𐌙/𐌍 Ᏽ𐌵𐌀𐌋𐌄 & 𐌕𐋅𐌄 Ᏽ𐌐𐌄𐌀𐌕 𐌌𐌙𐌕𐋅𐌔 ¹

Chapter 6

  "Roman," Annabeth said. "Those mosaics area bout two thousand years old."

  "But how can they be Roman?" I wasn’t that great on ancient history, but I was pretty sure the Roman Empire never made it as far as Long Island.

  "The Labyrinth is a patchwork," Annabeth said. "I told you, it’s always expanding, adding pieces. It’s the only work of architecture that grows by itself."

  "You make it sound like it’s alive."

  A groaning noise echoed from the tunnel in front of us.

  "Oh."

  "Let’s not talk about it being alive," Grover whimpered. "Please?"

  "All right," Annabeth said. "Forward."

  "Down the hall with the bad sounds?" Tyson said. Even he looked nervous.

  "Yeah," Annabeth said. "The architecture is getting older. That’s a good sign. Daedalus’s workshop would be in the oldest part."

  That made sense. But soon the maze was toying with us—we went fifty feet and the tunnel turned back to cement, with brass pipes running down the sides. The walls were spray-painted with graffiti. A neon tagger sign read MOZ RULZ.

  "I don't really think this is Roman," I said helpfully.

  Annabeth took a deep breath, then forged ahead.

  Every few feet the tunnels twisted and turned and branched off. The floor beneath us changed from cement to mud to bricks and back again. There was no sense to any of it. We stumbled into a wince cellar—a bunch of dusty bottles in wooden racks—like we were walking through somebody’s basement, only there was no exit above us, just more tunnels leading on.

  Later the ceiling turned to wooden planks, and I could hear voices above us and the creaking of footsteps, as if we were walking under some kind of bar. It was reassuring to hear people, but then again, we couldn’t get to them. We were stuck down here with no way out. Then we found our first skeleton.

  He was dressed in white clothes, like some kind of uniform. A wooden crate of glass bottles sat next to him.

  "A milkman," Annabeth said.

  "What?" I asked.

  "They used to deliver milk."

  "I know what they are. What's he doing here?"

  "Some people wander in by mistake," Annabeth said. "Some come exploring on purpose and never make it back. A long time ago, the Cretans sent people in here as human sacrifices."

  Grover gulped. "He’s been down here a long time." He pointed to the skeleton’s bottles, which were coated with white dust. The skeleton’s fingers were clawing at the brick wall, like he had died trying to get out.

  "Just bones," I said. "Not like he's still alive. There's nothing to worry about."

  "The milkman doesn’t bother me," Grover said. "It’s the smell. Monsters. Can’t you smell it?"