by Sarah Walton
‘Can you feel your spine tingling? This is my favourite bit – when I leave my body.’
Crazy Snake Girl. The chant takes on a life of its own: AOI-AOI-AOI. The atmosphere in the courtyard changes. It reminds me of the stadium, like the courtyard has a pulse, and we are all part of it. I’m not joining in… could be a spell.
Longhair raises his arms and brings a halt to the chanting with a hair-flick. ‘Sophia bless this food.’ Seth’s a bit funny. A giggle bubbles in my chest. Just in time, before the laughter reaches my mouth, he adds, ‘Let’s eat!’
‘Yay!’ Street kids run at the table like it’s a race. My stomach’s begging me to join them, but I’m not a child anymore. I’ll queue with the adults.
Here comes Longhair.
‘Don’t worry, we won’t put any spells on you, lads.’ He’s joking. Seth sits down and talks to us while we scoff the food. He’s pretty relaxed. I’ll tell him not to open the doors to anyone when I’ve finished my chicken leg.
Seth looks at the symbols I’ve made in the sand.
‘You write well.’
In case he’s taking the piss, I roll my eyes and rub out the letters.
What’s that banging?
‘Open up for the Library Guard.’
The street kids are on their feet – the voice of authority’s made them nervous.
Croc and me look at each other.
‘Shit, man!’
Croc looks at the roof. I shake my head.
Seth stares at the door, gets up and walks past everyone – robe fluttering behind him – to lift the door bolt. Five Library guards in white tunics follow Seth across the courtyard and go into a room. Street kids scoot for the door, frightened of anyone in uniform.
‘No need to run, children. The librarians will not be staying long,’ Henite says for the benefit of two armed guards who’ve remained at the entrance, hands on scabbards. Henite follows Seth inside the temple.
What’s she screaming?
‘Not the book!’
One of the Library slaves steps back into the courtyard with a scroll of papyrus in his hand.
Croc looks confused. ‘That’s Rufius’ slave.’
‘They’ll return it,’ Seth tries to calm her as they follow the Library slave.
There’s panic in Henite’s voice. ‘We’ll never see it again.’
‘Lady, I can assure you, the Library has a policy of returning manuscripts.’ The slave talks like Seth. Two educated Greeks. Funny the slave’s in charge.
Kiya stands at the entrance with a group of street kids she’s rounded up, free arm across her chest.
‘What’s your crazy cripple mate doing?’ Croc’s as amazed as me.
‘AOI-AOI-AOI,’ she chants.
‘Aoi-aoi-aoi,’ they join in, wary at first and then louder as they see the slave stop.
The guards laugh.
‘Putting a spell on us are you, little one?’ The tall slave is impatient.
‘Aoi-aoi-aoi,’ they chant.
Oh Serapis, she’s not going to, is she? She wouldn’t dare?
‘Let us pass and there’ll be no blood spilt.’
‘Go!’ shouts Kiya and children tip over the snake baskets.
‘Snake!’
‘Snake!’
Library guards yell and jump to avoid hundreds of snakes: browns, oranges, greens and blacks writhe on the floor – not all as harmless as Seth’s grass snake. Some have hoods.
The guards jump back, swords drawn. They stamp at the snakes to warn them off and slice down on them with their swords.
‘Stop!’ Seth’s voice projects around the courtyard, ‘Let them take The Book of Wisdom. We trust you will return our sacred book, sir.’
A Library guard pushes Kiya aside.
‘Crazy heretics.’
The snakes hiss. Kiya starts to cry, ‘But that’s the only copy we have.’
Henite’s crying too. ‘But Seth, they threatened to arrest us all. You know the penalty for possessing heretic books. They can kill us, torture the children. A boy was executed after a sham of a trial at Antioch just for reciting the sacred vowels at the baths.’
Seth is calm, his arm round Henite’s shoulder.
‘Sister, they just wanted The Book of Wisdom.’
‘But, brother, how did they know we were here?’
‘I don’t know, Henite.’
Seth throws us a flick of a look then smiles. Not his fake wide grin, but a kind smile. He knows it was us, but he’s not going to tell Kiya and Henite. That makes me feel well guilty. Seth’s sweet, like the rest of them.
Croc looks at me. ‘Shit, man!’
‘Croc, we’ve got to get that book back. This is all our fault.’
‘We’ll think of something, but first we’ve gotta meet Lanky, or you and me, we’re dead meat.’
12
Rufius
Apollinos should be back by now. We need to organise a distribution network for Arch-bloody-bishop Damasus’ books. Where did that slave put my letter box? Boxes everywhere. I hate mess. This villa needs a complete overhaul: new floors, fresh plaster, walls skimmed and painted. Looks like it’s been in this state for a century or more. I can’t even decipher the images on the frescos beneath the peeling paint. Is that a bird in a tree? Bah! There’s dust everywhere.
Ah, here it is, on my desk. Titus’ list rests on top of Damasus’ list: now that’s justice. What an ugly lizard of a man Titus was. I don’t trust him any more than I trust Damasus… although I do like the crackle of his top quality parchment… I’ll need reliable messengers to deliver all these books. Not my own slaves: nothing can lead back to me. Ha! Satisfaction at last – I’ll fiddle Damasus and he won’t have a clue. I’ll have to make deliveries to his clients too, but from the look of this list, Titus is better connected. That will give my old slave something else to fret about.
Where is Apollinos? I hate pacing, but I can’t sit still. On a hot night like this it’s good to feel the cool marble of the terrace under my feet. Bah! Cursed yellow silks sway around the terrace doors in the sea breeze; they nearly tripped me up. The stars are bright tonight… perhaps I’ll have a starry sky painted on the bedroom ceilings?
The view over the harbour’s not bad. Shocking that only fourteen years ago the Royal Palace, built on its own promontory, would have blocked the horizon. Now a peninsula submerged forever, the coastline gives no hint it ever existed. Theon said this house was built for one of the royals, designed by Greek architects, so it’s solid… unless another great wave washes Alexandria clean away from the limestone lip of Egypt. What a terrifying thought!
Humph! Old-fashioned wall paintings will have to go… and this terrace needs enlarging, but the house has potential. I will call it Villa Biblus… no, Biblos, now I’m in a Greek city. Apollinos will like that. Villa Biblos.
Bah! My glass is empty.
‘Wine, dear.’
Why can’t the slave walk without drawing attention to herself? The girl’s an exhibitionist. I can’t fault Alexandria for shopping. She’s just one of many exquisite finds at the Emporium: expensive, captured in some remote city. The slave trader was vague, but it’s evident the girl’s not been a slave long enough to become meek. As useless as a princess in a laundry room, master, complained Apollinos. He might be right, but I like to watch her. Hair black as a panther: Indian hair they call it; eyes set wide on her flat face, skin the sheen of high-polished ebony, tight as if it’s been waxed and stretched for a funeral mask. She’ll add a decorative touch to Villa Biblos. She’s more of a pet, but I can’t expect Apollinos to understand that. He’s too practical.
‘Were you trained by a herd of hippos?’
Did she tut?
‘Tut.’
Ha! A tutting slave, well I never! ‘Do you want a whipping, girl?’
Her almond eyes widen in surprise. Sized me up as a soft old fool, have you? She’s not wrong: I’ll leave the whipping for Apollinos.
‘I suppose you’ve worked out m
y preference by now, dear?’ I hold her chin in my hand. As her skinny black arm offers me the cup, gold bangles I picked out for her livery clink. ‘My guests might enjoy you, Cunty, but I’ll pretend you’re mine to keep their greedy hands off you.’
‘It bites!’ She looks down at her groin.
‘Ha! Feisty.’ Usually slaves try to melt into the wall paintings.
I had to dismiss the boys tonight. Dear things, but anything short of that blue-eyed siren only serves to torment me.
A door slams downstairs and Apollinos shouts orders. He’ll have his work cut out for him training the new slaves: they all fancy themselves, but they’re young enough to be moulded.
Here comes his flat-footed slap up the stairs.
Good, Apollinos has a scroll in his hand. He looks rather dishevelled, and why’s he panting like he’s run a marathon?
‘Did Crocodile give you the run around, Apollinos?’
‘The Ophites, master, they set their snakes on us.’
‘Ha! So that’s snake blood on your sword?’
‘Yes, master.’ He exhales loudly. Apollinos hates anything that slithers, even worms. The new slaves will have fun with him when I tell them. Ha!
‘I hope that’s the Pistis Sophia you’re carrying, Apollinos?’
‘Yes, master. Here’s The Book of Wisdom.’
The papyrus is old, translucent in places. Second century, I’d say. And here are the mysterious, untranslatable words, the vowels that make no sense. Some scholars call it magic – ‘aeeiouo iao aoi oia’ – I call it Christian jibberish, but it’s what it’s worth that matters.
‘Bugger! This book’s on both Damasus and Titus’ list. I’ll need two copies.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Stop panting and have a glass of wine, Apollinos.’
‘Master?’
‘You’ve earned it, dear.’ He looks at the jug. ‘Not my wine, dear.’ His neck’s red with embarrassment. I shouldn’t tease him.
‘Thank you, master.’
‘One down; a list to go, Apollinos. Is Croc clear on the details of his next job?’
‘But, master, I only told them to steal, er, borrow the Gospel of Philip.’
‘Was the Greek boy with him?’
‘We followed two boys.’
‘Excellent. We need to get all these books on Titus’ list tonight as well.’ He squints at the parchment over my shoulder. The girl’s dark eyes narrow: she’s taking it all in.
‘We can’t manage all of them, master, not in one night.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too many. Someone will notice.’
‘Well if they do, it won’t lead back to us, but to a gang of thieving street urchins.’
‘No, master, not tonight. It’s too risky. We don’t know the guards’ routines…’
‘No?’ Waiting and pacing has made my nerves ragged. ‘NO! How dare you. Cunty, pass me the whip.’
She winks at Apollinos and hands it to me. Ha! She’ll fit in at Biblos just fine.
‘Kneel down, Apollinos.’ I should send the girl out to save his humiliation, but better she sees it than feels it. He pulls his tunic up and lowers his head. It’s been years, but he knows the drill.
Apollinos whimpers after the first few thrashes. That’s enough. The sight of red lines across his back hurts me more than him. ‘Pull down your tunic, for Bacchus’ sake.’ Apollinos knows better than to defy me… perhaps it was the snakes?
The girl’s face is grim as I hand her the whip. Not as soft as you thought, girl?
‘The whip is not just for decoration in this house, girl. Do as Apollinos tells you, or it will be the same for you. Apollinos, after you’ve had a glass of wine – the good stuff – nip down to Venus Street, find that pimp Turk I told you about, and bring him back here.’
‘Turk? What shall I tell him, master?’
‘Tell the pimp I have a job for him. We need an army to pinch this lot.’ I hold out Titus’ list to Apollinos.
The tall Greek walks quietly to the door.
‘Apollinos!’
‘Yes, master?’
‘You’ve forgotten Titus’ list.’ He pads back over to me. ‘Keep your wits about you, dear.’ I say it gently.
‘Yes, master.’ His gaze is on the broken mosaic floor. We’ll need a new floor too. Apollinos is good at dealing with builders.
‘Girl, I told you to keep my glass filled.’
By Bacchus, she still looks like she has better things to do than pour my wine. Ha!
‘You’ll keep your looks here, sweetie.’ Her skin’s soft against my thumb. My perfect boy has the same sharp cheekbones.
She thumps back to her position by the door, next to the ivory bust of me as a boy.
‘You walk like a bloody elephant, Cunty.’
Back to pacing. A bird flutters out of the palm fronds hanging over the terrace. How bright the Pharos shines beyond the harbour. Now customs are closed the docks are quiet and tavern lights line the main quay. No ships dock this end of the harbour, just houses for Alexandria’s rich. Apart from a drunk singing a sea shanty in the distance, the only sound is the waves lapping against the seawall. Aeson and Croc will be at the other end by now, at the Library warehouses.
‘Be careful, my Olympian-eyed boy.’
I’m my own man. His defiant voice echoes in my mind; that crackle of boys’ voices as they’re breaking never fails to excite me. How I long to watch him grow and harden into a man. My whole being throbs at the thought of it. Hurry up, Apollinos. I must have that boy.
13
Aeson
We stop to catch our breath at the corner of Serapis Street, throw a few stones at the wheels of the chariots that speed past.
‘What’s the deal with the Roman?’
‘Tell you when we get there.’ He slaps my back and runs off down a long alley that leads to the harbour. The sea breeze don’t reach down these back streets Croc takes. I’ve got a sicky feeling about what happened in the church. Kiya and Henite were so upset… their sobs cut right through me, like the brickie-wives’ wailing at Dad’s funeral.
‘Croc, I feel bad about leading Library slaves to the church.’
‘Weren’t no church. They’re squatters, like the gang in the old Egyptian tomb.’ Croc sees I’m serious. ‘Me too – those Snake People are more generous than Turk with their hand-outs.’
‘I’m going to get their book back.’
‘How?’
‘Dunno yet.’
‘You could smooch up to the old cinaedus. He was going on and on about you last night, made me promise I’d bring you with me after we done this job.’ Croc purses his lips and makes loud kissing noises.
‘Give it a rest, Croc.’ I’ll get him for that… he darts off down another alley, but I’m faster than him.
Lanky slouches against the wall of one of the Library warehouses that line the docks. ‘You two took yer time.’ He spits as he says it. He’s still angry.
There’s a fat boy with him, blindfolded and trembling with fright. Rich kid from the look of his tunic. Can’t tell his age too well with the dirty rag Lanky’s tied over his eyes. His cheeks haven’t lost their baby chub. Lanky whispers something in his ear. The boy gives out a whine like a small dog. What nasty story is Lanky tormenting him with? Lanky smiles to himself, looks at me and yanks off the kid’s blindfold.
The boy blinks, eyes wide in terror. We must look like proper scoundrels to him.
‘I got you a rich kid, Croc. Now what’s the deal with your honey-daddy?’
Croc straightens and takes charge. ‘Right, listen up. The Roman wants us to pinch an old book.’
‘We’ll never get past the Library Guard.’ Pinching apples off carts in the Agora’s one thing, break and entry’s something else. Men get sent to the quarries for that.
Croc’s getting impatient. ‘Honey-daddy’s taken care of the guard, man. Nobody will come snooping ’til morning.’
Lanky steps out of the shadow of
the wall and nods up towards the warehouse, six stories high. ‘Ready for some climbing, Pretty?’
My belly tightens at the sight of the cut from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone. It makes his mouth look painted on like a scary theatre mask. The blood’s clotted, but that’s going to scar his lip.
‘Checking out your handy-work are you, Pretty? Don’t worry, I’ll repay you for it.’ His long-toothed sneer makes me shudder.
‘It’s just a flesh wound, Lanky, man. And this is my deal I got going with honey-nose, so I’m calling the shots.’
Lanky curls his top lip at Croc. Did he growl? I can see why Kiya called him a demon. He points up at a low doorway near the top for the pulley. ‘Pretty’s gonna squeeze his tight little arse through that hole at the top.’
I look at Croc. He shrugs.
‘What about the kid?’
‘He’s going up wiv you… unless Pretty can read?’
They both laugh: Croc, head flung back, Lanky, lips peeled back from his teeth. His gums are receding. It’s not a piss take. What use are letters to a street kid?
The fat kid looks at me and blinks. You’re laughing too, aren’t you? I want to slap his fat face.
‘That’s what our little friend’s for.’ Croc rolls his eyes with impatience.
‘A very learned little shit, ain’t ya?’ Lanky yanks the boy’s tunic, scrunches it up round his neck below his double chins. ‘Don’t mess with Pretty. I told ya, he’s got a nasty temper.’ Is that respect in Lanky’s voice, or is he just tormenting the boy?
‘Pl-please don’t h-hurt me. l’ll d-do anything.’ The petrified kid stammers and shakes. Reckon he’s a worse climber than Croc, I do.
‘Too right you will. Stop crying, or I’ll cut out your tongue.’
The boy clamps his mouth shut. I’m just as scared of Lanky as the kid but I don’t show it.
I’m not risking getting caught and being sent to a quarry… or worse, a mine for a few coppers. ‘What do I get out of it?’
‘We split the fee three ways.’ Croc looks at us both.
‘Lanky? Deal?’
Lanky grunts.
‘Aeson, when you’ve got the book go down to the ground floor entrance – we’ll have it open for you.’