Chapter Text
Walking out of the hospital, I felt small for the first time in ages. Not literally, of course. Gods could become any shape and size they wanted, and I have spent a fair share of time in the form of small creatures (Including, but not limited to, my favorite corvids). No, I felt insignificant.
Insignificance is a concept entirely foreign to gods. We depended on being acknowledged, after all. Our power came from your mortal worship, and it is the only reason we still existed. Yet, in this moment, I felt like I was invisible. Life seemed to move on without me. No one was stopping to bemoan my absence, or knew I was no longer a god at all. No one even acknowledged my presence (though I didn’t want to be acknowledged until my acne cleared up).
A voice whispered in the back of my mind: What if they don’t actually care that you’re gone? I quickly tried to snuff it out, banishing that anxious thought to the back of my mind. They had to care. I was a god after all.
The road from the hospital opened up into the Principia. All around me were legionnaires engaged in various tasks. Some were dressed in full armor and heading to the armory. Some loitered around educational facilities. Others were heading toward the Via Praetoria, likely heading to New Rome for the day.
Though the spot I landed on (and subsequently tripped a praetor) was free of passerby, I still felt a sense of embarrassment make its way up my cheeks. I turned away from the regal white building and started walking in a random direction.
Holding my head up high, I tried to familiarize myself with the area. (Confidence is key. Acting like you need to be somewhere is the best way to not be bothered. You learn that after living in New York City for long enough.)
I ambled around the campgrounds, taking in the sights. I hadn’t been to Camp Jupiter proper in so long, so my memory—already with enough holes to be Swiss cheese due to Zeu-piter forcing 4000 years of memory into a mortal brain—was lacking. Additionally, despite all Roman encampments from the days of the empire to modern day having the same exact layout, I was only really familiar with the interior of the commander’s tent (which I didn't really want to think about too hard).
Just behind the Principia was the Via Principalis, a vast expanse of dirt road (seriously, the Romans invented concrete, could they have at least paved their camps?) that bisected the campgrounds. Legionnaires were clustered around the edges of the road, likely shaking off their post-lunch food comas. A few were polishing imperial gold weaponry, while most were just loitering around and chatting with each other. The occasional purple Lar flittered in and around the scattered campers, though they all stared at me weirdly before ignoring me like their alive counterparts. I wondered if they could recognize my divinity. Hopefully, that meant that I still had at least something divine within me.
I caught a few snippets of conversation as I walked past. Thankfully, none of them were talking about my inelegant arrival to camp—and luckily didn't recognize me as the person who tripped their praetor. Mostly, they chatted about legion life: building forts, playing war games, and strangely enough, oatmeal (what was with these Romans and their hatred of oatmeal?)
At the midpoint of the Via Principalis, the Via Praetoria connected New Rome with Camp Jupiter proper. In the distance, the combination of traditional Roman architecture and modern buildings that made up New Rome shone in the afternoon sun.
I debated if I should visit New Rome at least once before I was forced into military service. I remembered a few banger concerts I held with the Muses in New Rome’s concert hall back in the ‘80s, as well as a lecture on the treatment of skin cancer (Sorry, I’ve been trying to make the sun chariot more eco-friendly and reducing my UV-emissions, but it’s been hard) that I gave at New Rome University almost a decade ago. It would be nostalgic, for sure—plus, New Rome tended to be where minor gods and Olympians alike hung out (in disguise, of course), and gods know how much divine help I’d need.
Then I considered the travel time. Yeah, no. No way I’d make it to and from the city before the praetors noticed I was missing from muster and I’d lose any and all of the good will I had with them. I didn’t want to be eaten by Reyna’s metal hounds, thank you very much. Nor would I want to be acquainted any further with Zeu-piter’s giant eagles, whom I’ve already met on many, many unpleasant occasions.
I mourned the loss of any meaningful societal contact before my actual punishment, grunt work for this scruffy teenage legion, could begin.
I turned left towards the barracks. Unsurprisingly, they were empty at this time of day. Eugh, productivity. Must you mortals always need to be doing something? How could you live life without a few days or weeks or years of lounging around and ignoring your problems?
Past the barracks were the stables. Unicorns ambled around without so much as a care in the world, which I was not jealous about, no. A poor legionary was shoveling manure away from the unicorns, which eat and excrete while walking, and I was certainly not jealous of them.
I stopped to watch those majestic creatures for a bit. They were so rare nowadays, mostly due to deforestation and the poaching of their horns. Artemis campaigned for a long time just to put them on the endangered magical creatures list. Seeing so many at once almost brought a tear to my eye. My sister would be so proud of these teens for their role in ecological conservation.
At the thought of my sister, I felt a twinge of sadness. Was she up there in Olympus, carefully watching me and waiting for the chance to scoop me up and return me to my rightful place next to her? Or was she twiddling her thumbs with her magical mafia—ahem, I mean her Hunters—and waiting for my inevitable glorious triumph, all so that she could scoff at me and say, “Of course you could do it, why would you need my help?”
My thoughts churned as I watched the unicorns dump more poop on the ground, forcing the legionary to have to rush back around and shovel it away.
I would get to see my sister again, surely. And my mother, and the rest of my Olympian friends and relatives. All it was was a waiting game, of obediently doing my tasks until my father thought I had been sufficiently punished and allowed me back into Olympus. Yes, of course. Only a few months or years of this boring mortal labor and I’d be back on Olympus as if nothing had happened.
Yet, the small voice in the back of my head continued to speak. Then why would he make this punishment more restrictive than the last two times? What’s the catch?
Before I could beat the voice away with a broom and lock it in a storage locker in my brain, the legionary on poop duty (Haha, doody) finally noticed my staring and glared at me with flaming red cheeks. That was probably my cue to leave, before I got bashed in the head by an embarrassed demigod with a unicorn poop encrusted shovel.
I ducked away sheepishly, making a quick retreat back to the barracks. I had spent so long staring at the horses (Sue me, I’m a horse girl) that the sun had traveled much closer to the horizon. With my (godly) knowledge on the movement of the sun, I estimated that I had been staring at the unicorns for over an hour—was I seriously zoning out for that long?—and only had barely a few hours left before muster. Curses, why must horses be so interesting?
I wanted to savor this taste of freedom for a little longer, so I traced my path back along the Via Principalis and continued over to the other side of camp.
I walked by several presumably educational buildings (even in New Rome, compulsory schooling was a thing) and a few deserted storefronts for legion essentials flanked the roadside (armor, chariots, and coffee, everything a legionnaire ever could want). No one came up to hawk their wares or even greet me. Customer service was as bad as ever with Romans. Slightly past, I breathed in a thick floral scented fog emanating from an ornate building tucked slightly out of camp bounds, likely a bathhouse.
I’ll admit, one of the best things the Romans had ever invented was their baths. I used to be able to soak in one for hours, if not days, erasing all the stress from being such an important and oft-called upon god.
As I breathed in the scented air, I felt another memory come up to the surface, one that I’d been trying to bury deep in the recesses of my mind.
A face contorting under the suds, mouthing their damnation towards me as I held him underwater.
I felt my breathing pick up.
Many who knew me could describe me as scared of the water. You would be mistaken to assume it is your textbook case of thalassaphobia. No, I wasn’t scared of the water or its endless depths. I knew very well what lay under the sea (referring to my fishy-smelling and fishy-ruling uncle). I was scared of what I could see in that water.
I leaned against a nearby wall, trying to push the memory back down. This was a public shared bath. It wasn’t the same.
I took a deep breath and walked into the bathhouse.
…
I will admit, not much had changed between the fall of the Roman Empire and now, at least in terms of camp layouts and baths. The layout and rituals of the Roman bathhouse were still familiar to me. I left my clothes in an entrance room before passing through a series of rooms of various temperatures in sequence. Then, arriving at the baths proper, I took a soak.
Luckily for me, the bathhouse was mostly empty, likely because the Legion was (mostly) hard at work at this time of day. It let me quickly hide away my flabby teenage body under the milky waters, though I couldn’t do much about the acne.
The warmth of the water cleared my sinuses. I felt my brain go foggy. Yes, this was how I deserved to live while I was with the Legion. I hoped the rest of my military service was as nice as their baths.
I don’t know how long I soaked for, but I nearly fell asleep in the baths. My head dropped tiredly, and the painful rush of water up my nose kept me awake. Ah, that was probably a sign to get out before I wrinkled and shriveled like one of Demeter’s failed fruit strains.
The steam and water loosened my muscles, making my climb out of the bath less of a simple hoist and more of a clamber. I dripped water across the ornately tiled flooring as I completed the post-bath rituals of an oiled massage and scrub. I retraced my steps back to the entryway to retrieve my clothes and put them back on.
As I was doing the button on my jeans, I looked outside and saw a mass of campers returning to the heart of the camp. It must be time for evening muster, so I quickly laced up my grimy sneakers (Seriously, couldn’t Zeu-piter send me down here with better footwear? Or couldn’t the camp provide me with another pair?) and ran out of the bathhouse to join the assembled legionnaires.
Though I was out of breath by the time I returned to the Via Principalis, I was glad to have arrived early enough to have time to try to find my spot in the formation.
The legionnaires already there sported polished chainmail, greaves, and war helmets, beginning to form orderly units in front of their cohort’s barracks. Their spears, swords, and other assorted weaponry were sharpened and battle-ready. Red and gold shields lay at their sides, currently unused but clearly ready to be locked together and defend. The number of legionnaires was nowhere near as many as in the Roman heyday, yet I wasn’t sure if that was due to the recent war, the diminishing influence of us gods, or just the rest of the Legion getting lost on their commute back to camp.
While there was no designated spot for a former god (at least to my knowledge), I remembered that new arrivals, having no cohorts yet, were made to stand before the legion. Thankfully, I saw a pair of guards separate from the crowd, standing at arms with a distinctly Lester-sized space between them. I assumed that’s where I had to go, so I cut through the crowd of arriving legionnaires with only a few confused glances at me. I wasn’t stabbed on approach, so I took it as confirmation that I was supposed to be there.
I stood and waited for the rest of the legion to fall in. It didn’t take long for the centurions to arrive and begin taking roll, Romans being the punctual people they are. Overhead, I heard powerful wingbeats and looked up to see Praetor Ramírez-Arellano atop a striking white pegasus circling the assembled legionnaires, accompanied by a large hawk that I could only presume was Praetor Zhang.
At that moment, a sudden jolt of recognition hit me. Before, out of it as I was while in the infirmary, I wasn’t able to properly put a familiar face to an unfamiliar full name. Yet, as I watched her brown braided hair trail her majestically as she flew laps around the assembled legion, I finally realized that this was the Reyna I had seen only once before, when Venus had warned me to—what were the words she used? Oh, right—not stick your ugly, unworthy godly face anywhere near her. In the moment, all I could feel was the burn of embarrassment from being humiliated in front of the entire Olympian council. Now, I could feel the truthfulness of her words. I was ugly, perhaps even unworthy, and I really should keep any burgeoning sparks of attraction far, far away from her.
As soon as the last cohort finished with attendance, purple Lares took their places among the alive members of the legion. Meanwhile, the two praetors landed using the Via Principalis as a runway. When the pegasus finally came to a stop, the hawk transformed into the burly frame of Frank Zhang.
A centurion from the first legion called for the standard bearers to present the colors. Standard-bearers raised the flags of the cohorts, followed by the eagle bearer.
Seeing the golden eagle crackling with my father’s lightning sent a fresh wave of sparks up my throat. I wondered if he could see me through the eagle’s beady metal eyes. Was he enjoying my punishment so far? Were the rest of the council watching me too?
Before I could get too distracted, Reyna turned her steed towards the crowd to address the legion.
“Romans! The newcomer who fell into camp three days ago has recovered. After a brief interrogation, we have determined that he, Lester Papadopoulos, means no harm and seeks to join the legion.”
A few snickers arose as Reyna said Papadopoulos. I felt my ears heat up. Why did I have to be stuck with such a Greek-sounding name at the Roman camp?
Reyna continued her speech. “We still do not have an augur, so we cannot be sure if he is qualified to serve. But we will trust in the Wolf House’s training and accept him into our number.”
As the legionnaires shouted “Ave!” and “Hail!”, I could feel a cold sweat trickling down the back of my neck. While I did like the cheering, I also knew that I was forgetting something important.
The centurions of each cohort stepped forward. The same centurion from the First Cohort that called for the legion standards to be presented spoke directly to me.
“Recruit, do you have any credentials or letters of reference?”
I mentally facepalmed. So that’s what I forgot.
I ran the mental calculations of how long it would take for me to forge my own reference letters. (A note to any high school juniors: I am sorry for adding recommendation letters to the college admissions process. Please do not do what I just considered.) The expectant faces of the centurions dismissed me of this notion, however, as well as the fact that I normally signed all my Camp Jupiter reference letters with a particular gold gel pen only available from one stationary shop on Olympus, and any attempt I could make with mortal writing utensils would not hold up under scrutiny. Why couldn’t I have been dropped here with a nicely worded letter praising my skills from father himself?
“No.” I managed to speak without stuttering or a voice crack.
“Are there any legionnaires willing to stand for him?” The centurion spoke to the cohorts.
A loud silence echoed across the camp. Legionnaires stood awkwardly, looking at each other and trying to avoid eye contact with me. I even spotted Pranjal, standing in the very front line of the Second Cohort, staring at his shoes. I wanted to pout and make my best pleading face, since someone had to have recognized my godly skills and talents and was willing to stick their neck out for Lester Papadopoulos, yet not a single legionnaire spoke up.
“We’ll take him.” Finally, someone said something!
One of the centurions, a black girl I belatedly recognized as Hazel Levesque, another one of those heroes from the war with the Giants, walked over to me and faced her cohort—which I also suddenly realized was the Fifth. Gods, how embarrassing was it for me, Apollo, god of too many meaningful things to list all at once, to be placed in the rejects-and-leftovers cohort?
Nevertheless, Reyna didn’t seem to notice my distress and asked, “Does your cohort accept him?”
The half-hearted pounding of the Fifth Cohort’s shields on the ground confirmed their decision.
“My cohort has spoken. We accept the recruit.” Hazel replied to Reyna.
Reyna faced me with an unreadable expression.
“Congratulations, Lester Papadopoulos. You stand on probatio. You will be given a tablet with your name and cohort. In one year’s time, or as soon as you complete an act of valor, you will become a full member of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata. Serve Rome, obey the rules of the legion, and defend the camp with honor. Senatus Populusque Romanus!”