Athena's Son

by Jeryl Schoenbeck

  “Don’t look at it like a squeamish girl; you’ll throw up if you lose your sense of admiration. It’s science at its purist, Archimedes. You’re witnessing a miracle we all carry with us, but few are bold enough to explore.”

  Archimedes took a deep, slow breath and stepped up to the dissected body. It’s a machine, made by the gods, he thought. It’s a machine inside of me. He took it all in and absorbed the miracle of life. He saw the gods’ greatest accomplishment, and admiration slowly replaced the nausea.

  It was no longer a jumble of jellyfish and shining slabs. Instead, the body presented his mind with a challenge. What did each organ do? How did they synchronize to sustain life? Were the parts interchangeable, like the gears in his computer?

  Callimachus was studying Archimedes and knew what was going through his mind. “Yes, Archimedes, you can touch them.”

  “Go ahead,” Herophilos added, “he won’t mind.”

  Archimedes cautiously probed different organs with his finger. It was no longer fear that restrained him, but a lingering reverence that he shared with Kafele, the departed priest. The organs were soft and clammy, like an octopus he once found when he was swimming. Eventually he stopped at a dark purple organ that was shaped like a large triangular seed.

  “Excellent choice,” Herophilos said. He handed his candle to Archimedes and used his free hand to carefully cup the purple organ. Two thick tubes came out of the top of it and disappeared into the complex mass of organs.

  ‘What is this, Callimachus?” Herophilos asked. It was as if the doctor were giving Callimachus a lesson on anatomy.

  “The heart,” Callimachus answered.

  “Yes, the heart!” Herophilos repeated excitedly. “It is a pump, pushing and pulling blood throughout the body. Doctors used to think the heart pumped air. They called it pneumatics, meaning ‘of the wind’. They thought the heart would contract and pump air. But then what about blood? Why would we bleed so intensely when we’re cut?”

  “These,” he pointed to two large, pink organs that enveloped each side of the heart, “are lungs. They fill with the air you breathe and pass that air throughout your body. I bet you didn’t even think where the air went that you suck in thousands of times each day.”

  “I do remember reading,” Archimedes said, “that Aristotle thought the lungs filled with air in order to cool the heart.”

  “Bah,” Herophilos fumed. “We should thank Zeus that Aristotle didn’t teach Alexander the Great battle tactics!”

  Callimachus gave a slight chuckle. “Ironic that Alexander said, ‘I am dying with the help of too many physicians.’ ”

  Archimedes remembered the quote was attributed to Alexander on his last days in Babylon. His doctors were frantically trying to keep him alive from an unknown illness that was slowly killing him. It was commonly thought he contracted a fever during his campaign in India. Archimedes thought of Berenike’s murder theory and wondered if Meti included that quote in his scroll.

  “If you two philosophers want to dig up Aristotle and have him finish this autopsy,” Herophilos bristled, “then drag this corpse out of here and you can have two dead men help you.”

  “Our apologies, Herophilos,” Callimachus consoled. “We look to Aristotle for inspiration and to you for information.”

  “Then I suggest you shut your mouth and keep your tongue warm,” Herophilos huffed. “These tubes,” he said while carefully setting the heart back and tracing along the tubes, “are blood vessels. This one is the artery and it carries blood out of the heart. This other one is the vein and it brings blood back. The heart is a pump that moves liquids; the lungs are a bellows that move air. But you are a scientist, Archimedes, and learn best by demonstration.”

  On the Calypso Archimedes demonstrated to Farrokh how a simple pulley worked. He remembered explaining his mechanical computer to the teachers at the school. Now he was observing a machine infinitely more complex than a pulley or bronze gears. Hephaestus made the automaton Talos, but what could possibly be inside it to match the sophistication of this?

  Herophilos asked Callimachus for the narrow scalpel, took the tube he pointed out earlier as an artery and neatly sliced it. It was not the harsh grating sound that came from the hardened muscles, but rather a soft hiss like cutting through rope. Herophilos handed the scalpel back to Callimachus and said, “Observe.”

  He held the shortened artery in his right hand and the heart in his left. He squeezed the heart and a jet of dark red blood spurted out, splatting thickly on the man’s neck. The blood did not run like water, but crawled like a scarlet slug.

  “The human heart is a tireless pump. It sucks in blood through that tube and pumps it out this one. The flow is controlled by small valves that close off the supply so the blood keeps traveling in one direction. That’s why the study of anatomy is so important Archimedes,” Herophilos said solemnly as he put the heart back. “We use science to learn facts, the concrete, rather than hope the gods provide us a clue by burning noxious incense or dangling graven talismans.”

  Archimedes checked to make sure his owl amulet was safely tucked behind his tunic.

  “The man’s heart seems normal. But my forte, as Callimachus knows, is the human brain. If you have time Archimedes, we can crack his skull like a walnut and show you what gives man a soul. Your friend Aristotle thought the heart was the center of intellect. He should have stuck with philosophy and left anatomy to scientists. The brain controls your thinking, movements, and sight. It’s how I was able to help Ajax, Callimachus’ brother.”

  Archimedes nearly dropped both candles. He quickly glanced over to Callimachus. “Ajax is your brother?”

  Callimachus straightened. “Ajax is my older brother.” He set the candle down on the instrument table and wiped his hands with a towel. “I do not tell many people because that is what Ajax wishes. He wants his privacy and no pity.” Callimachus walked away and stood facing the lengthening shaft of sunlight.

  “He was a hoplite in the Spartan army,” Callimachus said. “After the death of Alexander the Great, there was turmoil in Greece and Macedon. The Gauls to the north sensed weakness and carried out a series of invasions into Greece. When the Gauls got into central Greece, a coalition of Greek armies met them at Thermopylae, the narrow pass that King Leonidas defended with his 300 Spartans nearly 200 years ago. The Greeks, with Ajax among them, fought the Gauls valiantly, but had to retreat. Ajax was struck in the back of his head with a sword and nearly died. The injury caused him to go blind. I brought him here, so Herophilos could look at him and see what he could do.”

  “Ajax is a true Spartan—resilient and tough.” Herophilos said. “Any other man would have died from that head wound. That sword stroke cut through his helmet and into the back of his cranium. A skull fragment was lodged in the back of his brain.” Herophilos grasped the head of the corpse and turned it slightly. It wasn’t easy, because the body was stiffened from death. “Eyesight, if you can believe it Archimedes, is controlled in the back of the brain.”

  He pointed to the back of the man’s head. “Probing into the brain is a risky operation, but Ajax was determined to regain his sight or die. I removed the skull fragment and the sight in his right eye was partially restored.”

  Callimachus turned away from the sunlight and back to Archimedes. “He is too proud to accept charity or live off an army pension. I asked him to stay in Alexandria and protect something very precious to me—my students.”

  Archimedes was watching Herophilos, who was back in the chest cavity examining the lungs.

  “He did his job well,” Archimedes said quietly. “He protected me from the scribe Ipuwer and his guards who wanted to drag me back to Ptahhotep. Ipuwer was so scared he dropped his wretched scroll.”

  Callimachus smiled.

  “This is bit odd,” Herophilos said to himself. Both Archimedes and Callimachus turned to look. “His throat seems irritated, as if he suffocated. But I’m not sure if the blood I’m seeing is from an injury
or the pneumatics demonstration I gave earlier.”

  When the corpse first arrived at the school, Herophilos examined the man’s tongue. Usually when a healthy person died suddenly and there were no injuries, the obvious answer was poison. The best place to look for symptoms of poisoning was the victim’s tongue. Many poisons are corrosive or acidic and would cause bright red to black discoloration on the tongue. Other poisons cause inflammation of the tongue, while others leave an offensive odor, even detectable on a corpse.

  “At first I thought someone was poisoning these men. But there are no signs of poisoning in his mouth. There are no external bruises on the neck that would indicate choking,” Herophilos stated somberly. “There are no bruises anywhere.”

  “Why is his back a purple color?” Archimedes asked. “It looks like a large bruise.”

  “Good observation and inquiry, Archimedes, as a scientist always should,” Herophilos said as he tipped the corpse slightly to look at its back. “Blood gathers at the lowest part of the body upon death. It is discoloration from the blood pooling there. He must have been lying on his back when they found him at the lighthouse.”

  “Which is where I intend to go next,” Archimedes said. “After a good night’s sleep I’m going to the site of these murders and see if I can find any clues there.”

  Chapter 18

  In his dream, Archimedes was being chased by something quick and deadly. He didn’t see it; he just knew he had to run from it. It was terrifying how fast and formless it was.

  Archimedes was dashing through the dark streets of Alexandria, yelling, tripping on cobblestones, but no one would help him. He turned a corner and was trapped in an alley. The monster hurtled into the alley, its chest splayed open like the worker in the autopsy. He thought it had a dog’s head, but it hissed like a cat. Archimedes looked around for a weapon and only saw rats scurrying away from the beast.

  Was it Anubis? If it was a god, then he could call on his gods to save him. He grabbed for his owl amulet, but it wasn’t there. He picked up a rock and threw it. The beast hissed and thumped him on the chest.

  Archimedes jumped up. He was sweating and it took several woozy seconds to realize it was just a dream. Hypnos had bounded off his chest and into the open window. The cat’s back was arched like a bow and the hair on its back was a jagged spine. It was hissing at something outside. Archimedes pulled back his damp cotton sheet and got up to look. He picked up Hypnos, set him down on the bed, and looked out the window.

  The sea breeze felt cool on his face. He closed his eyes and smelled the salt and heard the palm leaves chafing in the wind. The dream seemed so real. All the talk about murders and Anubis was starting to get to him. He opened his eyes and scanned the school grounds.

  Although the thin slice of moon did not give sufficient light to see much, he could make out the silhouette of one of the statues. It stood silent and dark against the pale night sky. But then the statue turned toward him and, smoldering like coals, its two large yellow eyes glared at him.

  Chapter 19

  Archimedes was staring into the eyes of a monster. At least to the Greeks it was a monster.

  “We Greeks call it a sphinx. For Egyptians it is the image of pharaoh,” Damokles said. It was the next morning and Archimedes had walked out to the work site to look for clues. He wasn’t sure how much of last night was a nightmare and what was real. But those two yellow eyes still pierced his soul and they seemed corporeal, not spiritual.

  Damokles was one of the lead foremen hired by Ptolemy to make sure his lighthouse would get built. The granite sculpture he was describing was about eight feet long. It had the body of a lion and the head of Pharaoh Ptolemy. It was one of the many sculptures that would eventually adorn the lighthouse.

  “Sphinx, the strangler,” Archimedes answered. Greek tourists thought the Egyptian sculptures looked like the Greek monster known as the sphinx. Sphinx meant to strangle. It came from the mythological story of the sphinx who would strangle its victims if they could not answer a riddle.

  “I am not sure if I am looking for a strangler, a god, or a man,” Damokles said wearily. He was spending too much of his valuable time trying to track down a phantom murderer when his real talent was getting men to do their work. “We have brought out a hunter, some priests, and a general from Ptolemy’s army. Even some Roman ambassador was snooping around.”

  “Remus Decimus?” Archimedes asked.

  “I think that was his name,” Remus said.

  Remus was out here? Now what is he up to? Archimedes remembered catching him spying in the library, dashing to the palace in Berenike’s chariot, and finding Remus already there.

  The construction site was a bustling, noisy place. But it was done with the cadence and efficiency of the military. That made sense, because Damokles had been a platoon commander in the Macedonian army.

  The large blocks of granite used for the base of the lighthouse were hauled by teams of men from the ships that delivered them. The steady tempo of their incessant chants kept the men in the same rhythm as they yanked on the thick hemp ropes. The ships would arrive at the Portus Magnus, the port to the east of where Archimedes arrived. The ships docked just to the south of the base of the lighthouse and the granite blocks were unloaded with a thud.

  On the eastern shore of the island was an interim bonfire that workers stoked each night until Ptolemy’s lighthouse was completed. The pit, about 12 feet in diameter, was lined with limestone blocks. At this time of day the glowing embers only smoldered and spewed smoke that drifted lazily in the shifting shore breezes.

  To the west of the stone workers were the artists and finish stonemasons. The stonemasons made sure the immense stones, some weighing 50 tons, were put into the proper location on the lighthouse. If a stone were even an inch off, that error would be compounded over the whole height of 400 feet, causing the colossal structure to lean and possibly tip over on its own weight. The artists worked with the stonemasons, being fine craftsmen themselves. That was where Archimedes was now.

  Under a nearby linen tarp, two men were carving a massive 30 foot marble statue of Poseidon, while several others were working on a group of Nereids swimming around his feet. Nereids, Poseidon’s nymphs of the sea, took care of the sea’s rich bounties. The marble was streaks of green and blue, suggesting colors of the Mediterranean Sea. Three of the nymphs were offering up immense pearls, sculpted out of gleaming white marble.

  The pearls, carved separately, must have been at least a foot across. Archimedes was impressed by the artistry required to make cold, white stone look like a luminous pearl.

  “That statue is going at the very top of the lighthouse,” Damokles said, and quickly added, “if we ever finish.” He pointed to four iron tubes, each about 10 feet long. “Those will hold the statue up above the flames. Ptolemy wanted the pillars to be bronze, but bronze isn’t strong enough. Iron is much stronger, but harder to get. Each tube is hollow and capped at one end. They’ll be filled with gypsum cement for added strength. Imagine, the god of the sea standing atop Hades searing furnace, but that’s what the pharaoh wanted.”

  Damokles turned to Archimedes. “Ptolemy has been bringing in more and more of the Medjay from the city to patrol out here,” Damokles said with some disdain. “They haven’t stopped any murders but they are able to get in the way of my workers. And now, no disrespect young man,” Damokles chuckled, “the Pharaoh sends out a boy.”

  Archimedes wasn’t sure if he should laugh along with the foreman, or cry. He always hoped he could come out to the famous lighthouse and see how it was built. But he never dreamed he would be here to help unravel a murder mystery. His talents lay in making machines and calculating numbers, not tracking down vengeful gods. He longed to be back at the museum with Berenike. He didn’t think her murder theory had any credibility; he just wanted to be near her.

  Archimedes’ eyes were watering from the dust, smoke, and grit. Dust from the constant chipping of the stone sculptors, smoke from th
e signal fire, and grit from the huge granite stones, screeching as they were dragged across one another and put into place. The rumbling squeal of tons of granite scraping against granite sent chills down his spine.

  Archimedes wiped the tears from his eyes. “What have you found out so far? I mean fact, not conjecture,” Archimedes asked. “Not rumors about Anubis. Not theology. What did the hunter or general say?”

  Damokles looked more intently at Archimedes. Perhaps this young man wasn’t just an ordinary schoolboy. Damokles noted that Archimedes avoided allowing religion to get involved in the investigation. Reality is what this ex-soldier was most comfortable with.

  “Here are your facts,” Damokles said as he wiped sweat from his brow. “I’ve had 12 men killed. There are no wounds on the bodies. Each body was laid out on a stone block. And finally,” Damokles was reluctant to add this as fact, “there are usually large animal tracks nearby. The hunter thought they were from a dog. A large dog.” The boy wanted facts, so Damokles left out the hunter’s opinion on Anubis.

  “You said there usually were tracks. The tracks were not there with all 12 murders?”

  “Not that we noticed. They could have easily been wiped away with the thousands of feet and hundreds of carts that tramp through here each day.”

  “Where did you find the bodies?”

  Damokles started walking and wiped more sweat with a rag. “There was no pattern; they were always near where they were working. Twelve murders in 12 different places. Just point,” Damokles’ arm rotated in several directions, “and you’ll be close to where we found one. The one constant is they were working alone, late in the evening.”

  Damokles shook his head. “Look, I’ve got work to do. Those are the facts and now you know as much as I do. Now that you’re in charge of this, I can concentrate on getting this lighthouse built. Track me down if you need anything. Good luck, Archimedes.” Damokles was glad to get this off his hands and quickly started conferring with some men on a ramp that was being constructed.