The Seven Wonders: A Novel of the Ancient World (Novels of Ancient Rome) (38 page)

I squinted again, and was barely able to make out the image Antipater described. “But how can you possibly see all those details?” I demanded, for Antipater’s eyesight was not as good as mine.

He laughed. “All I see up there is a glimmer of gold atop the lighthouse. But I know the statue represents Zeus the Savior because of the famous poem by Posidippus—which you should remember as well, young man, for I’m sure I taught it to you. You must know it, Isidorus.”

“Indeed I do,” said the scholar, who commenced to recite in his elegant accent.

“On the island sacred to Proteus, Sostratus of Cnidos

Built this savior of the Greeks, the Pharos tower.

The coast of Egypt offers no lookouts or mountaintops,

And treacherous rocks rim Alexandria’s watery bower.

But Pharos pierces the sky like an upright thorn,

Visible day and night, thanks to the beacon’s conflagration.

Even as a ship approaches the Bull’s Horn,

Zeus, gazing down, offers salvation.”

“The Bull’s Horn?” I said. “What’s that?”

Isidorus peered ahead and grabbed the railing. “I think you’re about to find out, Gordianus. Hold on tight!”

Antipater and I followed his example, though I failed to see the need. We were about to sail into the harbor, with plenty of distance between the breakwaters and us. As far as I could see, there were no ships or any other hazards nearby.

Suddenly, from high above our heads, I head the blaring of a horn. I looked up, and to my amazement realized the noise was issuing from the conch held by the nearest of the four Triton statues that perched at the four corners of the Pharos. The horn blared again.

The ship made a sharp turn to one side. The three of us were showered with sea spray. As I blinked my eyes to quell the stinging, I looked back to see the jagged outcrop of stone around which our captain had deftly maneuvered. The rock did indeed resemble a bull’s horn, rising from the foamy waves.

“What just happened?” I said.

“There are watchers posted on the Pharos who observe every ship as it arrives and departs,” explained Isidorus. “Our captain has plenty of experience on this route, but in case he had any difficulty in spotting the Bull’s Horn, a watcher on the Pharos sounded a specific signal to alert him as our ship approached the hazard.”

“But how can a statue be made to blow a horn?”

Isidorus smiled. “That is yet another of the wonders of the Pharos. There’s a treatise that describes the Tritons’ manufacture and operation in the Library, but I’m afraid King Ptolemy restricts access to such documents; the pneumatic science behind the working of the Tritons is a state secret. But I can tell you that each of the conches held by the four Tritons produces a different note. By sounding two or more horns in unison, or by sounding a sequence of different notes, or by holding notes for various durations, a great many different signals can be given. Experienced captains know the signals that apply to them—such as that simple warning note about the Bull’s Horn.”

“Amazing!” I said.

“And did you notice the movable mirrors that run along the parapets, between each of the four Tritons?”

I had not. Peering up, I now perceived large sheets of hammered bronze attached to pivots along the parapets, tilted at various angles.

“Those also can be used to send signals, but unlike the horns, their messages can be directed to a specific ship or even to a particular building in the city of Alexandria, by aiming flashes of reflected sunlight.”

I gazed up at the Pharos, more in awe of the building than ever.

“Tell me, do you have a place to stay in Alexandria?” asked Isidorus.

“Not yet,” said Antipater.

“Then you must stay with me. No, I insist! My quarters are very near the Library. The accommodations are simple, but you’ll have your own room. The offer is an act of selfishness on my part, for I greatly desire to hear every detail of your journey to see the Wonders. And in return, I promise to do what I can to permit your entry to the Library.”

“A splendid arrangement!” declared Antipater.

*   *   *

What sort of city could produce a structure as remarkable as the Pharos? As we sailed into the harbor we passed a number of islands with beautiful gardens and buildings; these were the property of the king, extensions of the grand royal palace that lined much of the shore. I had never seen such a handsome waterfront; the buildings stood many stories tall and were appointed with splendid decorations, sweeping balconies, and aerial gardens. The skyline of the city beyond offered glimpses of elegant towers, temple rooftops crowded with statues, and soaring obelisks. Rising above the skyline at a considerable distance, built upon the only hill of any significance, was a temple that appeared to be as grand as any we had encountered in our travels.

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.’”