His mind reeled and his stomach twisted. An armada of bubbles surrounded his head like ravenous fish, nipping at his skin, shouting out alarms. But his eyes, wide open, no longer perceived what lay before him, for they strode with his mind…
… to the tower… the lighthouse… the Pharos… there it is, rising before him, a three-stage construction, almost four hundred feet high, tapering to a glorious spire that seems to challenge the simmering Egyptian sun itself. The tower’s outer casing glitters on the western side, reflecting the sun with the light of a thousand stars, and all along its ascent hang statues of divinities and mythical guardians, peering down from their lofty perches.
He tears his eyes away and blinks, bringing into focus the man standing on the steps, welcoming him. A man he instinctively knows as the architect of the Pharos: Sostratus of Cnidos.
“Welcome, Demetrius,” he says. “Come, I have much to show you.”
Seeing through Demetrius’s eyes, Caleb speaks as if following a well-rehearsed script. His voice cracks and the words spill like gravel off his parched tongue. “Sostratus, engineering wonder this may be, yet it has the imposing grandeur, aura and beauty of the divine. My friend, this lighthouse will be adored for ages.”
Sostratus turns and looks up at his handiwork. “I hope you are right, and humbly, I trust in the gods that I have built it well enough to last.” He helps Demetrius up the final steps into the courtyard, where doves and sparrows coo in transplanted palm trees and fountains pour out fresh reservoir water at each of the cardinal points.
“And it is not yet done.” Sostratus raises his hand to the distant, dwindling spire atop the converging stages; past the mammoth two-hundred-foot rectangular lower section, pierced with three hundred windows; beyond the octagonal second stage, rising a hundred feet more, to the last part ascending the final hundred feet. Tiny forms climb on ropes and chisel at sections on the spire, at the cupola and the pillars around the beacon, working like industrious ants.
“I apologize that the masons have not yet removed the scaffolding. We are still hauling up stone for the outer casing and, of course, the great golden statue of Poseidon has yet to arrive by barge from Memphis. I have invited Euclid to pay me a visit and calculate how best to raise it to the apex.”
Demetrius makes a grunting sound, then reaches over and clasps his friend. “By Jupiter, you have done it.”
“Why so shocked, my friend? Surely you have watched my progress from your precious library across the harbor?”
Demetrius stops and teeters as he cranes his neck and gazes up. “In the scroll rooms, there are few windows. We need to safeguard the world’s most important books, not expose them to the elements.”
Sostratus chuckles. “Well said. And of course, in all your courtyard festivals you never thought to lift your head over the wall and glance westward to admire my creation?”
Demetrius looks down at his sandaled feet, taking strange comfort from such a common sight. “I have, my friend, I have. A remarkable achievement, your lighthouse has become an integral part of the landscape in the mere twelve years it has taken to build. Alexandrians may take it for granted, yet they speak of little else but its completion and the coming festivals Ptolemy has planned for its dedication day. Your lighthouse has, in fact, become synonymous with Alexandria. The thousands of daily visitors to our harbors are awestruck by its magnificence. Indeed, it is the first thing they see, well before the coast even appears.”
Sostratus smiles. “I hear they are already calling it ‘The Pharos,’ after the island itself.”
“True, Homer’s little epilogue in the Odyssey granted us fame enough.”
“Even if he had it wrong. Egyptian settlers at Rhakotis told Menelaus the island belonged to Pharaoh, and out of ignorance, the name stuck. Pharos Island.”
Demetrius nods, waving off the same boring discussion he’s endured uncounted times. “Believe me, I know the tale well. We have over ninety copies, translated into fourteen languages, with scholars working on the Iliad now.”
“Wonderful ambitions you have,” Sostratus says, intending the complement to be genuine, however eliciting a wounded look from Demetrius. “Or is it our king’s ambition?”
“A little of both. Although, from time to time I have to fuel our benefactor’s interests.” Sostratus nods in empathy. “Now, my friend, do I get the promised tour, or must I wait another twelve years?”
“In just a moment. First I want you to look up, right there.” He points to a low-level scaffold, untended for the moment, above which a lengthy inscription is chiseled in Greek letters large enough to be seen by arriving ships in the Eastern Harbor.
Demetrius squints and reads it aloud:
“SOSTRATUS OF CNIDOS, SON OF DEXIFANOS, DEDICATES THIS TO THE SAVIOR GODS ON BEHALF OF THOSE WHO SAIL THE SEAS.”
He blinks. “All honor to Castor and Pollux aside, I think Ptolemy Philadelphus may have something to say about your name on his monument.”
“Indeed he would,” Sostratus says, his lips curling into a grin, “if this were what he saw. Our king wants his credit, and he shall have it. I am humble and patient. My thoughts are ever in the future, beyond the horizon of mere generations.”
“What are you going to do?” Demetrius asks, genuinely confused.
“Tonight, when the sun’s heat diminishes, my slaves will cement over this inscription and carve into it all the credit due our great king.”
A smile creeps across Demetrius’s face. “Ah, ingenious! Assuming your slaves are mute, or you have them killed, in time, the cement will crumble and erode away, revealing your name.”
Sostratus spreads out his arms and closes his eyes, basking in some private, faraway vision. “I shall be immortal.”
“I had not thought you so vain. Is it so vital that you are remembered?”
“Only for what I have done. It is the same with your books, no? Those authors, their wisdom must endure. Hence the need for your library.”
Demetrius nods. “Of course, but—”
“This tower is important in more ways than are immediately obvious. Beyond safety, beyond practicality, beyond a mere symbol of our grand city and a testament to Alexander’s genius. Beyond all that, I intend it to house something even more precious, something that, like my inscription above, will emerge in time and bring truth to a clouded world.”
“Then by all means, sir.” Demetrius bows. “Now… the tour?”
High above, the sun peeks through the open-air cupola between gilded pillars supporting the roof where Poseidon’s feet are destined to stand. A lone hawk circles the mid-section, vainly beating its wings to ascend farther.
Caleb gagged, reached for the fading vision and saw his fingers spear through a cascade of bubbles — bubbles spewing from his own throat. He’d spit his mouthpiece out! The world was darkening, his mouth filling with foul water.
For so many years he had pushed this power away, dreading the visions that came: horrific sights of metal cages in the mountains, of emaciated hands reaching through the bars, of whimpers and moans and cries for help. Visions dredged up by a talent he couldn’t control, alive with sights, sounds and smells. A gift he’d never wanted.