He wished he still had his ability so he could RV some of these pieces to get a glimpse into the ancient past and see what sort of tragedies had left these relics at the bottom of the sea. But he pressed on, heading toward the section of reliefs that the curator told him were taken directly from the Mausoleum’s ruins in the fifteenth century.
As he descended another set of stairs, he looked out over a lush garden, and further back he saw a minaret atop a Moslem shrine. He had a moment of stillness, of clarity. He thought of Phoebe and Orlando and could almost see out to the section of Bodrum a half mile away where they must be exploring the ancient foundations of the Mausoleum, looking for visions. And clues.
He touched the walls, hoping to get a glimpse into the past, anything to part the veil and burst through the blockage erected by his consuming guilt.
But nothing came, nothing but the empty silence of the dead.
Phoebe and Orlando were at the site, an open hillside, with flowering shrubs and wild grass peeking out from under the fragments of rounded columns and rows of misshapen blocks layered out over the land as they might have been positioned eight hundred years ago, before the devastating earthquakes. All around the site, apartment buildings scaled the hills like ungainly climbers tethered together by a haphazard network of telephone poles and wires. The blaring of horns and creaking of buses sounded sporadically, and the scent of juniper mixed with exhaust fumes.
Phoebe let her hand linger on the stones in passing, watching Orlando do the same. “Well,” she said, taking a seat cross-legged in the middle of a set of broken columns. Pulling out a pad of paper, she smiled as Orlando took out his iPad and powered it up. “Let’s see what we can see.”
Two minutes later she dropped into a trance, tumbled back through the centuries, and opened her eyes to a similar hillside…
… except for the half-finished monolithic construction, the hundreds of workers — carpenters, sculptors, draftsmen and artisans — all laboring on the Mausoleum.
Surveying the work from her porch on a raised platform stands a regal woman with olive skin and melancholy eyes. “How long?” she asks the two men working at a table, studying unrolled scrolls depicting the graphical representations and measurements for the construction, including the statues, the columns and the roof. She points to one robed man, the closest. “Satyros?”
“Another year, My Queen. The structure may be finished by the Saturnalia, but the sculptors will still be finishing their work. So many statues, the reliefs of the Amazon frieze alone will take years. But rest assured, Leochares will get the job done. And the bas-reliefs presenting the battle of the Centaurs—”
“There will be no deviation from my husband’s wishes. Especially regarding the depiction of the centaurs. Or its construction.”
The other man turns around. His eyes look her over. “How is your health, Lady Artemesia?”
“Not your concern,” she responds with a wave, leaning over suddenly and suppressing a cough. “I was strong enough to repel the Rhodians in their attempt to capture Halicarnassus. I will be well enough to see this project finished.” She let her gaze linger on the massive columns, the second tier poised and prepared for the lifting of the roof and the immense golden chariot that would in time house their statues.
“Soon, My King. Soon, we’ll be together again.”
Phoebe blinked and slowly let her consciousness return to the shining sunlit present where mundane elements pricked at her senses. The barking of a dog, the blast of a cab’s horn, the ticking of Orlando’s fingers on his iPad. She opened her mouth to call out to him, but saw his eyes, white, the pupils lolling back in his head. His fingers moving rapidly while his lips moved, whispering something unheard.
“Orlando?”
Overcome by need and immediacy, the fullness of the experience nearly knocked him over. No matter how many times Orlando had experienced this, it always took his breath away with its suddenness. Its raw power, colliding with his psyche, at the same instance gently gliding over his perceptions….
In light chain mail, colorful heraldic symbols blazing on their chests, the knights rise up in a victorious cheer. Under the English tower named the Lion, the men roar and taunt the fleeing soldiers of Sultan Mehmed II.
Cannons smoke and men lean against the walls, dropping their crossbows. Flags wave from the other towers, each one constructed in its own style, and the knights from Italy, Spain, France and Germany cheer each other in repelling this latest offensive. Below, the passages twisting through narrow turns and successfully defended gates bear witness to the strength of this castle’s design. The bodies of the invaders litter courtyards and lie in arrow-pierced piles on the steps.
The captain surveys the fortifications, then eyes the wounded forces retreating into the descending twilight. “They will return,” he says to his men, then points ahead to the smoking holes blown through sections of the walls by the enemy cannon.
“We must thicken the walls facing the mainland. Take a team in the morning. Gather more stones from the Mausoleum.”
Another flash, and Orlando reeled, reaching out and scraping the flesh of his palm against a greenish-hued stone….
A different commander, with a Fleur-de-lis on his tunic, stands atop the tallest tower. He speaks in French, but the words are understood through some other means. “Suleiman will try again, and the walls are weakening. Gather more blocks from the ancient site and put them to use.”
“There are not many stones left, Grand Master,” says a wide-eyed youth, a knight with blood spatters on his face. “But what of the statues and the reliefs? There are still more that have not been smashed or crushed for lime.”
The Grand Master considers the sprawling layout of the Castle’s interior, the blank walls, empty alcoves. “Take them as well. They deserve a place of honor.”
Orlando half-emerged from the vision, clinging to it just barely, straddling this world and the other, as he reached for the iPad.
Phoebe moved closer, crawling on her good leg, moving around his side to watch. She put a finger to her lips, stifled a gasp, and stared as he drew a chaotic battle scene — what looked like half-men, half-horse creatures savagely attacking townspeople, and getting more than a little amorous with the women.
Just then, her cell phone rang. She flipped it open.
Caleb’s voice. “Phoebe. I’m no good up here. Nothing. I’m not seeing anything.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered.” She studied the rendition. “Hey, is there some kind of wall carving there? Mythological? With centaurs?”
“Yeah, on a wall in the French section. Hang on, just walked by it.”
“I saw something, and it looks like Orlando’s drawing the same thing right now. He’s still in a trance.”
“Okay, I’m looking at it now, but I don’t see anything obvious. Tried touching it, hoped for a vision, but got nothing. Not even a daydream.”