Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  Theon’s smiling, but his gaze is nervous. He need not worry. Apollinos has drilled me on policy.

  ‘Borrow? Alexandria has an army of scribes, Titus. We’ll gladly have them copied for a reasonable price.’

  Theon raises his glass and relaxes. ‘He’s barely disembarked and Rufius is already filling the Library coffers.’

  The old bookworms raise their glasses too. They’re so sozzled they’d raise them if I suggested Titus take the collection as a gift. A positive start nevertheless.

  Apollinos is still hovering, waiting to be excused. When I’m convinced he thinks I’ve forgotten about him, I’ll wave him away.

  Titus leans over and licks his lips. ‘We wouldn’t want to put you to the bother and expense of copying, Rufius. Constantinople’s scribes can do the job if you will send us the originals.’

  He discreetly tucks a piece of paper into a lower fold of my toga.

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘My client wants to cut out the middle man.’ His lips, stained dark with tannin, try a thin smile.

  So he doesn’t work for Damasus. Interesting! There’s money to be made here, but better still I can smell the sweet prospect of screwing Damasus.

  ‘Tell me more about your client.’

  ‘He is a powerful man. It does not matter who he is. You will only ever do business with me. For a man like yourself willing to take the risk, there’s a fortune to be made.’

  How to play this without stirring Theon’s suspicions? Constantinople might be the new capital of the Empire, but they lag behind in books, and a city’s power is in its books.

  My hand pulls the parchment from the fold of my toga. It’s too dark to read it without a torch. Apollinos tries to whip it from my hand. No you don’t; shoo. Interfering slave.

  ‘Come to my house tomorrow. We will talk more then.’

  He licks his top lip as he raises his glass. Perhaps this dinner won’t have been a complete waste of time after all.

  Now where’s that little ruffian Crocodile? I’ll need his services even more if this deal with Titus comes off. The Agora torches are lit, and a dense mass of people mill around the stalls that have been erected for the night market. Crocodile knows how to make himself blend in with a crowd; I won’t see him until he wants me to.

  ‘Rufius?’ A broad-shouldered latecomer shouts my name like a general giving orders. Oooo, I don’t like him.

  ‘You gave me a fright, dear!’

  ‘I’m Olympus, we were discussing the impact of Platonism on the new wave of Arian Christian thought.’ Here we go: bloody bores.

  Theon smiles and takes another sip of wine. I get a childish kick that he doesn’t have a clue I’m planning to pinch his books.

  ‘It’s not exactly new, dear.’ Was that vague enough…?

  ‘He’s quite right.’ A child’s voice. I hadn’t noticed her arrival with an entourage of slaves. So this must be the famed Hypatia, Theon’s daughter. No beauty, but she has an assertive voice.

  ‘They’ve borrowed the remnants of Egyptian thought from the Greeks – the trinity for example is a regurgitation of the Horus-Isis-Orisis myth. Christianity’s a mythical religion.’

  It’s not often I agree with a woman. Just shows you, if you train them like a man, their brains will develop. No doubt the Museum’s laboratories will be after her head for dissection when she’s dead. Could one train a street urchin to speak like her…?

  Olympus bellows at me. ‘And your view, Rufius, on the differentiation between the Nicene and Arian creeds?’

  Titus licks his lips and joins in. ‘Yes, my Christian colleagues tell me they are quite different, but I struggle to see it.’

  I couldn’t give a shit about the nuances of Christian doctrine. Best not say that. I need to at least pretend I’m up to date with the latest if I’m going to provide Titus with their books.

  ‘Well, since we stopped feeding the poor buggers to the lions…’ Ouch! Apollinos knees me in the back. ‘… The Arians subordinate Jesus, whereas the Nicenes consider him equal to the father, the creator god. However, there are some minor groups of Christians who do not consider the father the creator of the earth, but a evil impersonator.’ I lisp, but it’s an assertive lisp. It seems my infamous reputation does not affect my status here. My Roman peers wouldn’t bother asking my opinion on Christian doctrine. With all the eunuchs freely sauntering about the Agora, it’s no wonder these Easterners are a little more open-minded. But as that’s the extent of my knowledge, I’d better draw this to a close. Let’s raise my cup. ‘A toast to my new colleagues.’ Slaves rush to fill everyone’s cups.

  Theon’s being ushered home by his precocious daughter.

  ‘Hen-pecked by my own daughter!’

  The conversation slurs into inarticulate drivel. I’ll fall asleep with the drone from these bookworms.

  Where’s that Crocodile? The plan was to meet at the Temple of Antinous at sunset.

  What rubbish is Titus spewing to that poor doting student? The way his scrawny neck reaches towards the youth, he looks like a new-born chick hungry for food, one hand high up the student’s thigh.

  Hold on… something’s not quite right about the student’s hand sliding round Titus’ midriff. Even if the young lad’s arm could reach that far around him, why are his fingernails so dirty?

  Let’s get up and pour myself some wine to get a better view.

  ‘Shoo slave, I’ll help myself.’

  Ha! What a pleasing coincidence! My bit of rough trade from last night’s fleecing Titus. Oh how funny – the hand that spent the night caressing my genitals gently releases Titus’ purse from beneath his tunic.

  Where’s my blue-eyed Greek from Venus Street hiding?

  There, his dark curly head peeps from behind the statue of Antinous. What a joy to see him again. Dear me, even in this light he’s a beauty. There’s something of Antinous’ charm in his features. Aeson… a hero’s name.

  He hoots a signal to Crocodile that he’s been spotted… and they’re off.

  Titus has no idea he’s been robbed. What fun! I’m a voyeuristic accomplice to the crime, like I’m one of the boys.

  ‘Thief!’ Apollinos points at the two boys running down the steps and darting in between the stalls.

  ‘Apollinos, what are you doing? Come here and shut up.’

  ‘But, master.’

  ‘Apollinos, shush!’ I put my finger over my mouth. ‘How do you intend to follow them if you get them arrested?’

  ‘But, master!’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll retrieve Titus’ purse.’ One way or another. Ha! This is turning out to be a very entertaining evening.

  ‘Grab a couple of slaves and follow Crocodile. You know the plan.’

  The boys are peering from behind a basket stall, assessing whether they’ve been spotted. That must be the Ophite’s stall, reed baskets strung down the sides and across the top.

  I waggle my finger towards the stalls. ‘Off you go, Apollinos, before you lose sight of them.’

  ‌11

  Aeson

  ‘Where’d the Snake Women go? D’ya reckon they magic’d themselves off?’ Croc’s itching his legs again and looking behind him, down the street.

  The old Temple of Dionysus – by Serapis, of course, the Snake People are probably all squatting here. Looks deserted. Street’s empty, doors bolted down for the night, but I know they’re in there.

  ‘Why are we following them again?’ Something feels wrong about this. I don’t want to give the Snake People any trouble. Didn’t tell Croc that I know some Snake People.

  ‘I told yer – it’s all part of old Rufius’ plan. Library policy, he said. Now where did they disappear? My guess is they sneaked into that old temple. Come on.’

  ‘Croc! Wait. Are the Library slaves still behind us?’

  ‘They’re round the corner up the street.’

  ‘Listen, Croc, you stay here. Tell the slaves to wait. I’m going to check it out, right?’

/>   Croc looks confused.

  ‘… unless you want to climb the wall?’

  ‘Man, be my guest.’

  My sandals will have to come off.

  Plenty of holes in the temple wall: easy climbing this is. My stomach pinches like it’s shrinking. An orange and a half-chewed piece of meat with more gristle on it than scraps thrown to tomb dogs ain’t enough to keep my strength up.

  There’s a gap at the top of this old wooden door. If I can get a hold of the iron bars criss-crossing it, I’ll be able to pull myself up and have a look. That’s it.

  Shit! The door’s opening… if I hold on they’ll never know I’m up here. My heart thumps in my chest as someone steps out into the shadow of the street.

  Now the door’s ajar, I can see inside: courtyard’s packed with people sitting cross-legged, muttering to themselves.

  ‘Aeson, I’ve got yer back, man!’

  ‘Croc, stay there.’

  Croc’s knife’s out and he’s running across the street.

  Who’s this? Someone’s coming out of the door. That lunge and lurch – it’s Kiya. Sophia, curled round her neck, hisses in my direction. Kiya turns and looks up.

  ‘Aeson? Is that you up there?’

  So much for not being seen. Time to jump down.

  I land next to Kiya. Sophia’s hood’s open as she hisses at me.

  ‘Oi! Don’t you touch him, or I’ll stab yer, Snake-girl.’

  ‘Easy, Croc. This is Kiya. She’s a friend.’

  ‘Ahh! She’s got a snake round her neck.’

  Croc raises his knife.

  Kiya smiles and ignores Croc.

  ‘Put the knife away, Croc. This is Sophia. Look, she don’t bite.’ I make myself stroke the snake like Kiya showed me, but my hand goes all shaky.

  ‘Man, don’t touch it.’ He’s jittery; keeps looking behind him.

  ‘Sophia won’t bite. She’s just smelling you. Snakes smell with their tongues.’

  A tall woman with two long grey plaits either side of her head peeks round the door. She’s got to be the oldest woman I’ve ever seen…

  ‘Girlie, what’s going on out here. I told ye to keep that door closed.’ I know her voice: no-nonsense and deep as a man’s. Old women’s voices must break like boys’ do. Mine’s started to. It’s the same old woman Dera brought to nurse Dad when the doctors gave up. My eyes sting at the memory of her dressing his wound with her long bony fingers. She made Dad more comfortable at least. She looks like the nomad women who come out of the Nubian desert once a year to trade: tall and thin, long face, long straight nose.

  ‘Come visiting have ye, laddie… and brought a friend wid ye?’ She peers up and down the street. ‘Get in. Quick, that’s it. We don’t want no Roman soldiers snooping.’ She ushers us in through the door and pulls the iron bolt down after us.

  Croc gives me a look as if to say, how on earth do you know Snake People?

  ‘I’m Henite. We don’t know your name, laddie.’ Her face wrinkles like a walnut when she smiles. Almost a full set of teeth.

  ‘Croc.’

  Henite squints closer and sniffs him.

  ‘Don’t put no snake curse on me, lady.’

  ‘You two need a good scrub. When did ye last go to the baths?’

  My cheeks heat up. This is a holy place; it’s disrespectful to be dirty.

  ‘We have to warn them, Croc. What do those Museum slaves want with the Snake People?’

  Croc shrugs.

  ‘What ye waiting fer, laddies?’

  Henite nudges us over to a row of different sized buckets, reaches up and whips a couple of cloths off the hooks on the wall.

  ‘I can wash myself.’ Croc looks at the cloth like it’s a trick, but he copies me and sloshes water over his face and neck.

  ‘You’re a proud one.’ She cackles and shuffles off towards the people sitting cross-legged on the floor of the courtyard, mumbling to themselves.

  Kiya looks like she’s guarding the entrance door, one arm across her chest, the other on her crutch. Why are her earlobes so long and what’s drawn on them? A snake? Creepy cripple girl. Croc scans the courtyard walls for an exit, a habit that’s fast forming with me too in my new gang-life.

  ‘I’m Kiya. Come in and join us.’ Her smile makes Croc force a nervous, clenched-teeth hiccup of a giggle.

  ‘I’ll pray to whoever you want if it means I get fed but you’re not going to convert us into crazy Christians.’

  Kiya laughs too.

  The smell of baked bread’s making me light-headed with hunger.

  ‘Come and meet Seth. I’ve told him all about you.’

  Croc gives me another quizzing look.

  I shrug.

  There’s nearly as many street kids as adults in the courtyard. Dad used to say Christians will take in any urchin to increase their numbers. But some of them are Snake People – they have a snake inked on their earlobes like Kiya and Henite.

  Why’s that group of men and women by the table piled high with loaves of bread drawing straws, Henite included? A tall man with pale Greek skin gets the long straw. The prize is a white robe embroidered in ancient Egyptian letters. He puts it on and beams at everyone in the courtyard.

  ‘Welcome to the new faces.’ Seth’s clothes are made of expensive fabric. Croc showed me how to pick out a rich man in a crowd by his dress and the confident way they walk in the Agora, and Seth’s honey-nose way of pronouncing every vowel is a dead giveaway. He scans the group, his deep voice drawing everyone’s attention away from the food… except for me and Croc.

  ‘This is where we get put under a spell or eaten, man.’

  ‘Croc, we’ve got to warn them.’

  Croc’s gob has dropped open at the table piled with food.

  ‘I’m bloody starving, man. We stay until they let us eat, then we tell them.’

  Kiya leans on her crutch and points at the priest.

  ‘Shush! Sit down and listen to Seth.’

  ‘I’ll stay for the prayers, but I don’t believe in no gods.’ I see it like payment for the food. Nothing’s free, Pretty. Turk told me that.

  Seth flicks his long hair with a sharp neck movement. The way it falls back to frame his face makes him look like Alexander the Great. He’s gotta be Greek.

  Croc’s eyes are shut tight. He whispers, ‘Man, we need to avoid eye contact to protect us from Christian spells.’

  ‘We thank God the Holy Father and Sophia the Holy Spirit for this food.’ Seth sounds like he’s gearing up for a sermon. They’re going to make us sit and look at the food while Longhair drones on.

  Kiya nudges me and whispers, ‘Those are magic letters.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On Seth’s robe.’ She’s nodding at Longhair.

  Copying the letters in the dust with my finger will keep my mind off the food. Wavy lines like the Egyptian symbol for life are at the bottom of the robe. A snake, neck up like it’s dancing for a charmer’s pipe, a cup, a cross and lots of letters. What does it all mean? Who cares… when do we get to eat?

  ‘The knowledge of the snake lives in all of us; we can all transform into the divine.’

  ‘Like Achilles?’ asks a young boy at the front.

  ‘Yes, we can all achieve divine powers like Achilles, Horus, Alexander, Jesus – they are all examples for us to follow.’

  ‘How, man? Tell us.’ Croc’s eyes are open again.

  Why couldn’t Croc keep his gob shut? I’m starving.

  Seth smiles. ‘Today we will focus on the power letters: A-O-I. The sacred vowels help us pass through the Gate of Fear. Repeat the mantra often, whenever you need to. At night, after a bad dream, if you are beaten, ridiculed, hungry. It overcomes all fears in this life and the next. Let us repeat together: ‘Aoi, Aoi, Aoi…’

  The group chant with him. I move my lips, but don’t make a sound, in case I’m being cursed. Seth flicks his hair… does he ever stop grinning?

  ‘Jesus was a man, just like you and me, who spent many
years repeating the magic words and eventually transformed into an angel of light, a perfect man, an Aberamentho. If anyone has any questions, just shout.’ He pauses for a hair-flick. ‘Jesus was crucified by the Romans.’

  A boo goes up from the street kids. It’s like a puppet show in the Agora.

  ‘But the Holy Spirit of Sophia entered Jesus’ dead body.’

  ‘Yayyyy,’ cheer the street kids. A hand goes up.

  ‘How d’ya know?’

  ‘I saw it in a vision.’

  Another hand shoots up. ‘What’s a vision?’

  ‘Good question. It’s like a dream, but when you’re awake.’

  The same hand: ‘But dreams ain’t real.’

  ‘How many times have you woken from a dream in fright?’

  ‘Man, if you slept in the Necropolis you’d know how often.’

  Croc’s mouthy. What’s Henite passing Seth?

  ‘Snake alert! Shit man, they’re gonna feed us to the snakes.’

  Those baskets against the courtyard wall – they must all be full of snakes. Makes me shiver.

  Croc leans over. ‘This is where it gets weird.’

  We keep our eyes on the roof, ready to make a run for it. Seth moves the snake from hand to hand as it wiggles. It’s just a grass snake.

  ‘The snake is the great teacher. As we pray I want you all to imagine a snake unravelling from the base of your spines, uncurling and reaching up to the crown of your head. This is the route to salvation, the road Jesus took: the Path of the Snake. We will now pray together.’

  Seth hands the snake to Henite. Shit – she’s putting it in the basket of bread on the table.

  Seth gives his hair a flick, pulls his robes around him, and sits down on the ground cross-legged. ‘Repeat after me: Sophia, send your light to awaken us from our sleep. So-phi-aaa, So-phi-aaa, OIA, OIA, OIA, OIA, OIA, OIA.’

  The courtyard starts to hum. Street kids giggle. They’re just here for the grub.

  Kiya whispers in my ear, ‘Focus on the snake. Makes it easier.’

  The snake Henite put into the bread-basket is rising, upright, slowly moving from side to side, like they do from the charmers’ baskets in the Agora. Better to keep my eyes on the roof. Definite crazies, these Christians are.