The Pharos Objective

by David Sakmyster

  “Throughout history,” he continued, “the lessons of the Emerald Tablet and the philosophical practices continued, working their way into art, into culture.”

  “The Tarot,” Phoebe said, smiling. “See, I did read your book.”

  “Thanks, at least someone did. But you’re right, the Tarot represented in image form all the elements of Hermetic ascension, depicting the path to divinity veiled as a game. It’s why the Church banned it in 1403, seeing it as a threat to their spiritual dominion. But like many pagan belief systems, it was found to be easier to co-opt and assimilate such an attractive ritual. The Church reintroduced the deck, but excluded the Major Arcana, the representations of the steps in the realm of the Above. Those were the cards which represented spirituality and communion with the divine. And they also removed the Knights, in opposition to the Knights Templar, most likely, and left us with a deck of just fifty-two cards. Four suits signifying the four elements in the Below stages of transformation, with the Joker, or the Fool, who represented the initiate before beginning on the path to enlightenment.”

  Phoebe nodded. “Loved that connection you made. Spades are swords, symbolizing separation and representing Air; Diamonds are the coins of the Tarot, reflecting Earthly desires; Clubs came from the Greek symbol for Fire; and Hearts were the Water of emotion.”

  “Now we’re talking about cards?” Waxman was becoming exasperated. “Caleb, I swear I liked you better when you were in prison.”

  “George . . .” Helen scowled at him, then turned back to Caleb. “How does this help us?”

  “I don’t know if it does,” Caleb said. “I learned everything I could about the Tarot, about alchemy and the study of the tablet, but I still couldn’t get past the third step before the door. I don’t know what it wants. Unless . . . maybe the vault was designed in such a way that only those who sought enlightenment, only the purest, could enter.”

  “You, pure?” Helen said. “You’re a good boy, Caleb, but—”

  “They had pinned their hopes on me,” he said. “Lydia sacrificed herself for their cause—or at least her version of it. She thought only such a trauma would accelerate my spiritual advance toward enlightenment, or purity, in a sense, expecting that I could then fine-tune my talents and open the vault.”

  “Why couldn’t they figure it out for themselves?” Waxman asked. “If this tablet thing was translated into Arabic, transmitted around the world after they saved some early books from the Christian fanatics, surely others have had access to the spells or whatever?”

  “Apparently something’s missing,” Caleb said. “The Philosopher’s Stone. The Holy Grail. They can’t find it, although they’ve come close. No alchemist has ever been able to truly perfect the process and obtain it. Maybe that’s because the actual physical copies of the books are not available. The early legends maintain that the material the Emerald Tablet was written on had something to do with the powers it could grant. Or else, maybe there were translation errors.”

  Waxman shrugged. “Whatever. In any case, Gregory and his gang want what we have, or what they think we might have. We have to figure this out first.”

  “Why do you care so much?” Caleb asked, turning to Waxman. “I mean, if the vault doesn’t hold riches and gold and everything; if this turns out to be nothing but a collection of old books, won’t you be pissed? You’ll have wasted your entire life.”

  Helen leaned over the table. “Caleb, if it’s what you think it is, we’ll transform the planet. We’ll be heroes.”

  “Rich heroes,” Phoebe added, smirking.

  “Good enough for me,” Waxman said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “All right,” Helen said. “Caleb, will you help us again? It’ll be like old times.”

  He tried to smile. “I don’t know. I guess, as long as it’s not like it was when we were kids, with Phoebe and me staying in our rooms while you adults have all the fun.”

  “Not this time,” his mother said.

  Caleb lowered his head and sighed. “I’m in.”

  12

  Rimini, Italy

  The valley hugged the base of a precipitous mountain range, its tips shrouded in dark clouds. From the chiseled landscape and the jutting hills, Caleb could see where Dante had received the inspiration for his description of Purgatory in The Divine Comedy. A short ride past Rimini led to Fortress San Leo. They could have driven up and toured the museum and the old prison and military barracks, but from the details of Phoebe’s vision, there would be nothing there of any help. By the time Cagliostro had been imprisoned inside San Leo, he had already disposed of the scroll. Maybe he had been tortured in the castle, and Caleb could possibly attempt to view his confession, but that seemed like a long shot.

  Instead, with their driver taking the turns at breakneck speeds, they made their way into town, to the church Phoebe had seen. Finally, they rode through a grand Roman arch crowned with medieval battlements. It was the first of its kind built north of Rome, their guide explained, and initially dedicated to Augustus in 27 BC. They passed a white marble bridge, built by Tiberius, then drove into the bustling resort town, just as the sun sank below the red rooftops and the vineyard-studded hills.

  Cafés, 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 décor, 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 façade 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 Cal
eb 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 help.”

  “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 h
e 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.