Wayward Son

by Tom Pollack

“This is, in fact, part of the Homeric collection,” said Zenodotus. “These ancient scrolls have come to us from all over the world, from Sicily to Asia Minor. Because we have collected so many copies of the Iliad and Odyssey, we have tagged them alphabetically according to their place of origin.”

  Cain asked permission to open one of the scrolls, which contained a thousand lines or so of Homer’s Odyssey. Running his eye over the text, he pointed to a line in a speech by the hero Odysseus to the divine sea nymph Calypso.

  “Surely this can’t be right, Zenodotus. This line violates several of Homer’s metrical rules of poetic verse.”

  Skeptical, the librarian peered at the text. As he read the line to himself, comprehension dawned on his face. “You are absolutely correct, Callias! Why haven’t we noticed this before? Any copyist who could make an error such as this has probably included dozens of other botches.”

  ***

  At the chief librarian’s invitation, Cain made many repeat visits. He collaborated steadily with Zenodotus on Homeric questions—never revealing, of course, that he had firsthand knowledge of the epic bard’s performance techniques. Within three months, Zenodotus had become so impressed by Cain’s abilities that he offered him a part-time fellowship at the Mouseion. Cain’s privileges would include a meal allowance and a small annual salary. Most important of all, he would enjoy unrestricted access to the library.

  “I think I can persuade King Ptolemy’s council to upgrade this appointment within six months,” Zenodotus told him. “I would very much like you to become a full fellow. That would mean life tenure.”

  Cain gratefully accepted the probationary appointment. It was the fulfillment of a dream that had begun in his tower cell in Babylon.

  By the following year, it was clear that King Ptolemy, now in his early eighties, had not long to live. Before his death, however, he presided over a council meeting at which Cain was promoted to a full fellowship at the Mouseion. The king, who had personally sponsored such brilliant scholars as Euclid, sent his latest superstar, “Callias,” a special message of commendation along with an ornate signet ring. He now had tenure for life.

  ***

  Over the next ten years, Cain grew steadily happier in his life of scholarship. The library was virtually his residence. Every morning, as he ambled across the huge quadrangle in the palace quarter, passing green hedges and spectacular gardens of imported trees and fragrant flowers, he glanced upward at the library’s front entrance. There, he glimpsed an inscription in Greek letters:

  the place of the cure of the soul

  These were the very words he himself had used at the grand opening of Pharaoh Ramesses II’s much smaller library in Memphis nearly one thousand years before. An attentive scribe must have been taking notes, Cain thought. But he felt no irritation at the lack of attribution for his quote. On the contrary, the notion that it would be reechoed after a millennium filled him with gratifying serenity. Some of the things he had done, Cain reflected, were becoming matters of record.

  Together with dozens of other learned, multilingual scholars, he translated books from foreign languages into Greek. He became the envy of his peers for his ability to translate from virtually any tongue. He also worked on his own engineering designs, producing a prototype of the mechanical grain reaper that he had planned while in prison in Babylon.

  At the intersection of Europe, Africa, and Asia, as well as at the junction of numerous overland trade routes, Alexandria was a bustling, cosmopolitan metropolis, both by day and by night. Needing little sleep, Cain would often work late into the night at the library by the light of oil lamps. To relax, he would stroll toward the harbor, where brightly lit shops, taverns, and businesses all hummed with activity long past sunset. The port of Alexandria was so busy that dockworkers often labored in double shifts loading and off-loading the cargo vessels anchored in the harbor. There were no limits, it seemed, to Alexandria’s global reach and capacity for growth.

  With the passage of the years, however, some of Cain’s old anxieties resurfaced. How much longer could he avail himself of his disguise as a grandfather? Even with the increased longevity that recent advances at Alexandria’s medical school had afforded, there were limits to his persona’s credibility. Besides, the stirrings of envy at his achievements made his colleagues increasingly uneasy with him.

  So in 250 BC, the “elderly” Cain petitioned the Royal Council to grant him a sabbatical. He had no intention of leaving Alexandria permanently, but he pleaded the need for an intermission in his scholarly activities. The council readily gave its assent, and Cain prepared to depart from the city. His destination was a new power on the horizon to the west: Rome.

  CHAPTER 43

  Ercolano: Present Day

  “BUONA FORTUNA!” SILVIO CALLED out to Carmelo as he watched the foreman depart. Resuming his walk back to the site, Silvio saw Juan Carlos rushing toward him.

  “Silvio, I think I’ve got most of it!” Juan Carlos told his grandfather excitedly. “I’ve been reviewing the digital recording of Amanda’s voice as she was assessing the doors. It’s a good thing she usually talks out loud to herself when she’s wrapped up in a puzzle!”

  “Excellent—what have you come up with?” Silvio wanted to know. It was now ten forty-five a.m.

  “Well, I worked backward from the proverb she ended up with: ‘Neither time nor death can turn a story’s truth to dust.’ This proverb cracked the code. But the five key words in the proverb also had to line up with the correct pictograms on the left-hand side of the doorway.”

  Juan Carlos took out a small notebook and drew a diagram for Silvio.

  “Here are the four pictograms I heard her comment about on the recording.” He drew an hourglass, a sword, a Chinese truth character, and a serpent. “And if we correlate these images with the key words, we get this chart.” Juan Carlos laid out two columns to show the equivalents of words and images.

  “What about the word story?”

  “That’s exactly it. I went back over the recording twice. I couldn’t hear everything Amanda said because of occasional static. She must have identified the proper pictogram for story, but I can’t recover what she found.”

  “But still, you’ve made lots of progress. I’m proud of you,” Silvio complimented him.

  “Well, Amanda deserves the compliment, not me. Can’t we get someone through the crack now?” he pleaded. “Maybe there’ll be an obvious solution on the doors.”

  Thinking about his earlier phone conversation with Walker, and then checking his watch, Silvio replied, “Just give Amanda a little more time in the chamber. After all, she has a gas meter.”

  “But, nonno, every moment is precious! I don’t understand the justification for any delay!” Juan Carlos exclaimed.

  “How about this, nipote? Dr. Walker from the Getty will be here within the hour. He’s wiry enough to fit through the crack in an instant. And he’s thoroughly experienced in matching up texts with images. He’s perfect for the job.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” said Juan Carlos a bit reluctantly. “I pray Amanda will be safe until Walker gets here.”

  “She’ll be okay, I am sure of it.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Rome, 250–238 BC

  CAIN LEANED OVER THE rail of the transport ship as it readied to depart the port of Ostia and sail up the Tiber River to Rome. At the time of his arrival, Rome was halfway through its first overseas war with Carthage, a Phoenician colony founded five hundred years beforehand that had burgeoned into the most important naval power in the Mediterranean. The bone of contention between the cities was Sicily, on which Rome had recently set its sights. The island lay squarely between the two contenders, and whoever controlled it would be preeminent in the region.

  With no literary or visual arts to speak of, Rome was a cultural backwater, barely half the size of Alexandria. Yet there was no denying the Romans’ military flair and their engineering resourcefulness. To do battle with Carthage, Rome ha
d, within a few short years, raised a fleet of over three hundred warships. Many of these were outfitted with grapnets—swinging cranes equipped with spikes, so that the Romans could board enemy vessels and turn naval combats into land battles. When three-fourths of this fleet was lost in a storm off Sicily’s southern coast in the year 255 BC, Rome, seemingly unfazed, had raised in short order a brand-new navy of two hundred vessels. “Themistocles, you would have been proud,” muttered Cain.

  His most immediate aim was to interest the Romans in his mechanical grain reaper, which would greatly improve their agricultural production. After making a few inquiries, he discovered that the aediles were the proper government officials to approach. Midlevel magistrates, the aediles were annually elected to supervise markets, temples, religious celebrations, gladiatorial games, the upkeep of the city, and the grain supply. Thus, on a crisp autumn morning, Cain found himself in conversation with Marcus Terentius Varro. They sat in Varro’s austere office just inside the main entrance to the Roman Forum.

  He introduced himself as Philo of Alexandria. After Cain had shown Varro the design for the reaper and explained how it could be used, Varro leaned forward. “By how much do you estimate annual grain production may increase, all other things being equal?” Varro asked.

  “By a minimum factor of tenfold,” Cain replied. “A trial period with a prototype has been underway in Egypt for three years. The harvests have been incredible. With my invention, keeping your citizens well-fed will not require the grain resources of your neighbors.” Cain noted that this last remark seemed to fall on deaf ears.

  “Egyptian soil is known to be the most fertile in the world,” Varro remarked. “Still, that output, if verifiable, is most appealing.” Cain could see the wheels spinning inside Varro’s head. If the reaper arrived on his watch, Varro would surely be elected to the higher steps on the political ladder in the Roman Republic: the praetorship and then the ultimate prize, the consulship.

  “And how much do you want for these plans, Philo?”

  Cain began the negotiations with the astronomical figure of one hundred million sesterces.

  Varro drew himself up and glared darkly at his visitor.

  “You know that we are a city at war, my friend. For fourteen years now, our treasury has been severely strained to bear the costs of our navy. Even now, the expense of a siege in western Sicily is costing us dearly.”

  Yes, thought Cain, but there would be much less of a burden if Rome would rein in her imperialist ambitions.

  “Of course,” he told Varro, “but imagine what the reaper will do for your tax base and the morale of your citizens. We can talk about the numbers, but let us first consider an additional idea.”

  Preparing to reel in Varro, Cain extracted some new drawings from the metal tube he carried. Spreading them out on Varro’s worktable, he addressed the aedile pointedly.

  “You are, I believe, in charge of all public buildings here?”

  “That is correct.”

  “We have talked about grain, the people’s food. But what about fresh water, which is just as essential? Here in the city, I see very few public fountains or baths.”

  Varro glanced downward. “That is because our tunneled construction methods have severe but inevitable limitations,” he lapsed into bureaucratic euphemism.

  “But what if you could use this method?” Cain gestured to the graceful storied bridges of his aqueduct design. “Wouldn’t you manage to convey a higher volume of water faster and at less cost? Several hundred million gallons a day, I should say. Think of the advantages for public hygiene, at the very least.”

  Varro stared at the drawings before him. Cain saw the official’s eyes widen slightly, and he knew then the deal was only a matter of price. Now the aedile called in his colleagues, and they bent over the worktable. Cain knew that any agreement would have to be endorsed by the other aediles as well, since all of Rome’s magistracies operated on a principle of collegiality, by which one official of the same rank could veto his counterparts. At length, Varro looked up and delivered his verdict.

  “Philo, this scheme of yours looks workable. But the initial outlay will be huge. Now that my colleagues have arrived, kindly state your terms.”

  “For the reaper and the aqueduct designs, I ask a payment of fifty million sesterces. That is far less than they are worth, gentlemen. So I also ask you to supplement the payment with some tracts of land.”

  Relieved that the price was feasible, Varro settled back in his chair and asked for specifics.

  “You don’t mean land here in crowded Rome, do you?” the aedile inquired.

  “Not at all. I mean in Spain and North Africa. You Romans are active in both regions, and I am confident you will soon take control there.” Concise flattery was worth any amount of reasoned argument.

  Varro called for maps and the group carefully examined the areas Cain designated. Their potential, for both silver mining and glassmaking, was familiar to him from his wandering so long ago. The aediles, however, thinking that this gifted but eccentric inventor was requesting ownership of a wasteland, barely suppressed their laughter.

  “I see no reason to object to the inventor’s request,” Varro assured his colleagues smoothly. “We will accede to your terms, Philo. We will convey a prospective deed to the registration office, and you may then complete the filing procedure there.”

  With the negotiations complete, the men parted. The cash payment would be forthcoming the very next day. Both sides were convinced they had scored a coup.

  ***

  With a portion of the money from his bargain with the Romans, Cain made two key investments. Satisfied that its design was perfected, he hired the finest craftsmen to help him construct a working version of his finely geared navigational device. After years of testing from a fixed location, and finding its mapping of celestial movements to be accurate, he was anxious to deploy the device for its ultimate purpose.

  Then, when the Carthaginian conflict ended in 241 BC, Cain financed the construction of a small, two-masted exploration vessel. He discarded his disguise as an old man and hired a new crew. The ship’s completion coincided with the advent of the sailing season three years later. Christening her Pegasus, he raised anchor at Ostia, Rome’s busy port, for the return to Alexandria.

  Far from pursuing a direct route, however, he decided to begin his journey by heading westward. Aided by the navigational device and the ship’s shallow draft, which was ideal for coastal navigation, he intended to conduct a thorough survey of the Mediterranean’s western regions, which were much more poorly charted than the ports and harbors to the east. For some time, Cain had been troubled by the mediocre quality—and even the flat-out inaccuracy—of the charts and maps he had discovered, not only in Rome, but also in Alexandria, where scholarship was prized.

  Cartography was his new passion. With the results of the western survey, he hoped to raise the Royal Alexandrian Library’s map collection, as well as his own, to a new level.

  CHAPTER 45

  Alexandria, 238–214 BC

  “WATCH FOR THE LIGHT,” Cain shouted up to his lookout as the ship neared Alexandria. “Inform me the minute you see it!”

  They had been at sea for eighteen months. At every port of call—from Saguntum in Spain to the Pillars of Hercules at Gibraltar and Carthage in North Africa—the recently completed lighthouse in Alexandria was the topic of the day. Sailors, merchants, and travelers alike asserted that it had to be seen to be believed.

  “There it is, sir!” cried the lookout.

  An extraordinary sight greeted Cain. Soaring high above the small island of Pharos, just off the coast, was a building whose apex rivaled that of the Great Pyramid at Giza. From his conversations, Cain had heard that the brilliant shafts of light emanating from the structure’s zenith were magnified by a system of reflecting mirrors. The fuel for maintaining the fire, he learned, was animal dung. Whereas only small quantities of wood were readily available in Alexandria, dung w
as plentiful and cheap. The dream of the first Ptolemy had been achieved at last. The lighthouse, Cain thought, was not simply a marker for sailors. It was a magnet, a beacon to attract the citizens of the world.

  “Home at last!” he exclaimed to his Roman-born crew. “Now you men will get to see a really big city.”

  As the crew finished off-loading the Pegasus, Cain gave final instructions to his captain.

  “After your week of shore leave, take her to the port of Leptis Magna. I trust their shipwrights more than the people here. She’ll probably need to be placed in dry dock to fix the leaks in the hull. There are plenty of coins in the treasury for the repairs and provisioning of the crew while you’re there.”

  “Yes, sir. I will see to it,” replied the captain dutifully.

  “I trust you’ll be able to use the new navigational device without my assistance?”

  “Of course, sir. I had a bit of trouble with it when we started the voyage, but I’ve figured out the instruction manual now.”

  A thought occurred to Cain. Since he planned to remain in Alexandria for the foreseeable future, what did he need the Pegasus for, anyway? Inspired by the actions of his erstwhile Egyptian mentor, he said to his trusted captain, “One last thing. When the repairs are finished, the Pegasus is yours.”

  The astonished captain was completely at a loss for words, so Cain continued, “All I ask in exchange is that, on your return visits to Alexandria, you provide me with copies of any new charts you make.”

  “Sir,” the captain beamed. “I promise you a treasure of knowledge of the coasts and seas!”

  Unbeknownst to Cain, he would never see the captain nor the Pegasus again.

  ***

  Alexandria was a new city to Cain. The population had passed the quarter-million mark and was growing exponentially. The Royal Library had expanded so that it now occupied seven wings rather than two on the palace grounds. An offshoot collection of the library was housed in the city’s newest and most magnificent temple, the Serapeum, dedicated to a combined Greek-Egyptian god named Serapis. A composite of Zeus, king of the gods in Greek religion, and Osiris, the renowned savior and divine conqueror of death in Egypt, Serapis functioned for the ruling Ptolemy dynasty as a cultural unifier. Cain admired the splendor of the temple but was privately bemused by the invention of yet another false god by humankind.