New York City—October
The remainder of Caleb’s research, six months before a fury of writing and revisions, passed in a blur of old books, dank library archives, endless hours in museums and the rare book sections of various universities. He needed his own place, needed the isolation and quiet to see the project through. And so he holed up in a Manhattan 72nd Street studio apartment, one where he just barely met the rent payments by clerking in the Classics section at the New York Library during the summer. But that was all about to change.
Six months ago he had secured an agent, a publisher, and a $50,000 advance on a work entitled The Life and Times of the Alexandrian Library. It was the culmination of reams of notes, anecdotes, theories and research. Advance praise was extraordinary; it was being hailed as “a classic with epic non-fictional characters that seem so lifelike it’s as if Caleb Crowe has actually stepped back in time and observed the places and events in person.”
There was, of course, some truth to the statement. Although he had sworn off using any form of psychic abilities since Nina’s death, sometimes his subconscious, overwhelmed with the intensity of the research and late-night writing, took over with its own agenda. It would yank him into a waking dream to stroll among philosophers in white robes, their voices echoing off the alcoves as they spoke to rapt pupils. He would wander the ten colossal chambers of learning, savoring the breath of ancient truth exuding from the scrolls held therein. He would peer out the windows, looking past the dark silhouette of the Pharos Lighthouse and up into the heavens where his fellow scholars had mapped out the trails of the gods.
He had rubbed shoulders with Euclid, drunk wine with Claudius Ptolemy, dissected corpses with Aristarchus, charted the cycles of Venus with Hipparchus, and tinkered alongside Heron. And all of those experiences—the sights and sounds, the flavor of those revered halls and the luxurious museum grounds—they all made their way into his book as revelations and wonders and theories that modern scholars and critics were fast to admonish; yet something about his forceful style and the strength in his words proved irresistibly satisfying to readers.
Today was his first book signing, at a trendy café in Soho on a late October afternoon. A steady, drizzling rain tapped against the windows, and the cabs squealed out front while shoppers scurried by. The thick aroma of coffee permeated the air. Caleb’s stomach was tangled up in binding knots, and his voice was on the verge of cracking. More than forty people had packed the small room, a host of multicolored umbrellas and rain slickers—and one bright orange shawl beneath a grinning face.
Phoebe was there, in the back of the room, hands folded, a copy of his book in her lap. The lustrous metal handles on the chair glistened with raindrops. Her surprising appearance—the first time Caleb had seen her since Christmas—was all he needed to gather his courage, to relax and let the words flow.
He spoke of the incalculably valuable storehouse of knowledge lost in the library’s destruction. Briefly, he highlighted the acquisition of books from around the world and how the library and the museum served as the world’s first university. He touched on the great names associated with the museum and the scrolls. He spoke of Kallimakhos and his innovative cataloging method that led to the current card catalog system; then he turned to speculation of what major works had been lost forever. According to surviving memoirs, biographies and other histories, among the lost works were plays of Homer, Plato and Virgil; mathematical treatises by Euclid; medical texts that described treatments for what remain today incurable diseases. Then there were metaphysical texts, spiritual guides to awaken the soul and expand one’s consciousness.
Next, so as not to bore them completely, Caleb turned to the major theories about the catastrophic destruction of all this knowledge, delving into the bloodshed and intolerance that had brought all these works to flames. He spoke of Caesar and the later Roman emperors who, in their zeal to crush Alexandrian rebellions, had inadvertently or consciously torched sections of the library. He spoke of Emperor Theodosius’s decrees that had incited the Christian mobs in 391 AD, and even touched on the questionable theory that Arab conquerors had depleted the library’s scrolls as a means to heat the city’s steam baths, citing the famous order of destruction from the caliph of Cairo: “The scrolls either contradict the Koran, in which case they are heresy, or they agree with it, so they are superfluous.”
About halfway through his presentation, Caleb looked up and saw another bright face watching from the counter beside a gold-plated espresso machine. A blond-haired woman looked across the room through narrow-rimmed glasses. She wore a neat gray suit over a tight yellow blouse. For some reason, despite the enthralled stares of the others, young and old packing the tables and chairs, her attention made Caleb uncomfortable.
But he continued, drawing a welcome smile from Phoebe, who held up his book and made a signing motion. He hurried to wrap up his talk, reading from the last chapter, “. . . The mob burst into the Serapeum, shattered the meager defenses of the scholars and priestesses inside, then proceeded to tear down statue after statue, demolishing urns, altars and artwork. A trio of young men guarded an arched doorway on the east side.” His voice cracked here as he pictured the scene in his mind. After all, he had witnessed it first-hand . . .
. . . as one of the mob. He finds himself urged on with vitriolic hate and burning venom as the Patriarch Theophilus stands behind them, waving his blazing cross and shouting passages from Leviticus. He storms past marble columns, swinging a torch in one hand and a twisted tree branch in the other. He howls as he strikes down one youth, crushes his skull, and falls upon the defenders. The others surge at his back and push him through the door into a large chamber with a rounded ceiling. Across each wall are hollowed-out alcoves overflowing with neatly packed scrolls, trembling like bees in a hive.
With a shout for God and for their Patriarch, twenty of the zealots race across the floor, brandishing torches and crying with delight. The room cowers before their shadows, moving in a twisted parody of an ancient orgiastic dance. Gleefully the men hurl their torches into every corner, igniting anything that will burn.
He barely makes it out, coughing and choking on smoke, trampling on the bodies of men and women, “protectors” of the temple of learning. He takes one last look at a statue of Seshat holding a book to her chest, toppling as four monks run, cheering. Then a burst of flame roars out of the archway, the roof collapses, and a dozen rioters are crushed.
He trips, catches himself, then stumbles over debris and falls at the feet of Theophilus, who holds up a blazing silver cross with both hands and shouts to the heavens, offering up to God their glorious victory.
With stinging eyes, he looks out over Alexandria and witnesses other pyres burning into the huddled night, smoke clouds rising, rising, occluding the stars and blurring the lights of heaven.
Across the harbor, beyond the pall of death and smoke, the lighthouse beacon flickers as if blinking away its tears.
Caleb closed with a brief but chilling postscript on how the early Christians had solidified their hold on the city, vanquishing first by edict and then by violence all record of the early learning. They had forbidden the study of the classics, burning remaining copies of scrolls and assaulting those who still practiced the old beliefs. In many ways, this body of classical work—the robust philosophical ruminations of the past—had shaped and molded and even nurtured Christianity; but now, in the ultimate betrayal, the fledgling religion was stabbing its mentor in the back.
He focused on Hypatia, the familiar classic tragedy of the last great symbol of enlightenment. How this respected scholar-author and teacher had been pulled from her chariot by the incited mob and torn limb from limb, her flesh carved from her bones with stones and shells, then burned and fed to dogs. Only, Caleb added a minor detail he alone knew, having seen it in one of his visions: “. . . At the end, through a haze of blood and flayed skin, she looked toward the Pharos, and as they beat and clawed and ripped at her body, she seemed to reach for it as
a last refuge, or perhaps something more. A necklace was torn from her neck—a chain with a gold charm of the caduceus.”
Maybe it meant nothing, Caleb told myself, or maybe . . . she had been down there.
He closed the book and took a deep breath. His mouth was dry. He eyed a full glass of water balanced on the edge of the podium. Phoebe stared at him, open-mouthed. Then, the woman at the counter began to clap, and the room erupted into applause.
Caleb spent the next forty minutes signing books and thanking people for braving the nasty weather. He listened to boring stories of the customers’ favorite authors and travels and anything else they wanted to talk about. Finally, the crowd thinned and people made room for Phoebe, who rolled up to his table. She held his book to her chest, hugging it fiercely.
“Oh, Mr. Famous Author,”—her pony tail wagged back and forth as she shook her head—“won’t you sign something clever in my book? Something sweet, and maybe give me your phone number?”
Caleb walked around the table and gave her a crushing hug. In the corner of his eye, the strange but beautiful woman at the counter sipped an espresso and watched him carefully. “I didn’t know you were coming,” Caleb said. “How—?”
“It’s in all the papers back home, big brother. You know how dull the Sodus Gazette can be. They ran out of shore-erosion stories and interviews with the apple farmers, so they had to look elsewhere for news.”
“Great. So Mom knows.”
“Of course. She’s been following your career, while respecting your need for privacy. She and Dad—”
“‘Dad’?”
“Sorry, Mr. Waxman—”
“They got married?”
“Yeah.” She lowered her eyes. “In March.”
Caleb groaned.
Phoebe looked down at her hands. “I know you hate him, but really, he has been good to Mom. He’s supported her, and kept the house going. They’ve published articles together, worked on some other special projects. It was like they were living together anyway, so—”
“So she just gave up on Dad. Went with this loser.”
“Caleb.” Phoebe sighed. “Don’t bring up Dad again. You know he’s gone. You said so yourself.”
He turned his back, walked around the four remaining copies of his book and slumped in the chair. The smell of espresso, jasmine and cinnamon hung in the air, blown about by the door opening briefly.
“Caleb,”—she leaned forward on her elbows—“listen to me. They bought advance copies and found in your book some stuff they think might help with the Pharos.”
“I don’t care,” he whispered.
“You do care,” Phoebe insisted, holding up his book. “You still see it. It’s stuck in your mind, if only in your subconscious. And you’ve seen things the rest of us haven’t. Gone places we never thought to go.”
Caleb shrugged. “It was for a different purpose. The library is what matters to me.”
“Just like the lighthouse mattered for Dad.”
He shook his head. “What could be more important than the search for lost knowledge?” Caleb placed his hand on the cover of his book, feeling the smooth, velvety texture around a picture of a magnificently arched building atop a hill. “The entirety of human knowledge was contained at one point in Alexandria, and . . . and I’ve seen glimpses of it. That should be—should’ve been our focus. That’s all I care about.”
Phoebe straightened and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She spoke through pursed lips. “Earth, fire, air, water. The four elements, each represented by a planet—Venus, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter.” She spoke slowly, carefully, watching Caleb’s reaction. “Then, Mercury, the Moon, the Sun. Those are the seven symbols around the caduceus. They’re set in grooves that allow you to turn each symbol.”
“Phoebe—”
“Mom thinks maybe if you spin them in the correct order, the seal will open.”
Caleb laughed out loud. “Really? She thinks it’s that easy? That the grand tower designed to last forever and guarded by ingeniously deadly traps would have only a simple combination lock on the door?” Caleb started to laugh again, but then noticed that woman at the counter looking down her glasses at him. Patiently waiting, it seemed, for him to finish.
Phoebe sighed. “Anyway, we don’t know what the symbols really represent. So there’s no way we’ll get in.”
“And that’s why Mom and ‘Dad’ want my help.”
Phoebe nodded.
“I suppose you’ve tried more trances, remote viewing?” He took a sip of water.
“No luck,” she said. “Couldn’t see anything else about that door, besides another glimpse of Caesar, as you had seen him. We’re stumped. We tried focusing on that scroll again, over and over. And, once we got a hit on something strange; I saw a castle atop a sheer cliff, and a man in a red cloak being led up to it in shackles. But we couldn’t make sense of that.”
Caleb frowned. “You never saw Naples or the Herculaneum library again?”
Phoebe shook her head. “I told you, we’re stuck. But you know Mom, she’ll never let this rest. And now, with Waxman around full time, it’s like there are two of her.”
“Sorry to hear that. Hopefully they aren’t always asking you for help. Do they still have the Morpheus Initiative?”
“No. Disbanded earlier in the year. Although, that Victor guy still hangs around.” Phoebe tried to smile. “It’s hard to attract new volunteers once they’ve learned what happened in Alexandria. The prospect of violent death kind of dampens the volunteer spirit.”
“Yeah. So, what about you?”
Phoebe nodded. “Keeping busy. Still translating a steady supply of museum pieces—tablets and medieval parchments, that sort of thing.” She gave Caleb a weary look. “Most of the time I go to bed with a raging headache.”
“And how’s the . . .”
“Disability? I get by. I’m used to it.” She raised her arms and pretended to flex. “Getting huge biceps. Handicapped bathrooms have always been a real treat, and it’s just a blast taking an hour to get my pants on in the morning.” She shrugged. “Same ol’ same ol’.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop it,” she scolded. “Listen, if you’re not going to come back with me and help us out, can you at least sign my book?”
Caleb reached for it, opened the inside cover, thought for a second, then wrote something he imagined he might regret. In the end, he felt he had to reward her effort, at least in some little way. He wrote: To my little sister. To my Sun and my Moon. The other elements—the other planets—are mere shadows, diminishing before your light.” It was just a guess on his part, but if the seal was a combination lock, the order should have some relationship to the orientation of the planets, maybe their distance from the Sun.
After a kiss on the cheek, Caleb walked Phoebe to the door, opened her umbrella, and hailed a cab. He helped get her inside and then packed her chair into the trunk. He leaned in before he closed the door. “My email address is on the back cover,” he said. “Write me more often, and we’ll talk. I promise. And I do miss you.”
She blinked and chewed her lower lip. “Miss you too, big brother.”
Caleb walked back into the café, smiled at a few lingering patrons, and made a beeline to the counter where the woman was still sitting, smiling. As he came closer she set down her cup and extended her hand.
“Great job,” she said. Her eyes glittered like jade stones. Sharp bangs fell over her face and tickled her lips, which were a shade of crimson that seemed too striking for her smooth face.
“Thanks.” Caleb took her hand, and she gently moved her fingers against his, surprising—and intriguing—him by this sudden seductiveness. She wouldn’t let go.
“Sorry I was late,” she said. “Doubleday has a habit of telling its publicists last minute where they’re supposed to be. But now that we’ve met, you and I can work out the schedule, and I won’t leave you hanging again.”
“Excuse me. You’re
. . .”
“Oh, I thought you knew. I’m Lydia Jones.” She squeezed his hand a little tighter. Caleb felt his eyes drawn to the flash of skin just above the open buttons on her blouse. Instead of looking lower into the tempting shadows, he focused on the glittering charm—an Egyptian ankh, a cross with a loop over its arms.
“Again,” she said, pulling her hand away at last, “sorry I was late, but I’m glad to see you handled yourself brilliantly. Great reading style, although we may want to shorten your intro in the future. Some people walked out early.”
“Understood,” he said, still staring at her charm.
“Ahem.” She touched his chin and lifted his eyes to hers. “See something you like?”
“Sorry,” Caleb stammered, blushing fiercely. “Your charm, the ankh. It’s just, you know, Egyptian mythology . . .”
“Oh.” She touched it. “Yeah, I’m kind of the specialist on ancient history authors. I get stuck with all of you dusty guys. This thing was a present from an old client, a one-book-wonder on Egyptian culture and symbolism. Anyway, let’s grab something to eat and map out your next readings. Hope you’re hungry.”
“Famished,” he said, following her to a table.
From somewhere in the cramped storerooms of his memory, Phoebe’s warning came whispering back. A blond with green eyes. But Caleb felt drawn into destiny, and as he sat beside Lydia and breathed in her jasmine essence, exotic like a drifting evening breeze over the Nile, he couldn’t explain his reaction, feelings of desire, unlike anything he’d experienced since Nina.
They ate and talked, and Caleb stole glances at her whenever he could, thrilled at this new partnership.
4
Across the street from the Soho bookstore, the rain slammed against a three-story brownstone and fell in torrents around a green awning that covered the man in the long raincoat from all but the wind-driven sleet.
George Waxman tried again to light his cigarette and finally succeeded. He took a deep breath of the menthol-flavored smoke and waited for his associate to cross the street. Yellow cabs raced by, pounding into rainwater-filled potholes, and Waxman winced with each splash, imagining an old woman hurling insults at him and screaming: Your fault! Yours . . .
The Pharos Objective Page 13
