The Seven Wonders: A Novel of the Ancient World

by Steven Saylor

  In the coming days—and months, as it turned out—I would have ample opportunity to explore every corner of Alexandria. Of all the cities I visited in our journey, it was by far the most impressive. Alexander the Great had chosen the site; an architect named Dinocrates laid out the city in a grid pattern, with wide, palm-lined boulevards and stately intersections decorated with fountains, statues, and obelisks. The temple on the hill was that of Serapis, who combined the attributes of Greek Zeus and Egyptian Osiris; to my Roman eyes, his temple, like so much of Alexandria, was at once familiar and wildly exotic. I had thought that Memphis must be the crossroads of the world, with its heady mixture of tongues and races, but Alexandria was even more cosmopolitan. Any object ever made by man, anywhere on earth, could be found in its teeming markets. In a single shop, I once came across a Roman augur’s wand, a terebinth box from vanished Carthage, and a gown made of pure silk from distant Serica.

  More important, for Antipater, in Alexandria one might find a copy of every book that had ever existed. The Library of the Ptolemies was said to be the greatest on earth, thanks to its aggressive acquisition policy. Every ship that arrived in the harbor was boarded by customs agents who demanded to be shown any book that happened to be on board. The agents checked each book against a master list and, if it was not already in the Library, they took the volume into custody, sent it to be copied, and only then returned it to its owner.

  The Library was only part of a vast royal institution called the Museum, which celebrated all the gifts of the Muses to mankind. Within this sprawling complex were institutes devoted to the study of poetry, music, philosophy, history, astronomy, mathematics, engineering, geography, medicine, and anatomy. Over the centuries, some of the most famous thinkers in history—men like Archimedes and Euclid—had studied and taught there. The Museum contained extraordinary collections of gemstones, dried plants, architectural models, maps, weapons of many nations, and mummified animals. There was even a collection of living animals gathered from all over the world. Sometimes, on a still night, from behind the wall of this zoological compound, I could hear the braying of aurochs from Scythia, the screeching of monkeys from Nubia, or the roar of a tiger from India.

  I myself had no way of gaining entry to the Museum or the Library, for while Isidorus was able to finagle a visitor’s pass for his newfound friend Zoticus of Zeugma, acquiring another pass for a nineteen-year-old Roman with no official business in Alexandria was beyond his power. And so, on the days when Antipater went off with our host to disappear through the gates of the royal compound, I was left to amuse myself—not such a hard thing to do in a city as vast and fascinating as Alexandria.

  My first task each day was to visit the several professional receivers of letters, who were all located close together in a district near the waterfront, in hopes of finding a reply from my father to the letter that I had dispatched from Gaza. Day after day I was disappointed, until at last, one morning, one of the receivers produced a scroll with a tag that read: To Gordianus of Rome from his father. The letter had arrived along with payment for its delivery, so I was able to claim it even though my purse was empty.

  I quickly walked to the harbor and sat on some steps that led down to the water. With the Pharos looming before me across the harbor, I carefully unrolled the letter. As I read, I saw my father’s face and heard his voice:

  Beloved son,

  Nothing has so cheered me in recent months as your letter sent from—can there really be a place called Gaza? I must admit, I had never heard of it. And yet, my son has been there—and to Babylon, and Ephesus, and Olympia, and to so many other places. The news of your travels fills me with wonder and joy, and no small amount of envy.

  I fear the news from Rome is not so cheerful. Italy is riven with war between Rome and her oldest, closest allies. The subject cities of Italy demand a greater share of the benefits of empire. The Senate calls this rebellion. The result is fire, bloodshed, and famine.

  Do not worry about me. I am perfectly safe as long as I remain in Rome. But the countryside is in chaos, and as a result the city is plagued by shortages and uncertainty, and travel within Italy is difficult. In short, this is no place for you, as long as you are safe and content to remain in Egypt. Toward that end, I have arranged for a bit of money to be deposited with a banker in Alexandria and to be made available to you. It is not much, but if you are frugal it may last you for some months, until it is safe for you to travel back to Rome. Attached to this letter you will find instructions on how to get hold of the money.

  In your letter, you mention that Antipater is well. What a remarkable old fellow he is! What other man of his years would have dared to attempt such a journey? I hope that you managed to visit the Great Pyramid, and that he climbed all the way to the top, and that he is with you now in Alexandria, still in good health.

  Write back to me when you receive this letter (and the money) and let me know that all is well.

  I put down the letter, overwhelmed by homesickness. The sight of the Pharos across the water was suddenly strange and unreal, as if I had never seen it before. For a long moment, I felt disoriented and confused. Then other feelings rose in me—a heady sense of freedom and a thrill of excitement. Before, Alexandria had seemed merely a stop on my journey home; now, for the time being, it was to be my home. I blinked, and suddenly the Pharos looked familiar to me again, the proud landmark of the city where I was not merely a tourist, but a resident—Alexandria, the greatest metropolis on earth.

  * * *

  That night, as had become customary since our arrival, Antipater and I dined with our host. Isidorus possessed only one slave, who acted as both cook and server. While the woman poured wine and served a tilapia stew, each of us gave an account of his day.

  I eagerly delivered my news first, and read aloud the letter from my father. This led to some discussion of the turmoil in Italy. Thanks to his position in the Library, Isidorus was privy to more reliable information than were the rumormongers in the marketplaces, but his sense of the situation was nonetheless quite murky. “No one can yet guess the outcome of such a devastating war,” he said. Then, seeing the distress on my face, he assured me that Rome itself would surely be spared from the destruction it had visited on several of its subject cities—a speculation that put images in my head that only added to my anxiety.

  Our host quickly changed the subject to the funds my father had sent for me, and explained that my best course was to leave the money in the care of the banker who had received it, withdrawing drachmas only as I needed them. “You should also deposit any documents of importance with the banker, for safekeeping—that letter from your father, for instance.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Antipater, “you must write back to your father at once. Give him my thanks for inquiring after my well-being, and be sure to inform him that I did indeed climb all the way to the top of the Great Pyramid.” He took a sip of wine. “And you, Isidorus—how was your day?”

  Our host sighed. “Tedious. When you and I went our separate ways after arriving at the Library this morning, I spent several hours piecing together some fragments of the papyri I brought back from my journey up the Nile—only to discover that the document contained nothing more interesting than an inventory of some oxen involved in a bankruptcy litigation. When I asked my superior at the Library if I could be given more interesting work to do, we had quite an argument. Outsiders imagine that the Library and the Museum are a sort of pristine Arcadia, where we scholars lead lives of sublime contemplation, but my colleagues can be quite vicious and petty, I fear. How did Timon the Skeptic describe the Alexandrian scholars of his day? ‘Scribblers on papyrus, endlessly squabbling in their birdcage of the Muses!’ Alas, friend Zoticus, I hope your day was more productive.”

  Antipater smiled. “Indeed it was.” He pressed his fingertips together and raised his chin. “I believe I may be ready to put forward a theory regarding the origin of the list of the Seven Wonders.”

  �
�Truly?” said Isidorus. “Tell us, please.”

  “Very well. While there remain some gaps in my research, and a few small contradictions that have yet to be resolved, this is what I believe: it was none other than Alexander the Great who decreed that there should be a list of Seven Wonders—and the list itself was devised by the first generation of scholars assembled here in Alexandria by the first King Ptolemy.”

  “As an Alexandrian, this notion pleases me. But how did you develop this theory?”

  “The first inkling came to me just before we left Rome, when I was pondering possible routes for our journey to the Seven Wonders. Studying maps, and noting the site of each Wonder, I was struck first by their far-flung and disparate locations—but then I realized what they had in common: all seven lie within the empire conquered by Alexander. Indeed, if one were to draw a line connecting and encircling them, one would produce a veritable outline of Alexander’s empire, comprising Greece, Asia, Persia, and Egypt. This was Alexander’s world, composed of many nations, races, and languages—and these were its greatest achievements. It occurred to me that the list of Seven Wonders might have been the brainchild of Alexander himself, who saw it as a unifying principle. ‘Never setting foot outside my empire,’ I imagined him saying, ‘one can see the greatest structures ever devised by mankind—made by different peoples at different times, in honor of different gods, but all brought together by the force of my will, within the unity of my dominion.’”

  “Did Alexander himself visit all the Wonders?” I said.

  “An excellent question, Gordianus. Most certainly he visited the Temple of Artemis when he liberated Ephesus, and saw the Mausoleum when he captured Halicarnassus; and in Babylon he must have seen the remains of the Hanging Gardens and the Walls, which may have been more substantial in his day than in ours. He refused to compete in the Games at Olympia, but he surely saw the statue in the Temple of Zeus. And after he conquered Egypt, he must have gazed upon its most famous monument, the Great Pyramid. So the list of Seven Wonders could also have served as a sort of memorial of his own journeys.”

  “But you’ve left out one of the Wonders,” I said.

  “Ah, yes, the Colossus of Rhodes—which was not completed until some thirty years after Alexander died. Obviously, Alexander never saw it—but that leads to the next proposition of my theory: Alexander himself did not draw up the final list, but assigned the task to someone else. Perhaps it was his close friend, the historian Aristobulus, or Callisthenes, the nephew of Aristotle, or—this is my guess—his comrade Ptolemy, who was later to become King of Egypt and had his own stake in preserving the mystique of Alexander and the legacy of his world empire. Ptolemy of course had all the resources of the Library and its scholars at his disposal—and it was in the Library, I believe, that the very first compendium of the Seven Wonders was created. I believe this was considerably more than a mere list, but included a detailed history and description of each Wonder. This book may yet be discovered in the archives, with the name of its author or authors appended to it. At the time this compendium was written, the Colossus would have been brand-new, a sensation that everyone was talking about, so it was included alongside the more venerable Wonders to demonstrate that mankind was still progressing and capable of creating new marvels.”

  “I think the Pharos is a greater achievement than the Colossus,” I said. “Why didn’t Ptolemy’s scholars put it on the list instead?”

  “Because the list predated the completion of the Pharos,” explained Antipater. “The lighthouse was still being built as the list was drawn up—and even scholars eager to flatter King Ptolemy could not have justified comparing an unfinished building to the Temple of Artemis or the Great Pyramid.”

  “But now the Pharos has been standing for almost two hundred years,” I said, “while the wonders of Babylon are in ruins. Perhaps the Hanging Gardens or the Walls of Babylon should be removed from the list, and the Pharos put in their place.”

  Isidorus laughed. “What a brash young man you are, Gordianus, to propose such an idea.”

  “Do you not like it?”

  “I love it—but I’m afraid my colleagues at the birdcage of the Muses are so used to scratching out the same old things, not one of them would be bold enough to propose such an innovation. I fear they will resist the theory of Zoticus, as well, unless he can produce the original list. But as yet, this discovery eludes you?”

  Antipater nodded. “I’ve found a number of citations that refer to such a document, but not the document itself. But soon—very soon—I feel sure that I’ll lay my hands on it. It’s probably moldering away in a stack of uncatalogued papyri, or inadvertently rolled up inside another scroll that has nothing to do with the Seven Wonders.”

  “Books in the Library can be quite elusive. You may have set yourself a task of many months, Zoticus my friend.”

  “Then I must pray to Zeus the Savior that I will have that much longer to live,” said Antipater.

  “I will say a prayer for that, as well,” said Isidorus.

  “And so will I!” I cried. I had grown so used to Antipater’s company that it was unthinkable that anything should happen to him, or that I should be left alone without him in the vast, teeming city founded by Alexander.

  * * *

  That night—thanks to my father’s letter, or something disagreeable in the fish stew—I was plagued by terrible dreams. All was a confusion of screaming and bloodshed. My father figured somehow in these nightmares, and Rome itself was swept by fire. The Pharos was transported to the summit of the Capitoline Hill, a finger of stone soaring to an impossible height, from which it sent out a beacon not to sailors, but to Rome’s enemies, guiding them from all over Italy to the city they longed to destroy.

  I tossed and turned and struggled to wake from these nightmares. Like a man submerged in deep water but able to glimpse pale daylight, gradually, fitfully I rose toward consciousness. I opened my eyes to the soft light of dawn. The sheet twisted around me was soaked with sweat.

  I heard familiar voices from the room beyond—Antipater and our host chatting amiably as they prepared to head out for the day. Their conversation was muted and the words were indistinct, until one of them opened the front door, and Isidorus, raising his voice a bit, said, “And don’t forget to bring your new stylus this morning, Antipater!”

  A moment later the door was slammed shut, and silence followed.

  I shut my eyes and lay still, exhausted by my nightmares. I was nearly asleep again, when suddenly I bolted upright. Had I heard what I thought I heard, or only dreamed it?

  Not “Zoticus,” but “Antipater”—Isidorus had called him by his true name.

  What did it mean?

  * * *

  As I strolled around Alexandria that day, I should have been in a good mood, for I was no longer a pauper but had some coins on my person, thanks to the funds from my father. With a bit of money, there were endless things to do in Alexandria.

  Instead, I found myself walking in circles. That single utterance by Isidorus kept echoing in my head, nagging at me.

  There would be a perfectly innocent explanation, I told myself. Antipater had come to trust Isidorus, and so had revealed to him his true identity. That was Antipater’s choice, and none of my business. But why, then, had Isidorus continued to address him at dinner as Zoticus?

  Because the slave was present, I told myself. Yes, that was it. The woman serving dinner was not to know who Antipater was. But why hadn’t Antipater informed me of his decision to reveal himself to our host? Ah, well, he was an old fellow and he simply forgot. But even as this thought came to me, I knew it was a lie. Antipater’s mind was as keen as ever, and he never did anything without a purpose. Some sort of relationship existed between him and our host, and I was being kept in the dark about it.

  Why?

  I found myself in the Rhakotis district, the oldest part of the city. Rhakotis had been a settlement in Homer’s time; its narrow, winding streets predated the
grid laid down by Alexander’s new city. With its shabby tenements, gambling dens, and seedy taverns, Rhakotis reminded me of the Subura in Rome.

  Passing through a particularly tawdry part of Rhakotis, I passed a building that was clearly a brothel, to judge by the attitude of the women who stood at the upper-story windows, flaunting their naked breasts and looking bored. A man stepped out of the front door. He looked this way and that, but took no notice of me.

  A lightning bolt of recognition struck me, followed by a quiver of doubt. Could the man possibly be who I thought he was?

  He was burly and blond, with a neatly trimmed beard, and his clothing was Greek. In a teeming metropolis like Alexandria, there were countless specimens almost exactly like him—and yet, something about the arrogant tilt of his head and the truculent way he held himself as he turned and walked quickly away, clenching his fists, convinced me that he was none other than the murderer from Olympia.

  I remembered everything about him in a flash: standing behind me at the Temple of Zeus he had loudly voiced anti-Roman sentiments; later that night I had overheard him speaking to an unknown conspirator—a fellow agent for Mithridates—in the tent of our host; and the next day he had used a snake to poison the Cynic, Simmius of Sidon, and then, in the ensuing confusion, had vanished into thin air, not to be seen again—until now.

  They had a saying in Alexandria: “Stay here long enough, and every traveler in the world will cross your path.” Apparently it was true.

  I quickened my stride to match his. Keeping what I hoped was a safe distance, I followed the murderer.

  He apparently had several calls to make, for repeatedly I saw him disappear into a tenement or private dwelling, stay for a short while, and then reappear, always pausing to peer suspiciously up and down the street before proceeding. I had to call upon all the skills my father had taught me to shadow him without being spotted.