The Son of Neptune - Chapter 9

AS HE MARCHED TO THE WAR GAMES, Frank replayed the day
in his mind. He couldn’t believe how close he’d come to
death.
That morning on sentry duty, before Percy showed up,
Frank had almost told Hazel his secret. The two of them
had been standing for hours in the chilly fog, watching the
commuter traffic on Highway 24. Hazel had been
complaining about the cold.
‘I’d give anything to be warm,’ she said, her teeth
chattering. ‘I wish we had a fire.’
Even with her armour on, she looked great. Frank liked
the way her cinnamon-toast-coloured hair curled around
the edges of her helmet, and the way her chin dimpled
when she frowned. She was tiny compared to Frank, which
made him feel like a big clumsy ox. He wanted to put his
arms round her to warm her up, but he’d never do that.
She’d probably hit him, and he’d lose the only friend he
had at camp.
I could make a really impressive fire, he thought. Of
course, it would only burn for a few minutes, and then I’d
die …
It was scary that he even considered it. Hazel had that
effect on him. Whenever she wanted something, he had
the irrational urge to provide it. He wanted to be the oldfashioned
knight riding to her rescue, which was stupid, as
she was way more capable at everything than he was.
He imagined what his grandmother would say: Frank
Zhang riding to the rescue? Ha! He’d fall off his horse and
break his neck.
Hard to believe it had been only six weeks since he’d
left his grandmother’s house – six weeks since his mom’s
funeral.
Everything had happened since then: wolves arriving at
his grandmother’s door, the journey to Camp Jupiter, the
weeks he’d spent in the Fifth Cohort trying not to be a
complete failure. Through it all, he’d kept the half-burnt
piece of firewood wrapped in a cloth in his coat pocket.
Keep it close, his grandmother had warned. As long as
it is safe, you are safe.
The problem was that it burned so easily. He
remembered the trip south from Vancouver. When the
temperature dropped below freezing near Mount Hood,
Frank had brought out the piece of tinder and held it in his
hands, imagining how nice it would be to have some fire.
Immediately, the charred end blazed with a searing yellow
flame. It lit up the night and warmed Frank to the bone, but
he could feel his life slipping away, as if he were being
consumed rather than the wood. He’d thrust the flame into
a snowbank. For a horrible moment it kept burning. When
it finally went out, Frank got his panic under control. He
wrapped the piece of wood and put it back in his coat
pocket, determined not to bring it out again. But he
couldn’t forget it.
It was as though someone had said, ‘Whatever you do,
don’t think about that stick bursting into flame!’
So, of course, that’s all he thought about.
On sentry duty with Hazel, he would try to take his mind
off it. He loved spending time with her. He asked her
about growing up in New Orleans, but she got edgy at his
questions, so they made small talk instead. Just for fun,
they tried to speak French to each other. Hazel had some
Creole blood on her mother’s side. Frank had taken
French in school. Neither of them was very fluent, and
Louisiana French was so different from Canadian French
it was almost impossible to converse. When Frank asked
Hazel how her beef was feeling today, and she replied that
his shoe was green, they decided to give up.
Then Percy Jackson had arrived.
Sure, Frank had seen kids fight monsters before. He’d
fought plenty of them himself on his journey from
Vancouver. But he’d never seen gorgons. He’d never
seen a goddess in person. And the way Percy had
controlled the Little Tiber – wow. Frank wished he had
powers like that.
He could still feel the gorgons’ claws pressing into his
arms and smell their snaky breath – like dead mice and
poison. If not for Percy, those grotesque hags would have
carried him away. He’d be a pile of bones in the back of a
Bargain Mart by now.
After the incident at the river, Reyna had sent Frank to
the armoury, which had given him way too much time to
think. While he polished swords, he remembered Juno,
warning them to unleash Death.
Unfortunately Frank had a pretty good idea of what the
goddess meant. He had tried to hide his shock when Juno
had appeared, but she looked exactly like his
grandmother had described – right down to the goat-skin
cape.
She chose your path years ago, Grandmother had told
him. And it will not be easy.
Frank glanced at his bow in the corner of the armoury.
He’d feel better if Apollo would claim him as a son. Frank
had been sure his godly parent would speak up on his
sixteenth birthday, which had passed two weeks ago.
Sixteen was an important milestone for Romans. It had
been Frank’s first birthday at camp. But nothing had
happened. Now Frank hoped he would be claimed on the
Feast of Fortuna, though from what Juno had said they’d
be in a battle for their lives on that day.
His father had to be Apollo. Archery was the only thing
Frank was good at. Years ago, his mother had told him
that their family name, Zhang, meant ‘master of bows’ in
Chinese. That must have been a hint about his dad.
Frank put down his polishing rags. He looked at the
ceiling. ‘Please, Apollo, if you’re my dad, tell me. I want to
be an archer like you.’
‘No, you don’t,’ a voice grumbled.
Frank jumped out of his seat. Vitellius, the Fifth
Cohort’s Lar, was shimmering behind him. His full name
was Gaius Vitellius Reticulus, but the other cohorts called
him Vitellius the Ridiculous.
‘Hazel Levesque sent me to check on you,’ Vitellius
said, hiking up his sword belt. ‘Good thing, too. Look at the
state of this armour!’
Vitellius wasn’t one to talk. His toga was baggy, his tunic
barely fitted over his belly and his scabbard fell off his belt
every three seconds, but Frank didn’t bother pointing that
out.
‘As for archers,’ the ghost said, ‘they’re wimps! Back in
my day, archery was a job for barbarians. A good Roman
should be in the fray, gutting his enemy with spear and
sword like a civilized man! That’s how we did it in the Punic
Wars. Roman up, boy!’
Frank sighed. ‘I thought you were in Caesar’s army.’
‘I was!’
‘Vitellius, Caesar was hundreds of years after the Punic
Wars. You couldn’t have been alive that long.’
‘Questioning my honour?’ Vitellius looked so mad his
purple aura glowed. He drew his ghostly gladius and
yelled, ‘Take that!’
He ran the sword, which was about as deadly as a laser
pointer, through Frank’s chest a few times.
‘Ouch,’ Frank said, just to be nice.
Vitellius looked satisfied and put his sword away.
‘Perhaps you’ll think twice about doubting your elders next
time! Now … it was your sixteenth birthday recently, wasn’t
it?’ Frank nodded. He wasn’t sure how Vitellius knew this,
since Frank hadn’t told anyone except Hazel, but ghosts
had ways of finding out secrets. Eavesdropping while
invisible was probably one of them.
‘So that’s why you’re such a grumpy gladiator,’ the Lar
said. ‘Understandable. The sixteenth birthday is your day
of manhood! Your godly parent should have claimed you,
no doubt about it, even if with only a small omen. Perhaps
he thought you were younger. You look younger, you
know, with that pudgy baby face.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ Frank muttered.
‘Yes, I remember my sixteenth,’ Vitellius said happily.
‘Wonderful omen! A chicken in my underpants.’
‘Excuse me?’
Vitellius puffed up with pride. ‘That’s right! I was at the
river changing my clothes for my Liberalia. Rite of
passage into manhood, you know. We did things properly
back then. I’d taken off my childhood toga and was
washing up to don the adult one. Suddenly, a pure-white
chicken ran out of nowhere, dived into my loincloth and
ran off with it. I wasn’t wearing it at the time.’
‘That’s good,’ Frank said. ‘And can I just say: too much
information?’
‘Mm.’ Vitellius wasn’t listening. ‘That was the sign I was
descended from Aesculapius, the god of medicine. I took
my cognomen, my third name, Reticulus, because it
meant undergarment, to remind me of the blessed day
when a chicken stole my loincloth.’
‘So … your name means Mr Underwear?’
‘Praise the gods! I became a surgeon in the legion, and
the rest is history.’ He spread his arms generously. ‘Don’t
give up, boy. Maybe your father is running late. Most
omens are not as dramatic as a chicken, of course. I knew
a fellow once who got a dung beetle –’
‘Thanks, Vitellius,’ Frank said. ‘But I have to finish
polishing this armour –’
‘And the gorgon’s blood?’
Frank froze. He hadn’t told anyone about that. As far as
he knew, only Percy had seen him pocket the vials at the
river, and they hadn’t had a chance to talk about it.
‘Come now,’ Vitellius chided. ‘I’m a healer. I know the
legends about gorgon’s blood. Show me the vials.’
Reluctantly, Frank brought out the two ceramic flasks
he’d retrieved from the Little Tiber. Spoils of war were often
left behind when a monster dissolved – sometimes a
tooth, or a weapon, or even the monster’s entire head.
Frank had known what the two vials were immediately. By
tradition they belonged to Percy, who had killed the
gorgons, but Frank couldn’t help thinking, What if I could
use them?
‘Yes.’ Vitellius studied the vials approvingly. ‘Blood
taken from the right side of a gorgon’s body can cure any
disease, even bring the dead back to life. The goddess
Minerva once gave a vial of it to my divine ancestor,
Aesculapius. But blood taken from the left side of a
gorgon – instantly fatal. So, which is which?’
Frank looked down at the vials. ‘I don’t know. They’re
identical.’
‘Ha! But you’re hoping the right vial could solve your
problem with the burnt stick, eh? Maybe break your
curse?’
Frank was so stunned he couldn’t talk.
‘Oh, don’t worry, boy.’ The ghost chuckled. ‘I won’t tell
anyone. I’m a Lar, a protector of the cohort! I wouldn’t do
anything to endanger you.’
‘You stabbed me through the chest with your sword.’
‘Trust me, boy! I have sympathy for you, carrying the
curse of that Argonaut.’
‘The … what?’
Vitellius waved away the question. ‘Don’t be modest.
You’ve got ancient roots. Greek as well as Roman. It’s no
wonder Juno –’ He tilted his head, as if listening to a voice
from above. His face went slack. His entire aura flickered
green. ‘But I’ve said enough! At any rate, I’ll let you work
out who gets the gorgon’s blood. I suppose that newcomer
Percy could use it, too, with his memory problem.’
Frank wondered what Vitellius had been about to say
and what had made him so scared, but he got the feeling
that for once Vitellius was going to keep his mouth shut.
He looked down at the two vials. He hadn’t even thought
of Percy’s needing them. He felt guilty that he’d been
intending to use the blood for himself. ‘Yeah. Of course.
He should have it.’
‘Ah, but if you want my advice …’ Vitellius looked up
nervously again. ‘You should both wait on that gorgon
blood. If my sources are right, you’re going to need it on
your quest.’
‘Quest?’
The doors of the armoury flew open.
Reyna stormed in with her metal greyhounds. Vitellius
vanished. He might have liked chickens, but he did not
like the praetor’s dogs.
‘Frank.’ Reyna looked troubled. ‘That’s enough with the
armour. Go find Hazel. Get Percy Jackson down here.
He’s been up there too long. I don’t want Octavian …’ She
hesitated. ‘Just get Percy down here.’
So Frank had run all the way to Temple Hill.
Walking back, Percy had asked tons of questions about
Hazel’s brother, Nico, but Frank didn’t know that much.
‘He’s okay,’ Frank said. ‘He’s not like Hazel –’
‘How do you mean?’ Percy asked.
‘Oh, um …’ Frank coughed. He’d meant that Hazel was
better looking and nicer, but he decided not to say that.
‘Nico is kind of mysterious. He makes everybody else
nervous, being the son of Pluto, and all.’
‘But not you?’
Frank shrugged. ‘Pluto’s cool. It’s not his fault he runs
the Underworld. He just got bad luck when the gods were
dividing up the world, you know? Jupiter got the sky,
Neptune got the sea and Pluto got the shaft.’
‘Death doesn’t scare you?’
Frank almost wanted to laugh. Not at all! Got a match?
Instead he said, ‘Back in the old times, like the Greek
times, when Pluto was called Hades, he was more of a
death god. When he became Roman, he got more … I
don’t know, respectable. He became the god of wealth,
too. Everything under the earth belongs to him. So I don’t
think of him as being real scary.’
Percy scratched his head. ‘How does a god become
Roman? If he’s Greek, wouldn’t he stay Greek?’
Frank walked a few steps, thinking about that. Vitellius
would’ve given Percy an hour-long lecture on the subject,
probably with a PowerPoint presentation, but Frank took
his best shot. ‘The way Romans saw it, they adopted the
Greek stuff and perfected it.’
Percy made a sour face. ‘Perfected it? Like there was
something wrong with it?’
Frank remembered what Vitellius had said: You’ve got
ancient roots. Greek as well as Roman. His grandmother
had said something similar.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Rome was more successful
than Greece. They made this huge empire. The gods
became a bigger deal in Roman times – more powerful
and widely known. That’s why they’re still around today. So
many civilizations base themselves on Rome. The gods
changed to Roman because that’s where the centre of
power was. Jupiter was … well, more responsible as a
Roman god than he had been when he was Zeus. Mars
became a lot more important and disciplined.’
‘And Juno became a hippie bag lady,’ Percy noted. ‘So
you’re saying the old Greek gods – they just changed
permanently to Roman? There’s nothing left of the
Greek?’
‘Uh …’ Frank looked around to make sure there were no
campers or Lares nearby, but the main gates were still a
hundred yards away. ‘That’s a sensitive topic. Some
people say Greek influence is still around, like it’s still a
part of the gods’ personalities. I’ve heard stories of
demigods occasionally leaving Camp Jupiter. They reject
Roman training and try to follow the older Greek style –
like being solo heroes instead of working as a team the
way the legion does. And back in the ancient days, when
Rome fell, the eastern half of the empire survived – the
Greek half.’
Percy stared at him. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It was called Byzantium.’ Frank liked saying that word. It
sounded cool. ‘The eastern empire lasted another
thousand years, but it was always more Greek than
Roman. For those of us who follow the Roman way, it’s
kind of a sore subject. That’s why, whatever country we
settle in, Camp Jupiter is always in the west – the Roman
part of the territory. The east is considered bad luck.’
‘Huh.’ Percy frowned.
Frank couldn’t blame him for feeling confused. The
Greek/Roman stuff gave him a headache, too.
They reached the gates.
‘I’ll take you to the baths to get you cleaned up,’ Frank
said. ‘But first … about those vials I found at the river.’
‘Gorgon’s blood,’ Percy said. ‘One vial heals. One is
deadly poison.’
Frank’s eyes widened. ‘You know about that? Listen, I
wasn’t going to keep them. I just –’
‘I know why you did it, Frank.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah.’ Percy smiled. ‘If I’d come into camp carrying a
vial of poison, that would’ve looked bad. You were trying to
protect me.’
‘Oh … right.’ Frank wiped the sweat off his palms. ‘But if
we could figure out which vial was which, it might heal your
memory.’
Percy’s smile faded. He gazed across the hills.
‘Maybe … I guess. But you should hang on to those vials
for now. There’s a battle coming. We may need them to
save lives.’
Frank stared at him, a little bit in awe. Percy had a
chance to get his memory back, and he was willing to wait
in case someone else needed the vial more? Romans
were supposed to be unselfish and help their comrades,
but Frank wasn’t sure anyone else at camp would have
made that choice.
‘So you don’t remember anything?’ Frank asked.
‘Family, friends?’
Percy fingered the clay beads round his neck. ‘Only
glimpses. Murky stuff. A girlfriend … I thought she’d be at
camp.’ He looked at Frank carefully, as if making a
decision. ‘Her name was Annabeth. You don’t know her,
do you?’
Frank shook his head. ‘I know everybody at camp, but
no Annabeth. What about your family? Is your mom
mortal?’
‘I guess so … she’s probably worried out of her mind.
Does your mom get to see you much?’
Frank stopped at the bathhouse entrance. He grabbed
some towels from the supply shed. ‘She died.’
Percy knitted his brow. ‘How?’
Usually Frank would lie. He’d say an accident and shut
off the conversation. Otherwise his emotions got out of
control. He couldn’t cry at Camp Jupiter. He couldn’t show
weakness. But, with Percy, Frank found it easier to talk.
‘She died in the war,’ he said. ‘Afghanistan.’
‘She was in the military?’
‘Canadian. Yeah.’
‘Canada? I didn’t know –’
‘Most Americans don’t.’ Frank sighed. ‘But, yeah,
Canada has troops there. My mom was a captain. She
was one of the first women to die in combat. She saved
some soldiers who were pinned down by enemy fire.
She … she didn’t make it. The funeral was right before I
came down here.’
Percy nodded. He didn’t ask for more details, which
Frank appreciated. He didn’t say he was sorry, or make
any of the well-meaning comments Frank always hated:
Oh, you poor guy. That must be so hard on you. You have
my deepest condolences.
It was like Percy had faced death before, like he knew
about grief. What mattered was listening. You didn’t need
to say you were sorry. The only thing that helped was
moving on – moving forward.
‘How about you show me the baths now?’ Percy
suggested. ‘I’m filthy.’
Frank managed a smile. ‘Yeah. You kind of are.’
As they walked into the steam room, Frank thought of
his grandmother, his mom and his cursed childhood,
thanks to Juno and her piece of firewood. He almost
wished he could forget his past, the way Percy had.

Categories: The Son of Neptune