It was a wonderful night. A cool breeze was in our faces, the sky now dark overhead but fizzing with a multitude of tiny stars. Thousands of ships were moored to right and left of us, dark hulks whose rigging made interminable noises, their bumboats splashing and bumping against them in the gently lapping harbour waters. Occasional cries sounded from the dark shore or indignant seabirds let out squawks as their privacy was disturbed. It was too late for casual strollers. If there were lovers or fishermen out there in the gloom, they lay low and kept quiet. On the far side of the Eastern Harbour, I made out buildings faintly lit – the palaces, administrative quarters and other monuments where no one made economies in lamp oil. Any junkets, recitals or concerts would now have ended. Only night-watchmen would be walking the silent marble corridors, though perhaps in some lonely room, by light from a fine wax candelabrum, the Prefect wrote his interminable reports on nothing, to let the Emperor believe he did some work.
I could have been a clerk. I could have allocated sacks and scrawled on dockets. I really could have been a poet. I would have been a poor man, with starving children, but danger would never have approached me…
I stopped thinking.
Down seven stadiums' length we ran, until breathing hurt my chest and my legs felt as heavy as waterlogged wood. I reached Pharos Island. Everywhere was dark. I could no longer see Diogenes. The road forked. Somewhere to the left was a Temple of Poseidon, the great sea god of Greece and Rome, guarding the Western Harbour's entrance. To the right lay another temple, that of Isis Pharea, the Egyptian protectress of ships. Beyond her, was stationed the Lighthouse, forming the mighty endstop. I went right. The Lighthouse, which must be manned at night, seemed the less lonely destination.
Pharos Island was a curved rocky outcrop, far enough beyond the city to feel like a wild citadel out in the thundering seas that famously beat upon the long, low shores of Egypt. Here, Homer said, Menelaus and Helen were beached during their journey home after the fall of Troy; at that time they found only a lonely fishing village on the island, with seals basking on the rocks. Apart from the Lighthouse, the place seemed uninhabited now, though I could not bank on it.
At the Temple of Isis, I glanced in just in case the fugitive had sought sanctuary. All lay still. No parades of priests in long white robes, no sistrums sounding, no chants. An enormous statue of Isis, big-breasted and striding forwards, held a swelling sail in front of her to symbolise catching the winds for sailors' benefit. The dim, lonely interior began to unnerve me. I left.
Ahead of me rose the enclosure for the great tower. The Pharos itself had been built as a tall, slim eagerly sought landmark for sailors to aim at from far away, one clear point in an otherwise famously unmarked coastline. It was taller than other lighthouses, perhaps the tallest structure in the world – fully five hundred feet. The walls of its square enclosure were dwarfed by the Pharos within, though when I crept up to one of the long landward sides I found those walls were formed of enormous ramparts with huge gates and corner towers.
Helena had told me how the entrepreneur who organised the twelve years of building had sneakily outwitted a regulation that forbade leaving his personal mark. He had an inscription carved on the eastern walls; on a covering layer of plaster he proclaimed the customary praise for the Pharaoh: when the weather-beaten plaster ultimately peeled off, black twenty-inch letters said: Sostratus, son of Dexiphanes, the Cnidian, dedicated this to the Saviour Gods, for the seafarers. I hoped his protection would extend to me.
The Pharos was a civic building, frequented by workers who tended the fire and even by sightseers. Its entrance was occupied by only a couple of Roman soldiers. Diogenes had got past them. The guards were chatting with their boots on a table when I burst in. I introduced myself as an imperial agent, assured them I was neither drunk nor crazy, and warned them to expect trouble. One, named Tiberius, made an effort to appear alert.
'An unruly crowd is galloping here from Rhakotis. Call for backup!' I ordered. 'Send your oppo if you have to – can you communicate with the mainland?'
'We are at the world's biggest signal tower!' Tiberius commented sarcastically. 'Yes, sir. We can send a message – it anybody over there is looking in our direction, we can talk to them quite chattily… Titus! Find the torches. Signal Send reinforcements.' He sounded ready to help. Out here among the endless sea spray, any excitement was welcome. 'This will be my first riot! What's up in Rhakotis?'
'Not sure – lock up, if you can.'
'Oh I can lock up, tribune – though I'll be locking in the workers who mostly come from Rhakotis themselves.'
'Do your best.'
I limped through the gatehouse to the vast courtyards, where forty-foot-high statues of pharaohs and their queens in colossal pairs dominated the scene. Movement caught my eye: a dwarfish figure I thought was Diogenes. He was climbing the huge ramp into the main tower.
The entrance door was set a couple of storeys above ground level, for defensive reasons. A long ramp, supported on arches, led steeply up. When I myself reached the top, gasping, I found that a wooden bridge crossed from the ramp to the door. I was already feeling afraid of heights – and I had hardly started yet. The doorway was nearly forty feet high, its architraves faced in classic pink Egyptian granite. The same pink granite had been used elsewhere, an aesthetic contrast to much of the rest of the building, which was composed of titanic blocks of white, grey-veined Aswan marble.
The first tier of the building was an enormous square structure, aligned to the four quarters of the compass. Looking up, I could see it was topped by a huge decorated cornice that seemed to replicate the waves that I could hear pounding the outer walls, with massive tritons blowing their horns from each corner. This great tower tapered slightly, for stability. Above it stood a second tier, which was octagonal, and high above that, the circular fire tower, crowned with a tremendous statue. Row after row of rectangular windows must light the interior; I could not stop to count but it looked as though there might be nearly twenty floors in the first tier alone.
When I went inside I found that the interior was a vast space dominated by a central core that bore the weight of the upper storeys. There was what seemed to be accommodation for the keepers just inside the door. They resented disturbance, but unlike the soldiers they could pretend not to understand any languages I tried out. I could get no sense out of them.
I knew the basement housed stores for arms and corn. This place was vast enough to house several legions, if threatened. But currently there was no permanent garrison.
Long ramps wound up the inside walls. Up those ramps, which were wide enough for four beasts abreast, trains of donkeys toiled slowly, taking combustible materials for the light – wood, with which Egypt was poorly supplied, mighty round amphorae of oil and bales of reeds as supplementary fuel. Once they reached the top of the grand spiral, they unloaded, turned around and plodded back down again.
Nothing for it. I climbed to the top of the first, square tower. It was much the largest stage. The donkeys stopped here. Men unloaded their heavy packs and took the fuel manually up the remaining distance.
Doors led out on to a big, railed observation platform running round the exterior. Food and drink were being sold to visitors – of whom I found more than I expected. The view was staggering. On one side was the distant sweep of the city, faintly picked out by the glimmer of thousands of tiny lights. On the other, the dark emptiness of the Mediterranean, its ominous night presence confirmed by the sounds of fierce surf breaking on the rocks far below us.
Up here were lamps, men with trays, guides spouting facts and figures, and a festival atmosphere. I had never been anywhere like it that was man-made. The Lighthouse had always been a tourist attraction. Even at night, supper parties must come out here in fine weather. Rich fathers arranged birthday and wedding celebrations. Ordinary families came sightseeing, for education, fun and striking memories. There were people up here now – not throngs, but enough to make it dangerous if Diogene
s had brought trouble – enough people for me to have lost sight of him and not to know either whether his two cloaked pursuers had followed him this far.
I walked around, on the way meeting Tiberius, the tough soldier from the gatehouse, together with Titus, his companion, who was carrying signal torches and what I recognised as the codebook. We failed to find Diogenes at this level, so while the soldiers cleared a space on the viewing platform and began to send their message shoreward, I left them to it, gritted my teeth and began to climb up inside the next tier.
L
Now I was making my way up the octagon. By the time I staggered out on to the next viewing platform, I was nearly done in. For those who wanted to make this additional climb to the top of the eight-sided tower, and who could find the stamina, a smaller balcony gave a truly spectacular view. This must be over three hundred feet above the sea. It was wonderful and horrific at the same time. Anyone here needed a head for heights that I unfortunately lacked.
Far down below in the courtyard, men swarmed like insects. On the wind came faint ululating cries. I had heard such sounds in terrible places and situations – the rebellion in Britain was the worst; remembering, I shuddered. As I leaned over, way down there on the ramp to the main door, it looked as if one scarlet blob – Tiberius? – held the riot at bay, a latter-day Horatius defending the wooden bridge. If I made it out correctly, as men from Rhakotis ran across sporadically, they were whacked and tipped off the ramp. The spectacle added to the madness of this unexpected night.
On the first viewing platform below me, I saw the soldier Titus diligently shepherding the public inside the tower for safety. On his own, he was not having much luck. People were milling about hopelessly, of course.
Drawn by the crackle of the great fire, I climbed into the cylindrical lantern area, just as a bunch of the stokers came pushing out in panic. Not waiting to say what disturbed them, they scattered down the octagon.
At the top, I found a frightening scene. I had entered the eerie, perpetually mobile, orange light of the beacon. A strong steady wind blew constantly, its noise lost in the roar of the fire. I was sure I could feel movement. The lantern tower was substantial but it seemed to sway.
The Pharos had stood here for three hundred and fifty years – but the Greeks and Egyptians never had a beacon fire. It was our introduction; we Romans added it, because ever-increasing night-time sea traffic required better safety features. Cassius had given my children a model lantern, which they loved and used as a nightlight. That showed the ancient design; it was topped by a pillared tower, covered by a cupola – a feature that still lived in folk memory and would probably persist. But to accommodate a massive fire-basket, which had to be open to the skies, the round turret's root had now been dismantled. The open top of the Pharos glowed like a lurid scene from Vulcan's forge, with dark figures tending the terrific fire.
On my face I felt the burning heat, a blaze so fierce it was barely approachable. You wouldn't toast your lunch bap here. Sweating stokers tended the fire with long metal rakes. Behind, from my viewpoint, stood an enormous curved metal reflector. Mirror-bright, it gleamed red in the light of the beacon. From out to sea, some said a hundred miles away, this light would shine like a huge star, low on the horizon, bringing hope for anxious sailors and a dramatic statement of Alexandria's power and prestige.
To my astonishment, I made out Diogenes. Even more out of breath than me, he had staggered to the foot of a colossal statue, a leftover that had once topped the old covered tower – Zeus? Poseidon? One of the heavenly twins, Castor and Pollux? It was no moment for art appreciation. Diogenes was slumped and on the verge of collapse.
Suddenly, from behind the reflector leapt one of his tormentors. Bat-like and shrieking, the wild figure ran at the trader. Diogenes stumbled to his feet, trying to flee. Cowering away from the cloaked figure, he tipped over a low wall that contained the beacon and fell right into the roaring flames. He began to scream. Ablaze from head to foot, he floundered there; but it can only have been moments before he desperately clambered out. Intentionally or not, he launched himself towards his assailant, a fiery human torch. The man in black lost his cloak as he tried to get away. Holding up an arm to shield his face from the beacon's hot glare, he ran blind. He crashed against the outer balcony parapet. Unable to regain his balance, his momentum toppled him right over. His cry was lost as he vanished.
Diogenes fell to the ground. His clothes, hair and skin were alight. By the time I reached him, a stoker had aimed the contents of a fire-bucket over the writhing figure, but in that great heat the water sizzled uselessly. We dragged the attacker's discarded cloak over the prone man, then people brought more water pails. But some fool pulled the cloak away, so the flames broke out again spontaneously. At last stokers dragged up a heavy fire-mat and rolled Diogenes in it; they must have had experience or training. He was still alive when we finally put him out, but his burns were so bad he could never survive. Ghastly shreds of skin from his back and arms just fell away. I doubted he would even make the journey down to ground level.
Sickened, I crouched beside him. 'Diogenes! Can you hear me? Who were those men? What did they want you for?' He mumbled. Someone put a flask to his charred lips. Most of the liquid ran away down his neck. He struggled to speak. I strained to hear.
'Stuff you, Falco!'
He sank into unconsciousness. Despairing, I left the stokers to bring the body down.
I stumbled my way off the fire tower and back down the octagon. When I reached the public viewing platform at the top of the big main tower, it seemed deserted. I felt cold and desolate. This night had turned as sour as it could be – and still gave me no answers.
People who had been shepherded into the interior were crowding on the spiral ramps. White-faced, they gazed upwards in terror, aware that some tragedy had unfolded high above.
'Everyone stay inside, please – for your own safety. Make your way quietly down to the bottom now. Leave this to us!' One of the soldiers, Titus, came out on to the platform with me. We took lamps and searched the four long sides of the observatory area. Together we found the motionless form of the man who had gone over.
Titus bent. 'He's done for.' He twisted and looked up at the lantern, high above us. 'Must be what – eighty feet?' Who knows? He was guessing. 'No chance.'
'There was another man.'
'Must have scrammed.'
Titus moved back. I bent to inspect the dead man's face. 'What?'
'Know him, Falco?'
'That's unbelievable… He works at the Museion zoo.' I looked twice, but there was no doubt. It was either Chaereas or Chaeteas. That took some comprehending. Whatever had turned those two calm, competent zoo assistants into vengeful furies, hunting a man to his death? Risking their own lives to do it, too. 'I'll have to go after the one who's made a run tor it – how can I get out of the building safely? Are those rioters in the courtyard?'
'All be sorted by the time you reach the door. 'Titus looked over to confirm: I joined him, though with trepidation. My nerve had vanished up on these windy platforms where I had just seen two men die.
Titus was right. All the men from Rhakotis were running for home. A red column of soldiers, so far away it looked stationary, was marching through the enclosure. 'Landed by boat, Falco.'
The way the waves beat against the Pharos base, that could not be easy. I was surprised they had arrived here so quickly, but of course Titus took the credit for his dextrous signalling.
'You're whacked, Falco. You'll do no more good tonight. Tell us who the other fellow is, and let the military track him down.
Those words seemed as sweet as a lullaby.
LI
Even the worst nights end eventually. So, although my head still thronged with images of dark figures gesticulating against towering flames, I awoke to the hard clear sunlight that for several hours had been streaming through an open shutter. It must be mid-morning, maybe later. Subdued murmurs told me that my little daughters
were close by, playing quietly on the floor together. When I had had adventures, they would often creep up near me while I recovered. I lay for a while, drowsily fighting wakefulness, but then let out a grunt to tell Julia and Favonia they could now scramble on to the bed with me. Helena found us all cuddled up together when she brought a tray of food for me. One arm around each, I kissed the children's soft, sweet-scented heads and gazed at Helena like a guilty dog.
'I am in disgrace.'
'Was it your fault, Marcus?'
'No.'
'Then you are not in disgrace.' I smiled at my tolerant, wise, forgiving girl with all the adoration I could muster. As smiling goes, it was fervently meant, though perhaps rather pallid. 'Don't do that again,' she added waspishly. ' – Ever!'
I remembered that I was delivered home by soldiers, filthy and exhausted. I thought it had been in the dead of night, though Helena reckoned closer to dawn.
'You were sensible enough to order people to look for Pastous at the Library. He was found safe, incidentally. A message came from Aulus. Aulus is coming here later, to see what needs doing.'
She propped me up on cushions while I ticed down a late breakfast. I had little appetite. I let the children steal most of it. Helena perched on a stool, watching without comment. When I pushed away the tray and slumped wearily, she told the girls to run off to see Albia, then we two settled down alone to catch up on all that had happened.
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