David Sakmyster - The Pharos Objective

“They had pinned their hopes on me,” he said. “Lydia sacrificed herself for their cause-or at least her version of it. She thought only such a trauma would accelerate my spiritual advance toward enlightenment, or purity, in a sense, expecting that I could then fine-tune my talents and open the vault.”

“Why couldn’t they figure it out for themselves?” Waxman asked. “If this tablet thing was translated into Arabic, transmitted around the world after they saved some early books from the Christian fanatics, surely others have had access to the spells or whatever?”

“Apparently something’s missing,” Caleb said. “The Philosopher’s Stone. The Holy Grail. They can’t find it, although they’ve come close. No alchemist has ever been able to truly perfect the process and obtain it. Maybe that’s because the actual physical copies of the books are not available. The early legends maintain that the material the Emerald Tablet was written on had something to do with the powers it could grant. Or else, maybe there were translation errors.”

Waxman shrugged. “Whatever. In any case, Gregory and his gang want what we have, or what they think we might have. We have to figure this out first.”

“Why do you care so much?” Caleb asked, turning to Waxman. “I mean, if the vault doesn’t hold riches and gold and everything; if this turns out to be nothing but a collection of old books, won’t you be pissed? You’ll have wasted your entire life.”

Helen leaned over the table. “Caleb, if it’s what you think it is, we’ll transform the planet. We’ll be heroes.”

“Rich heroes,” Phoebe added, smirking.

“Good enough for me,” Waxman said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“All right,” Helen said. “Caleb, will you help us again? It’ll be like old times.”

He tried to smile. “I don’t know. I guess, as long as it’s not like it was when we were kids, with Phoebe and me staying in our rooms while you adults have all the fun.”

“Not this time,” his mother said.

Caleb lowered his head and sighed. “I’m in.”

Rimini, Italy

The valley hugged the base of a precipitous mountain range, its tips shrouded in dark clouds. From the chiseled landscape and the jutting hills, Caleb could see where Dante had received the inspiration for his description of Purgatory in The Divine Comedy. A short ride past Rimini led to Fortress San Leo. They could have driven up and toured the museum and the old prison and military barracks, but from the details of Phoebe’s vision, there would be nothing there of any help. By the time Cagliostro had been imprisoned inside San Leo, he had already disposed of the scroll. Maybe he had been tortured in the castle, and Caleb could possibly attempt to view his confession, but that seemed like a long shot.

Instead, with their driver taking the turns at breakneck speeds, they made their way into town, to the church Phoebe had seen. Finally, they rode through a grand Roman arch crowned with medieval battlements. It was the first of its kind built north of Rome, their guide explained, and initially dedicated to Augustus in 27 BC. They passed a white marble bridge, built by Tiberius, then drove into the bustling resort town, just as the sun sank below the red rooftops and the vineyard-studded hills.

Cafes, hotels and nightclubs flew by as their driver took the narrow roads at even higher speeds while looking over his shoulder and telling his passengers where to eat, how to find quiet areas on the beach, where to get the best wine. He told them, “Most vacationers gone now for the season. The town very quiet tonight. No more celebrations.”

“Too bad,” Caleb said.

Then, though they didn’t ask for it, the driver offered a quick history lesson, relating how Rimini had emerged from Byzantine rule in 1320 as an independent city, and was lorded over by the Malatesta family for over 200 years. The last ruler, Sigismondo Malatesta, had taken upon himself the great work of expanding the Franciscan chapel at the center of town in 1447, in which he decided to house the crypts of his ancestors. The great Florentine architect and precursor of da Vinci, Leon Battista Alberti, had designed the exterior, incorporating Roman arches and grand pilasters. The interior, however, was what had caused such consternation and debate for centuries to come. Within the sacristies and chapels, pagan sculptures, zodiac emblems and mystical designs merged with Christian decor, crucifixes and Madonnas.

Malatesta never quite finished the reconstruction, as his political fortunes had turned and the papacy closed in, confiscating his lands and power. “Some say his true purpose in re-designing the church was for the love of his life, Signora Isotta, his third wife.” The driver turned and grinned at them, his oily mustache fanned across his face. “You will see everywhere sculptures of the ‘I’ and ‘S’ twisted together, for ‘Isotta’ and ‘Sigismondo.’ Much like the young people write on trees, no?”

Caleb nodded, smiling, but the imagery had him considering alternatives. An entwined S… like a snake… around an I, or central staff… Scholars had theorized about this church and that symbol for two hundred years, wondering what cipher Malatesta might have intended. The prevailing notion of a tribute to his wife was certainly romantic, but Caleb had the feeling there had been other forces at work, forces that had perhaps influenced Cagliostro and led him to trust that his secret would be safe here.

Finally, they passed through the Piazza Tre Martiri and pulled up onto via Garibaldi. “There it is,” said the driver. “Tempio Malatestiano. The old Chapel San Francesco.”

Helen thanked the driver and offered a large tip, then told him not to wait. They stood before the arched doorway and admired the great facade with the bell tower in the background.

“Now what?” Caleb asked, looking at his watch. It was six o’clock.

“We go in,” said Waxman, eyeing the doorway, and then looking around at the landmarks as a general would scout a battlefield before an attack. “They close at seven, so we only have an hour to see if it’s here.”

“And if it is?”

Waxman gave Caleb a sideways glance. “I’ll figure something out.”

Caleb lingered outside for several minutes, observing the intricate architecture, the host of varying symbols. Wreaths, vines and flowers, an elephant-apparently the symbol of the Malatesta family-and then, of course, the S-and-I image repeated several times.

Again he thought of the caduceus.

“What is it?” Helen asked over his shoulder. She had moved in close, and he could smell her perfume, like a floral overabundance attempting to hide something musty and old.

“I was just thinking. About how it looks like a snake coiled around a staff. Or, remember the Garden of Eden? The serpent was demonized because he offered Eve the gift of knowledge.”

“Good and evil,” she whispered. “Knowledge of everything. All from the fruit of the Tree.”

“Exactly.” Caleb pointed to the symbol. “It all stems from fear-fear that we might learn too much about this world, about ourselves. Look at the tower of Babel story; God punished us when we all got together and spoke the same language and-”

“-built a tower challenging the heavens.” Helen ruffled his hair as if he were still a little boy. “You and your theories. So much like your father. You read too many books, you know, both of you.”

“Did you really expect me to be that different from him?”

“Never,” she said with a softening smile, “and I wouldn’t want you to change. Come on, let’s go inside.”

He followed her in, craning his neck at the massive arch as he walked into a stuffy chapel, a hint of incense on the air, with sacristy areas on the left and right, and rows of candles down the middle, flickering before several Rosary-carrying locals and a few tourists snapping pictures. The crucifix above the main altar was the most solemn image in the church. The rest of the artwork-lace, sculptures and paintings of Roman cherubs and young children frolicking, scenes of angels dancing on the columns and the figures of the zodiac around the planets-all seemed more playful.