"There!" she said, this time in a whisper. I squinted uncertainly; might the glimmer of light be merely a star twinkling just above the water's edge? But no, the light was too steady to be a star, and as we watched, little by little it grew righter.

"Pharos," I whispered, for that was the name of the lighthouse, as well as the name of the island upon which it was built-the oldest and by far the greatest lighthouse in all the world. With the brightest flame ever produced by men, set atop the tallest tower ever built, for hundreds of years it had guided ships to Alexandria.

"Alexandria!" Bethesda whispered. She had been born there, and there I had met her during my travels as a young man. After I took her home with me to Rome, neither of us had ever returned. But no one forgets Alexandria. Over the years I had dreamed often of the city's broad avenues and magnificent temples. In the last few days, as the ship brought us ever nearer, memories had come flooding back in overwhelming profusion-not only sights and sounds but also flavors and smells and tactile sensations. I swooned, remembering waves of heat from the paving stones of the Canopic Way on a hot day, the dry kiss of a desert breeze through the palm trees, the cool refreshment of a swim in Lake Mareotis under the looming skyline of the city.

During the journey, Bethesda and I made a game of sharing memories, trading them back and forth like children playing tag. Either of us had merely to say a word to spark a memory that sparked yet more memories. Now, with the light of the Pharos twinkling in the distance, she squeezed my hand and whispered, "Scarab."

I sighed. "The jeweler with that little shop just down the hill from the temple of Serapis."

Bethesda nodded. "Yes, the one with the crooked nose."

"No, that was his assistant. The jeweler himself-"

"-had a bald spot and a wattle neck. Yes, I remember now."