The Pharos Objective (3 page)

For so many years he had pushed this power away, dreading the visions that came: horrific sights of metal cages in the mountains, of emaciated hands reaching through the bars, of whimpers and moans and cries for help. Visions dredged up by a talent he couldn’t control, alive with sights, sounds and smells. A gift he’d never wanted.

A curse.

But today was different. What he saw was new—an original, unprovoked vision. Too bad it would be the last vision he ever saw. Then it surged back, and . . .

. . . Demetrius whispers, “It’s marvelous.” He shuffles around two slaves at work polishing a marble Triton as he exits the hydraulic lift, the water-powered elevator that has shot them up three levels in less than a minute. He steps up to the terrace’s southern wall. Mouth open, he gapes at the view
:
the sprawling twin harbors below, the Heptastadion connecting the mainland to Pharos Island, the hundreds of multicolored sails dotting the sea and the boats anchored at the docks, the wide stretch of the magnificent Imperial Palace, and behind it, the gymnasium, the Temple of Serapis . . . and there, the shining walls and columns and the golden domed roof of the museum. Inside its walls are the library and the mausoleum of Alexander, whom Ptolemy buried there, establishing his direct connection to the legend.

“Incredible, seeing it from this vantage.” His gaze follows the Street of Canopus from the Moon Gate by the sea across Alexandria and through the Gate of the Sun, parallel to the canal connecting to the Nile, then weaving across the sands back through the haze and dust of the desert toward Memphis and Upper Egypt. The fierce cobalt sky engulfs all else, until the startling turquoise sea grazes at the horizon and consumes everything beyond. Over the dark blue waves, the shadow of the Pharos arches to the east as a lone marker etching its imprint upon nature as it would graft itself onto human consciousness for millennia to come.

“You were saying?” Demetrius takes great gulps of air and slowly backs away from the edge.

Sostratus takes his arm and leads him inside the spire to a staircase weaving in a double spiral up the last hundred feet. “I was speaking of impermanence and of a future that is even beyond the sight of the oracles.”

“If even the gods are blind to it, then what must we fear?”

“The unknown.” Sostratus speaks as they make the same ascent he has made three or four times a day for the past three years. His friend, unconditioned to the exertion necessary for such a climb, needs to rest.

“Must we continue to the top?”

“I wish to show you something before we go back down—down into the very bowels of the earth to illuminate the real reason you are here.”

Demetrius shoots him a look. “What, was it not for the view?”

“Not entirely. Come, we are almost there.”

Caleb bolted back to the present, fighting the brackish, cold water rushing into his lungs. He screamed—or tried to—dimly aware of another figure swimming toward him. The darkness softened until it gave way to the bright light of day, and a familiar man in white robes . . .

. . . emerges alone at the top. Sostratus climbs inside the “lantern,” a thirty-foot-wide cupola, where four marble pillars, fitted with rare gems and studded with embroidered gold, support a domed roof twenty feet overhead. In the center of the floor, the empty brazier stands ready for its sacred task of alerting and guiding ships safely into the harbors past the deadly silt banks, shoals and reefs that for centuries have been the bane of seafarers. Sailors will be guided by fire at night, and by smoke during the day, the black coils visible long before even the tower emerges into view.

A noise at his back makes him smile. Demetrius appears from the trap door, holding his side and wheezing. He sits on the top step and glances around while wiping thick beads of sweat from his forehead. “I don’t believe I’ll look over the edge. Maybe next time.”

“Entirely understandable. But come,”—he motions to Demetrius to get up—“witness these automatons.” Great statues, twice the size of men, stand at three of the corners of the platform. “I’m sure you are familiar with Heron’s designs and inventions outlined in the Pneumatica.”

Demetrius nods, even though he’d had time only for a perusal of Heron’s work before other scholars, including Hipparchus, snatched it up to examine and debate with its author on the principles of hydraulics and thermodynamics.

“This one,” Sostratus says, pointing to a muscled statue in the likeness of Hermes with his finger outstretched along his angled arm, “was designed with help from your resident astronomer Aristarchus. It tracks the daily path of the sun, precisely mirroring its trails and changing with the seasons. “That one there”—he points to the western edge, where a silver-plated robed female faces the Imperial Palace and leans forward with hands cupped around her mouth—“screeches out a warning of the presence of a hostile fleet if one of the attendants trips that switch. The whole city can be mobilized hours before invading ships can be seen from the shore.”

Demetrius mumbles something lost in the winds, then rises to his feet. “And that last one?”

Sostratus laughs. “A trivial magician’s trick. It calls out the hours of the day. But here is what I am most proud of.” He lifts a heavy tarp, releases it from its bindings, and lets the wind rip it free, flinging it from the spire to sail with the winds out over the hills and the rooftops of Alexandria. “The great mirror.”

Demetrius gasps at the immense circular sheet of polished glass adhered to a thick layer of metal. He looks into its surface, and sees himself reflected back, but at reduced size.

“A finely polished lens.” Sostratus smiles. “It will direct the beacon’s fire by night, sending a beam out to sea to guide ships or, perhaps, harness the rays of the sun and set them to flames.”

“Apollo’s blood,” Demetrius whispers, hands shaking. “And you can move it, direct it?”

“We will have that capability, yes. Once mounted on the outstretched hand of Poseidon, we will control the statue by means of gears and levers.”

“Fantastic.” Demetrius involuntarily glances down—all the way down—where his gaze settles on the tiny dome of his library. “So, my friend, why did you really call me here if not for the enviable experience of being the first to have such a tour?”

Sostratus turns his back on his guest and stares out to sea, arms folded. “This was merely prelude, so that you could understand the extent of my tower’s defenses, the sturdiness of its construction, how I have built it to withstand the elements and the ire of the earth itself.”

“Fine, I have witnessed it. To what end?”

Sostratus coughs. “Do you know what the high priest of Memphis said when Alexander’s funeral procession passed through his city?”

“No.”

“He said, ‘Bury him not here, for where that man lies only war and strife will endure.’”

Demetrius remains silent, and listens only to the sound of the wind rustling through his clothes. “I’m sorry, my friend, I cannot fathom what this has to do with me. I understand your fears of war and how this lighthouse has been outfitted as more than a mere beacon, but—”

Sostratus turns abruptly. “Come with me back to the ground floor, then below it, beyond the hydraulic workings and through the tunnels under the harbor. There I will show you the true function of this tower.”

“But why me?” Demetrius asks, struggling to keep up as Sostratus starts back down. Immediately, he is pleased to find the descent infinitely more comfortable than the climb.

“Patience, my friend. You are about to see.” Sostratus leads the way, and they descend in silence, circling, moving ever deeper with each successive stage. “And before you glimpse into the vault that will house the greatest treasure ever assembled, I ask only for one thing—your pledge to guard its secret with your life.”

Caleb saw it all in a flash, as though time had altogether stopped its forward march while his mind processed the visions breath by breath, full of all the sense and clarity of lived experience.

But then it moved on and everything shifted back into place.

The water slammed him into reality. The bubbles, the currents, the mouthpiece flailing in the spirals of muck rising from his thrashing feet . . . the statue head falling from his grasp. And then other hands on him, holding him, forcing a spare mouthpiece between his lips. Gagging, choking, coughing.

He kicked away.

Disoriented, his mind still straddling two millennia, he broke free and sped upward, heedless of everything but the need to break the surface, to thrust his head out and see—see if it was true. To see the reality of the vision still locked in his mind’s eye of that glorious spire, that transcendent tower.

The lighthouse.

The Pharos.

Was it really there? A towering colossus dominating the harbor, all of Egypt, just as he had seen it?

He kicked and thrashed and ignored the raging fire burning his skull, in his blood, until a wall of pain halted his ascent. And then, fully believing it would be his final wish, he thought,
Phoebe, forgive me!
before his lungs died and he fell into a chasm of pain and mindlessness.

For the past
ten years Caleb had been waiting for a miracle—for his father to dramatically stride back into their lives with grand stories of adventure and escape from that horrible Iraqi torture cell in the mountains, the one Caleb had seen time and again in his nightmares.

His father had been shot down in an Apache helicopter during the First Gulf War, and his body had never been recovered. It wasn’t long before everyone had moved on—everyone but Caleb, that is—who, although only five at the time, had already started having visions, a power his mother claimed to share, despite never witnessing the same things Caleb had seen every night: his father, very much alive, very much tortured, begging, pleading for help, for acknowledgment, for salvation. Images of things done to him—wooden shards under his fingernails, wires attached to the place between his legs—would wake Caleb screaming. He’d reach for the pencil and pad of paper he kept by the bed and scramble to draw the horrific visions that lingered, clinging to him in the waking world. He’d see . . .

. . . some kind of great enclosure, a fence or a gate, and a burning five-pointed star above it. Sometimes an eagle’s head, flying over a sun.
And his father’s arms, bleeding from a hundred cruel cuts, reaching out, bloody fingers clasping at nothing, his voice a barely audible whisper, “Caleb . . . Caleb . . .”

And then a word he couldn’t make out.

But instead of even the slightest acknowledgment of his remote-viewing talents, his mother had sent Caleb to therapy. That had been the beginning of his split with her. With both of them, even his sister Phoebe, to some extent. His mother had refused to believe that his dreams could be populated by such personal revelations, especially in light of their terrifying nature, so she attributed them to childhood delusions, feelings of paternal loss and grave emotional trauma.

“It’s true!” Caleb had yelled one time when he was twelve, when it had all come to a head. Standing up to her, but only coming to her shoulder. In that moment he’d seen a flicker of fear in her eyes. Or was it a flash of respect?

Her eyes had snapped to the drawings on his bed, and she seemed to deflate, shrinking to his level. She gripped his shoulders. “I don’t see those things,” she whispered, and her eyes softened and seemed to implore,
and neither should you.

Tears had spilled down Caleb’s cheeks as he tried to pull away from her. He wanted to shout that she was wasting her talents by drawing stupid old buildings and ancient shipwrecks. Those things didn’t matter. And the people in her so-called ‘psychic’ group, the members of the Morpheus Initiative, who came by the house to sit with her and go into their trances and talk to the spirits or whatever—they were leeches and imposters.

And so was she.

How could she have any real power? How could she be a true remote viewer if she couldn’t even perceive what Caleb, a child, had seen so clearly, if she couldn’t tell that her husband was crying out in pain, a prisoner forgotten by his country, and worse, by his own family? No, instead, his own wife had chosen to spend her time with strangers, helping them find useless old artifacts or sunken wrecks.

Caleb had pushed her away and run out the door. He raced along Sodus Bay in a cool November rain, ran past that decrepit lightship he and Phoebe had affectionately named Old Rusty. He ran until he was too tired to keep running. And then, when he had spent his anger, he turned back and walked to the entrance of their own lighthouse—the historic landmark his family had managed for two generations–and climbed the narrow metal stairs to the very top, where he sat beneath the old burned-out light, the great lamp that had been decommissioned just after his father’s disappearance.