The Archimedes Stratagem

by Gavin Chappell

  As the skipper took the tiller and guided them to the small quay, the Pharos lighthouse towered over them.

  The famous edifice was constructed in three tapering tiers, built of large blocks of light coloured stone sealed together using molten lead, thus able to stand up to the lashing waves that broke upon them was the vessel drew closer. The lowest tier was a square section about eighty cubits high; above this was an octagonal section just as high, and above this a circular section, which rose to the top of the tower where a vast mirror was positioned to reflect sunlight, so the tower could be seen far out to sea. In the night-time a fire burnt up on that plinth, whose flames were reflected by the same mirror, and guided ships into Alexandria’s Great Harbour during the night watches. People called it the Light of the World.

  The ship coasted into the anchorage, and the crew hurried to make them fast to the quay. Another shower of spray from the waves drenched everyone.

  The skipper looked back over his shoulder at the remorseless civic guard galley, then turned to Flaminius. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked.

  ‘Do?’ said Flaminius, as if it was obvious. ‘Go ashore, of course. We have to get to the top of that tower. That’s where the assassin is.’

  Ozymandias and Nitocris exchanged glances. Nitocris looked up. ‘It’s very high,’ she said.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty cubits,’ said Ozymandias knowledgably. ‘There’s a passage leading up to the top, though, a long stairway. They sometimes let people look round it. We went there when we were younger, didn’t we?’ He nudged Nitocris. ‘But we didn’t go up because Nitocris was scared.’

  She glared at him, then hurried down the gangplank. At the bottom she looked back.

  ‘Aren’t any of you coming?’ she said scornfully. ‘Gaius says we have to go to the top of the tower.’

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned and made her way up a ramp towards a high doorway.

  ‘I think I’ll stay here with my crew,’ said the skipper, ‘so I can explain to the civic guards that I was forced to transport you.’ He seemed very calm, almost as if the empire wasn’t on a knife edge. The Liburnian galley was drawing closer and closer.

  ‘You do that,’ said Flaminius, and he followed Nitocris, who had already vanished inside the building. Ozymandias gave the skipper an apologetic look and hurried after both of them.

  As they slithered across the rocks towards the gateway, he said, ‘Just what are we doing, Flaminius? What do you mean, the assassin is up there?’

  Flaminius gestured him to hurry. ‘There’s no time,’ he said. ‘No time to explain.’

  Ozymandias halted. ‘You can’t expect me to follow you unthinkingly…’ He broke off at a cry from within the building. A girl’s cry.

  They ran into the large square hall that took up the base of the tower. In the air hung the smell of lamp oil magnified many times. From outside they heard the crash of surf against rock. At the far end a wide flight of steps led upwards. Standing in the middle of the hall, hand to her mouth, was Nitocris. She was staring at a heap of objects in the corner. As they came in, she turned with horror on her face.

  ‘Dead…’ she gasped. ‘They’re all dead.’

  Ozymandias ran forward and caught Nitocris in his arms. In the corner lay the bodies of men in drab tunics: slaves or freedmen. They had been butchered. Flaminius went to investigate.

  Returning, he said, ‘No, it’s not Arctos or his men. They must have been the lighthouse crew.’

  ‘I saw them when I came in,’ Nitocris said. ‘This place is evil.’

  ‘They call it the Light of the World,’ Ozymandias said drily. ‘A beacon that guides ships through the night to the greatest city of the universe.’

  ‘Second greatest,’ Flaminius corrected him. But this was no time for civic pride. ‘We can do nothing about these poor fellows. We’d better get up the steps.’

  They crossed the marble floored hall and began to ascend, soon reaching a landing and a right-hand turn where another flight led to the next level. The walls were ornamented with murals showing the wild and wonderful conquests of Alexander the Great. The place was large and strangely empty, their desperate footsteps echoing back from the walls was the only sound except the distant rumour of surf.

  ‘They’ve all gone,’ Ozymandias panted as they reached the top of the second flight. He was staggering. His recent career had been sedentary, and he’d had little time for running up cyclopean flights of steps. ‘Why are we wasting time and energy here?’

  ‘Keep running,’ said Flaminius. ‘The Mechanist is at the top of the tower. He means to assassinate the emperor with fire from heaven.’

  ‘Skimbix? But how?’ Nitocris panted. ‘You showed me that he was no magician, just a trickster. How could anyone do that who was not a genuine thaumaturge?’

  ‘I have a nasty feeling that I know,’ said Flaminius. ‘But we need to get to the top of the tower.’

  They were passing the oil stores now, crossing another landing towards another flight of steps. Huge oil jars, each one higher than Flaminius was tall, stood in serried ranks, shrouded in darkness. Heaped on the floor were bundles of chopped wood.

  The next flight of steps was illuminated by large archways in the wall that looked out over the surrounding harbour. Cold winds scurried up and down.

  The lighthouse was on a north-south axis. The sea lay to the east, beyond the pier from the island that flanked the entrance to the Great Harbour. Were those sails Flaminius could see on the distant skyline? Just as he was about to ask his companions for their opinions, Ozymandias staggered to a complete halt.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Nitocris cried. ‘Why are you being such an idiot?’

  ‘I didn’t want to say it,’ said Flaminius grimly. ‘But your sister’s right.’

  Ozymandias face was rigid. ‘I can’t go on,’ he gasped apologetically. ‘That height… all the way down…’ He made a circumscribed gesture that took in the entire sea and the rocks far below. ‘Carry on without me…’ he managed. ‘You’ve got to stop Skimbix, Flaminius.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Nitocris. They turned and hurried onwards.

  As they reached the next landing Flaminius glanced back over his shoulder to see Ozymandias, face dark with fury and frustration, pounding his thigh with his fist. He must be suffering from vertigo. Flaminius was aware that it was a long way down, but he was too intent on reaching the top to have waste time on fear.

  As they started up the next flight, they heard a slamming of doors far below, a pounding of footsteps and the boom of voices.

  ‘Gabinius Camillus and his guards,’ Flaminius muttered.

  Running footsteps echoed right behind them. Someone was crossing the previous landing.

  Nitocris turned in fright, then relaxed. ‘What are you doing?’ she scolded. ‘Don’t you know we’re in a hurry?’

  ‘It’s the civic guards,’ Ozymandias said breathlessly as he caught up. ‘They’ve entered the tower and they’re after us.’

  ‘Not suffering vertigo anymore?’ Flaminius asked as they reached the top of the next flight. The sound of many feet came from far below.

  Ozymandias shook his head curtly. ‘I got over it. The only problem I can see now is the fact we’re running up a flight of steps with a gang of madmen with spears. And there’s only one way out of here.’

  ‘You think that’s the only problem,’ Flaminius muttered. His legs were an agony, his lungs blazed like the beacon above at night-time. His head was swimming.

  The wind hit them as they came out at the top of the steps. They were out in the open on a great observation deck that showed a view of the surrounding city and the wide sea. A triton stood at each corner, while another statue, this one of Neptune, stood on top of the tower high above, where the mirror flashed back the light of the noon sun. Even as they watched, a ray sprang out, angling down towards the waves.

  A hexareme was approaching. Emblazoned on its sail was an emblem of a laurel wreath. Flaminius recog
nised it as the emperor’s galley.

  Above them reared a great octagonal tower. In its side was a door leading to another flight. In front of the entrance stood a tall statue of bronze, arms raised high in a seeming gesture of defiance.

  ‘We’re a third of the way up the tower,’ said Flaminius. ‘We’d better keep going.’

  ‘That statue’s moving,’ Nitocris cried out. ‘It’s another automaton!’

  She was right. The metal statue was stalking towards them, menacing, arms outstretched. While those in Skimbix’s temple had not moved from their plinths, this—a more advanced model? —walked confidently, like a living man. But a living man of bronze.

  Dry mouthed, the hairs rising on his sweat drenched scalp, Flaminius remembered the old tale of the bronze giant who had guarded the shores of Crete in the Heroic Age. This was no giant—it was taller than Flaminius, but no taller than the gladiators he had known.

  Out there on the sea was the emperor’s ship. Hadrian himself must be there on the poop. And the mirror at the top of the lighthouse was sending out a beam of light. Flaminius remembered another story—Archimedes and the defence of Syracuse against the Roman fleet…

  ‘Gaius!’ Nitocris cried. The metal statue lunged at the Roman with a smashing blow of its mighty arms. Flaminius leapt backwards, the small of his back slamming against the balustrade that surrounded the observation deck, winding him. ‘Your sword!’

  He remembered the weapon he had brought from the palace of Hadrian. The metal statue lunged at him again and Flaminius brought it up in a desperate attempt to parry the blow. The steel blade shattered into pieces and Flaminius was left clutching the hilt from which protruded half a cubit of broken blade. He flung it away and it skidded across the floor with a musical clang.

  Cold bronze fingers sank into Flaminius’ neck. He was forced backwards over the rail. He grabbed his uncanny assailant by the brazen ribs and kicked at its metal legs, but it was as futile as… as attacking a statue. A statue made of bronze. It was forcing him over the edge. He received a confused, upside down view of the surrounding sea far below…

  There was a clang, and the monster cocked its head as if wondering what fly had attacked it. Ozymandias had found a metal cresset somewhere, and as Flaminius watched, he belaboured the metal statue with it. It let go of Flaminius, who snatched hold of the rail with one hand and hung there, then stomped round in a circle. It lashed out with its arm and knocked Ozymandias backwards. Metal feet clanging on the marble pavement, it stomped after him.

  Nitocris went to the balustrade where Flaminius dangled by one hand. She reached out to grab him. His pale face looked up to see her, and he lifted up his free hand to grab her slim wrist. He was heavy! His weight pulled Nitocris against the rail and for one awful second she thought she was going to be dragged over with him. But somehow Flaminius managed to grip the top of the balustrade and drag himself over.

  Seeing Ozymandias being pursued by the metal automaton he moved as if to help him, but Nitocris seized his hand. She shook her head and pointed at the stairs leading up into darkness. ‘There’s nothing you can do here,’ she cried. ‘Get up there and stop them.’

  Flaminius was about to argue when he saw the sense of this. He gripped both her hands comfortingly, then let go, turned, went through the arch and ran up the spiral staircase beyond.

  Far below, the echo of the stamping feet of the civic guards drifted upwards on the breeze.

  —31—

  The staircase wound round and round. Archways led off at regular points. As Flaminius hurried past them he caught glimpses of long abandoned rooms floored with marble, walled with granite. For a building with a single purpose, much of it was going to waste. The smell of burnt oil grew stronger the further up he went.

  He came out onto another, smaller, observation deck, a circular walkway and balustrade that ran around the third and final tier of the lighthouse, high above the tritons that stood on the corners of the lower deck. At the top of the circular pillar that was the third tier stood a dome on top of which was the statue of Neptune Flaminius had seen from below. It had looked very small back then, standing four square and indomitable, commanding the distant surf, trident in hand. Now it was larger than life, even by Olympian standards: it must be about three times as tall as a man.

  Beneath it, between the pillars that held up Neptune’s statue, the great bronze mirror shone dazzlingly with the reflected light of the sun. It was angled downwards, down at the sea, and from it shone that ray he had glimpsed earlier, hazy and indistinct in the noontime glare, but directing the concentrated sunlight towards the sail of the still distant but rapidly closing emperor’s galley. A dark figure stood up there, silhouetted against the glare. Flaminius’ eyes narrowed. It must be the Mechanist.

  Hearing the clash of weapons, he glanced downwards. On the lower deck a fight had broken out. The glare from the metal skin of the automaton caught his eyes blindingly. Almost as bright as the bronze mirror above.

  Rubbing his eyes, he vanished into the final tier of the lighthouse, following another spiral staircase. It seemed very dark to his dazzled eyes; he staggered a few times, half blind, and had to clutch at the side wall. His legs felt ready to give way and his lungs seemed to have ignited like a funeral pyre.

  At last he stumbled out into the light at the top of the tower. The wind whipped about him, and he looked downwards involuntarily. The waves crashed against the base of the tower, far, far below, and he felt very sick.

  The tall figure spun round, arms lifted. He clutched hold of a stanchion and glared at the newcomer.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said petulantly. ‘How did you get here? Arctos posted guards!’ He paused. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  Flaminius leaned against a pillar, gasping for breath, his eyes on the lethal ray of light. ‘Get that mirror back where it should be!’ he panted.

  There was a large lever nearby, large enough to move the world it seemed to his dazed eyes, thrust low down on the floor. He pointed at it. ‘Is that the control? I’ll move it myself.’

  He stumbled forwards, but the Mechanist rushed up to stop him. As he came out of the glare, his face became clear to Flaminius. This tall, dignified man was not the Egyptian wizard and fraud Skimbix, but the Greek engineer he had met in the Library.

  ‘Hero,’ Flaminius said. ‘We met in the Library. You’re the last person I’d have expected to side with forces of chaos.’

  The Greek scholar laughed. ‘Such histrionics,’ he said with a sneer. ‘You Romans are barbarians. If Archimedes had known what he was about, he would have destroyed the whole race before you got beyond Italy.’

  ‘Archimedes,’ said Flaminius, glancing wildly at the great bronze mirror. ‘The siege of Syracuse.’

  ‘You know something of your own city’s history,’ Hero noted, surprised. ‘I’ll give you credit you for that if nothing else. Yes, when you Romans descended on the city of Syracuse in Sicily like the barbarians you are, Archimedes sprang to the defence of his fellow citizens, using his engineering skill to devise new weapons. One was a great bronze mirror that caught the rays of the sun and flung them, in concentrated form, at the sails of the Roman fleet. The sails blazed, the ships burnt. Alas, it was not enough to forestall the invaders, and the genius who was Archimedes died on the blade of some fool of a legionary.’

  ‘And that’s what you’re doing here?’

  Flaminius was playing for time as he edged towards the great lever. He wondered if Archimedes’ inventions had included automatons. Or was Hero himself responsible for these men of metal?

  There was barely any space up here, and wherever he stood, that vista of the sea far below assailed his mind. An image of himself falling to his doom flashed before his eyes. ‘You’re going to destroy the emperor’s fleet with this, this death ray?’

  ‘And the Greek cities will be set free,’ Hero said, nodding, ‘at last governing their own affairs without the interference of barbarians, something that h
as been impossible since the Macedonians conquered the Greeks, centuries ago. Freedom, you Roman fool. Do you understand that idea?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Flaminius, still moving towards the lever. ‘The cities of the Greeks fell under the thrall of first the Macedonians, and then the Romans. But that was because they refused to cooperate with each other against the “barbarian”. Divide and conquer, that’s a tactic we Romans have used to our profit time and time again. But why kill Hadrian?’

  ‘Why kill the emperor?’ Hero echoed him. ‘How else can we tear down the empire that has oppressed us for so long? Rome won’t be destroyed. Arctos tells me that she will continue to flourish, another city state among equals, although the imperial eagle will have its wings clipped. If we kill the emperor, the empire will unravel. One death for the liberty of many. Isn’t that fair?’ He sounded almost as if he was trying to persuade himself.

  ‘I saw that temple,’ Flaminius said, playing for time. ‘Skimbix’s temple. All those statues coming alive and divine voices. Your work?’

  ‘I worked alongside the Egyptian priest on that project,’ Hero admitted.

  ‘All that to pander to the superstitions of the mob?’ Flaminius asked. ‘What’s a civilised Greek like you doing encouraging superstition?’

  ‘Religion, superstition; it’s all one to these credulous barbarians, these lesser breeds,’ said the scholar dismissively. ‘Give them a few toys to play with and they’re your unwitting slaves. One day the whole world will be like that—childish barbarians pacified by machines.’

  ‘But what is it all for?’ Flaminius wanted to know, appalled by the vision. ‘What are you getting out of it? It wasn’t all just a trap for me, was it? You encouraged me to go to the temple...’

  ‘You overestimate your own importance,’ Hero replied. ‘It was to impress simple barbarian minds with miracles—in return for which they would hand over money.’

  ‘It was more about profits than prophets, you mean?’

  Hero nodded sardonically. ‘Holy water? That’ll be a drachma—but look, it appears by magic! After Arctos’ gambling ring was broken up, he had to fall back on another plan to raise money for the rebellion. Luckily, Skimbix and I had been working on this one for some time...’