The Cult of Dionysus

Apollo

A slow motion getaway is not what I have in mind.

The three of us jump onto the conductor's bench, which is barely wide enough for one, and jostle for space while punching pedals and turning random levers.

"I told you, I'll drive!" I yell. "If I can drive the sun, I can drive this!"

"This isn't the sun!" Calypso elbows me in the ribs. "It's a model train."

"Both of you, move!" Calli yells. "I'm the only one with a real driver's license!"

"It's a fake!" I yell back. "Fake IDs don't count!"

I find the ignition switch. The train lurches into motion. (Calli will claim she found the ignition switch. This is a blatant lie.) I push Calypso and Calli off the bench and onto the ground. Since the train is only going half a mile an hour, they simply stand up, brush off their clothes, and walk alongside me, glaring.

"That's top speed?" Calypso demands. "Push some more levers!"

Behind us, from somewhere under the wreckage of the canopy, comes a mighty "BLARG!" Ivy shivers as Lityerses tries to bust his way out.

A half dozen Germani appear at the far end of the platform. (Commodus is definitely buying his barbarians by the imperial family-size pack.) The bodyguards stare at the screaming mass of roof wreckage, then at us choo-chooing away. Rather than give chase, they begin clearing the beams and vines to free their boss. Given the progress we're making, they probably assume they'll have plenty of time to come after us.

Calli hops onto the running board, followed by Calypso. Calli points to the controls. "Try the blue pedal."

"The blue pedal is never the right one!"

She kicks it with her foot. We shoot forward at three times our previous speed, which means our enemies will now have to jog at a moderate pace to catch us.

The track curves as we continue to accelerate, our wheels squealing against the outer rail. The station disappears behind a line of trees. On our left, the terrain opens up, revealing the majestic butts of African elephants who are picking through a pile of hay. Their zookeeper frowns as we trundle past. "Hey!" he yells. "Hey!"

Calli waves. "Morning!"

Then we're gone. The cars shake dangerously as we pick up steam. My teeth clatter. My bladder sloshes. Up ahead, almost hidden behind a screen of bamboo, a fork in the track is marked by a sign in Latin: BONUM EFFERCIO.

"There!" I yell. "The Good Stuff! We need to turn left!"

Calypso squints at the console. "How?"

"There should be a switch," Calli says. "Something that operates the turnout."

Then I see it—not on our console, but ahead of us on the side of the tracks—an old-fashioned hand lever. There's no time to stop the train, no time to run ahead and turn the switch by hand.

"Calypso, hold this!" I toss her the Tots and unsling my bow. I nock an arrow.

Once, such a shot would've been child's play for me. Now it's nearly impossible: shooting from a moving train, aiming for a point where the focused impact of an arrow will have the maximum chance of triggering the switch.

I think of my daughter Kayla back at Camp Half-Blood. I imagine her calm voice as she coached me through the frustrations of mortal archery. I remember the other campers' encouragement the day on the beach when I made a shot that brought down the Colossus of Nero.

I fire. The arrow slams into the lever and forces it backward. The point blades shift. We lurch onto the spur line.

"Down!" Calypso yells.