The Son of Neptune by Rick Riordan Page A

Hazel tried to avoid eye contact, but she caught Octavian at the head of the First Cohort smirking at her, looking smug in his plumed centurion’s helmet with a dozen medals pinned on his chest.
    Hazel was still seething from his blackmail threats earlier. Stupid augur and his gift of prophecy—of all the people at camp to discover her secrets, why did it have to be him ? She was sure he would have told on her weeks ago, except that he knew her secrets were worth more to him as leverage. She wished she’d kept that bar of gold so she could hit him in the face with it.
    She ran past Reyna, who was cantering back and forth on her pegasus Scipio—nicknamed Skippy because he was the color of peanut butter. The metal dogs Aurum and Argentum trotted at her side. Her purple officer’s cape billowed behind her.
    “Hazel Levesque,” she called, “so glad you could join us.”
    Hazel knew better than to respond. She was missing most of her equipment, but she hurried to her place in line next to Frank and stood at attention. Their lead centurion, a big seventeen-year-old guy named Dakota, was just calling her name—the last one on the roll.
    “Present!” she squeaked.
    Thank the gods. Technically, she wasn’t late.
    Nico joined Percy Jackson, who was standing off to one side with a couple of guards. Percy’s hair was wet from the baths. He’d put on fresh clothes, but he still looked uncomfortable. Hazel couldn’t blame him. He was about to be introduced to two hundred heavily armed kids.
    The Lares were the last ones to fall in. Their purple forms flickered as they jockeyed for places. They had an annoying habit of standing halfway inside living people, so that the ranks looked like a blurry photograph, but finally the centurions got them sorted out.
    Octavian shouted, “Colors!”
    The standard-bearers stepped forward. They wore lion-skincapes and held poles decorated with each cohort’s emblems. The last to present his standard was Jacob, the legion’s eagle bearer. He held a long pole with absolutely nothing on top. The job was supposed to be a big honor, but Jacob obviously hated it. Even though Reyna insisted on following tradition, every time the eagleless pole was raised, Hazel could feel embarrassment rippling through the legion.
    Reyna brought her pegasus to a halt.
    “Romans!” she announced. “You’ve probably heard about the incursion today. Two gorgons were swept into the river by this newcomer, Percy Jackson. Juno herself guided him here, and proclaimed him a son of Neptune.”
    The kids in the back rows craned their necks to see Percy. He raised his hand and said, “Hi.”
    “He seeks to join the legion,” Reyna continued. “What do the auguries say?”
    “I have read the entrails!” Octavian announced, as if he’d killed a lion with his bare hands rather than ripping up a stuffed panda pillow. “The auguries are favorable. He is qualified to serve!”
    The campers gave a shout: “Ave!” Hail!
    Frank was a little late with his “ave,” so it came out as a high-pitched echo. The other legionnaires snickered.
    Reyna motioned the senior officers forward—one from each cohort. Octavian, as the most senior centurion, turned to Percy.
    “Recruit,” he asked, “do you have credentials? Letters of reference?”
    Hazel remembered this from her own arrival. A lot of kids brought letters from older demigods in the outside world, adults who were veterans of the camp. Some recruits had rich and famous sponsors. Some were third- or fourth-generation campers. A good letter could get you a position in the better cohorts, sometimes even special jobs like legion messenger, which made you exempt from the grunt work like digging ditches or conjugating Latin verbs.
    Percy shifted. “Letters? Um, no.”
    Octavian wrinkled his nose.
    Unfair! Hazel wanted to shout. Percy had carried a goddess into camp. What better recommendation could you want?
    But Octavian’s family had been sending kids to camp for