Alexandria

L

Now I was making my way up the octagon. By the time I staggered out on to the next viewing platform, I was nearly done in. For those who wanted to make this additional climb to the top of the eight-sided tower, and who could find the stamina, a smaller balcony gave a truly spectacular view. This must be over three hundred feet above the sea. It was wonderful and horrific at the same time. Anyone here needed a head for heights that I unfortunately lacked.

Far down below in the courtyard, men swarmed like insects. On the wind came faint ululating cries. I had heard such sounds in terrible places and situations – the rebellion in Britain was the worst; remembering, I shuddered. As I leaned over, way down there on the ramp to the main door, it looked as if one scarlet blob – Tiberius? – held the riot at bay, a latter-day Horatius defending the wooden bridge. If I made it out correctly, as men from Rhakotis ran across sporadically, they were whacked and tipped off the ramp. The spectacle added to the madness of this unexpected night.

On the first viewing platform below me, I saw the soldier Titus diligently shepherding the public inside the tower for safety. On his own, he was not having much luck. People were milling about hopelessly, of course.

Drawn by the crackle of the great fire, I climbed into the cylindrical lantern area, just as a bunch of the stokers came pushing out in panic. Not waiting to say what disturbed them, they scattered down the octagon.

At the top, I found a frightening scene. I had entered the eerie, perpetually mobile, orange light of the beacon. A strong steady wind blew constantly, its noise lost in the roar of the fire. I was sure I could feel movement. The lantern tower was substantial but it seemed to sway.

The Pharos had stood here for three hundred and fifty years – but the Greeks and Egyptians never had a beacon fire. It was our introduction; we Romans added it, because ever-increasing night-time sea traffic required better safety features. Cassius had given my children a model lantern, which they loved and used as a nightlight. That showed the ancient design; it was topped by a pillared tower, covered by a cupola – a feature that still lived in folk memory and would probably persist. But to accommodate a massive fire-basket, which had to be open to the skies, the round turret's root had now been dismantled. The open top of the Pharos glowed like a lurid scene from Vulcan's forge, with dark figures tending the terrific fire.

On my face I felt the burning heat, a blaze so fierce it was barely approachable. You wouldn't toast your lunch bap here. Sweating stokers tended the fire with long metal rakes. Behind, from my viewpoint, stood an enormous curved metal reflector. Mirror-bright, it gleamed red in the light of the beacon. From out to sea, some said a hundred miles away, this light would shine like a huge star, low on the horizon, bringing hope for anxious sailors and a dramatic statement of Alexandria's power and prestige.

To my astonishment, I made out Diogenes. Even more out of breath than me, he had staggered to the foot of a colossal statue, a leftover that had once topped the old covered tower – Zeus? Poseidon? One of the heavenly twins, Castor and Pollux? It was no moment for art appreciation. Diogenes was slumped and on the verge of collapse.

Suddenly, from behind the reflector leapt one of his tormentors. Bat-like and shrieking, the wild figure ran at the trader. Diogenes stumbled to his feet, trying to flee. Cowering away from the cloaked figure, he tipped over a low wall that contained the beacon and fell right into the roaring flames. He began to scream. Ablaze from head to foot, he floundered there; but it can only have been moments before he desperately clambered out. Intentionally or not, he launched himself towards his assailant, a fiery human torch. The man in black lost his cloak as he tried to get away. Holding up an arm to shield his face from the beacon's hot glare, he ran blind. He crashed against the outer balcony parapet. Unable to regain his balance, his momentum toppled him right over. His cry was lost as he vanished.

Diogenes fell to the ground. His clothes, hair and skin were alight. By the time I reached him, a stoker had aimed the contents of a fire-bucket over the writhing figure, but in that great heat the water sizzled uselessly. We dragged the attacker's discarded cloak over the prone man, then people brought more water pails. But some fool pulled the cloak away, so the flames broke out again spontaneously. At last stokers dragged up a heavy fire-mat and rolled Diogenes in it; they must have had experience or training. He was still alive when we finally put him out, but his burns were so bad he could never survive. Ghastly shreds of skin from his back and arms just fell away. I doubted he would even make the journey down to ground level.

Sickened, I crouched beside him. 'Diogenes! Can you hear me? Who were those men? What did they want you for?' He mumbled. Someone put a flask to his charred lips. Most of the liquid ran away down his neck. He struggled to speak. I strained to hear.

'Stuff you, Falco!'

He sank into unconsciousness. Despairing, I left the stokers to bring the body down.

I stumbled my way off the fire tower and back down the octagon. When I reached the public viewing platform at the top of the big main tower, it seemed deserted. I felt cold and desolate. This night had turned as sour as it could be – and still gave me no answers.

People who had been shepherded into the interior were crowding on the spiral ramps. White-faced, they gazed upwards in terror, aware that some tragedy had unfolded high above.

'Everyone stay inside, please – for your own safety. Make your way quietly down to the bottom now. Leave this to us!' One of the soldiers, Titus, came out on to the platform with me. We took lamps and searched the four long sides of the observatory area. Together we found the motionless form of the man who had gone over.

Titus bent. 'He's done for.' He twisted and looked up at the lantern, high above us. 'Must be what – eighty feet?' Who knows? He was guessing. 'No chance.'

'There was another man.'

'Must have scrammed.'

Titus moved back. I bent to inspect the dead man's face. 'What?'

'Know him, Falco?'

'That's unbelievable… He works at the Museion zoo.' I looked twice, but there was no doubt. It was either Chaereas or Chaeteas. That took some comprehending. Whatever had turned those two calm, competent zoo assistants into vengeful furies, hunting a man to his death? Risking their own lives to do it, too. 'I'll have to go after the one who's made a run tor it – how can I get out of the building safely? Are those rioters in the courtyard?'

'All be sorted by the time you reach the door. 'Titus looked over to confirm: I joined him, though with trepidation. My nerve had vanished up on these windy platforms where I had just seen two men die.

Titus was right. All the men from Rhakotis were running for home. A red column of soldiers, so far away it looked stationary, was marching through the enclosure. 'Landed by boat, Falco.'

The way the waves beat against the Pharos base, that could not be easy. I was surprised they had arrived here so quickly, but of course Titus took the credit for his dextrous signalling.

'You're whacked, Falco. You'll do no more good tonight. Tell us who the other fellow is, and let the military track him down.

Those words seemed as sweet as a lullaby.