BLOOD OF OLYMPUS

xiv
Nico
NICO SAT UP SO QUICKLY he head-butted the satyr in the nose.
‘OW! Jeez, kid, you got a hard noggin!’
‘S-sorry, Coach.’ Nico blinked, trying to get his bearings. ‘What’s going on?’
He didn’t see any immediate threat. They were camped on a sunny lawn in the middle of a public
square. Beds of orange marigolds bloomed all around them. Reyna was sleeping curled up, with her
two metal dogs at her feet. A stone’s throw away, little kids played tag around a white marble
fountain. At a nearby pavement café, half a dozen people sipped coffee in the shade of patio
umbrellas. A few delivery vans were parked along the edges of the square, but there was no traffic.
The only pedestrians were a few families, probably locals, enjoying a warm afternoon.
The square itself was paved with cobblestones, edged with white stucco buildings and lemon trees.
In the centre stood the well-preserved shell of a Roman temple. Its square base stretched maybe fifty
feet wide and ten feet tall, with an intact facade of Corinthian columns rising another twenty-five feet.
And at the top of the colonnade …
Nico’s mouth went dry. ‘Oh, Styx.’
The Athena Parthenos lay sideways along the tops of the columns like a nightclub singer sprawled
across a piano. Lengthwise, she fitted almost perfectly, but with Nike in her extended hand she was a
bit too wide. She looked like she might topple forward at any moment.
‘What is she doing up there?’ Nico asked.
‘You tell me.’ Hedge rubbed his bruised nose. ‘That’s where we appeared. Almost fell to our
deaths, but luckily I’ve got nimble hooves. You were unconscious, hanging in your harness like a
tangled paratrooper until we managed to get you down.’
Nico tried to picture that, then decided he’d rather not. ‘Is this Spain?’
‘Portugal,’ Hedge said. ‘You overshot. By the way, Reyna speaks Spanish; she does not speak
Portuguese. Anyway, while you were asleep, we figured out this city is Évora. Good news: it’s a
sleepy little place. Nobody’s bothered us. Nobody seems to notice the giant Athena sleeping on top of
the Roman temple, which is called the Temple of Diana, in case you were wondering. And people
here appreciate my street performances! I’ve made about sixteen euros.’
He picked up his baseball cap, which jangled with coins.
Nico felt ill. ‘Street performances?’
‘A little singing,’ the coach said. ‘A little martial arts. Some interpretive dance.’
‘Wow.’
‘I know! The Portuguese have taste. Anyway, I supposed this was a decent place to lie low for a