The stairs descend endlessly. The steps feel worn, as if water has coursed through this shaft for centuries. After circling for what seems like hours, breathing in the acrid smoke from Marcus’s torch, Titus’s legs nearly buckle beneath him.
The well opens into a massive, brightly lit chamber. They approach two guardians, enormous Egyptian statues carved out of black onyx — an Ibis-faced god with a long staff and a writing palette to one side flanked by a female statue wearing a peculiar half-moon headdress and holding a large book to her chest.
Titus respectfully bows his head to these native deities and steps between them. Ahead looms an imposing red granite wall covered with strange carvings and images. Centered and most prominent rises a large staff with twin snakes wrapped around it and facing each other at the top. Standing before this symbol is Gaius Julius Caesar.
Titus kneels as Marcus bows his head. “My Lord.”
Caesar slowly raises his left hand. In his right he holds an unbound sheaf of papyrus. The flickering torchlight from two braziers mounted on opposite sides of the wall illuminate scrawled lines and symbols on the papyrus similar to the images on the walls.
Titus peers at the wall ahead, observing seven strange symbols enclosed in raised circles spaced around the great snake-entwined staff. He recognizes some of them as ancient Greek signs for the planets.
Caesar turns. His eyes are haunted, glazed and exhausted. Titus has heard whispers that since his taking of the Pharos, he has been rarely seen, spending all his time inside the lighthouse. Doing what, no one would say. Some of the men whisper that the ancient gods have trapped him inside their shrine and will not let him go until Rome has left their land. Others claim Caesar has found an ancient source of power and seeks to wrest it from the gods. Still others believe he has discovered Alexander’s lost treasure.
“Titus Batus,”—Caesar clenches the papyrus tightly in his hand—“your skills are needed. These papers were in the possession of this tower’s keeper, an old, pathetic man who, with his son, alone kept the fires burning and directed the great mirror above.”
“What, only two—?”
“The boy is dead.” Caesar says sharply. “He fled, and when we caught up with him, down here, he was trying to throw these”—he holds up the papers—“into the flames. We had to stop him.”
“What are they, sir?”
Caesar shakes his head. “Whatever these scribblings represent, that boy died for them. We brought his father here, and the old man actually broke free, lunged for the papers and tried to tear them up.”
Titus frowns, looking from those sheets to the wall again.
“Titus. Get the answers from the old man. He is secured in the living quarters upstairs. Use whatever means necessary.” Caesar turns his back and regards the wall once more. His shadow leaps from his body and dances obscenely across the wall, mimicking his stance and mocking his ignorance. Behind him, Titus imagines the two Egyptian statues expelling low, indifferent sighs.
“Yes, sir.” Titus stands and extends his arm in salute. “I—”
But then a trampling of feet pounds out from the stairwell and four men rush into the room. “My liege, Egyptian forces are approaching. Twenty ships.”
Caesar lowers his head as if a great weight pulls on his neck. He looks at the papers trapped in his fist and then considers the wall once more.
Marcus glances from the messenger to his leader. “My Lord, we do not have the strength to withstand such an assault.”
Caesar sighs. “Very well. We leave for the safety of the palace and wait for Mithradates and reinforcements. I will return once we have the situation in hand. Bring the old man with us.”
“Sir,” says another soldier on the stairs, “it is too late. He has chewed off his tongue and drowned in his own blood.”
Caesar swears. He pushes past Titus, muttering a curse on the local gods, and stomps up the stairs. Titus follows the others, the last to leave the silent chamber. Turning one last time, he meets the unnerving stares of those two snakes carved deeply into the granite wall. In the flickering light, they appear to slither around the staff, turn their heads and warn against his return. Then Titus risks a glance at the female statue, who seems to be smirking, confident in the secret clutched tightly to her heart.
Caesar’s forces leave Pharos Island, fleeing from the lighthouse on the few ships remaining after the Egyptians caught them unprepared. Several Roman galleons are already floundering, however, as too many men cram onto their decks. The Emperor’s vessel, too, sinks and men are crushed by planks and become entangled in arms and legs, ropes and moorings.
Titus swims feverishly, finds a floating piece of wood, and kicks his way toward a distant boat. Up ahead, in a flash of lightning, he sees the purple cloak of his leader. Caesar struggles, trying to swim using only one hand. In the other, he holds aloft the papyrus sheets.
A flash.
And then, leaving the brilliant afternoon sun, Titus enters the central palace. Caesar stands on the balcony above the great square as the Fourteenth Legion waits in the hot sun for him to pronounce the words they all expect — that they would be moving out.
Alexandria is in Caesar’s hands again. Pothinus and Achillas, instigators of the rebellion, have been executed, and Ptolemy XIII died trying to escape. Lovely Cleopatra rests comfortably on the throne, her gambit of capturing Caesar’s heart a success.
Caesar leans on the railing and stares across the harbor. He gazes over the waves to the lighthouse, with its mirror reflecting the sun’s rays back at him. Titus has the sense that two great warriors are regarding each other in a contest of wills, deciding whether to continue the struggle or to bow out in mutual respect for the other’s prowess.
Caesar looks away. He stiffens at a touch from the alluring Cleopatra, her olive skin shining in the sunlight. “You must go,” Titus hears her say. “Your enemies stretch your forces thin. Seek them out, one by one, and consolidate your empire once more.”
Caesar nods and gazes one last time at the lighthouse, acknowledging it as an opponent he cannot overcome and determining to press ahead more vigorously in matters he can. “Here,” he says to Marcus Entonius, standing at his side, “take these papers to my father-in-law. They shall be safe in his personal library until I can return my attention to their mysteries.”
“My love,” Cleopatra says, “why not leave them here at the museum? Our scholars can study the symbols and put their great minds to the task of unlocking their secrets.”
“No. The harbor fire makes it clear that they are not safe here. These scrolls must be preserved.”
“But all the original books are safe. Only the copies were lost.”
“It is decided.” He raises his arms to his men and they shout up at him, reaffirming their loyalty and their readiness to leave.
Cleopatra lowers her head, but when she steals a glance at the Pharos, Titus swears he sees her smile.