have decreed he will also be the
most vulnerable. His life will burn bright and short. As
soon as that piece of tinder is consumed – that stick at the
edge of the fire – your son is destined to die.”’
Frank could hardly breathe. He looked at the box in his
lap, and the smudge of ash on his finger. The story
sounded ridiculous, but suddenly the piece of driftwood
seemed more sinister, colder and heavier. ‘This … this –’
‘Yes, my thick-headed ox,’ Grandmother said. ‘That is
the very stick. The goddess disappeared, and I snatched
the wood from the fire immediately. We have kept it ever
since.’
‘If it burns up, I die?’
‘It is not so strange,’ Grandmother said. ‘Roman,
Chinese – the destinies of men can often be predicted,
and sometimes guarded against, at least for a time. The
firewood is in your possession now. Keep it close. As long
as it is safe, you are safe.’
Frank shook his head. He wanted to protest that this
was just a stupid legend. Maybe Grandmother was trying
to scare him as some sort of revenge for breaking her
porcelain.
But her eyes were defiant. She seemed to be
challenging Frank: If you do not believe it, burn it.
Frank closed the box. ‘If it’s so dangerous, why not seal
the wood in something that won’t burn, like plastic or
steel? Why not put it in a safe deposit box?’
‘What would happen,’ Grandmother wondered, ‘if we
coated the stick in another substance. Would you, too,
suffocate? I do not know. Your mother would not take the
risk. She couldn’t bear to part with it, for fear something
would go wrong. Banks can be robbed. Buildings can burn
down. Strange things conspire when one tries to cheat
fate. Your mother thought the stick was only safe in her
possession, until she went to war. Then she gave it to me.’
Grandmother exhaled sourly. ‘Emily was foolish, going
to war, though I suppose I always knew it was her destiny.
She hoped to meet your father again.’
‘She thought … she thought he’d be in Afghanistan?’
Grandmother spread her hands, as if this was beyond
her understanding. ‘She went. She died bravely. She
thought the family gift would protect her. No doubt that’s
how she saved those soldiers. But the gift has never kept
our family safe. It did not help my father, or his father. It
did not help me. And now you have become a man. You
must follow the path.’
‘But … what path? What’s our gift – archery?’
‘You and your archery! Foolish boy. Soon you will find
out. Tonight, after the funeral, you must go south. Your
mother said if she did not come back from combat, Lupa
would send messengers. They will escort you to a place
where the children of the gods can be trained for their
destiny.’
Frank felt as if he were being shot with arrows, his heart
splitting into porcelain shards. He didn’t understand most
of what Grandmother said, but one thing was clear: she
was kicking him out.
‘You’d just let me go?’ he asked. ‘Your last family?’
Grandmother’s mouth quivered. Her eyes looked moist.
Frank was shocked to realize she was near tears. She’d
lost her husband years ago, then her daughter, and now
she was about to send away her only grandson. But she
rose from the couch and stood tall, her posture as stiff and
correct as ever.
‘When you arrive at camp,’ she instructed, ‘you must
speak to the praetor in private. Tell her your greatgrandfather
was Shen Lun. It has been many years since
the San Francisco incident. Hopefully they will not kill you
for what he did, but you might want to beg forgiveness for
his actions.’
‘This is sounding better and better,’ Frank mumbled.
‘The goddess said you would bring our family full circle.’
Grandmother’s voice had no trace of sympathy. ‘She
chose your path years ago, and it will not be easy. But now
it is time for the funeral. We have obligations. Come. The
car will be waiting.’
The ceremony was a blur: solemn faces, the patter of
rain on the graveside awning, the crack of rifles from the
honour guard, the casket sinking into the earth.
That night, the wolves came. They howled on the front
porch. Frank came out to meet them. He took his travel
pack, his warmest clothes, his bow and his quiver. His
mother’s sacrifice medal was tucked in his pack. The
charred stick was wrapped carefully in three layers of cloth
in his coat pocket, next to his heart.
His journey south began – to the Wolf House in
Sonoma, and eventually to Camp Jupiter, where he spoke
to Reyna privately as Grandmother had instructed. He
begged forgiveness for the great-grandfather he knew
nothing about. Reyna let him join the legion. She never
did tell him what his great-grandfather had done, but she
obviously knew. Frank could tell it was bad.
‘I judge people by their own merits,’ Reyna had told him.
‘But do not mention the name Shen Lun to anyone else. It
must remain our secret, or you’ll be treated badly.’
Unfortunately, Frank didn’t have many merits. His first
month at camp was spent knocking over rows of weapons,
breaking chariots and tripping entire cohorts as they
marched. His favourite job was caring for Hannibal the
elephant, but he’d managed to mess that up, too – giving
Hannibal indigestion by feeding him peanuts. Who knew
elephants could be peanut-intolerant? Frank figured
Reyna was regretting her decision to let him join.
Every day, he woke up wondering if the stick would
somehow catch fire and burn, and he would cease to exist.
All of this ran through Frank’s head as he walked with
Hazel and Percy to the war games. He thought about the
stick wrapped inside his coat pocket, and what it meant
that Juno had appeared at camp. Was he about to die?
He hoped not. He hadn’t brought his family any honour
yet – that was for sure. Maybe Apollo would claim him
today and explain his powers and gifts.
Once they got out of camp, the Fifth Cohort formed two
lines behind their centurions, Dakota and Gwen. They
marched north, skirting the edge of the city, and headed
to the Field of Mars – the largest, flattest part of the valley.
The grass was cropped short by all the unicorns, bulls and
homeless fauns that grazed here. The earth was pitted
with explosion craters and scarred with trenches from past
games. At the north end of the field stood their target. The
engineers had built a stone fortress with an iron portcullis,
guard towers, scorpion ballistae, water cannons and no
doubt many other nasty surprises for the defenders to
use.
‘They did a good job today,’ Hazel noted. ‘That’s bad for
us.’
‘Wait,’ Percy said. ‘You’re telling me that fortress was
built today?’
Hazel grinned. ‘Legionnaires are trained to build. If we
had to, we could break down the entire camp and rebuild it
somewhere else. Take maybe three or four days, but we
could do it.’
‘Let’s not,’ Percy said. ‘So you attack a different fort
every night?’
‘Not every night,’ Frank said. ‘We have different training
exercises. Sometimes deathball – um, which is like
paintball, except with … you know, poison and acid and
fire balls. Sometimes we do chariots and gladiator
competitions, sometimes war games.’
Hazel pointed at the fort. ‘Somewhere inside, the First
and Second Cohorts are keeping their banners. Our job is
to get inside and capture them without getting
slaughtered. We do that, we win.’
Percy’s eyes lit up. ‘Like capture-the-flag. I think I like
capture-the-flag.’
Frank laughed. ‘Yeah, well … it’s harder than it sounds.
We have to get past those scorpions and water cannons
on the walls, fight through the inside of the fortress, find
the banners and defeat the guards, all while protecting our
own banners and troops from capture. And our cohort is in
competition with the other two attacking cohorts. We sort of
work together, but not really. The cohort that captures the
banners gets all the glory.’
Percy stumbled, trying to keep time with the left-right
marching rhythm. Frank sympathized. He’d spent his first
two weeks falling down.
‘So why are we practising this, anyway?’ Percy asked.
‘Do you guys spend a lot of time laying siege to fortified
cities?’
‘Teamwork,’ Hazel said. ‘Quick thinking. Tactics. Battle
skills. You’d be surprised what you can learn in the war
games.’
‘Like who will stab you in the back,’ Frank said.
‘Especially that,’ Hazel agreed.
They marched to the centre of the Field of Mars and
formed ranks. The Third and Fourth Cohorts assembled
as far as possible from the Fifth. The centurions for the
attacking side gathered for a conference. In the sky above
them, Reyna circled on her pegasus, Scipio, ready to play
referee. Half a dozen giant eagles flew in formation
behind her – prepared for ambulance airlift duty if
necessary. The only person not participating in the game
was Nico di Angelo, ‘Pluto’s ambassador’, who had
climbed an observation tower about a hundred yards from
the fort and would be watching with binoculars.
Frank propped his pilum against his shield and
checked Percy’s armour. Every strap was correct. Every
piece of armour was properly adjusted.
‘You did it right,’ he said in amazement. ‘Percy, you
must’ve done war games before.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
The only thing that wasn’t regulation was Percy’s
glowing bronze sword – not Imperial gold, and not a
gladius. The blade was leaf-shaped, and the writing on the
hilt was Greek. Looking at it made Frank uneasy.
Percy frowned. ‘We can use real weapons, right?’
‘Yeah,’ Frank agreed. ‘For sure. I’ve just never seen a
sword like that.’
‘What if I hurt somebody?’
‘We heal them,’ Frank said. ‘Or try to. The legion
medics are pretty good with ambrosia and nectar, and
unicorn draught.’
‘No one dies,’ Hazel said. ‘Well, not usually. And if they
do –’
Frank imitated the voice of Vitellius: ‘They’re wimps!
Back in my day, we died all the time, and we liked it!’
Hazel laughed. ‘Just stay with us, Percy. Chances are
we’ll get the worst duty and get eliminated early. They’ll
throw us at the walls first to soften up the defences. Then
the Third and Fourth Cohorts will march in and get the
honours, if they can even breach the fort.’
Horns blew. Dakota and Gwen walked back from the
officers’ conference, looking grim.
‘All right, here’s the plan!’ Dakota took a quick swig of
Kool-Aid from his travel flask. ‘They’re throwing us at the
walls first to soften up the defences.’
The whole cohort groaned.
‘I know, I know,’ Gwen said. ‘But maybe this time we’ll
have some luck!’
Leave it to Gwen to be the optimist. Everybody liked her
because she took care of her people and tried to keep
their spirits up. She could even control Dakota during his
hyperactive bug-juice fits. Still, the campers grumbled
and complained. Nobody believed in luck for the Fifth.
‘First line with Dakota,’ Gwen said. ‘Lock shields and
advance in turtle formation to the main gates. Try to stay
in one piece. Draw their fire. Second line –’ Gwen turned to
Frank’s row without much enthusiasm. ‘You seventeen,
from Bobby over, take charge of the elephant and the
scaling ladders. Try a flanking attack on the western wall.
Maybe we can spread the defenders too thin. Frank,
Hazel, Percy … well, just do whatever. Show Percy the
ropes. Try to keep him alive.’ She turned back to the
whole cohort. ‘If anybody gets over the wall first, I’ll make
sure you get the Mural Crown. Victory for the Fifth!’
The cohort cheered half-heartedly and broke ranks.
Percy frowned. ‘“Do whatever?”’
‘Yeah,’ Hazel sighed. ‘Big vote of confidence.’
‘What’s the Mural Crown?’ he asked.
‘Military medal,’ Frank said. He’d been forced to
memorize all the possible awards. ‘Big honour for the first
soldier to breach an enemy fort. You’ll notice nobody in
the Fifth is wearing one. Usually we don’t even get into the
fort because we’re burning or drowning or …’
He faltered, and looked at Percy. ‘Water cannons.’
‘What?’ Percy asked.
‘The cannons on the walls,’ Frank said, ‘they draw water
from the aqueduct. There’s a pump system – heck, I don’t
know how they work, but they’re under a lot of pressure. If
you could control them, like you controlled the river –’
‘Frank!’ Hazel beamed. ‘That’s brilliant!’
Percy didn’t look so sure. ‘I don’t know how I did that at
the river. I’m not sure I can control the cannons from this
far away.’
‘We’ll get you closer.’ Frank pointed to the eastern wall
of the fort, where the Fifth Cohort wouldn’t be attacking.
‘That’s where the defence will be weakest. They’ll never
take three kids seriously. I think we can sneak up pretty
close before they see us.’
‘Sneak up how?’ Percy asked.
Frank turned to Hazel. ‘Can you do that thing again?’
She punched him in the chest. ‘You said you wouldn’t
tell anybody!’
Immediately Frank felt terrible. He’d got so caught up in
the idea …
Hazel muttered under her breath. ‘Never mind. It’s fine.
Percy, he’s talking about the trenches. The Field of Mars
is riddled with tunnels from over the years. Some are
collapsed, or buried deep, but a lot of them are still
passable. I’m pretty good at finding them and using them.
I can even collapse them if I have to.’
‘Like you did with the gorgons,’ Percy said, ‘to slow them
down.’
Frank nodded approvingly. ‘I told you Pluto was cool.
He’s the god of everything under the earth. Hazel can find
caves, tunnels, trapdoors –’
‘And it was our secret,’ she grumbled.
Frank felt himself blushing. ‘Yeah, sorry. But if we can
get close –’
‘And if I can knock out the water cannons …’ Percy
nodded, like he was warming to the idea. ‘What do we do
then?’
Frank checked his quiver. He always stocked up on
special arrows. He’d never got to use them before, but
maybe tonight was the night. Maybe he could finally do
something good enough to get Apollo’s atten
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