The Seven Wonders

IX

“Why seven?” I said.

“What’s that?” muttered Antipater, who was nodding off under the heat of the noonday sun. The crowded passenger boat we had boarded in Memphis had carried us all the way down the Nile, through the Delta, and into the open sea. Now we were sailing west, keeping close to the low coastline. There was not much to look at; the land was almost as flat and featureless as the sea. The broiling sun seemed to leach the color from everything. The pale expanse of water reflected a sky that was the faintest shade of blue, almost white.

“Why is there a list of Seven Wonders?” I said. “Why not six, or eight, or ten?”

Antipater cleared his throat and blinked. “Seven is a sacred number, more perfect than any other. Every educated person knows that. The number seven occurs repeatedly in history and in nature with a significance beyond all other numbers.”

“How so?”

“I’m a poet, Gordianus, not a mathematician. But I seem to recall that Aristobulus of Paneas composed a treatise on the significance of the number seven, pointing out that the Hebrew calendar has seven days and that in many instances Hesiod and Homer also attach special importance to the seventh day of a sequence of events. There are seven planets in the heavens-can you name them? In Greek, please.”

“Helios, Selene, Hermes, Aphrodite, Ares, Zeus, and Kronos.”

Antipater nodded. “The most prominent constellation, the Great Bear, has seven stars. In Greece, we celebrate the Seven Sages of olden days, and your own city, Rome, was founded on the Seven Hills. Seven heroes stood against Thebes-Aeschylus wrote a famous play about them. And in the days of Minos, seven Athenian youths and seven virgins were sent every year to be sacrificed to the Minotaur of Crete. Here in Egypt, the Nile where it forms the Delta splits into seven major branches. I could cite many more examples-but as you see, the list of the Seven Wonders is hardly arbitrary. It exemplifies a law of nature.”

I nodded. “But why those seven?”

“Now that we’ve seen all the Wonders, Gordianus, surely you can understand why each was placed on the list.”

“Yes, but who made the list in the first place, and when, and why?”

Antipater smiled. He was fully awake now, and doing the thing he enjoyed most, other than reciting his poems-teaching. “The list is certainly very old; it had been around for as long as anyone could remember when I was a child and learned it. But the list as we know it cannot be any older than the youngest item on it. That would be the Colossus of Rhodes, which was built about two hundred years ago. So the list of the Seven Wonders-as it was handed down to me, anyway-is no older than that.”

“But who created the list, and why?”

“No one knows for certain, but I have my own theory about that.” Antipater looked quite pleased with himself.

“A theory? Why did you never mention it before?”

“Before proposing my idea to you, or to anyone else, I wanted to see all of the Seven Wonders. Having done so, I still need to do a bit of research. That’s one reason we’re heading to Alexandria. Hopefully, I’ll be able to gain access to the famous Library, where I can consult the ancient sources and meet with scholars to determine the feasibility of my theory.”

“What theory?”

“Having to do with the origin of the list of the Seven Wonders, of course.” He shook his head. “Ah, but look! There! Do you see it?”

Ahead of us and a bit to the left, a bright star appeared to be shining just above the horizon-even though the hour was noon.

“What can it be?” I whispered. I stared at the star that could not be a star, fascinated by the glimmering beam of light.

“Behold the Pharos!” said Antipater.

“Pharos?”

“It takes its name from the rocky island on which it stands, out in the harbor of Alexandria. Alexander founded the city, but it was his successor, King Ptolemy, who made the city great by constructing vast new temples and monuments. The greatest of these-certainly the most conspicuous-was a structure of a sort that had never been seen before, a soaring tower with a beacon at its summit to guide ships safely past the shallows and reefs to Ptolemy’s capital. A lighthouse, they called it. In the two hundred years since it was completed, similar towers have been built all over the world, wherever sailors are in need of a high beacon to guide them, but none of these later lighthouses are remotely as tall as the original, the Pharos of Alexandria.”

“But we must be a long way from Alexandria. I can’t see anything of the city at all.”

“The beacon can be seen across the open sea as far as three hundred stadia, they say-in Roman terms, thirty miles or more.”

“But how is such a light produced? Surely no flame can burn that brightly.”

“By day, the beam is created using mirrors-enormous reflectors made of hammered bronze and silver that can be tilted in various ways so as to reflect the light of the sun. At night, a bonfire is kept burning in the tower, and the mirrors magnify the light to make it many times brighter.”

“Remarkable!” I whispered, unable to take my eyes off the scintillating ray of light. Occasionally it appeared to flicker, distorted by waves of rising heat and the haze that hung over the tepid sea, but the light was strong and steady, growing brighter as our ship sailed closer to Alexandria.

At last I began to discern in miniature the features of a coastal city-ships in the harbor, city walls and towers, a vast temple on a hill in the distance-and most prominent of all, the lighthouse called the Pharos at the harbor entrance. At first my eyes deceived me, and I thought the Pharos was much shorter than it was. Then, as we drew nearer and the features of the city resolved themselves in greater depth, I was staggered at the true dimensions of the tower. I had thought it might be as tall as the Mausoleum in Halicarnassus, but it had to be much taller than that, at least twice or perhaps three times as tall.

“It must be as tall as the Great Pyramid!” I said.

I heard a chuckle behind me. “Not quite that tall-at least, not according to those who possess the knowledge and instruments capable of measuring such things.”

I tore my gaze from the Pharos to have a look at the smiling passenger who had just spoken, and who now joined us at the railing. His skin was the color of ebony and he had not a hair on his head, which made his white teeth and his necklace of silver and lapis all the more dazzling. I found it hard to judge his age, but he was not young; there were a few white hairs in his eyebrows. His flawless Greek had the elegant (to my ear, rather affected) accent of highly educated Alexandrians.

“My name is Isidorus,” he said. “Forgive me for intruding, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Have you truly seen all of the Seven Wonders of the World?”

“We have,” said Antipater.

“How remarkable! And I believe you mentioned the Library, and your desire to visit that institution.”

“I did,” said Antipater.

“I happen to be a scholar at the Library. Perhaps I can assist you in gaining access-unless, of course, you already have the necessary credentials.”

“As a matter of fact, any assistance you might give me would be most welcome,” said Antipater. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Zoticus of Zeugma-no famous scholar, alas, merely a humble teacher of the young. And this is my pupil-or former pupil, I should say, for Gordianus is now a man and past the age of schooling.”

“A Roman?” said Isidorus.

I nodded. My accent always gave me away.

“You work at the Library?” said Antipater. “I thought the scholars there were seldom permitted to leave Alexandria, except on official business sanctioned by King Ptolemy.”

“That is correct. I’m just returning from a journey up the Nile. During the excavations for a new temple, some scrolls were discovered in a buried jar. They appeared to be very ancient. I was sent to retrieve them, so that they may be evaluated, copied, and catalogued in the Library.” Slung by a strap over one of his shoulders was a Roman-style capsa, a leather cylinder for carrying scrolls.

“Fascinating,” said Antipater. “May I ask what sort of documents these scrolls turned out to be?”

Isidorus laughed. “Don’t become too exited, friend Zoticus. The scrolls were in poor condition-the copiers will face quite a challenge, making sense of the faded script and the gaps. And from my cursory examination, they pertain mostly to day-to-day business among petty bureaucrats during the reign of some ancient pharaoh whom no one even remembers. Nothing to do with the Seven Wonders, I’m afraid.”

“Speaking of which…” I returned my gaze to the Pharos, which loomed even larger before us, so incredibly tall that it defied belief. “How can it be that this wonder is not listed among them?”

Isidorus smiled. “Certainly, we Alexandrians take great pride in the Pharos. But I can tell you, for a start, that it is not as tall as the Great Pyramid. Of course, the pyramids-and the Mausoleum, for that matter-are virtually solid constructions, made of stones stacked on stones with very little interior space. Given a large enough base, and enough stones, one could build such a construction to any height and it would remain stable-indeed, immovable, like a mountain. But such an edifice is by definition a monument, not a building of the sort that people can actually make use of, with hallways, rooms, stairwells, and windows. But the Pharos is such a building. There are hundreds of rooms inside, on many different levels-storerooms for fuel, workshops for the repair and upkeep constantly required by the complicated lighthouse mechanisms, dining halls for the workers, and barracks and armories for the soldiers who man the Pharos garrison. The Pharos does not merely exist to be gazed upon and marveled at. The Pharos is a working wonder.”

As we drew closer, I saw the soldiers and workers of whom Isidorus had spoken, moving purposefully across the island, up the long ramp that led to the lighthouse entrance, and manning the parapets of the tower. The soldiers wore exotic armor that mingled the traditions of Greece and Egypt. The workers wore a sort of uniform that consisted of a tight-fitting green cap and a dark green tunic.

I studied the details of the Pharos. The building was constructed of huge blocks of white stone, with decorations made of red granite; columns of this rose-colored stone framed the massive entrance. The tower rose in three distinct stages. The lowest and largest was square in shape; the four walls gently tapered inward as they rose and ended in an elaborately decorated parapet which featured gigantic Triton statues at each corner, each holding a trident in one hand and blowing a conch in the other. The middle portion was octagonal, and not as tall as the first. The final tower was cylindrical, and the shortest of the three. It was capped by the beacon, which appeared to be housed inside a colonnaded structure not unlike a round temple. Upon the roof of the Pharos stood a gilded statue, so distant that I was not sure which god it represented.

Antipater saw me squinting. “That statue up there is Zeus the Savior, as he is known and worshipped by sailors in many a temple beside the sea. In one hand he holds a thunderbolt, the symbol of his absolute power over land and sea; there is nothing a sailor fears more than a lightning storm. In the other hand he holds a cornucopia, the symbol of his beneficence and the fruits of commerce; all who carry cargoes across the sea seek the blessing of Zeus the Savior.”

I squinted again, and was barely able to make out the image Antipater described. “But how can you possibly see all those details?” I demanded, for Antipater’s eyesight was not as good as mine.

He laughed. “All I see up there is a glimmer of gold atop the lighthouse. But I know the statue represents Zeus the Savior because of the famous poem by Posidippus-which you should remember as well, young man, for I’m sure I taught it to you. You must know it, Isidorus.”

“Indeed I do,” said the scholar, who commenced to recite in his elegant accent.

“The Bull’s Horn?” I said. “What’s that?”

Isidorus peered ahead and grabbed the railing. “I think you’re about to find out, Gordianus. Hold on tight!”

Antipater and I followed his example, though I failed to see the need. We were about to sail into the harbor, with plenty of distance between the breakwaters and us. As far as I could see, there were no ships or any other hazards nearby.

Suddenly, from high above our heads, I head the blaring of a horn. I looked up, and to my amazement realized the noise was issuing from the conch held by the nearest of the four Triton statues that perched at the four corners of the Pharos. The horn blared again.

The ship made a sharp turn to one side. The three of us were showered with sea spray. As I blinked my eyes to quell the stinging, I looked back to see the jagged outcrop of stone around which our captain had deftly maneuvered. The rock did indeed resemble a bull’s horn, rising from the foamy waves.

“What just happened?” I said.

“There are watchers posted on the Pharos who observe every ship as it arrives and departs,” explained Isidorus. “Our captain has plenty of experience on this route, but in case he had any difficulty in spotting the Bull’s Horn, a watcher on the Pharos sounded a specific signal to alert him as our ship approached the hazard.”

“But how can a statue be made to blow a horn?”

Isidorus smiled. “That is yet another of the wonders of the Pharos. There’s a treatise that describes the Tritons’ manufacture and operation in the Library, but I’m afraid King Ptolemy restricts access to such documents; the pneumatic science behind the working of the Tritons is a state secret. But I can tell you that each of the conches held by the four Tritons produces a different note. By sounding two or more horns in unison, or by sounding a sequence of different notes, or by holding notes for various durations, a great many different signals can be given. Experienced captains know the signals that apply to them-such as that simple warning note about the Bull’s Horn.”

“Amazing!” I said.

“And did you notice the movable mirrors that run along the parapets, between each of the four Tritons?”

I had not. Peering up, I now perceived large sheets of hammered bronze attached to pivots along the parapets, tilted at various angles.

“Those also can be used to send signals, but unlike the horns, their messages can be directed to a specific ship or even to a particular building in the city of Alexandria, by aiming flashes of reflected sunlight.”

I gazed up at the Pharos, more in awe of the building than ever.

“Tell me, do you have a place to stay in Alexandria?” asked Isidorus.

“Not yet,” said Antipater.

“Then you must stay with me. No, I insist! My quarters are very near the Library. The accommodations are simple, but you’ll have your own room. The offer is an act of selfishness on my part, for I greatly desire to hear every detail of your journey to see the Wonders. And in return, I promise to do what I can to permit your entry to the Library.”

“A splendid arrangement!” declared Antipater.

* * *

What sort of city could produce a structure as remarkable as the Pharos? As we sailed into the harbor we passed a number of islands with beautiful gardens and buildings; these were the property of the king, extensions of the grand royal palace that lined much of the shore. I had never seen such a handsome waterfront; the buildings stood many stories tall and were appointed with splendid decorations, sweeping balconies, and aerial gardens. The skyline of the city beyond offered glimpses of elegant towers, temple rooftops crowded with statues, and soaring obelisks. Rising above the skyline at a considerable distance, built upon the only hill of any significance, was a temple that appeared to be as grand as any we had encountered in our travels.

In the coming days-and months, as it turned out-I would have ample opportunity to explore every corner of Alexandria. Of all the cities I visited in our journey, it was by far the most impressive. Alexander the Great had chosen the site; an architect named Dinocrates laid out the city in a grid pattern, with wide, palm-lined boulevards and stately intersections decorated with fountains, statues, and obelisks. The temple on the hill was that of Serapis, who combined the attributes of Greek Zeus and Egyptian Osiris; to my Roman eyes, his temple, like so much of Alexandria, was at once familiar and wildly exotic. I had thought that Memphis must be the crossroads of the world, with its heady mixture of tongues and races, but Alexandria was even more cosmopolitan. Any object ever made by man, anywhere on earth, could be found in its teeming markets. In a single shop, I once came across a Roman augur’s wand, a terebinth box from vanished Carthage, and a gown made of pure silk from distant Serica.

More important, for Antipater, in Alexandria one might find a copy of every book that had ever existed. The Library of the Ptolemies was said to be the greatest on earth, thanks to its aggressive acquisition policy. Every ship that arrived in the harbor was boarded by customs agents who demanded to be shown any book that happened to be on board. The agents checked each book against a master list and, if it was not already in the Library, they took the volume into custody, sent it to be copied, and only then returned it to its owner.

The Library was only part of a vast royal institution called the Museum, which celebrated all the gifts of the Muses to mankind. Within this sprawling complex were institutes devoted to the study of poetry, music, philosophy, history, astronomy, mathematics, engineering, geography, medicine, and anatomy. Over the centuries, some of the most famous thinkers in history-men like Archimedes and Euclid-had studied and taught there. The Museum contained extraordinary collections of gemstones, dried plants, architectural models, maps, weapons of many nations, and mummified animals. There was even a collection of living animals gathered from all over the world. Sometimes, on a still night, from behind the wall of this zoological compound, I could hear the braying of aurochs from Scythia, the screeching of monkeys from Nubia, or the roar of a tiger from India.

I myself had no way of gaining entry to the Museum or the Library, for while Isidorus was able to finagle a visitor’s pass for his newfound friend Zoticus of Zeugma, acquiring another pass for a nineteen-year-old Roman with no official business in Alexandria was beyond his power. And so, on the days when Antipater went off with our host to disappear through the gates of the royal compound, I was left to amuse myself-not such a hard thing to do in a city as vast and fascinating as Alexandria.

My first task each day was to visit the several professional receivers of letters, who were all located close together in a district near the waterfront, in hopes of finding a reply from my father to the letter that I had dispatched from Gaza. Day after day I was disappointed, until at last, one morning, one of the receivers produced a scroll with a tag that read: To Gordianus of Rome from his father. The letter had arrived along with payment for its delivery, so I was able to claim it even though my purse was empty.

I quickly walked to the harbor and sat on some steps that led down to the water. With the Pharos looming before me across the harbor, I carefully unrolled the letter. As I read, I saw my father’s face and heard his voice:

I put down the letter, overwhelmed by homesickness. The sight of the Pharos across the water was suddenly strange and unreal, as if I had never seen it before. For a long moment, I felt disoriented and confused. Then other feelings rose in me-a heady sense of freedom and a thrill of excitement. Before, Alexandria had seemed merely a stop on my journey home; now, for the time being, it was to be my home. I blinked, and suddenly the Pharos looked familiar to me again, the proud landmark of the city where I was not merely a tourist, but a resident-Alexandria, the greatest metropolis on earth.

* * *

That night, as had become customary since our arrival, Antipater and I dined with our host. Isidorus possessed only one slave, who acted as both cook and server. While the woman poured wine and served a tilapia stew, each of us gave an account of his day.

I eagerly delivered my news first, and read aloud the letter from my father. This led to some discussion of the turmoil in Italy. Thanks to his position in the Library, Isidorus was privy to more reliable information than were the rumormongers in the marketplaces, but his sense of the situation was nonetheless quite murky. “No one can yet guess the outcome of such a devastating war,” he said. Then, seeing the distress on my face, he assured me that Rome itself would surely be spared from the destruction it had visited on several of its subject cities-a speculation that put images in my head that only added to my anxiety.

Our host quickly changed the subject to the funds my father had sent for me, and explained that my best course was to leave the money in the care of the banker who had received it, withdrawing drachmas only as I needed them. “You should also deposit any documents of importance with the banker, for safekeeping-that letter from your father, for instance.”

“Speaking of which,” said Antipater, “you must write back to your father at once. Give him my thanks for inquiring after my well-being, and be sure to inform him that I did indeed climb all the way to the top of the Great Pyramid.” He took a sip of wine. “And you, Isidorus-how was your day?”

Our host sighed. “Tedious. When you and I went our separate ways after arriving at the Library this morning, I spent several hours piecing together some fragments of the papyri I brought back from my journey up the Nile-only to discover that the document contained nothing more interesting than an inventory of some oxen involved in a bankruptcy litigation. When I asked my superior at the Library if I could be given more interesting work to do, we had quite an argument. Outsiders imagine that the Library and the Museum are a sort of pristine Arcadia, where we scholars lead lives of sublime contemplation, but my colleagues can be quite vicious and petty, I fear. How did Timon the Skeptic describe the Alexandrian scholars of his day? ‘Scribblers on papyrus, endlessly squabbling in their birdcage of the Muses!’ Alas, friend Zoticus, I hope your day was more productive.”

Antipater smiled. “Indeed it was.” He pressed his fingertips together and raised his chin. “I believe I may be ready to put forward a theory regarding the origin of the list of the Seven Wonders.”

“Truly?” said Isidorus. “Tell us, please.”

“Very well. While there remain some gaps in my research, and a few small contradictions that have yet to be resolved, this is what I believe: it was none other than Alexander the Great who decreed that there should be a list of Seven Wonders-and the list itself was devised by the first generation of scholars assembled here in Alexandria by the first King Ptolemy.”

“As an Alexandrian, this notion pleases me. But how did you develop this theory?”

“The first inkling came to me just before we left Rome, when I was pondering possible routes for our journey to the Seven Wonders. Studying maps, and noting the site of each Wonder, I was struck first by their far-flung and disparate locations-but then I realized what they had in common: all seven lie within the empire conquered by Alexander. Indeed, if one were to draw a line connecting and encircling them, one would produce a veritable outline of Alexander’s empire, comprising Greece, Asia, Persia, and Egypt. This was Alexander’s world, composed of many nations, races, and languages-and these were its greatest achievements. It occurred to me that the list of Seven Wonders might have been the brainchild of Alexander himself, who saw it as a unifying principle. ‘Never setting foot outside my empire,’ I imagined him saying, ‘one can see the greatest structures ever devised by mankind-made by different peoples at different times, in honor of different gods, but all brought together by the force of my will, within the unity of my dominion.’”

“Did Alexander himself visit all the Wonders?” I said.

“An excellent question, Gordianus. Most certainly he visited the Temple of Artemis when he liberated Ephesus, and saw the Mausoleum when he captured Halicarnassus; and in Babylon he must have seen the remains of the Hanging Gardens and the Walls, which may have been more substantial in his day than in ours. He refused to compete in the Games at Olympia, but he surely saw the statue in the Temple of Zeus. And after he conquered Egypt, he must have gazed upon its most famous monument, the Great Pyramid. So the list of Seven Wonders could also have served as a sort of memorial of his own journeys.”

“But you’ve left out one of the Wonders,” I said.

“Ah, yes, the Colossus of Rhodes-which was not completed until some thirty years after Alexander died. Obviously, Alexander never saw it-but that leads to the next proposition of my theory: Alexander himself did not draw up the final list, but assigned the task to someone else. Perhaps it was his close friend, the historian Aristobulus, or Callisthenes, the nephew of Aristotle, or-this is my guess-his comrade Ptolemy, who was later to become King of Egypt and had his own stake in preserving the mystique of Alexander and the legacy of his world empire. Ptolemy of course had all the resources of the Library and its scholars at his disposal-and it was in the Library, I believe, that the very first compendium of the Seven Wonders was created. I believe this was considerably more than a mere list, but included a detailed history and description of each Wonder. This book may yet be discovered in the archives, with the name of its author or authors appended to it. At the time this compendium was written, the Colossus would have been brand-new, a sensation that everyone was talking about, so it was included alongside the more venerable Wonders to demonstrate that mankind was still progressing and capable of creating new marvels.”

“I think the Pharos is a greater achievement than the Colossus,” I said. “Why didn’t Ptolemy’s scholars put it on the list instead?”

“Because the list predated the completion of the Pharos,” explained Antipater. “The lighthouse was still being built as the list was drawn up-and even scholars eager to flatter King Ptolemy could not have justified comparing an unfinished building to the Temple of Artemis or the Great Pyramid.”

“But now the Pharos has been standing for almost two hundred years,” I said, “while the wonders of Babylon are in ruins. Perhaps the Hanging Gardens or the Walls of Babylon should be removed from the list, and the Pharos put in their place.”

Isidorus laughed. “What a brash young man you are, Gordianus, to propose such an idea.”

“Do you not like it?”

“I love it-but I’m afraid my colleagues at the birdcage of the Muses are so used to scratching out the same old things, not one of them would be bold enough to propose such an innovation. I fear they will resist the theory of Zoticus, as well, unless he can produce the original list. But as yet, this discovery eludes you?”

Antipater nodded. “I’ve found a number of citations that refer to such a document, but not the document itself. But soon-very soon-I feel sure that I’ll lay my hands on it. It’s probably moldering away in a stack of uncatalogued papyri, or inadvertently rolled up inside another scroll that has nothing to do with the Seven Wonders.”

“Books in the Library can be quite elusive. You may have set yourself a task of many months, Zoticus my friend.”

“Then I must pray to Zeus the Savior that I will have that much longer to live,” said Antipater.

“I will say a prayer for that, as well,” said Isidorus.

“And so will I!” I cried. I had grown so used to Antipater’s company that it was unthinkable that anything should happen to him, or that I should be left alone without him in the vast, teeming city founded by Alexander.

* * *

That night-thanks to my father’s letter, or something disagreeable in the fish stew-I was plagued by terrible dreams. All was a confusion of screaming and bloodshed. My father figured somehow in these nightmares, and Rome itself was swept by fire. The Pharos was transported to the summit of the Capitoline Hill, a finger of stone soaring to an impossible height, from which it sent out a beacon not to sailors, but to Rome’s enemies, guiding them from all over Italy to the city they longed to destroy.

I tossed and turned and struggled to wake from these nightmares. Like a man submerged in deep water but able to glimpse pale daylight, gradually, fitfully I rose toward consciousness. I opened my eyes to the soft light of dawn. The sheet twisted around me was soaked with sweat.

I heard familiar voices from the room beyond-Antipater and our host chatting amiably as they prepared to head out for the day. Their conversation was muted and the words were indistinct, until one of them opened the front door, and Isidorus, raising his voice a bit, said, “And don’t forget to bring your new stylus this morning, Antipater!”

A moment later the door was slammed shut, and silence followed.

I shut my eyes and lay still, exhausted by my nightmares. I was nearly asleep again, when suddenly I bolted upright. Had I heard what I thought I heard, or only dreamed it?

Not “Zoticus,” but “Antipater”-Isidorus had called him by his true name.

What did it mean?

* * *

As I strolled around Alexandria that day, I should have been in a good mood, for I was no longer a pauper but had some coins on my person, thanks to the funds from my father. With a bit of money, there were endless things to do in Alexandria.

Instead, I found myself walking in circles. That single utterance by Isidorus kept echoing in my head, nagging at me.

There would be a perfectly innocent explanation, I told myself. Antipater had come to trust Isidorus, and so had revealed to him his true identity. That was Antipater’s choice, and none of my business. But why, then, had Isidorus continued to address him at dinner as Zoticus?

Because the slave was present, I told myself. Yes, that was it. The woman serving dinner was not to know who Antipater was. But why hadn’t Antipater informed me of his decision to reveal himself to our host? Ah, well, he was an old fellow and he simply forgot. But even as this thought came to me, I knew it was a lie. Antipater’s mind was as keen as ever, and he never did anything without a purpose. Some sort of relationship existed between him and our host, and I was being kept in the dark about it.

Why?

I found myself in the Rhakotis district, the oldest part of the city. Rhakotis had been a settlement in Homer’s time; its narrow, winding streets predated the grid laid down by Alexander’s new city. With its shabby tenements, gambling dens, and seedy taverns, Rhakotis reminded me of the Subura in Rome.

Passing through a particularly tawdry part of Rhakotis, I passed a building that was clearly a brothel, to judge by the attitude of the women who stood at the upper-story windows, flaunting their naked breasts and looking bored. A man stepped out of the front door. He looked this way and that, but took no notice of me.

A lightning bolt of recognition struck me, followed by a quiver of doubt. Could the man possibly be who I thought he was?

He was burly and blond, with a neatly trimmed beard, and his clothing was Greek. In a teeming metropolis like Alexandria, there were countless specimens almost exactly like him-and yet, something about the arrogant tilt of his head and the truculent way he held himself as he turned and walked quickly away, clenching his fists, convinced me that he was none other than the murderer from Olympia.

I remembered everything about him in a flash: standing behind me at the Temple of Zeus he had loudly voiced anti-Roman sentiments; later that night I had overheard him speaking to an unknown conspirator-a fellow agent for Mithridates-in the tent of our host; and the next day he had used a snake to poison the Cynic, Simmius of Sidon, and then, in the ensuing confusion, had vanished into thin air, not to be seen again-until now.

They had a saying in Alexandria: “Stay here long enough, and every traveler in the world will cross your path.” Apparently it was true.

I quickened my stride to match his. Keeping what I hoped was a safe distance, I followed the murderer.

He apparently had several calls to make, for repeatedly I saw him disappear into a tenement or private dwelling, stay for a short while, and then reappear, always pausing to peer suspiciously up and down the street before proceeding. I had to call upon all the skills my father had taught me to shadow him without being spotted.

His itinerary at last took him to the waterfront, and onto a wharf that appeared to be an embarkation point for workers coming from and going to the Pharos; so I assumed from the uniform-a tight-fitting cap and a tunic of dark green-worn by the passengers who were disembarking from a ferry that had just landed at the wharf. They had the weary look of workers who had just ended a long shift, in contrast to the more energetic demeanor of the similarly dressed passengers who shuffled forward to take their place on the ferry.

There was a guard post at the entrance to the wharf, but the soldier who was supposed to be manning it stood some distance away, his back turned while he talked to a pretty girl passing by. The murderer walked right past him and onto the wharf. I quickly followed him.

He stepped through a narrow doorway and into a long, low structure. After some hesitation, I followed him. The interior was cluttered and dark, lit only by a few high windows. As my eyes adjusted, around me I saw various nautical items-coils of rope, bits of planking, patches for sails, and such. There was also a pile of what appeared to be discarded workers’ uniforms; perhaps the garments needed mending.

Suddenly, from nearby, I heard the murderer talking, and the sound of his voice-long unheard but never forgotten-chilled my blood. His voice drew closer. My heart pounded in my chest. I squatted down and hid as best I could behind a stack of coiled ropes. He strode directly in front of me and stopped only a few steps away. Above the ropes, I had a view of his face. Had he bothered to look in my direction, he might have seen me as well, among the shadows.

“Our ranks have grown corrupt and must be purified,” he was saying. “Like weeds among the barley, the unfaithful must be pulled up by the root!”

The man who accompanied him was very tall and had a narrow face. He was dressed in the same colors as the lighthouse workers, but his long green gown was elegantly embroidered with images of Tritons holding conches. He wore a high hat shaped like the Pharos and he carried a ceremonial flail to denote his authority.

“Yes, Nikanor, yes,” the man was saying, “any and all traitors among us must be eliminated, without mercy. But the reason I asked you to come today was so that you could tell me what progress has been made on the coded message system being devised by our friends at the Library. Their job is to anticipate all possible contingencies, military and otherwise, and my job is to figure out how the mirrors and the clarions can be used to send secret signals between us. But I can’t begin to work out the details until you give me the list of secure locations in the city to which such signals are to be directed.”

“Is it true, Anubion, that from the Pharos you can aim a beam of light at any house in the city?”

“Provided there is a clear sightline between that house and any of the mirrors located on the Pharos, yes. But the mechanics for doing so are quite complex, and must be worked out and tested in advance. That’s why I need the list as soon as possible-”

“Yes, yes, Anubion, you’ll get the list,” said Nikanor. “But I was wondering-can the mirrors be aimed at the royal palace, as well?”

“Of course they can be, and quite frequently they are; that’s how King Ptolemy and his agents send messages back and forth to one another. A message in code is flashed from a mirror in one part of the palace to the Pharos, and then the same message is sent from the Pharos back to a different part of the palace. Thus the king’s agents, even though distant from each other in the royal complex, can communicate almost instantaneously, and in secret, as long as the codes they use remain secure.”

“Remarkable! No wonder King Ptolemy is always a step ahead of his enemies. But with you in charge of the lighthouse, this system can now be used by Mithridates, as well.”

Mithridates! How often had I heard the name of the King of Pontus uttered over the course of our long journey? It appeared that his influence extended even here.

“Lower your voice!” said Anubion. “Most of the workers would have no idea what we were talking about, even if we spoke right in front of them, but if one of them should overhear us, I’d still have to have the fellow put to death. I consider myself completely loyal to King Ptolemy-but Ptolemy is helpless against the Romans, and unless the Romans are stopped, one day they’ll devour Egypt along with the rest of the world. Our only hope to stop the Romans is Mithridates. As long as I am in charge of the Pharos, even if I must do so in secret, I’ll use its power to-”

“Are you able to see directly into King Ptolemy’s private chambers, then?” said Nikanor, interrupting him.

Anubion wrinkled his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Using the mirrors. They cast light a very great distance, I know. But you can also use them to see great distances, can’t you?”

Anubion scoffed. “Where did you get such an idea-from our friends in the Library? Yes, I’m aware that some scholars, experts in the properties of optics and light, believe that such a far-seeing device might be created, using mirrors. But no such devices are installed in the Pharos.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. Not only can you see great distances, but from the very top of the tower, using the most powerful mirrors, you can see into men’s minds!”

Anubion drew back his shoulders. “Now you are no longer talking about science, my friend, but about magic-and nonsense!”

Nikanor gave him a wily look. “Oh, I understand-you can’t talk about these things, at least not to me, not yet. But soon enough, you’ll see that I’m trustworthy, and you can share all the secret powers of the Pharos with me. And together, you and I will use them to destroy the traitors among us, the ones who claim to be loyal to Mithridates but aren’t. They’ll die like dogs!”

Anubion cocked an eyebrow and emitted a noncommittal grunt. “When do you meet with your contact at the Library?”

“Today, as soon as I leave you.”

“Very well. Tell him I need the list of locations as soon as possible, and after that, a list of the signals and codes he proposes to use. Do you understand?”

“Of course I do. You think I’m stupid, but I’m cleverer than you think.”

Anubion pursed his lips. “On second thought, tell our friend at the Library that it’s time for him and me to meet face-to-face.”

“He won’t like that. He says you should stay apart, to avoid suspicion.”

“Nevertheless, he should have a firsthand look at the Pharos. He can say that his historical research necessitates a visit, and I was generous enough to offer him a tour. Give him this, to serve as a pass.” He produced a ceramic token with a seal on it.

“Shall he come alone?”

“He may bring his new colleague with him, if he likes. Tell them to arrive here at the wharf, an hour after sunrise. Now go.”

Nikanor turned to leave, then looked over his shoulder. “Rome is the disease,” he whispered.

Apparently this was a kind of watchword, for Anubion replied as if by rote: “And Mithridates is the cure!”

The two parted and headed in opposite directions.

Their final words echoed in my ears. My blood ran cold.

Before I could move, some workers entered the storage house, and I was obliged to remain hidden. As soon as the workers moved on, I stole away, and hurried past the guard post, where the guard was still absent. I peered up and down the waterfront, but Nikanor was nowhere to be seen.

He had said he would be meeting someone from the Library. I headed in that direction, thinking I might spot him again, but I reached the entrance of the Library without seeing him.

My head spinning, I wandered up the street. What would Antipater think of my story? Would he even believe me, or would he scoff at the idea that I had seen the killer from Olympia so many months later and so many hundreds of miles away? And what of the man’s fantastic notions about the Pharos and the magical powers of its mirrors? Anubion had dismissed his ideas-but the keeper of the lighthouse was by his own admission a master of deceit and secrecy. A space between two buildings suddenly afforded me a view of the Pharos-and I felt a shiver, wondering if the unblinking eye of its beacon was watching me.

Walking aimlessly, midway between the Library and Isidorus’s apartment I passed a tavern. On such a warm day, all the doors and shutters were open. I chanced to look inside, and in a far, shadowy corner I saw Isidorus. He sat facing the street, listening intently to a man who sat with his back to me. So eager was I to talk to someone about what I had seen and heard that I almost stepped into the tavern to join them. Then the man with Isidorus turned his head a bit to one side.

It was Nikanor.

* * *

That night at dinner, Antipater asked if I was unwell. I told him I was fine.

“Then stop fidgeting. One would think you were sitting on a needle. And you’ve eaten hardly a bite of the pomegranate salad. A loss of appetite is most unlike you, Gordianus.”

I shrugged.

“Nor have you even tasted the excellent wine to which Isidorus is treating us tonight. Imported all the way from Chios.”

I shrugged again. I was intentionally avoiding the wine. I wanted to keep my wits about me.

“Leave the young man in peace, friend Zoticus,” said Isidorus. His use of the false name set my teeth on edge. “Less of the Chian for him means more for us.”

The two of them shared a laugh and clinked their silver goblets.

I excused myself and headed for my room.

“Sleep well, Gordianus,” Antipater called after me. “In the morning, I may have a surprise for you.”

As I stepped into my room, I heard Isidorus whisper, “Do you think he’s sick?”

“Lovesick, more likely. Some pretty thing must have caught his eye and spoiled his appetite. Ah, to be his age again. I am reminded of a verse-”

Rather than hear him declaim, I shut the door, fell into bed, and covered my head with pillows. Time passed. My mind was a dull, aching void. I threw the pillows aside, returned to the door, and quietly opened it. Antipater and Isidorus were still talking, so quietly I could barely hear them.

“Nikanor has become a liability,” said Antipater. “I told you what he did in Olympia, killing that wretched Cynic. I’d known poor Simmius when we were boys together in Sidon, but we hadn’t seen each other in fifty years, and he was surely no more an agent of Rome than I am! But Nikanor became convinced that Simmius had recognized me, and would expose me, so on his own initiative Nikanor murdered Simmius-never considering what might happen if he was caught, and his affiliation with Mithridates came out. I might have been exposed along with him, putting an end to my usefulness when I’d hardly begun. Nikanor was always reckless. Now he sees spies and infiltrators everywhere. I think he’s gone mad.”

Hackles rose on the back of my neck. There could be no doubt: Antipater was an agent of Mithridates. I had no time to think, for Isidorus was talking and I felt compelled to listen.

“You can question Nikanor’s judgment, but not his loyalty,” he was saying. “No one has made greater sacrifices, traveled greater distances, or taken more risks for the cause than Nikanor-not even you, Antipater.”

“You’re not listening to me, Isidorus. It’s not his judgment I question-it’s his sanity. He says things that make no sense. What was it he told you about the Pharos today? Something about using the mirrors to gaze into the royal palace, and to read King Ptolemy’s mind?”

“He does have strange notions-”

“He’s crazy, Isidorus. He was always a little crazy, but now he’s become more so-to a degree that poses a danger to us all.”

Isidorus sighed. “Unfortunately, he’s my only trustworthy go-between for communicating with Anubion at the Pharos. You said yourself, the very day you arrived, that establishing a system of signals using the Pharos must be our highest priority. Once war breaks out between Rome and Mithridates, what if the Romans invade Egypt? Our ability to communicate in secret will be absolutely vital.”

“The Romans will never occupy Alexandria,” said Antipater.

“Perhaps not. But even if Egypt stays out of the war, Alexandria will be crawling with spies. The Romans are children when it comes to setting up secret operations. Mithridates is a master at such things, and that may be his greatest advantage. Our ability to use the Pharos to communicate in secret could mean the difference between victory and defeat.”

“Let’s not get carried away, old friend-you’re beginning to sound as grandiose as Nikanor.”

Isidorus laughed softly. “All my life, I’ve been nothing more than a scribbler in the birdcage of the Muses. The idea that I could do something to change the world is a bit intoxicating, I must admit.”

“Rather like this fine Chian wine. Shall we finish it?”

“No, I’ve drunk too much already. I’m off to bed. We have a busy day ahead of us. Are you still determined to take Gordianus along with us?”

“If he finds out that I’ve been to see the Pharos without him, I shall be at a loss to explain why I didn’t take him along. Don’t worry, I’ll see that he stays out of the way while you confer with Anubion. Gordianus is young and easily distracted.”

“You’re certain that he suspects nothing of your mission?”

“Not a thing. As Gordianus has demonstrated repeatedly during our travels, he’s quite clever in some ways, but terribly naive in others. He’s smart, but not yet cynical. He still has a boy’s faith in his old tutor; it’s rather touching, actually. He’s never pressed me about my reasons for traveling incognito, and I’m quite sure he has no idea of my activities in every place we’ve visited-studying the local sentiments, seeking out and conferring with those who might be useful to our cause, making a list of those who pose a danger to us.”

“Even in Babylon?”

“Especially there! The Parthians are suspicious of both Rome and Mithridates, but when the time comes, they must be persuaded to take our side.” Antipater sighed. “Ah well, if there’s to be no more Chian wine, then I too am off to bed.”

As they rose and moved toward their separate rooms, I heard Isidorus whisper: “Rome is the disease.”

Antipater whispered back: “And Mithridates is the cure!”

I silently closed the door and returned to my bed.

My head was so filled with painful thoughts that I imagined it might burst. From the very beginning of our journey, Antipater had deceived me. What a fool I had been, never to see through him!

Perhaps I had not wanted to see the truth.

In Olympia, on the night before Simmius the Cynic was murdered, I had overheard two men talking in the tent of our host. One had been Nikanor. The other had spoken in such a low voice that I could not discern what he said, much less recognize his voice. Now I knew that the other man had been Antipater-and both were agents of Mithridates.

Thinking back, I remembered all the times in all the cities when Antipater had supposedly kept to his room while I went out for the day … or said he was meeting with fellow scholars to talk about poetry (knowing that nothing was more certain to send me away) … or went to some temple without me, since I had already visited the place and did not care to see it again. How many of those times had his actual purpose been a meeting with confederates to plot the rise of Mithridates and the ruin of Rome?

What schemes had he hatched with Eutropius in Ephesus, and with Posidonius in Rhodes, and with all the others he must have met in all the stops we made at Athens, Delos, Lesbos, and elsewhere?

In Halicarnassus, during all those blissful hours I spent with Bitto, I had presumed that Antipater was immersing himself in the volumes of her library-when in fact he must have been carrying on a furious correspondence with his contacts all over the Greek world. I had been oblivious. How had Antipater just described me? “Young and easily distracted.”

He and Isidorus were old friends-their conversation made that clear-but for my benefit they had pretended to be strangers on the boat that brought us to Alexandria. How many times had such charades been carried out right in front of me? And now, every day, when the two of them went to the Library, presumably to engage in esoteric research amid the dusty scrolls, they were devising a code that could be used to send secret signals from the Pharos.

A sudden thought chilled me to the bone: what was my father’s role in all this? He had certainly abetted Antipater’s faked death and his disappearance from Rome. Had he done so knowing of Antipater’s mission? Was he, too, an agent of Mithridates, and therefore a traitor to Rome? Had he intentionally kept me in the dark, deceiving me just as Antipater had done?

Almost as disturbing was the only other possibility-that Antipater had duped him as well as me. What did that say about the wisdom of my father, the so-called Finder?

I felt an impulse to rouse Antipater and demand the truth. I rose from my bed, left my room, and went to his door. I stood there for a long time in the darkness, but I could not bring myself to knock. I was not yet ready to confront him. I returned to my bed. To bide my time was the wiser course, I told myself.

Would things have turned out differently, had I followed my first impulse?

I thought I would never sleep, but soon enough Somnus laid his hand on me, and Morpheus filled my head with terrible dreams. All was chaos, noise, and horror. My father and Antipater were in the midst of a bloody riot. Lurking on the outskirts, mad Nikanor suddenly lunged forward and sent a hissing serpent through the air. Then a massive finger of stone erupted from the earth and soared skyward, a white spire amid the fiery darkness. The beacon at the top was impossibly bright. The ray of light seared my eyes and burned into my brain, exposing my deepest fears and stripping me of every secret.

* * *

The next morning, at breakfast, I tried to look pleasantly surprised when Antipater made his announcement. I must have looked dazed, instead. I would never make a good spy.

“Gordianus, I do begin to think you’re unwell,” said Antipater. “Did you not hear me? Isidorus has arranged for both of us to visit the Pharos today. It’s quite a rare opportunity. The lighthouse isn’t open to just anyone, you know. We shall see it inside and out, and climb all the way to the top, if our legs hold up.”

“Wonderful,” I managed to say.

Antipater frowned and shook his head at my unaccountable lack of enthusiasm. “Don’t just sit there, gaping. Eat your breakfast and get ready to go out.”

We made our way to the wharf where the ferryboat carried workers to Pharos. A different, more attentive guard was on duty that morning; he demanded to see our pass, which Isidorus duly presented. We were escorted to the front of the queue and allowed to board the next boat.

Even in my glum, anxious mood, it was impossible not to be invigorated by the trip across the harbor. The air was cool and refreshing. The morning sun glittered on the water. The temples and obelisks of the royal islands to the east were in silhouette, scintillating with fiery outlines, but ahead of us the Pharos was lit from bottom to top with soft yellow light. From a distance it looked too delicate to be made of stone-it seemed to be built of butter or goat’s cheese. But as we drew closer, the illusion of softness faded, as if the warming sun itself baked and hardened the massive blocks into sharp-edged stone.

“The Pharos was built of a special kind of masonry,” said Isidorus, as if reading my thoughts, “something between a limestone and a marble. They say it actually grows harder as it’s exposed to the moist sea air. The Pharos has stood for nearly two hundred years, and the experts say there’s no reason it shouldn’t remain standing for another thousand.”

As we drew near the Pharos, I felt a sense of awe in spite of myself, and a thrill of excitement.

A guard met us as we disembarked. After examining our pass, he led us to a bench shaded by an awning of thatched reeds. Soldiers and green-clad workers were everywhere. The three of us looked rather conspicuous, wearing our ordinary tunics.

After a short wait, we were greeted by an imposing figure in green robes and a high headdress-Anubion, the man to whom I had seen Nikanor talking the previous day.

He looked askance at me, and his greeting to Antipater and Isidorus was stiff and formal; that was for my benefit, of course. I felt absurd, going along with the pretense that the three of them shared no special relationship, and that I knew nothing of their conspiracy.

As he led us up the long ramp to the entrance of the Pharos, Anubion recounted various facts and figures about the lighthouse, as if we were ordinary visitors receiving the privilege of a guided tour. The situation seemed increasingly unreal to me. The Pharos itself was almost too gigantic and magnificent to be comprehended, and the playacting of everyone, myself included, made me feel strangely detached, yet acutely aware of everything that was happening.

We passed through the grand entry of red granite, into a large room with a very high ceiling. I was struck at once by the strong smell of the place, a mingling of odors I had never experienced before. Soon I would be shown the source of these odors, but for the moment I was puzzled.

We were given a choice of ascending by an inner stairwell or by an outer ramp; Antipater preferred the more gradual ascent of the ramp, and so up we went, around and around, passing high windows that admitted bright daylight, sharing the way with workers and beasts of burden hauling wagons full of fuel.

“We use a variety of fuels to feed the fire,” Anubion explained. “Egypt is not blessed with forests, but we do have some small trees-the acacia and the tamarisk. Charcoal is also used, as is animal dung, but the brightest flame is produced by liquid called naphtha. Alexander was introduced to naphtha by the Babylonians, in whose lands there are chasms from which this remarkable substance flows like water from a spring. Have you ever heard of such a thing, Gordianus?”

I admitted that I had not.

“Here, let me show you.”

We stepped off the ramp and into one of the adjoining storage rooms, which was crowded with large clay vessels. Removing a stopper from one of these, Anubion invited me to take a sniff. I drew back my head at once, recoiling from the foul-smelling fumes.

“The stuff is highly volatile, meaning it will ignite even before a flame touches it, being kindled by the mere radiance of the fire.”

“It sounds dangerous,” said Antipater.

Anubion shrugged. “Every now and again a worker catches on fire-an example to the other workers to handle the stuff with extreme caution. Water is useless to put out a naphtha fire, so we keep heavy blankets close at hand, which can be used to smother the flames.”

We returned to the ramp. Now I understood why the smell of the Pharos was so peculiar and distinctive-the odors of animal dung and naphtha were mingled with the sweat of human toil and the salty smell of the sea.

At length, after ascending many ramps, we arrived at the level of the parapet where the Tritons resided at each of the four corners, with bronze signal mirrors installed between them. The sculptures and the mirrors alike were on a scale I had not imagined. Without warning, one of the Tritons produced a long, blaring note from its horn. I covered my ears, and the noise was still deafening. Whatever mechanism produced the sound was hidden from sight.

The means for adjusting the signal mirrors was more evident. I saw that Antipater and Isidorus took special note of these metal frameworks and fixtures, which could be made to tilt each mirror at various angles, both up and down and side to side.

Below us, the workers and animals ascending the long entrance ramp looked very small. The harbor was ablaze with morning light and crowded with sails. The city looked like a vast, intricate toy built for a god’s amusement.

We entered the next stage of the tower, which was set back from the lower portion and octagonal in shape. Stairways led upward along the outer walls, which were pierced by tall windows. The central shaft was occupied by an ingenious lift system by which winches and pulleys raised a platform all the way to the top of the tower; by this means heavy loads of fuel could be transported without men having to carry it. Anubion suggested that we should ride this device all the way to the top.

Antipater stared upward. He turned pale and shook his head.

“But I insist,” said Anubion. “You’re already out of breath, good Zoticus, and there are many more steps to go. Not only will this device save you a great deal of effort, but you can say that you have ridden the Pharos elevator-a claim few men can make.”

Antipater’s curiosity got the better of him, and in short order the four of us entered the cagelike contraption and were lifted through the air. The ride was surprisingly smooth, with much less swaying and jerking than I expected. We passed workers who trudged up the stairways around us, and were treated to fleeting glimpses of Alexandria and the sea through the tall windows, which fell below us one by one. At the very end of the ride, the platform gave such a powerful shudder that I gripped the railing and uttered a quick prayer, thinking the cage had broken free of the mechanism and was about to plummet downward. But at last we came to a halt and arrived without mishap.

I was glad for the experience, but relieved to exit the cage. Leaving the others behind for a moment, I hurried past the workers who were going up and down the stairs and stepped outside, onto the open landing with its eight-sided parapet. For a few remarkable moments, I was completely alone. Above me rose the third, cylindrical portion of the tower, shorter than the first two stages, in which the beacon was housed. Peering up at a steep angle, beyond the roofline I could glimpse a bit of the thunderbolt wielded by the enormous statue of Zeus that crowned the Pharos.

Surrounding me on all sides was a truly astounding panorama. Amid a sea of rooftops, the grid pattern of Alexandria was clearly discernible, especially where towering palm trees lined the broad avenues and obelisks marked the major intersections. Even the Temple of Serapis, the city’s highest point, was far below me. In the opposite direction, I gazed at an endless expanse of water dotted by ships near and far. To either side stretched hazy coastlines where sand and water met. To the west was only desert, but to the east I could see the green mass of the Nile Delta.

There was a steady breeze, so strong that Anubion-who had just joined me, along with Antipater and Isidorus-grabbed his headdress with both hands, lest it should fly off.

“What do you think, young Roman?” he said.

“You live in a remarkable city-surely the most remarkable I’ve ever seen.”

He nodded, pleased by the comment. “I’m going to show Isidorus the beacon fire, and the circular mirror mechanism housed above it in the very top of the tower. There’s not a lot to be seen right now-the flames burn low during the day, and the mirrors are turned outward, so as to reflect sunlight rather than the fire.”

“Will I be allowed to see it?”

“Of course-in a little while. But for now, stay here with Zoticus and enjoy the view. I fear your old tutor is not yet rested enough to take the last few flights of stairs.”

So this was the ploy by which the lighthouse master and the librarian would be able to speak privately, away from the inquisitive-but easily distracted-young Roman. Anubion and Isidorus disappeared inside the cylindrical tower. I turned to Antipater.

“Our host thinks you’re too tired to go up a few more steps,” I said, trying to blunt the edge of sarcasm in my voice.

“For the moment. But this bracing sea breeze will soon revive me.”

I could remain silent no longer. “Teacher,” I began, and was about to say more-why have you deceived me?-when from the corner of my eye I saw a figure clad in green step briefly onto the landing, then back into the tower. I caught only a sidelong glimpse of his face, but I knew at once it was Nikanor.

What was he doing in the Pharos? Why was he dressed as one of the workers?

I turned my back on Antipater and hurried inside the tower. Above me, heading up the stairs, I saw Nikanor. I followed him.

With every step, the air grew warmer. As I took the final flight of steps, I felt a blast of hot air, as from an oven. The walls themselves grew hot. I ascended to a circular gallery with a stone railing, and saw below me, in a great bowl of blackened granite, the white-hot flame that was never allowed to go out. I recoiled from the rising heat, hardly able to breathe. If this was the fire at its lowest, what was it like at night, when it burned even hotter and brighter?

The workers handling the fuel and tending the coals were covered with sweat and wore only loincloths; their discarded green tunics were hung on pegs around the gallery. I looked up and saw the circular system of mirrors attached to the domed ceiling. Except for the fallen Colossus, I had never seen pieces of bronze so large. Their reflective surfaces were turned away from me, but the very edges, plated with silver, were almost too bright to look at. I seemed to have entered another world where all was fire, stone, and metal-the fiery workshop of Hephaestus.

Anubion and Isidorus stood across from me, at the far side of the gallery, their images blurred by waves of hot air. Nikanor had just joined them; they started back, surprised by his sudden appearance. As yet, none of them had seen me.

I perceived a way to hide myself. I grabbed the nearest green tunic from its peg, stepped back into the stairwell, and pulled the tunic over my own. A scrap of green cloth came with tunic; I tied it around my head, wearing it as I had seen the workers do. When I emerged again on the landing, no one took any notice of me. I appeared to be just another of the antlike workers who tended the Pharos.

Anubion was shouting at Nikanor. “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”

I could have told him that: with such lax security at the wharf, and so many discarded uniforms lying about, it hardly required the skills of a master spy for Nikanor to impersonate a worker and board the ferry.

Nikanor ignored the questions and shouted back at him. “I told you there were traitors among us-and now I’ve seen you consorting with the worst of them, treating the old Sidonian like an honored guest, giving him and his Roman pupil a tour of the lighthouse!”

“Say not another word, Nikanor. Leave the Pharos at once. I’ll meet you at the ferry landing and we’ll discuss this matter there.”

“Who are you to give me orders, Anubion? You, a latecomer to the cause, a filthy half-Egyptian, half-Greek mongrel? As far as I know, you’re a traitor as well-a double agent-a spy for the Romans. Last night I looked at the Pharos, and I sensed that you were looking back at me. I couldn’t move! The beam transfixed me, as a needle pins a fly! Who knows what terrible powers you wield from the Pharos? You read men’s minds, control their thoughts, paralyze their bodies!”

Despite the blasting heat, Anubion grew pale. “He’s mad, Isidorus. Completely mad!”

Isidorus stared at Nikanor with wide eyes. His hairless, ebony head was dripping with sweat.

Nikanor drew back. “I see it now-you’re all traitors. All against me! You lured me here against my will. You tricked me into coming to the Pharos. You mean for me to die here.”

Isidorus swallowed hard. “Nikanor, stop this talk. We’ll go outside-breathe some cool air-discuss the matter sensibly-”

But the time for talking was past. Nikanor made his move. He pushed Isidorus aside as if he were made of straw.

A man like Anubion was not used to defending himself against physical attack. The struggle was brief, and horrible to witness.

The stone railing of the gallery came almost to my waist, high enough to prevent anyone from falling accidentally into the open furnace. But the railing proved to be no obstacle to an enraged madman determined to throw another man into the flames. I watched Anubion fly screeching through the air. He caught fire even before he landed, his tall hat and green robes bursting into flame. His screams were terrible. I watched for an instant, unable to look away, then shielded my face as Anubion exploded.

The sudden fireball sent the workers into a panic. When I uncovered my eyes I saw that some had been badly burned. Others, their loincloths ablaze, were scrambling for blankets to smother the flames.

That was the end of Anubion. The master of the lighthouse had become one with the beacon.

I blinked and looked about, then drew back just as Isidorus rushed past me, quickly followed by Nikanor. Neither of them took any notice of me.

I stood for a long moment, stunned, then hurried down the steps after them.

I emerged on the lower landing, coughing and gasping for breath, eagerly drawing the cool sea breeze into my scalded lungs. The panoramic view of Alexandria and the sea, so enthralling before, was now disorienting and bizarre. I staggered from a sudden attack of vertigo, and watched an unearthly scene play out before me.

Antipater was still on the landing. Isidorus had joined him. They stood with their backs against the parapet and the sea, expressions of shock on their faces.

Nikanor was nearby. At his feet lay a blazing torch. In both hands he held what appeared to be a heavy clay vessel. While I watched, he slung the contents toward Antipater and Isidorus, dousing them with a clear liquid. From the overpowering smell, I realized it was the substance called naphtha.

Nikanor threw the vessel aside and picked up the torch.

My heart leaped to my throat. I rushed toward Nikanor, but he saw me, swung his left arm, and struck me across the face. I reeled to one side and fell.

Before I could make another move, Nikanor threw the torch toward the cowering figures of Antipater and Isidorus.

Antipater was closest to me. I sprang to my feet and leaped toward him. If we had tumbled only a little to one side, Isidorus might have been knocked to the ground and saved as well. But we only brushed him as we fell, and as we struck the hard stone floor there was a burst of flame behind me, followed by a bloodcurdling scream.

“Isidorus!” cried Antipater. I rolled away from him and looked up to witness the final act of the gruesome spectacle.

Like a man made of flames, Isidorus rushed toward his assailant. Even Nikanor was appalled by what he had done. He stood transfixed. Before he could retreat, Isidorus embraced him. Was it a vengeful act? I think Isidorus acted purely by reflex, grasping whatever was closest to him.

Joined by the flames, the two of them performed a hideous dance, traipsing and whirling this way and that, until they collided with the parapet. Flailing in desperation, the madman scrambled to climb over it. Isidorus clung to him. Together they went tumbling over the stone wall.

I rushed to the parapet and watched them descend. Down they plummeted, trailing flames like Phaëton when he wrecked the chariot of the sun. They struck a Triton on the lower parapet with a glancing blow that broke them apart and sent them spinning separately into space, away from the Pharos and over the open sea. The dwindling comets ended in two tiny white splashes, followed an instant later by the sound of two minuscule concussions. Then the sparkling green waves closed over the foam, as if nothing had happened.

Behind me I heard a groan. Antipater had risen to his feet. He looked confused and unsteady. I was a bit shaky myself, as I discovered when I stepped toward him. My legs trembled liked reeds in the wind.

“They fell? You saw them?” he said. Had I not been holding his arm, I think he would have fallen. I almost went down with him. His clothing reeked of naphtha.

“Into the sea,” I said. “But you, Teacher-are you all right?”

“A bit bruised. Nothing broken. Where’s Anubion?”

“Nikanor threw him into the furnace. There’s nothing left of him.”

Antipater looked aghast, then gave a start. “How do you know that man’s name?”

I sighed. “I know a great deal more than that. I saw Nikanor in the street yesterday and recognized him. I followed him. I know what he was up to, in Olympia and here in Alexandria-spying for Mithridates. So was Anubion. So was Isidorus-and you!”

Antipater drew a sharp breath. His eyes darted this way and that.

“Teacher, why did you deceive me?”

He bit his lip. At last he looked me in the eye. “It was for your own good, Gordianus. Had you known, there were times you might have been in great danger.”

“Are you saying I wasn’t in danger, because I didn’t know? That’s no answer, Teacher!”

“Do you regret coming on our journey, Gordianus? Do you wish you’d never left Rome, never seen the Wonders?”

“That’s not an answer, either. You deceived me. I still don’t know what you were up to, in all the places we’ve been-I can only guess. It’s not a question of whether or not you put me in danger. I was tricked. Tricked into aiding and abetting a spy in the service of an enemy of Rome!”

“Rome is not at war with Mithridates-”

“Not yet!” I shook my head, hardly able to look at him. “At the Great Pyramid, do you remember what you called me? ‘A solver of riddles, like your father.’ You said I had a special ability, a gift from the gods-”

“And so you do, Gordianus.”

“Yet all the time, I didn’t see the riddle right in front of me! What a fool you must think me. Pouring praise in my ear, but secretly despising me.”

“No, Gordianus. That’s not true.”

“Tell me one thing: how much did my father know?”

“About my mission? Nothing.”

“Are you saying you fooled him, as well?”

“I convinced him that I wanted to disappear without a trace, for reasons of my own.”

“And he believed you?”

“It’s not such a far-fetched idea. Beyond a certain age, many men harbor such a fantasy-including your father, I imagine. You wouldn’t understand, Gordianus.”

“Because I’m too young?”

“Exactly. The world is not as simple as you think. Did I deceive you? Yes. As for your father, he had his own unspoken reasons for sending you away-he knew that Rome and her Italian allies were on the brink of war and he wanted you well out of it. So he took the opportunity I offered, and didn’t question me as closely as he might have. That doesn’t make him a fool, only a caring father. As for the choices I’ve made-I have no regrets. Friendship matters, Gordianus, but there are things in this world that matter more. Rome must be stopped. Mithridates offers the only hope. If you had to be kept in the dark, what of it? In the meantime, you went on a journey such as most men can only dream of. You followed your aspirations, Gordianus, and I followed mine.”

I shook my head. I searched for words to rebut him. Suddenly he pushed me away.

“Step back, Gordianus,” he whispered. “Get away from me!”

I wondered at this abrupt change, until I heard the sounds of footsteps coming from the tower. At the same time, the Tritons on the lower parapet began to blare discordant notes.

“I’ll think of some way to explain my presence here, and some explanation for what happened,” he whispered. “But for you, it may not be so easy. Go now! Make your way down the tower and back to the mainland.”

“But how can I-”

“They’ll think you’re a worker. Hurry!”

A group of soldiers poured onto the landing, drawing their swords as they did so. They hardly noticed me. Wearing the green tunic, I appeared to be just another worker, and quite a young one at that. Their attention was drawn to Antipater. Our eyes met a final time, and then he was hidden from sight, encircled by the guards.

One of them began loudly to question him. “What happened here? Who fell? Where is Anubion?”

“It was a terrible thing to witness,” cried Antipater, “the ghastly act of some madman!”

I quietly stepped toward the doorway and into the stairwell leading down. As I descended, trying to keep my face a blank, more armed men passed me coming up the stairs. Still more were ascending by means of the mechanical platform in the central shaft. No one challenged me.

I made my way out of the Pharos and down the long ramp. Above me, the Tritons continued to blare. Some of the workers had gathered in groups and were conferring in agitated whispers, but others went about their business, as yet unaware of what had happened. The crowded ferry was just leaving as I arrived. I was the last person to board-just one more figure in a green tunic among so many others.

As we cast off, I suddenly realized that I had no reason to flee the Pharos. I had done nothing wrong. It was Antipater who had insisted that I go. Was it because he wished to spare me the ordeal of an interrogation-or because he feared that I might blurt out the truth to the guards and expose him as the spy of a foreign king? Once again, I had unwittingly allowed him to manipulate me.

I turned and gazed up at the Pharos. At the uppermost parapet, amid the glitter of soldiers’ helmets, I saw a shock of white hair. That was my last fleeting glimpse of Antipater.

* * *

After landing at the wharf, I discreetly discarded the green tunic and went directly to the dwelling of Isidorus. Soldiers had reached the house ahead of me and were swarming in the street outside. There could have been no better demonstration of the swiftness and efficacy of the Pharos signaling system.

I walked away as quickly as I could without drawing attention to myself. In my mind I enumerated the few possessions I had kept in my room. I would have to do without them.

I slept that night in the open, not a terrible hardship in such a warm, dry climate. The next day, I tried to think through my position. As long as Antipater made no mention of me to the authorities, no one had any reason to connect me to the deaths at the Pharos. Isidorus’s slave might have overheard my name, but the woman knew nothing else about me. No one else in Alexandria even knew of my existence, except the professional receiver of letters and the banker who was holding the funds from my father in trust for me. As I saw it, I had no cause to fear the authorities.

Later that day, I decided to pay a visit to the banker-or more precisely, to one of the clerks who met with clients on his behalf. I half-feared that some of King Ptolemy’s soldiers would appear from nowhere and seize me, but the man was happy to give me the minuscule disbursement I requested.

“Also, a message was left for you this morning,” he said, producing a small scroll of papyrus tied with a ribbon.

I went to a public garden nearby and found a patch of grass next to a palm tree. A mule was tied to the trunk-his young owner was nearby, talking to some other boys-so I chose a spot on the opposite side of the tree, sat with my back against it, and opened the letter.

There was no salutation and no signature-nothing to compromise either of us, should the letter fall into the wrong hands.

I hope you will remember all that was good in our travels. Forget all that was bad. If that means forgetting me, so be it.

I will not ask you to forgive me, for that would imply remorse, and I do not regret the choices I made. I promised to show you the Seven Wonders; I did. I promised your father that I would see you safely to our final destination; I did. You will say I hid things from you, but every man has secrets, even you.

I am leaving Egypt. You will not see me again, at least not here.

You should stay in Alexandria, if you wish. I had intended to leave a few drachmas for you with the banker, adding them to the funds from your father; but the record of such a deposit might someday be misconstrued as a payment-evidence of an affiliation between you and me that does not exist. I would not want that to happen; nor would you, I think. Eventually you may need to find work, but for a young man as clever as you, that should be no problem.

I am an old man. I may have a few years left, or a few days. But I can die happy now. My lifelong desire was to see the Wonders-that was no deception!-and that wish has been fulfilled, thanks in no small part to you. I could not have asked for a better traveling companion. We may have begun as teacher and pupil, but on this journey I learned as much from you as you ever learned from me. I am proud of you, and I thank you.

Our ways must part now, but if the gods allow, we will meet again.

Burn this letter after you read it, or toss it into the sea.

How could I bear to destroy the letter? For better or worse, it was my last link to Antipater. In a daze, I laid it on the grass beside me. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, letting the dappled sunlight warm my face. A moment later, I heard a chomping sound, and turned my head just in time to see the last bit of papyrus vanish into the mule’s mouth.