Ink of Ages Fiction Prize

Shining Light

The rays of the morning sun emerged from behind the window hangings, crept silently across the floor like a thief, then settled on his pillow. Sostratus groaned and turned his head away from the light. He was lying on his back having spent too long staring up at the ceiling, unable to move. Despina had risen some time ago and the aroma of the morning bread from the oven performed a seductive dance about the house.

What ails me? Am I plagued by some sickness? Or perhaps all my energy has been drained, stolen by malevolent spirits? As a man of science, he craved explanations. His life was ruled by cause and effect, problems and solutions, riddles to be solved. Yet, here he lay, unable to lift even an arm. It were as if the laws of nature had sat squarely on his chest to mock his ordered understanding of the world.

“Sostratus, if you loiter there any longer, you’ll turn green before this bread does.” Despina had entered the room and stood over him, hands on hips. Her voice was scolding but he saw concern in her dark eyes, her brow furrowed and her flaxen hair dishevelled.

“I can’t seem to … just give me a while longer.”

She sat on the corner of the bed and took his hand in hers, gently massaging it with her thumb.

“You should walk away from this accursed commission. It’s brought you nothing but trouble. Working all hours the gods send. Restless nights. You can’t even stir yourself to eat. Look at you. You’re half the man I married! All to build some infernal lighthouse which nobody wants.”

Something in her words had the desired effect. Sostratus levered himself up onto his elbows. “It’s not infernal. It will be a beacon for the people. A symbol of our nation’s prosperity. A signal to all travellers to these shores that they are welcome in our land …”

Her features relaxed and Despina threw his hand back onto the bed with a wry smile.

“Well, this particular traveller will no longer be welcome in my bed unless he shifts his skinny rear-end right now.”

She swept out of the room. Sostratus felt the weight somewhat lifted and was able to command his legs into motion. Throughout the last year, his wife had been his saviour. She was, of course, right. He was conscious that his work was affecting him. It was not as if he had anyone to share the load. In the early days, the great and the good of Alexandria had offered nothing but words of support. You are not alone in this, they proclaimed. We will be right there beside you every step of the way. From the society of architects to heads of the trade guilds to the Royal Court itself. All had pledged their backing.

He heaved himself out of bed and stretched his arms wide, muttering a derisive hah. The supposed backing proved somewhat elusive. Perhaps it was the sheer scale of the project. Perhaps a task of such magnitude would always necessitate a modicum of bickering. No, that word hardly did it justice, he thought: conniving; back-biting; infighting. Those mealy-mouthed, treacherous money-grabbers had quickly become vindictive, obstructive, unbearable …. He stopped himself. In her inimitable way, Despina had reminded him of the pride he felt toward this undertaking. He rose to his feet and determined to remain positive.

By the time he had joined his wife for breakfast, apologised profusely for his earlier lethargy and promised to make it up to her, Sostratus felt ready to take on the gods themselves.

“I want you home early, you hear? And don’t forget to speak to the builders – we need the roof fixed and the plaster repaired. How can anyone trust you to build your beacon for the people if your own house is falling down around you?”

“Yes, Despina.”

“And be sure to eat something,” she called as he left the house, “or I may decide to take you to market and trade you for a husband with more meat on his bones!”

“I love you too, my dear!” he shouted back, a spring in his step.

His house stood on the outskirts of Alexandria. As he walked along the path adjacent to the shore, he studied the distant sliver of land forming one outstretched arm of the harbour, as though beckoning ships to safety. Beyond was the small outcrop of Pharos where the lighthouse was to be built, one day to be connected by a causeway. King Ptolemy had asked for a monument which would be the awe of the world. Something which would endure for many lifetimes and be a wonder for all to behold. Sostratus had accepted the challenge and proposed an edifice unlike any other.

Overambitious, that was the word most employed once the critics turned on him. His fellow architects, tapping the plans with gnarled fingers, asserted that such a building would never stand, doomed to collapse at the onset of the first storm. The trade guilds, tutting and shaking their

heads, were convinced that the necessary sandstone and limestone could never be quarried in sufficient quantity. The keepers of the Royal Treasury, themselves draped in the finest of clothing and jewellery, were aghast at the cost. Even the priests, feverishly thumbing through dusty parchments, had voiced concerns that the gods would be affronted by a civic building overlooking their temples.

“Curse you all!” shouted Sostratus to no one in particular, although a nearby heron looked up in apparent indignation. If he were honest, he would feel more inclined to battle the harbingers of doom if it were not for the King’s insistence on denying him any credit for the finished work. Of course, he admired Ptolemy for his vision. It could not have been easy for a ruler to succeed Alexander the Great and the new King needed to make his own mark. Sostratus had convinced Ptolemy that construction of the lighthouse was achievable given the required royal consents and approvals.

“Yes … yes … you have my permissions,” Ptolemy had muttered, waving his hand dismissively as though that was all Sostratus needed. “Just be sure that the structure bears your King’s name and no other! I wish to see no tribute to the gods nor to that megalomaniac Alexander. Nor to any civic officials.” He looked down at Sostratus pointedly.

Despina was furious that his name would not appear on the building.

“You devote half your life to this … this …” she had shouted, pointing across to the island of Pharos, “foolishness, without any tribute? No recognition of the sacrifice you’re making? No acknowledgment that it was your design, your perseverance that will see it through? That pompous, overbearing …” And so she continued. Sostratus did not regard himself as conceited but it did gall him that the designer of the lighthouse, assuming it would ever be completed, would be consigned to anonymity. King Ptolemy’s acolytes would be sure to spot any attempt to inscribe his name, however subtle.

The day presented the usual challenges. The Builders’ Guild were represented by geriatric men with white flowing beards undulating in the breeze like the foam on the Mediterranean waves. They had maintained for several weeks that the necessary construction materials could never be produced in time, but now suddenly admitted that it may be possible. This came as no surprise to Sostratus, who had himself visited Wadi Hammamat and spoken to the quarrymen who were more than happy to accept the commission. The delay had been caused by the Guild leaders themselves, hoping to prolong negotiations in order to line their own pockets. Sostratus had finally convinced the Royal Treasury to become involved in order to curb their greed.

By the time he came home, the hour was late. He sensed Despina was about to berate him, until she saw how fatigued he must have looked. He slumped into some cushions and held out his arms. Despina shook her head and sank down beside him. Feeling her body next to his made the most wretched day bearable.

 “I am the most worthless husband.”

“Yes, you are, but fortunately the gods have blessed you with a considerate wife.”

“That they have.” He looked round the room. “Is our home really about to fall down around our heads?”

“Probably. But while you were out all day trying to construct your beacon for the people, I made my own repairs to the roof and to the plastering. We still need the builder, but it should hold for now.”

“So, I am still welcome in your bed?” He hugged her close.

“Well, as long as you are prepared to risk a chunk of plaster falling on your head. Then you’ll ask why you did not listen to your wife in the first place.”

Sostratus visualised a rain of plaster falling upon him at the most inopportune moment, to reveal the night sky above. In reality, he trusted Despina’s workmanship to last longer than any builder’s. He stared at the ceiling; cogs began turning in his mind. Ideas about surfaces and interiors; facades hiding hidden secrets; problems and solutions.

“Another frustrating day, my husband?”

“Just another of many. But I think I might have an idea to at least ease one burden ...”

“Wonderful. Tell me all about it in the morning.”

Sostratus smiled to himself, hugged her tightly, and for the first time for a while believed his lighthouse might just bear his name after all.

***

Sostratus completed The Lighthouse of Alexandria in twelve years and it remained one of the world’s tallest buildings for many centuries until severely damaged by successive earthquakes more than a thousand years later. The designer was documented as Sostratus of Cnidus and one second-century historian wrote that his identity had been inscribed beneath plaster bearing a dedication to King Ptolemy. When the plaster eventually wore off, Sostratus’s name was visible in the stone.