The Mark of Athena

Annabeth ordered a panini and some fizzy water. After the waiter left, she smiled at Percy. “I think Italians eat a lot later in the day. They don’t put ice in their drinks. And they only do pizza for tourists.”

“Oh.” Percy shrugged. “The best Italian food, and they don’t even eat it?”

“I wouldn’t say that in front of the waiter.”

They held hands across the table. Percy was content just to look at Annabeth in the sunlight. It always made her hair so bright and warm. Her eyes took on the colors of the sky and the cobblestones, alternately brown or blue.

He wondered if he should tell Annabeth his dream about Gaea destroying Camp Half-Blood. He decided against it. She didn’t need anything else to worry about—not with what she was facing.

But it made him wonder…what would have happened if they hadn’t scared off Chrysaor’s pirates? Percy and Annabeth would’ve been put in chains and taken to Gaea’s minions. Their blood would have been spilled on ancient stones. Percy guessed that meant they would’ve been taken to Greece for some big horrible sacrifice. But Annabeth and he had been in plenty of bad situations together. They could’ve figured out an escape plan, saved the day…and Annabeth wouldn’t be facing this solo quest in Rome.

It doesn’t matter when you fall, Gaea had said.

Percy knew it was a horrible wish, but he almost regretted that they hadn’t been captured at sea. At least Annabeth and he would’ve been together.

“You shouldn’t feel ashamed,” Annabeth said. “You’re thinking about Chrysaor, aren’t you? Swords can’t solve every problem. You saved us in the end.”

In spite of himself, Percy smiled. “How do you do that? You always know what I’m thinking.”

“I know you,” she said.

And you like me anyway? Percy wanted to ask, but he held it back.

“Percy,” she said, “you can’t carry the weight of this whole quest. It’s impossible. That’s why there are seven of us. And you’ll have to let me search for the Athena Parthenos on my own.”

“I missed you,” he confessed. “For months. A huge chunk of our lives was taken away. If I lost you again —”

Lunch arrived. The waiter looked much calmer. Having accepted the fact that they were clueless Americans, he had apparently decided to forgive them and treat them politely.

“It is a beautiful view,” he said, nodding toward the river. “Enjoy, please.”

Once he left, they ate in silence. The pizza was a bland, doughy square with not a lot of cheese. Maybe, Percy thought, that’s why Romans didn’t eat it. Poor Romans.

“You’ll have to trust me,” Annabeth said. Percy almost thought she was talking to her sandwich, because she didn’t meet his eyes. “You’ve got to believe I’ll come back.”

He swallowed another bite. “I believe in you. That’s not the problem. But come back from where?”

The sound of a Vespa interrupted them. Percy looked along the riverfront and did a double take. The motor scooter was an old-fashioned model: big and baby blue. The driver was a guy in a silky gray suit. Behind him sat a younger woman with a headscarf, her hands around the man’s waist. They weaved between cafe tables and puttered to a stop next to Percy and Annabeth.

“Why, hello,” the man said. His voice was deep, almost croaky, like a movie actor’s. His hair was short and greased back from his craggy face. He was handsome in a 1950s dad-on-television way. Even his clothes seemed old-fashioned. When he stepped off his bike, the waistline of his slacks was way higher than normal, but somehow he still managed to look manly and stylish and not like a total goober. Percy had trouble guessing his age—maybe thirty-something, though the man’s fashion and manner seemed grandfatherish.

The woman slid off the bike. “We’ve had the most lovely morning,” she said breathlessly.

She looked about twenty-one, also dressed in an old-fashioned style. Her ankle-length marigold skirt and white blouse were pinched together with a large leather belt, giving her the narrowest waist Percy had ever seen. When she removed her scarf, her short wavy black hair bounced into perfect shape. She had dark playful eyes and a brilliant smile. Percy had seen naiads that looked less pixieish than this lady.

Annabeth’s sandwich fell out of her hands. “Oh, gods. How—how… ?”

She seemed so stunned that Percy figured he ought to know these two.

“You guys do look familiar,” he decided. He thought he might have seen their faces on television. It seemed like they were from an old show, but that couldn’t be right. They hadn’t aged at all. Nevertheless, he pointed at the guy and took a guess. “Are you that guy on Mad Men?”

“Percy!” Annabeth looked horrified.

“What?” he protested. “I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

“That’s Gregory Peck!” Annabeth’s eyes were wide, and her mouth kept falling open. “And…oh gods! Audrey Hepburn! I know this movie. Roman Holiday. But that was from the 1950s. How—?”

“Oh, my dear!” The woman twirled like an air spirit and sat down at their table. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else! My name is Rhea Silvia. I was the mother to Romulus and Remus, thousands of years ago. But you’re so kind to think I look as young as the 1950s. And this is my husband…”

“Tiberinus,” said Gregory Peck, thrusting out his hand to Percy in a manly way. “God of the River Tiber.”

Percy shook his hand. The guy smelled of aftershave. Of course, if Percy were the Tiber River, he’d probably