Forgotten memories

Christine: Dinnertime

Romans really, really knew how to eat.

Within minutes, the entire forum was transformed. Sets of couches and low wooden tables were carried in and arranged in neat rows until the place looked less like a battlefield headquarters and more like a furniture showroom straight out of some luxury catalog. The Romans sank onto the cushions in groups of ten or twenty, lounging like they'd been born to it, talking animatedly, laughing, passing food back and forth as though nothing in the world could trouble them.

Overhead, graceful wind spirits—the aurae—swirled and darted through the sky, balancing trays like seasoned waiters. They carried an endless stream of food: steaming pizzas fresh from the oven, stacked sandwiches with all the fixings, baskets of chips still warm with salt and oil, tall glasses of iced drinks that dripped condensation, and plates piled high with fresh-baked cookies that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. The smell alone was enough to make my stomach growl, though I tried to hide it.

And then there were the ghosts. Purple Lares drifted among the living—some in simple togas, others armored like legionnaires. Their faces were hazy but dignified, their movements deliberate, as if even in death they still carried their authority. Around the edges of the feast, fauns (not satyrs, as I kept having to remind myself) scampered from table to table. They weren't shy about panhandling either—tugging at sleeves, jingling cups, begging for food or coins.

Out in the fields just beyond the forum, the Roman war elephant of all things was trumpeting happily while frolicking with Mrs. O'Leary, which was such a bizarrely adorable sight that I had to blink to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. Meanwhile, children dashed around the statues of Terminus that marked the city limits, their laughter mixing with the music of fountains and the murmur of hundreds of voices.

The whole scene gave me vertigo. It was so familiar—food, laughter, camp camaraderie—and yet so alien. Back at Camp Half-Blood, we had our traditions, our singalongs, our campfires. But here? Here it was multigenerational, layered with ghosts, fauns, elephants, and centuries of history. I felt like I'd stepped sideways into a different life, one I hadn't even realized was possible.

Reyna, dignified as always, sat near us with a select few of her officers. Octavian, freshly returned from whatever ridiculous ritual had required him to burn a teddy bear for the gods, perched stiffly at her side like a bad smell no one could get rid of. Percy, looking oddly at home, joined them along with his two new friends, Frank and Hazel.

As platters descended onto our table in a miniature food tornado, Percy leaned over and whispered something into Annabeth's ear. I couldn't hear what he said—probably something sappy or sarcastic—but whatever it was made her shoulders relax a fraction. I was about to smile to myself when suddenly I felt an arm drape casually over my shoulders.

Orion.

He'd been talking to Reyna, his easy charm working in full force, but now he pulled me close like it was second nature. I stiffened for a moment, caught off guard. The strangest part wasn't the touch—it was the way Reyna's gaze flicked toward us. There was no denying it; her eyes lingered just a little too long, and her expression was unreadable. Irritation? Disapproval? Jealousy? Did us being a couple actually bother her? The idea unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

Reyna raised her goblet and called for a toast. Her voice carried with the weight of command. "To friendship."

We raised our glasses, and then the introductions truly began. The Romans and the crew of our ship mingled, trading names, titles, and eventually stories. Jason took the floor, explaining in steady detail how he'd first arrived at Camp Half-Blood without a shred of memory, how he'd been swept up in a quest with Piper and Leo to rescue the goddess Hera—Juno, if you preferred her Roman aspect, though in either form she was equally insufferable—from imprisonment at the Wolf House in northern California.