by Sarah Walton
‘Man, I’m blasted. The moon, the stars, they’re all spinning.’
‘Pop him in, dear.’
8
Kiya
Looks like us Snake People aren’t the only ones using the old Egyptian tombs. Belly flat to the edge, Sophia curled up next to me, we watch.
Aeson’s curly hair looks neat compared to the wild manes of the boys playing dice in a circle near him. Legs hugged up to his chest, he’s not moved from the spot where the man in the yellow toga ordered him to sit.
Finally we found prophecy boy, Sophia. Henite said he’s fated. If I save him, maybe I’ll get my Aberamentho robes…
Boys perch on ledges and dangle dirty feet over the funerary area, lit up by torches like an atrium in a grand villa. The gang must have lived here for ages by the look of all the furniture: chairs of all shapes and sizes, tables, cooking pots and jugs of wine.
He must be the ringleader, the one in the yellow toga, lounging on a mattress plonked on top of the sacrificial stone table. Who does he think he is, the Emperor? On the ground in front of him, the group of seven, no eight boys argue over who’s winning at dice.
‘Patch, throw Pretty the dice. Make him feel welcome.’
Aeson gives the leader a look, shifts closer to the circle, and takes the dice from the boy with an eye-patch.
‘We don’t want Pretty to think we’re not friendly, do we, eh? No wonder he did a runner on Venus Street. Show him we’re all one big happy family, eh, lads?’
The ringleader leans on one elbow and swigs from a beaker. Why’s he calling him Pretty?
‘Pretty needs a copper to join the game.’ A tall, skinny man tightens his scabbard round his waist and jumps down from the ledge. I hadn’t seen him there. My heart-spasms flutter like flamingos fleeing from a lion. He has the dark energy of a demon. Long in the tooth, that grin is fiendish. Sophia juts her head forward and hisses. She needs a stroke. There, there, Sophia. Snakes are nervy creatures.
‘I don’t know how to play.’ Aeson looks up at the ringleader. Who in Hades does he think he is anyway, dressed up like a grand Roman in that toga? I don’t like the look of him either, but he’s no demon. He’s just full of himself.
‘He don’t know how to play, you hear that lads?’
They all laugh, dirty laughs like drunk old men.
‘About time you learnt then, eh? Lanky will teach you.’ The ringleader downs the rest of his drink and holds out his beaker. A young boy, no more than six, crawls onto the mattress and fills the beaker from a wine jug that’s nearly as big as him.
The demon slaps Aeson on the back. That was too hard; it hurt him. Swine.
‘You can’t play without money.’ The demon’s toothy sneer shows both sets of long teeth, upper and lower. He’s horrible. Aeson looks like he wants to punch him.
‘I gave you all my money.’ Aeson’s voice sizzles with rage.
The ringleader laughs, props himself upright, pulls a coin from his purse and flicks it into the middle of the circle. ‘That’s a loan, Pretty.’
The boy with the eye-patch throws Aeson a playful grin. ‘I’ll have your copper before you realise what’s hit ya.’
‘Just try, cockeye.’ Aeson has a tongue on him. That’s good, these sort of boys respect rude talk.
‘Nothing wrong with my eye. This patch is protection against spells.’
The demon, all long-limbed, knees bony and jutting out, sits cross-legged in the circle and leers at little Patch. ‘I can put a charm on the other one for you.’
Patch drops his head and rattles the dice in the box. For no reason at all, the demon slaps him round the head. Nasty demon.
‘What you do that for?’ Aeson, keep your mouth shut. He’ll hit you too.
The demon turns his toothy sneer on Aeson. ‘You want an eye-patch too, Pretty?’
The slap of the demon’s long, bony hand against Aeson’s face stings my own. Sophia, what can we do?
Aeson’s on his feet. ‘Don’t call me Pretty.’
Sweet Sophia, he punched the demon in the face!
Boys shift closer and chant encouragement, ‘fight, fight, fight, fight.’
Sophia’s tucked her head under my armpit. She hates commotion.
Aeson runs at the demon’s ribs, but the demon grabs him by the waist and pins him down. Aeson swings and kicks for all he’s worth, but the demon’s too strong. His fist thuds down on Aeson’s cheek, sending his head swinging like a ball on a string. Aeson’s dazed. Oh, Sophia. What can we do to help?
The demon raises his fist again. Aeson just looks at it. Hit him back. Hit him.
‘Eh, eh, Lanky, that’s enough. We don’t want Pretty losing his looks before his first night on Venus Street.’
Lanky the Demon is poised, arm back, fist clenched ready to throw another right hook. He loosens his hold on Aeson’s tunic. Aeson slumps to the gravel with a crunch, rolls on to his side, hands over his face.
Sweet Sophia, is he hurt? We should fetch Seth… but what can he do? The gang’s armed with knives and judging by the scars and bruises, this lot won’t hesitate to use them.
The demon laughs and whips off Patch’s eye-patch. There’s just skin where his eye used to be, a permanent wink.
‘Look, Pretty. Ain’t much profit in one-eyed trade is there, Patch?
Lanky grins. ‘You won’t have those looks long, Pretty.’
‘I, Turk, will decide Pretty’s fate. Now settle down and throw in your bets, men.’
Turk talks like he’s delivering a line he’s memorised from a play.
Directly below me and Sophia, Aeson and Patch lean against the wall and watch the three players left in the game. Aeson’s rubbish at dice – lost his coin on the first throw.
‘The object is to finish as low as you can with all five dice you started with,’ Patch leans over and tells Aeson.
Aeson nods. ‘I worked that out too late.’
‘Quiet!’ The demon shrieks in his shrill evil voice, moves his focus from the dice on the ground in front of him to Aeson and back. Sweet Sophia, he’s a vile, evil creature. Aeson keeps glancing over to the entrance, but there’s no way he’ll escape with the demon leering at him.
Patch pokes his tongue out behind Lanky’s back, then looks at Aeson and grins. Aeson gives him a half smile, but looks tired. Don’t trust any of them, Aeson, not even little Patch.
Turk yawns, pushes himself off the mattress and walks over to the entrance. He slaps one of the skulls hanging over the archway. It swings and clatters against the bones strung next to it. My heart flips – they’re human bones.
‘Lanky, anyone for debt-watch? Otherwise it’s your turn.’
‘I’m in the middle of a game, Julius Caesar.’ Lanky’s tone is a lash of evil.
‘We all do our share here, Lanky.’ Turk clenches his fist and smashes a skull square in the jaw. It’s bottom set of teeth come lose and clatter to the ground. The boys’ murmurs stop. All eyes dart from Lanky to Turk and back again.
Lanky continues to stare at the dice.
‘Pretty owes me a copper. He’s skint, so he can pay it off on watch.’
Turk clicks his fingers at Aeson, and points up to ground level.
‘Don’t owe no one nothing, I don’t,’ Aeson shouts as he walks past Lanky.
Aeson, don’t argue with him.
‘You little shit.’ Lanky looks shocked, gets up, and stomps over to Aeson. Aeson’s fists are up, his stance grounded.
‘Lanky, sit down. Pretty, follow me. It’ll do you good to learn the ropes.’
Right Sophia, round my neck, and keep quiet. We can follow them if they walk slow enough.
The tomb Turk’s taken Aeson to near the seawall must be their lookout. There’s a limestone staircase cut into the rock that leads to a high roof terrace. Let’s squat behind this bush, Sophia, see if we can catch any of their conversation. It’s hard to hear with the sea sloshing against the wall.
‘First time you played dice?’
�
�I play by different rules.’
‘Best to let Lanky win…’
The thud of a wave against the wall drowns out Turk’s voice. Be quiet, sea.
‘… you’ll get a good view up there. If you’re taken by surprise, yell. Got it?’
Turk gives Aeson a friendly slap on the back and walks off.
Aeson climbs the steps to the roof terrace then shouts, ‘When shall I come back?’ His voice is shaky – he’s scared of the hungry ghosts, Sophia.
‘Sunrise. No yelling unless there’s danger. I don’t want to come and rescue you from a fox!’ Turk takes a few steps, then turns and shouts back, ‘The Necropolis is the safest place in Alexandria.’
Turk holds up his filthy yellow toga like a young girl, and disappears into the shadows as soon as he’s out of range of the torches lining the seawall. His silhouette appears against the faint glow at the entrance to the gang’s hideout, then disappears below ground.
Up the steps we go, Sophia. My crutch scrapes the crumbly old limestone.
‘Who’s there?’ Aeson’s voice trembles.
‘It’s only Kiya.’
He stands at the top, fists clenched, jaw tight, feet set ready to attack. I can’t see his eyes or his face. In the thin white blade of light thrown off from the Pharos behind him he’s just a black outline.
‘It’s just Kiya and Sophia the snake.’
‘You again! What are you doing here? You have to go. If Turk finds you, or worse Lanky, Serapis only knows what they’ll do to you.’
‘That demon doesn’t scare me. You need saving and I’m here to rescue you.’
‘Keep that snake away from me. Hooded snakes are deadly.’
‘Sophia protects me. Look, stroke her like this. Feel her soft scales on your fingers? She’s friendly.’
‘Her skin’s dry… and so warm…’
‘That’s because she’s full of the Holy Spirit of Sophia.’
Good, Aeson’s asleep at last, curled up, knees tucked to chest, head resting on his arm.
‘Aoi, aoi, aoi.’ The sacred vowels sung to the melody mothers use to lull babies to sleep has calmed the night. Even the sea is silent.
We must be quiet as we leave, Sophia. We need to get back to the church before sunrise or Henite will worry.
9
Aeson
What’s poking my leg? ‘Ouch!’ Hey, where am I? What’s tickling my arm? I rub my eyes. Am I dreaming? Who’s that standing above me? Why’s the sea behind him? It all comes back at once, the stadium, losing my money, the gang. And crazy Kiya with her snake…
‘Hey, dozy. Some watchman you are!’ Croc stands over me tickling my legs with a stick, laughing. The hilts of two knives shoved in his belt catch the light from low morning sun. This tomb’s roof terrace is higher than it seemed last night.
‘Croc. You just got back?’ I push the stick away and scratch my legs. Is that dirt, or are they getting hairier?
‘I’ll tell you about it later. Let’s get some grub, man.’
‘I told Turk I’d go back at sunrise.’
‘Man, you’re about three hours late then. Come on, I’m starving.’ He grabs my wrist and pulls me to my feet. Does Croc ever stop laughing?
‘Just gonna stash this lot.’ There’s a clatter as he picks up four silver cups by the piece of string he’s tied around their stems. It’s not string. It’s a shiny cord that looks like it’s come from some grand house. One of the knives slips free from his belt and falls on the dusty terrace.
Let’s have a look at that. ‘By Serapis! This is gold!’ The hilt’s studded in turquoise and coral.
Croc’s foot kicks it out my hand. The pain makes my eyes water.
‘Ask before you touch.’ He’s still laughing his hiccup laugh. I bet he giggled as he pinched this lot. He passes me the other knife. Smaller and plain, more of a food knife than a honey-nose’s dagger. I bounce it in my hand – the handle’s well-weighted. I know when a tool feels right in my hand.
‘Keep it. You’ll need it tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Man, where can I stash this so Turk and his skinny side-kick don’t find it?’
We look around. The Necropolis looks harmless in the blue morning sky. I was glad to have Kiya with me. When she left, I whispered her chant to block out the noise of rats scurrying through bushes. Won’t tell Croc about that.
‘I know, downstairs in one of the rooms. No one will snoop in the lookout – too obvious. Aeson, let’s go before we’re spotted up here.’ Croc never calls me Pretty. Respect.
‘Croc, what’s happening tonight?’
‘Meet me at the Agora at sunset.’
The Agora’s massive. ‘Where?’
‘Temple of Antinous. We gotta job, man.’
‘Who says?’
‘D’ya want the knife or not?’
I shrug. ‘Just wanna know the details is all.’
‘Need to know basis.’ He taps his finger on his nose, and runs down the steps, his stash clattering.
That rustle from the bushes at the bottom of the steps – that’s no rat. The whole bush is moving.
‘Croc, wait.’ I catch hold of his arm to stop him going any further down the steps. ‘There’s something in that bush.’
‘Just a bird. Man, you’re jumpy.’
We stare at the bush.
‘There’s someone in there, Croc, watching us.’
‘Man, I was the same after my first night on watch. You’ll get used to it.’
Croc’s probably right. We walk down the rest of the steps, silver cups clanking together as we go.
‘You’ll never guess where the old cinaedus took me last night.’
I’d heard some of the lads talking round the fire about their nights in the great villas with sea views and swimming pools and hundreds of slaves waiting on them like they was the Prefect of Alexandria.
‘Honey-nosed was he?’
‘Man, was he? Crazy too. Go on. Guess.’
‘The Serapeum.’
He rolls his eyes and laughs. ‘You’re not far off.’
‘Dunno – where?’
‘Only the frigging Museum!’ He looks at me, eyes wide. He gets the reaction he was after. My eyes widen too.
‘No way you liar!’
‘Un-bloody-believable, man! Pigged-out on meat and fish and cakes and pastries and quail and nuts all covered in honey and crunchy white flakes that tasted better than anyfink they sells in the Agora. Covered in coconut they was.’
‘Coco-wot?’
‘Coco nut. It’s imported from the East. Brown hairy balls with a white centre. They shave out the white flesh and drink the milk.’
‘Yuk! Is that where you nicked the knives?’
He winks at me and launches into another long description about the Museum’s treasures. I touch the hilt tucked into my belt: can’t believe I own something from the Library. It’s worth a year of night-watches. I’m getting closer, Dad.
‘… hundreds of slaves walk through the corridors all night long checking for fire. They can’t be too careful since Julius Caesar burnt all those books down in the warehouses on the docks.’ These are the Roman’s words, not Croc’s. ‘Talking of warehouses, that’s where our job is… Man, he’s gonna pays us loads.’
‘How much?’
‘Handsomely, he said. How much d’ya reckon that is?’
I think about the ten silicas I lost and the copper I earned at the Stadium. ‘Dunno. Is he paying us coppers or silver coins?’
‘Handsomely’s gotta be gold in my book, man.’
Gold! I’ve never even seen a gold coin. I touch the hilt of my new knife. I need a scabbard for this or it’ll cut me when I sit down.
‘I s’pose everything in the Library’s made of gold.’
‘The Library? Well I didn’t rightly see the book rooms, but the Museum…’
‘What was it like, Croc?’
‘Man, ain’t you bin listening?’
I hadn’t meant the Librar
y, but I don’t want to ask what the sex was like directly.
‘The work was over pretty quick.’ Croc knew what I’d meant. ‘Old guys are the best. Easy money. Grateful. I even got a massage from the slaves. Covered all over in beeswax. Look how shiny my skin is!’
It doesn’t look flaky and dry anymore, but it’s redder, and he’s not itching today. Thought he had lice.
‘I touched the Muses. Man, the marble must be polished everyday it was so clean.’
Imagine getting a private tour of the Museum!
‘Mind your head.’ We bend our knees as we go into a small damp room that smells of the sea. Croc kicks a loose brick from the wall, turns, laughs, and throws me the brick.
‘Come on, give me a hand.’
‘This is the best bit: Rufius – that’s the Roman’s name – he likes being shafted by boys.’
‘No way!’
‘No joke.’ Croc bends over, slaps his arse and pouts his lips. ‘Oooo, Croc, give it to me, Croc. Begged me for it, he did.’ Croc’s impression of a cinaedus is so funny.
‘Man, can you believe it? A Roman acting like a woman! I mean I’d heard about it, knew it happened, but you never fink you’ll end up on a job with one of ’em, do yer?’
‘I thought all cinaedi took it up the arse.’
‘Course, man, but you don’t get many cinaedi after young ones like us, do yer? They usually go for big, hard hairy men.’
‘Like me, d’ya mean?’ I pump the muscles on my arms like I’m lifting iron weights above my head and shake like it’s too heavy for me to lift.
Croc looks at me serious all of a sudden. ‘I reckon you’ll be hard as iron one day, Aeson, no matter what Turk calls you.’ The gap in his front teeth shows when he laughs. ‘Not as strong as me though.’
I elbow him in the ribs and remember the hardness of my cock against him on the stadium wall. He takes a step closer. His lips on my lips surprise me. I can’t remember being kissed since I was tiny. The sensation is foreign, my lips hot. I want him to do it again, but he just laughs and carries on digging out the hole in the wall for his stash.
‘He’s the sort of bloke you could make a killing with: old, no kids, lonely as Hades. Just off the boat from Rome.’