Cafes, hotels and nightclubs flew by as their driver took the narrow roads at even higher speeds while looking over his shoulder and telling his passengers where to eat, how to find quiet areas on the beach, where to get the best wine. He told them, “Most vacationers gone now for the season. The town very quiet tonight. No more celebrations.”
“Too bad,” Caleb said.
Then, though they didn’t ask for it, the driver offered a quick history lesson, relating how Rimini had emerged from Byzantine rule in 1320 as an independent city, and was lorded over by the Malatesta family for over 200 years. The last ruler, Sigismondo Malatesta, had taken upon himself the great work of expanding the Franciscan chapel at the center of town in 1447, in which he decided to house the crypts of his ancestors. The great Florentine architect and precursor of da Vinci, Leon Battista Alberti, had designed the exterior, incorporating Roman arches and grand pilasters. The interior, however, was what had caused such consternation and debate for centuries to come. Within the sacristies and chapels, pagan sculptures, zodiac emblems and mystical designs merged with Christian decor, crucifixes and Madonnas.
Malatesta never quite finished the reconstruction, as his political fortunes had turned and the papacy closed in, confiscating his lands and power. “Some say his true purpose in re-designing the church was for the love of his life, Signora Isotta, his third wife.” The driver turned and grinned at them, his oily mustache fanned across his face. “You will see everywhere sculptures of the ‘I’ and ‘S’ twisted together, for ‘Isotta’ and ‘Sigismondo.’ Much like the young people write on trees, no?”
Caleb nodded, smiling, but the imagery had him considering alternatives. An entwined S… like a snake… around an I, or central staff… Scholars had theorized about this church and that symbol for two hundred years, wondering what cipher Malatesta might have intended. The prevailing notion of a tribute to his wife was certainly romantic, but Caleb had the feeling there had been other forces at work, forces that had perhaps influenced Cagliostro and led him to trust that his secret would be safe here.
Finally, they passed through the Piazza Tre Martiri and pulled up onto via Garibaldi. “There it is,” said the driver. “Tempio Malatestiano. The old Chapel San Francesco.”
Helen thanked the driver and offered a large tip, then told him not to wait. They stood before the arched doorway and admired the great facade with the bell tower in the background.
“Now what?” Caleb asked, looking at his watch. It was six o’clock.
“We go in,” said Waxman, eyeing the doorway, and then looking around at the landmarks as a general would scout a battlefield before an attack. “They close at seven, so we only have an hour to see if it’s here.”
“And if it is?”
Waxman gave Caleb a sideways glance. “I’ll figure something out.”
Caleb lingered outside for several minutes, observing the intricate architecture, the host of varying symbols. Wreaths, vines and flowers, an elephant-apparently the symbol of the Malatesta family-and then, of course, the S-and-I image repeated several times.
Again he thought of the caduceus.
“What is it?” Helen asked over his shoulder. She had moved in close, and he could smell her perfume, like a floral overabundance attempting to hide something musty and old.
“I was just thinking. About how it looks like a snake coiled around a staff. Or, remember the Garden of Eden? The serpent was demonized because he offered Eve the gift of knowledge.”
“Good and evil,” she whispered. “Knowledge of everything. All from the fruit of the Tree.”
“Exactly.” Caleb pointed to the symbol. “It all stems from fear-fear that we might learn too much about this world, about ourselves. Look at the tower of Babel story; God punished us when we all got together and spoke the same language and-”
“-built a tower challenging the heavens.” Helen ruffled his hair as if he were still a little boy. “You and your theories. So much like your father. You read too many books, you know, both of you.”
“Did you really expect me to be that different from him?”
“Never,” she said with a softening smile, “and I wouldn’t want you to change. Come on, let’s go inside.”
He followed her in, craning his neck at the massive arch as he walked into a stuffy chapel, a hint of incense on the air, with sacristy areas on the left and right, and rows of candles down the middle, flickering before several Rosary-carrying locals and a few tourists snapping pictures. The crucifix above the main altar was the most solemn image in the church. The rest of the artwork-lace, sculptures and paintings of Roman cherubs and young children frolicking, scenes of angels dancing on the columns and the figures of the zodiac around the planets-all seemed more playful.
They walked slowly, Waxman leading the way, toward the altar. Caleb could tell by the heaviness in his steps he was expecting to stop any second, hoping either mother or son would drop to their knees in the throes of some great vision. But nothing happened as they stood before each alcove, each chapel, and admired the intricate ornamentation, marveled at the consistency of the classical themes, and were humbled by the grace of the Roman architecture.
After a half hour they had circled the interior twice. Caleb left Helen and Waxman to whisper among themselves when an usher came by and told him that the church would be closing in fifteen minutes.
Caleb continued circling until he stood at a chapel dedicated to the Archangel Michael, which depicted the evil serpent’s death at his hands. Below a host of other angels, Isotta’s tomb, beautifully sculpted, was set back against the wall.
Lingering, Caleb stared at the marble coffin for a long, long time. It seemed the candlelight flickered steadily brighter and brighter, flashing against the walls. He was aware of a representation of Diana riding a chariot, holding a crescent moon above two horses on the wall to his left. She seemed to be driving him onward, urging haste.
When Caleb focused again on the tomb, he saw something that wasn’t there before… the shadow of a robed man kneeling and sliding the lid back upon Isotta’s resting place. A flash of red on his cloak was all Caleb caught before he blinked and the vision faded.
But it was enough.
“Come on, we have to leave,” Helen said, suddenly at his side. “I guess we’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
“No need,” Caleb whispered. “It’s here, in Isotta’s tomb.”
Waxman gasped. “You did it, kid? You saw it?”
Ignoring the desire to tell him he wasn’t a kid any longer, Caleb nodded and walked away under the watchful gaze of the dying serpent and the triumphant expression of the Archangel.
Caleb and Helen ate under hooded lanterns at an outdoor restaurant at the Piazza Cavour across from the gothic-styled and newly renovated town hall. A circular fountain built by Pope Pius III stood in the center of the Piazza before a beautiful neo-classical theater.
“Where’s your husband?” Caleb asked when she came down from the hotel to meet him. She wore a blue sundress with a black shawl thrown over her shoulders and secured it with a golden butterfly broach.
“He’s resting. He said to start dinner without him.”
Caleb took her hands. At first she resisted, with the shock of his abruptness. “I need to apologize-”
“Caleb-”
“-for the way I was. For the way I walked out on you and left you with Phoebe.”
“You didn’t walk out on us.”
“Yes, I did,” he whispered. “It was my fault. I was angry, confused and lost.”
“You were just coming to terms with losing your father.”
“I did lose my father. But I still had my mother, and my sister.” He pulled her close and hugged her, squeezed until she sobbed. “Dad never would have wanted me to desert you. I–I guess I understand that now.”
“But your visions…”
He shook his head. “I think Dad knew it was too late for him. He was sending a warning, that’s all. Not a cry for he
lp.”
“A warning?”
Caleb nodded and sat back, looking into her eyes. “I don’t understand it all yet. I was close, in that prison. My consciousness opened, my spirit traveled to places I couldn’t imagine. I don’t really remember it all, but I saw my whole life differently.”
She gave Caleb a sideways look as she wiped her eyes. “Were you brainwashed by the Krishnas over there?”
“No.” He laughed. “But I feel like I underwent some kind of spiritual jump-start. And I saw the fool I’d been when we first set out on this quest.” He lowered his head, and the image of a Tarot card fluttered in his mind’s eye-a vagabond character, full of unwarranted confidence and illusionary dreams, cocky and selfish. “I’ve been many things since, only now I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Helen reached for him. “Thank you.”
It was a comfortable embrace, but all the same, Caleb had the unnerving certainty that it would be the last time he would hold her before another tragedy befell them. Before the Pharos would claim another victim from among the loves in his life.
“So what’s keeping George, anyway? Is he that tired?”
Helen looked down at the crumbs on her plate. “Caleb…”
Just then a cab wheeled around the piazza and came to a squealing stop. The front passenger door flew open. Waxman reached around and opened the back door. “Get in!”
Helen stood and dropped a handful of bills on the table. “Don’t say anything,” she warned when she saw Caleb’s eyes widen.
“He didn’t-”
“Don’t,” she repeated.
Waxman patted the breast pocket of his jacket, squeezing a lumpy-shaped item, and all Caleb could think of was a shattered work of art back in the church, a desecrated tomb.
“They won’t miss it,” he said after Caleb shut the door and slid in beside his mother.
“How did you get in?”
“Bribed the guard to take the night off,” he whispered so the driver wouldn’t hear. “I won’t tell you any more until we’re back in the States.”
“Assuming we get through Customs.”
“We’ll make it,” he said giddily, smiling as he fixed his hair in the mirror and then reached for a cigarette.
Caleb hung his head and slumped away from his mother as she tried to move closer. Closing his eyes, Caleb searched his feelings about his role in this theft and discovered that, surprisingly, his excitement for the discovery outweighed his sense of guilt.
They were closing in on the truth.
13
Alexandria
Nolan Gregory stood in the darkened vault, with just the running floor lights to see by. He preferred it this way. The stars were just visible, backlit in the deep blue of the dome, and he could almost believe he was outside, standing on a desolate beach without the dust and haze and noise of Alexandria.
Seven flights above the dome, the library was closing. They were turning off the lights on the inside while lighting up the exterior glass panes. He sighed and sat quietly, listening to the hum of the generators and the battery of IBM servers running below the floor.
I’m getting old. Too old for this international cloak and dagger shit.
Soon he would have to go to New York. His informant in Italy had indicated that the San Francesco church had been vandalized, and Nolan could only take that to mean that they had been successful.
They had found the scroll.
Caleb’s focus was returning. Lydia’s death and his incarceration must have triggered his abilities, just as she had believed it would. Gregory shook his head ruefully. For so long, the Keepers had thought the scroll was still in the collection at Naples, and needed to keep a man inside looking for it, when all that time, Cagliostro…
Interesting, but it didn’t change things. He bit his lip and turned away from the scornful sight of the constellations.
It won’t be long now.
He wondered which would come first-the scroll’s translation or Caleb’s revelation? Nolan wasn’t sure exactly what was on the scroll, other than that it at least explained the seven codes and how to pass them. But that much they already knew. Was there more? What did it say of the Key? The two-thousand-year-old question.
Right now, he had no choice. No other Keeper could be spared. He was the oldest, the most expendable. And God knows it’s going to be dangerous.
He would have to stay close, to be there the instant they had a translation or any other breakthrough. And then it would be a race against Waxman and his considerable resources. He had debated for months whether to reveal himself to Caleb, but in the end he had come back to the original premise that like an initiate of the Egyptian mystery school, Caleb would only achieve enlightenment through self-discovery and direct experience. Without that progression, the Key might be forever lost.
It was time.
Nolan buttoned his jacket and straightened his sleeves. When he next returned, if he came back at all, this chamber would all be different. Full, thriving, alive with wonders. An accomplishment to honor, if not rival, the genius of Sostratus.
14
After waking from a fitful nap, Waxman unbuckled his seat belt, stepped into the aisle and made his way toward the back of the plane. Caleb was sitting in the row behind him with Phoebe, whose wheelchair was stored up front. He had his eyes closed and headphones on, listening to one of the in-flight music stations.
Cocky kid, Waxman thought. It’s about time he contributed. And now it’s Phoebe’s turn. Time for the cripple to pull her weight. Their last hope was that this damned scroll could be opened, and that it had something useful on it. But he had to be careful; lately it felt like he was on shaky ground with Helen. Every day, everywhere he went, it seemed he trod in Philip’s shadow. Several times he had caught Helen staring at the photographs in her room, the ones she would never remove, the ones he would never again make the mistake of asking her to take down.
All in all, it could be worse. She was still a beautiful woman, and she let him have his hobbies, tolerated his absences and asked no questions. In many ways, she was the perfect wife. And what better way to keep an eye on the project? To fan the flames of Helen’s obsession with the Pharos Code, and to be ready to pounce at the moment of revelation. In one fell swoop, by marrying Helen, he had ensured himself access to vital information before the Keepers could ever learn of it.
And that was all that mattered-that, and finding the treasure. Soon. Whenever he felt like they were losing ground and would never succeed, he closed his eyes, imagined the vault opening for him.
In the lavatory, after squeezing through the narrow door and sliding the occupied slot over, he took a deep breath and stared in the mirror, right next to the No Smoking sign and its vapid threat of fines and jail time.
He reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of menthols, turned on the water, took out his lighter and pulled one cigarette from the pack with his teeth. When he looked up, the mirror had fogged over, thick puffs of steam exhaling out of the sink. Odd that the water could be so hot…
Waxman was about to wipe the mirror clean when lines started appearing on the glass. Smears and curves formed as if a finger slid along the surface.
MAMA
Cursing, Waxman put out his cigarette, then smeared the fog clear off the mirror with his jacket sleeve. “Leave me alone!”
Something in the drain gurgled and bubbled up with the steam that promptly fogged up the mirror again.
I WILL DO NO SUCH THI Waxman wiped the mirror clean again and turned off the water. “I’m done talking to you. We’ve found what we needed, and soon I’ll do what I was born to do.”
15
Sodus Bay, New York-November
It took the better part of three weeks to unroll enough of the scroll to obtain some fragments to analyze. Phoebe was able to secure a lab and a couple interns at the University of Rochester to assist; and together and in shifts, they worked around the clock, applying thin coats of gelatin, separating the layer
s and prying them apart piece by piece. Phoebe slept there five nights a week, supervising, and Caleb visited every day.
While this was going on, Helen and Waxman continued their remote-viewing trials at home. They brought in new psychic candidates, and worked at applying their abilities to the remaining five signs. The new recruits were showed the great seal, the alchemy symbols and the symbols for the planets. As always, the context was difficult to capture without leading their imaginations.
Mostly they failed, and the potential hits were far from revealing. Waxman grew frustrated and impatient, and he took to leaving for days at a time. “Doing research,” Helen insisted. Caleb bit his tongue and kept quiet. He never broached the subject with her. Things were going well between them, the best they’d ever been, and he didn’t want to rattle that cage by questioning her husband.
So the days passed. Caleb spent hours walking the leaf-strewn hills below the timid lighthouse, fighting the chill from winds blown over the bay. This particular November morning, he reminisced on the years he’d been away, and he determined to make up for them, to infuse his spirit with the breath of these massive willows, with the feel of the frosted ground beneath his feet, with the sound of the wind and the birds.
He visited the docks and strode along the pier toward Old Rusty. Every morning after his cup of coffee, he came out to toss a rock at its steel hull, just to hear the dull, echoing thud. He thought of Dad. He imagined his father at his side, like it used to be for such a short time. He remembered being taught how to throw a curveball. “Go on,” his father would urge. “Sure it’s a historical treasure, this old lightship, but it’s ours to watch over. And if I want my boy to use it for target practice, damn it he will.”
Even now that memory made Caleb grin. He looked at the dents in Old Rusty’s lower hull, the red paint chipped away and nearly invisible above the barnacle-crusted waterline. The whole ship was eighty-four feet in length, with two steel masts twenty feet high, painted red, with a glass-enclosed oil lantern at each masthead. He thought back on the history of lightships, from the early Roman galleys with baskets of oil and wicks, to the last two centuries of naval use. From 1820 until 1983, more than a hundred lightships were in use along the United States coastlines. Eventually these old relics were phased out and replaced by permanent lighthouses or electric buoys.
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