That’s when this girl with wide-set eyes and long braids—Janice—yelled over, “Hey! Stick a keystone in it, will ya?” I thought she was warning me to watch my language. Turns out she meant it literally—that I should fit a wedge-shaped block in the top center spot. I did, and presto! The keystone locked the other blocks in place. Instant arch!
After class, I bought Janice a pastry from Bombilo’s café to thank her for saving me from further bodily harm. It took her forever to decide on the one to get, which I thought was hilarious since she’s the daughter of the god of choices. She could have taken all day as far as I was concerned, because Bombilo’s smelled sooo good. Just thinking about that cinnamon and sugar and vanilla and coffee odor now is making my mouth water! My merchant/shopkeeper genes are tingling too. I know I could rake in serious dough (ha!) if I could bottle up and sell that scent. Multipurpose spritz bottles…Yes, I can smell the profits already! (Double ha!)
Janice and I bonded over our sugar-crusted pastries while relaxing in hammocks on the Fourth barracks front porch. We talked about everything from growing up as the only children of single parents (not an issue for either of us) to our near-death experiences with Lupa (very much an issue for both of us) to tomorrow’s testudo—turtle, tortoise, whatever; I’m trying to use the Latin terms when I can—practice (only an issue if we’re shoulder to shoulder beneath that shell of shields with a garlic-scented mouth-breather). We’re in the same ID the Deity class, so later tonight we’re going to quiz each other on the names and attributes of minor gods and goddesses.
And now I’m going to admit something I’ve avoided thinking about: Even though I’m surrounded by people wherever I go, I’ve been lonely here. But thanks to Janice, that’s over now. ☺
Can’t say I hadn’t been warned.
My first morning in the Fourth, Leila had called me to her bunk for a here’s what’s what talk. She explained the different ranks within the legion (probatio, legionnaire, centurion, praetor) and told me I could leapfrog right to legionnaire if I did some mega-heroic unselfish deed. No pressure, she said, though it would boost the Fourth’s cred if I did. Then she went over Camp Jupiter’s ground rules, stuff like no taking a giant eagle out for a joy ride, no plotting to overthrow your praetor, no short-sheeting the senators’ togas no matter how hilarious a prank that might be. Punishments for rule-breaking range from extra chores to banishment to being sewn into a bag with angry weasels. (That last one got a solid yikes from me.)
Finally, she warned me that probatios often have wild and crazy dreams after arriving at camp. Being plopped into the middle of ancient Rome’s last remaining outpost and surrounded by godly influences—and maybe even the occasional god, if Janice was right about them visiting New Rome—triggers the visions, they think. Sometimes the dreams are harmless, but other times they’re horrible nightmares that warn of impending danger. So if I ever wake up screaming, Leila said, I should come find her. Because the screams alone wouldn’t be enough to alert her that something was wrong, apparently.
My first nights here were mercifully nightmare-free. Tonight, though…well, I didn’t wake up screaming, but my dream did have some uber-disturbing moments. Here’s what I remember:
A frizzy-haired girl about my age approached the Decumanian Gate, the camp’s western entrance. Her ratty sneakers flapped with every step. Her threadbare dress hung like a filthy rag on her skinny four-foot-nothing frame. She looked like a stiff breeze could knock her over, and yet something about her—her clenched teeth, the tightness around her dark, heavily lashed eyes, the fleet of flies buzzing around her head—made my dream-self uneasy.
When she reached the gate, Terminus, the god who guards our borders, popped up. (I find Terminus fascinating. I mean, the guy is just a marble head and torso, no arms, no legs—and yet I swear he has a stick up his butt.) He demanded to see her identification. But when she thrust her letter of recommendation at him, he drew back, shook his head violently, and refused to let her enter.
A centurion of the Fourth Cohort arrived then. He wore the usual Roman gear—helmet, chain mail, leather arm and leg greaves, dagger, combat boots with piked cleats, sword, and…Gods, I’m exhausted just writing it all down—forget wearing it! I took the guy for a modern-day sentry until I saw his ripped jeans and the flannel shirt tied around his waist. Those fashion choices hinted at 1990s grunge rock. But it wasn’t until he removed his helmet that I knew I was glimpsing a scene from the past.
Because the centurion was my dad.
Not the guy I know and love, with his pudgy dad bod, dark brown hair, and nondescript clothes, but back when he was a high-ranking, scraggy teenage member of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata. With a cringe-y bleached-blond cowlick, no less.
He stepped forward and overruled Terminus. The god threw his nonexistent arms up in disgust while Dad beckoned to the girl with a welcoming smile. That smile changed to alarm mixed with mild revulsion—the same expression he got the time he found a week-old pizza box festering under my bed—when the girl shoved her papers into his hand and pushed past him into camp. Eyes wide, Dad glanced at Terminus, who shot him a superior told you so look before vanishing.
The scene dissolved. New ones tumbled rapid-fire through my mind: The assembled legion stumbling back to let the girl pass. The aurae flinging food at her from far across the mess hall. Her bunkmates whispering about her behind their hands. Hannibal the elephant letting out an alarmed trumpet when she neared.
The dream shifted again. Now Dad stood at attention before his praetors inside the principia. The praetors questioned him about the new girl. He shook his head and said he’d tried, he really had, but no one in the cohort could stand to be around her. Her presence was disrupting the Fourth’s ability to work as a unit. Something needed to be done. The praetors looked grave but nodded.
The dream spun back to the barracks. It was after midnight, but the girl was out of bed. She had a tattered knapsack over one shoulder, and I knew instinctively she was running away. Before she sneaked outside, though, she tipped over a garbage can and kicked the rotting contents all over the barracks floor.
Then she scowled. Not at her bunkmates—at me. At least that’s what it seemed like.
That’s when I woke up. As soon as my heart stopped racing, I grabbed this journal and came here to my favorite latrine to ponder the dream’s significance. It was weird seeing Dad at that age, and I was no fan of the girl’s scowl, but overall, the dream didn’t seem to foretell any danger. I mean, everything in it had happened years ago. So no reason to rouse Leila.
Especially if…Well, what if the dream was a different kind of warning—a warning that not every demigod or legacy finds a place at Camp Jupiter? I’m afraid that if I go to Leila, she might think I had the dream because I don’t really belong here.
So yeah. I’m going to keep the dream to myself. After all, the fewer people who know about my dad’s cowlick, the better.…
Today was super fun, except for the near-death experience.
It happened midway through the course Intro to Elephants, Unicorns, and Giant Eagles, which I’d signed up for because, well, elephants, unicorns, and giant eagles. (A totally misleading description, BTW, as there is only one elephant here. Unless they’re hiding a spare pachyderm somewhere. Possible, though not likely. I think.) The class met at the stables, which are located uncomfortably close to the Fifth Cohort barracks. How those guys stand the stench is beyond me. (Note to self: The Fifth would be the perfect market for my spritz bottles of Bombilo’s Café Scent!)