Caleb awoke from the dream at the same time the fever broke. It was mid-afternoon on a nameless day. He struggled out of bed, weak to exhaustion, and in the sunlight filtering through the curtains he found a bowl of raisins, nuts and bananas on the table.
Still in Alexandria. How long had he been out? What was happening back in New York? He needed to check back soon. He could only imagine if he were stuck here past the start of the semester. How would his students fare with Lombardo or-God help them-Henrik Jenson as his substitute? He had to get out of here as soon as he was cleared to fly, if not sooner. Pain he could handle. He wasn’t quite sure about his tolerance for his mother or her crazy friends.
With a full stomach and confidence that the food would not be coming back up, he made it to the shower. After dressing in sweat pants, sandals and an old T-shirt, he left the room and took the stairs down to the lobby. His head still felt weak, lost in a fog, but he kept moving, taking a short break against a wall as he made his way to the conference room. He forced a smile to a rotund, dark-skinned maid who gave him a wide berth and then he opened the door.
Around a long table littered with papers, pencils, tape recorders and half-full ashtrays sat the ten members of the Morpheus Initiative. A video camera on a tripod was set up in the corner to record everything that transpired. Helen sat at the far end of the table, peering at four pages spread in front of her, and George Waxman stood behind her, busily taping sketches to the wall in groups that seemed to be related by their subject matter. He wore a white polo shirt with a turned-up collar and starched blue jeans and cowboy boots, like he had just stepped into a country bar, the kind with peanuts on the floor and a mechanical bull in the corner. He turned at the sound of the door.
“Caleb. Good of you to show up, finally.” He pointed to an open chair. “Take a seat. I didn’t realize you university types had such weak constitutions.”
Caleb’s mother offered a tired smile. “Feeling better, hon?” She wore a multicolored local shawl and big red plastic sunglasses pushed up on her head. She was radiant, her face tanned and her eyes shining. She had the poise and grace of a deity. In fact, in silhouette she looked like an Egyptian goddesses painted on the crumbling walls around this city, like Isis maybe, or Caleb’s local favorite, Seshat, the wife of Thoth and the goddess of writing and libraries.
This blasphemous comparison made Caleb even angrier with her for intruding into his imagination, weaving herself into the tapestry of the ancient religion he had found so fascinating and liberating. Caleb opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly felt overwhelmed with nausea. Weak and his head spinning, he staggered toward the table. He smelled menthol. Smoke clogged his lungs and stung his eyes, a blinding light
…
… and he is descending the narrow spiral staircase again, rounding the final bend as the statues of the god and goddess come into view, leaning toward him with wide, staring eyes.
Hands held him upright. Someone guided him to the chair and he slumped forward, turning his head and taking sharp breaths.
“Okay,” said Waxman, oblivious to Caleb’s condition, and stretched and walked back to the wall. “Let’s see where we are. Caleb, you can just listen for now and play catch-up later. The rest of the team has just come back from the morning session with their impressions of the assignment, which we’ve now taped to the wall. They were each asked to concentrate on a single object and draw whatever came to them.” He set his burning cigarette down in an ashtray as he adjusted his shirt and regarded the drawings again. Helen frowned and moved the ashtray away from Caleb.
Waxman continued. “You were all directed to focus on a symbol, one familiar to most of you. It is a staff with snakes wrapped around it-”
Caleb sat up straight.
“-the caduceus, symbol of medical practice everywhere.” Waxman adjusted his collar. “I’m sure everyone had preconceived notions of its meaning, but that’ll simply be another factor to account when we analyze your visions.” He looked down his glasses at everyone before taking stock of the pictures on the wall.
“Okay, what do we have?” continued Waxman. “Xavier, you drew what look like spheres or balls circling around a snake. Consistent, but unusual. Not sure what that means, yet.”
Caleb’s breath came out in shallow, choking puffs. Flashes of his dream returned with pounding clarity…
… showing him the subterranean chamber, Caesar’s shadow thrust impotently upon the wall, the snake heads eyeing him with indifference.
With the back of his ballpoint pen, Waxman tapped the next sheet. “Two of you, Tom and Nina, drew something like a door with bars across it, and above this Nina sketched a flame and wrote something… that I can’t quite read.”
At the other end of the table, with her lustrous hair tied back behind her head in a yellow scarf, Nina Osseni cleared her throat. Caleb took deep breaths, trying to ground himself in just one world. Sensing the pull again from the other side, he forced all his attention onto this woman. She seemed cat-like, calm and calculating. Her eyes scanned everyone sitting around the table, like she trusted no one and was ready for an attack to come from any angle. “I wrote ‘Light,’” she said, “just because I had the impression that the flame was different somehow. Like it wasn’t meant for warmth, but for illumination only?”
“I see, Nina. Thank you.” Waxman chewed on his pen and took another step to the right. Caleb watched his mother, saw how her gaze followed Waxman, like he was some kind of god, or hero at least, in her eyes.
“Then,” Waxman continued, “we have five mostly unrelated drawings: Mary drew waves with some kind of wreckage or bodies floating in the water; Elliot sketched a tower tipping over on its side; Amelia drew a temple-like building with lots of pillars and put a gate around it; Victor drew a pyramid in the desert, near an oasis; and Dennis… I don’t know what this is.”
“Sorry,” said a heavyset bald man, sweating and smoking across from Caleb. “I didn’t get a good impression of anything this time around. I had the sense of something choking or smothered under heavy layers of, I don’t know, something black and hot.” He rubbed his forehead and took a sip of Pepsi. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry, Dennis.” Waxman smiled. “It’s not an exact science. Good days and bad.”
Helen held up one last drawing. “Then there’s mine,” she said, “which, admittedly, is biased, since I know the ultimate target.”
“True, so while we can’t count yours as a valid blind experiment, it’s telling nonetheless.” Waxman gave her a light pat on the shoulder.
Caleb narrowed his eyes, then tried to focus on his mother’s picture. She had drawn a series of doors, one after another. Seven in total, with some kind of dog or jackal standing guard before each one. But what pulled his eye was something she had drawn in the upper corner, away from the doors.
He stood, reached over Helen’s shoulder and snatched the sheet from her. He held it up, staring at the smaller image of a crudely drawn mountain, its top blown off. Jagged lines rolled down its sides toward two separate sites that looked like domed houses, one on each side of the mountain.
Waxman was frowning. “What are you doing?”
Helen tried to grab it back from him. “Honey,” she said, “just sit and listen for now.”
“I know what this is,” Caleb said, and the room quieted down. He stumbled forward, took a piece of tape and stuck her picture on the wall, overlapping Tom and Victor’s drawings.
“Looks like a volcano erupting,” said Dennis, chewing into a Mars Bar.
“It is.” Caleb glanced back to the drawing and he pointed to the rightmost pillared structure threatened by the zigzagging lava flow. “Mom, what is this you’ve drawn over this house?”
Her face reddened as everyone looked at her. “A book,” she said at last.
Caleb smiled, took a step back and sat down. “In my fever, I had a dream.”
Waxman and Helen both sat quietly, inching forward. Caleb expected one or both to tell him to be quiet, to let them get on with their important analysis and the next phase of the experiment, but in their stunned silence, he continued. “I know what she’s drawn. I know what the caduceus represents and how it relates to the treasure.”
“Treasure?”
“In a minute, Dennis.” Helen snapped her chewing gum. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Okay, Caleb. Go ahead, enlighten us.”
Caleb pointed to Helen’s drawing. “Vesuvius. It erupted in seventy-nine AD, burying both Pompeii and Herculaneum.” He indicated the two houses she had drawn, believing she had intended them to represent two distinct cities. “It happened so fast that people died in their sleep or even walking on the street. All the buildings were encased in seventy feet of volcanic ash and mud, and buried until excavators rediscovered the city by accident in the eighteenth century.”
“Lava!” Dennis exclaimed. “I knew it. I-”
“We all know about Vesuvius.” Waxman coughed and lit up another cigarette. “How does this information help us?”
“My mother drew a book over one of the cities.”
“And…?” Helen led, getting annoyed.
Caleb’s voice faltered a little. Am I on the right track? Everyone was looking at him, and he was sure, with the exception of Waxman, that none of the others believed he had any real psychic abilities, let alone that he shared their vaunted remote-viewing powers. He gathered his confidence. “She drew a book. That’s the key. The key to the doors, the gates, the caduceus-in short, everything the rest of you have drawn.”
“What do you mean?” Waxman leaned forward. Caleb could see the bright blue of his eyes, and he imagined that something black slithered and crept behind them, patiently waiting for a moment to strike. He had the sudden impression that Waxman knew exactly what Caleb was talking about, and was simply hiding it from these people, waiting to see what they could find out on their own.
Caleb took a deep breath. “There was a large personal library in Herculaneum. With few exceptions, such as at Athens or here in Alexandria, most libraries in those days were the possessions of wealthy individuals with a passion for collecting books. The library at Herculaneum belonged to a man named Lucius Calpurnius Piso.”
Someone coughed. Others looked around the table.
“Who was he?” Helen asked at last. She leaned forward in her chair, and her eager eyes met his.
Caleb let the question hang for a moment. When no one else answered, he said, “He was the father-in-law of Julius Caesar.”
Around the room interest piqued, but still the blank stares remained. Nina seemed to be watching him more intently, hungrily even, and it took all of Caleb’s willpower to pull his eyes away from hers.
He took another breath. “In my dream I saw Caesar flee the lighthouse, holding papers he had stolen from its keepers.”
Helen stood up. “Did you see the caduceus? The snakes wrapped around a staff?”
“Carved on a door, about eight feet high. It’s the symbol of Mercury, by the way, of Hermes, and before that the Egyptian equivalent, Thoth.”
“God of Medicine,” Waxman said, eyes beaming.
“And writing,” Caleb added. “They believed he was the one who gave language to mankind and taught us everything from astronomy to medicine and farming. He also counseled the other gods and judged the dead. And it was rumored that he put all of this knowledge into a series of books, the greatest of which he called the Emerald Tablet. ”
The room was quiet, so quiet that Caleb could hear his heart thudding against his ribs. Everyone was looking at him through the haze of smoke.
Helen cleared her throat. “So Caesar may have taken some kind of important papers from the Pharos Lighthouse?”
“Yes,” Caleb answered, his voice cracking. “And unable to decipher the cryptic words and symbols drawn by the lighthouse keepers, he ordered the scroll sent to the library at Herculaneum. His father-in-law’s library. With all of his attention then focused on Rome and other various campaigns, he forgot all about it, and those papers were still there when Vesuvius erupted.” He glanced around at his attentive audience. “Anyway, it could’ve happened that way.”
Waxman was grinning like Caleb had never seen anyone grin. “ The Villa of the Papyri! Found in the 1750s as workers tunneled under Herculaneum. A team of archaeologists have been trying to open and restore the scrolls recovered from the volcanic rock for years.”
Caleb triumphantly sat down and returned his mother’s glowing smile. A sinking feeling nagged at him, though, tugging at his victory. How did Waxman know about Piso’s library? From what Caleb understood of his background, Waxman was a mathematics teacher from Cleveland who had begun a project to document paranormal abilities after receiving visions of his dead mother. His published articles had caught the eye of an archaeological team pursuing sunken ships in the Caribbean, and he had formed a group of like-minded psychics, people like Helen, who had scored well on such tests. Despite all his worldly experience, book smarts never appeared to rank high on his resume, although somehow he had managed to come up with a fitting name for the team, as Morpheus was the lord of dreams, whose mother was the goddess of visions.
Now, at Waxman’s direction, the room burst into a frenzy of activity, of discussions and revelations. Helen and Waxman set about explaining to the others the nature of the real subject, filling them in on the Pharos Lighthouse and the supposedly hidden chamber below.
“We know now what the visions are showing us: there’s a sealed door with the sign of the caduceus on it, and there are seven symbols around the staff, which might represent seven keys or puzzles to solve before the door can be opened.”
The next phase, Waxman said, would be to see if there was anything at Herculaneum that could help them. “We know that a series of earthquakes destroyed the bulk of the Pharos, with the last great quake in 1349 toppling what was left.”
“And,” Helen added, “we can assume that the shifting earth, the collapsed structure and tons and tons of limestone blocks have made it impossible to tunnel down to wherever the original entrance may have been.”
“So isn’t this all just a moot point?” asked Dennis. “What do Caesar’s papers matter if we can’t get into the Pharos chamber?”
“We’ve been scuba diving,” Waxman said, nodding to Victor and Elliot, “but with limited success. We’ll need to focus our energies on that front, see if any of you can find a way in from the sea.”
“What about Qaitbey’s fortress?” Xavier Montross asked. He was in his thirties, with a thick head of orange-red hair. He was shaped like a soccer player, muscular and lean. He never smoked, drank, or consumed junk food, and always sat as far as possible from anyone else, as if he feared contamination. “Anyone check inside there? Snoop around down in the basement?”
Something about his eyes made Caleb anxious, as if of all the psychics assembled here Xavier had something, some speck of real power, the ability to shred Caleb’s own meager gifts. He had always given Caleb the creeps. But fortunately, Xavier was the most reclusive Morpheus member, rarely speaking his mind or voicing his visions.
Helen shook her head. “We have detailed surveys of the structure from the Alexandrian government. Looks like there’s nothing but bedrock accessible from any location. Unless there’s a hidden entrance or tunnel somewhere.”
Caleb coughed, and his voice cracked again. “We could try sonar and see if we could locate hollow chambers?”
“It may come to that,” Waxman said, “although getting permission to excavate the fortress or damage the foundation in any way would be extremely difficult, given the level of protection it enjoys as a Muslim historical site.”
“So we’re back to the sea route,” Helen said. “We know from early writings that the designer of the lighthouse, a brilliant architect named Sostratus, used all sorts of advanced building techniques, including hydraulics, winches, gears and pulleys. We also believe there had to be vents in the harbor where the seawater could funnel in and out to power the internal mechanisms.”
“Such as traps,” Caleb couldn’t help but say.
Waxman shot him a look of caution. “Yes, there are those rumors. And maybe Caesar’s papers reveal exactly how to bypass them. If you did have a true vision, maybe Caesar found the door to the lower chambers, but either couldn’t open it… or feared springing such traps if he didn’t open it in the right way.”
Helen stood up. “If we can find and decipher that ancient document, which miraculously may have been preserved in Vesuvius’s eruption, we might just have the key to the treasure.”
Dennis scratched his head. “What’s this treasure again? A ton of gold or something?”
“We don’t know, exactly,” Helen said. “It could be Alexander’s spoils from his conquests across Asia and India. Legends are vague. All we know is that whatever it is, it’s valuable enough that many have died trying to find it.”
And, Caleb thought ruefully, recalling the father and son who had died before letting Caesar have the scroll, to keep it hidden.
He took a deep, cleansing breath and looked down at his shoes. As the others talked and made plans for a visit to Herculaneum, he noticed a leather case resting by his feet. Waxman’s bag. It had several folding compartments, but one had been left open slightly, and inside was a folder of formal-looking typed pages. At the top right margin of one sheet was a stamped seal- an eagle’s head in profile atop a banner with a radiant sun in the middle.
Caleb’s blood went cold as ice water. The tiny hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He looked up at Waxman. Close to Helen, he was talking and waving his hands, flicking ash into the air as she returned his enthusiasm and pointed at various drawings, making connections.
The eagle… the sun and its rays… He had seen that image, again and again, leaving bloody trails in the nightmares of his father. Seeing it here tied his stomach into barbed-wire knots.
Helen’s smile dropped when she saw Caleb’s face. But he had slipped out of the chair and was backing away from the table, from Waxman. He turned and stumbled out of the room, muttering that he needed to find a bathroom. Around the corner, he staggered into the men’s room, collapsed into the first stall that smelled as if it hadn’t been cleaned since Vesuvius blew its top, and his stomach heaved.
Caleb struggled to the sink, washed his face, then looked into the mirror. Standing behind him, against the wall, was a man with long stringy hair over his face, his head down, arms at his side. He wore a faded-green khaki jacket, dirty pants and muddy boots.
His hands were trembling, his whole body shaking. A mumbling, throaty ramble came from his mouth. Caleb turned, a scream forming — and saw no one. Unable to look in the mirror again, to face either that haunting intruder or the prospect of his own insanity, Caleb crept out of the bathroom, staggered up to his room, collapsed on his bed and descended at once into a gratefully dreamless sleep.