Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  I nod and look around for the Library Guard. The idea of being chained for years, digging roads makes me nervous. Not cut out for gang-life, I’m not.

  ‘Pretty’s lost his balls.’

  When Lanky calls me Pretty, it makes me want to slash his other cheek, but there’s no sense starting a fight now.

  ‘I ain’t scared.’

  ‘Aeson, fink of the money, man!… I’ll finish your night-watch if you pull this off.’ Croc’s begging me to do it… otherwise it’ll be him up that rope.

  ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘Ages – until the morning shift arrives.’

  ‘Come on. It’s a perfect plan. Lanky’ll keep watch and I’ll pick the lock.’

  Lanky shoves Fatty towards me.

  My fist clenches the boy’s tunic by the shoulder and we edge along close to the wall, Croc in front. Lanky disappears back into the shadow. Hulls creak in the silence as waves slap their great bulks.

  Croc holds the pulley steady while I tug the rope: it needs to hold Fatty’s weight and mine.

  ‘Move honey-nose.’ I give him a shove. Fatty whimpers. ‘Done much climbing?’

  ‘S-some… in the g-gym-gymnasium.’

  He needs to be calm to concentrate.

  ‘Good. You take the rope in front of me.’

  The warehouses aren’t lit, and it’s unlikely anyone would look up in our direction when they can look out at the Pharos, but I keep checking the docks for people.

  The boy’s a better climber than I expected. ‘Don’t look down.’

  ‘I’m not s-scared of h-heights. I just don’t want to d-die the horrible d-death the tall man said I would if I didn’t help you.’

  Better he’s scared of me.

  ‘You read?’

  ‘I can read and write Greek, Latin, Coptic, and some Aramaic.’

  ‘And the book we’re after. What language is that?’

  ‘Greek.’

  ‘Where did you learn?’ I tighten my grip round his hands. He winces from the pain. ‘Concentrate. You don’t want me doing any of those nasty things to you, do you?’ Jealousy is a wicked thing.

  ‘A-at the Library School. C-can I go home after I help you?’

  ‘Just climb.’ Ain’t fair some kids get an education spooned to ’em.

  We’re nearly at the sixth floor. Over my right shoulder ship sails flap as they catch the breeze and a sailor sings as he stumbles along the quay like a disorientated ant.

  ‘Mama and Papa buy your place at the Library School?’

  ‘Mother died in the earthquake.’

  He must be my age. It’s not Fatty’s fault I can’t write, but I can’t help wishing I was him… without the flab. Croc wouldn’t fancy me fat… neither would the cinaedus.

  The window where the pulley’s attached is bigger than it looked – more of a small door with a narrow ledge. Fatty will fit.

  The cinaedus better have paid off the guard. Knife secure in my belt, sandals tied round my neck. Butterflies make my belly churn.

  ‘Not a sound after this.’

  Fatty pulls his chubby legs up and over the ledge. I hold his sweaty armpits as his legs hang through the doorway and his feet search for the floor.

  Fatty’s head disappears inside. I wave down at Croc… can just about make out his shadow under the torches that line the quay. Croc had better have that lock picked in time.

  Why, in Serapis’ name, would a librarian want to pinch a book when he could walk in here in broad daylight and take it himself? It don’t add up.

  My toes reach for the floor as I manoeuvre my body through the doorway. That feels like wood beneath my feet. Come on eyes – they stretch to get used to the dark, my hearing alert like I’m on night-watch. The only sounds are Fatty’s breathing and the thud of my heartbeat.

  So we’re on a scaffold at the top of a ladder… more a narrow staircase with a platform at the top, steadier than a scaffold. Small high windows in the huge room throw in grey light, lamps sit in niches on the landing. No lamps in the storeroom with all these books, but at least I can see the exit. Sly slits of grey light creep through gaps in the floorboards so I can just about see my feet. We’re at the same level as the tops of the bookshelves. They stack them so high. There must be thousands and thousands of books in here.

  ‘Well?’ My voice echoes in the silence.

  ‘I don’t know where they keep The Gospel of Philip. We’ll have to check the tags. Christian manuscripts will be grouped together; their tags usually have a sigma written on them.’

  ‘Sigma?’

  He’s silent. But I know what he’s thinking: I’m just a thick street kid. Whereas Croc and Lanky think I’m thick because I’m not streetwise. Book knowledge is nothing to them.

  What’s that noise? We stop. Nails scratching wood. I hold my breath and listen. Fatty grabs my arm. Let him hold it if it keeps him quiet.

  A scuttle of little feet flee past ours.

  ‘Only a mouse.’

  Fatty gives out a squeal and pinches my arm.

  ‘Shush!’

  The faint edges of the shelves are only visible when I’m right up close. Tags hang from strings in neat rows. So this is how they stack the scrolls. What about the new books with pages that turn? The landlord used one to keep a note of our rent.

  Fatty stops and peers at a tag. He turns it to catch the dim light. ‘This way.’

  We shuffle along the narrow alleyways of shelves. Impressive, how Fatty navigates his way by reading those tags.

  My breath comes in sharp little jabs. The air is thick with dust and as heavy as the Necropolis at night. The thought of sleeping in the Necropolis for the rest of my life makes my gut tighten. This isn’t an empty building; it’s like a cemetery, a book tomb. It’s too hot. Sweat re-forms on my top lip every time I brush it away. Fatty’s stalling. Panic jabs my chest: what if I’m caught and sent to the mines?

  ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘It must be here, on the bottom shelf.’ He crouches down and leans forward to examine the tags one at a time.

  ‘Well, which one is it?’

  ‘I can’t see very well.’

  ‘What does it look like, a sigma?’

  ‘Like a Mu on its side.’

  I’ll twist his pudgy ear for that.

  ‘S-sorry. I’ll draw it on your hand.’

  His nail – no brickie has nails – makes the shape of two triangles without their bottoms, two pyramids side by side.

  He pulls out a scroll and shows me the tag. The dust makes us sneeze.

  Need to turn it at an angle to catch the light. I can just about make out a ∑ on the tag, written in black ink… and some other scribble. It’s satisfying to read the letter myself.

  ‘All these have a sigma.’

  ‘Each t-tag has a letter on it for its category, then the first letters of the title or the letters of the opening line of the book. Or a th-theme the scribes give it if there’s no title. Christian books often lack titles, s-so we’ll have to check all these.’

  Is Fatty just buying time for the Roman to arrive and catch me in the act with the guard?

  ‘I th-think it must be at the bottom left hand corner of this stack.’

  Why don’t he get it himself if he knows where it is? What’s he playing at? My stomach knots at the thought of being chained in a mine. I’ve got to get out of here.

  My knife’s out and at his throat. ‘Is he here, the cinaedus? Is he here to catch me?’ My voice cracks close to his ear.

  ‘W-what cinaedus?’ Fatty’s snivelling.

  Cool it, Aeson. Croc wouldn’t double-cross me.

  ‘Shush. Pull out the one you think it is.’

  He pulls out about twenty scrolls and puts them on the floor.

  ‘It c-could be any of th-these.’

  ‘Get a move on. We can’t carry them all.’

  Fatty wipes his eyes on his tunic and turns each book tag to catch the light. ‘I need to check the first line.’ The scroll crackles as h
e unwinds it and peers at the top. ‘The G-Gospel of Philip.’

  Down the front of my tunic it goes.

  ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

  I’ll have to drag Fatty back through the shelves to the stairwell. Thank Serapis there’s lamps lit out here. Downstairs we go.

  The door’s ajar. Good old Croc… but what if it’s the guard?

  ‘You go out first.’ I push Fatty towards the door. He looks at me like I’m abandoning him. I’ll wait here and listen. All I can hear is my heart thumping so loud it makes me ears throb.

  ‘Pretty, out you come.’ That’s Lanky’s voice. Thank Serapis! I wipe the sweat from my face and walk out the door.

  Turk! What’s he doing here? He’s got a knife to Lanky’s throat.

  ‘Aeson, leg it!’ Another boy has Croc, arms held behind his back.

  Where to? The gang’s got me surrounded, knives out in a semi-circle.

  Turk shoves Lanky over to Druid. The tattooed Briton says something in his own language; from the look on his blue inky face, I reckon he’s cussing Turk.

  ‘Bind his hands. Patch, you tie up Pretty.’

  There’s nowhere to run, but I dart away from Patch. Two boys grab me. Patch pulls my arms behind my back, holds my wrists together and ties the knot.

  Turk swaggers over to me like he’s the Prefect. ‘What do we have here then, a little mutiny, eh?’ He juts his chin at me. ‘Take Pretty to the Necropalace, Patch. I’ll deal with him later.’

  ‘That double-crossing cinaedus. He screwed us over.’ Croc kicks the boy struggling to lead him away. The boy kicks him back so hard Croc falls to his knees.

  ‘Cinaedus yourself.’ The boy gives him another kick in the side.

  ‘Trade is trade, Croc,’ Turk shouts.

  An older boy – I think they call him Fish because of his fat lower lip – yanks Croc up by the rope around his wrists as if it’s a handle. That will break the skin. Patch didn’t tie mine tight, but the fibres are rough as he leads me away.

  What are the boys laughing and jeering at? Patch stops and turns to see. Fatty’s wet himself. He stares at his feet, shoulders heaving. Poor kid.

  ‘Shut it!’ Turk slaps Fatty round the face so hard his head does a sharp twist. He shakes a piece of paper close to Fatty’s face.

  ‘These books, can you find ’em, eh?’ Turk thrusts the paper into his hand. Fatty just gawps at him. ‘Look at it, boy, or you’ll get more than a slap.’

  Fatty holds the sheet of paper in both hands to keep it still.

  ‘Well? Can you find them, eh?’

  ‘Y-yes.’ Poor Fatty – his teeth are chattering. He looks over to me like I can do something to help him.

  ‘Come on, Pretty.’ Patch gives me a little shove to make me walk. ‘Why d’ya go and do a thing like that? Turk don’t take kindly to betrayal. Lost my eye when I did a runner.’

  I swallow. Maybe the mines would have been better.

  ‌14

  Aeson

  Dead twigs and dust fly down the tomb steps. Weather’s wild. Grit stings like mosquito bites as it hits my face. It’s like the northeast wind speeding in off the sea is having a fight with the blasts of hot air that roll off the desert. With my hands tied, can’t stop my hair whipping in my eyes.

  Bones rattle above our heads and Lanky sneers, ‘This is where they put traitors, under the old bones.’ In the torchlight his bony face and big teeth look like a skull. I shudder.

  My tunic’s ripped and I lost my sandals, but my knife’s still safely tucked in my belt. Patch didn’t take that from me. Did he forget to search me? He was gentle with me on the walk back from the docks. They’re not all bad.

  A cheer above ground from the Necropolis: that’ll be the gang.

  ‘Turk’s back.’ Patch and the boys stop their game of dice, stand and look above our heads, at the entrance. The older ones jump down from the ledges and join them at the bottom of the steps.

  Croc tenses, tied up next to me, his hands yank against the rope, bound behind his back and his arse shifts on the step. ‘Man, we’re in for it.’

  Feet pound on the steps above, and the lads run past us. Some carry canvas bags that clatter as they’re dropped at the bottom of the steps. Others carry scrolls. Kiya would cry to see books chucked like rubbish on top of the growing pile of loot.

  Fat-lipped Fish stands at the bottom of the steps and shouts. ‘Oi! Turk said put the books in his room.’

  Lanky gives us a toothy sneer. ‘That could have been our booty. You two will regret this.’

  How did Turk know? Was it like Croc said – did that old Roman grass us up?

  The sharp whack of a sandal on my back makes me lurch forward over my knees. To give me more space, Croc shifts along as far as he can without his shoulders touching Lanky’s.

  The gang’s yelps of success sound eerie in the wind. How it howls tonight. They bunch together at the bottom of the steps, and wait. Turk must be up there behind us.

  ‘Knights of the Necropolis.’ Turk’s voice is muffled as the wind speeds and thrashes through the alleys of tombs above our heads.

  ‘Speak up.’ Patch’s face is turned upwards. In this light his eye-patch might be the black hole of an empty socket. My eyes scrunch tight at the thought of his punishment. Serapis, if you let me keep my eyes, I’ll pray to you every night forever, I promise. How can I keep my word to Dad without both my eyes?

  Boys heckle and jostle for the best view.

  ‘Come closer.’

  ‘Can’t hear yer.’

  The whites of their eyes flicker yellow in the torchlight, faces ghoulish as shadows move across them. There’s a hush, like before the start of a fight in the stadium.

  Turk’s dusty sandalled feet are next to me. Don’t look up: might make him mad. He sweeps up the folds of his toga like an orator. Where did he pinch that? He was wearing a tunic at the docks. And what happened to Fatty?

  Turk raises his arms and drops the folds of material. They trail down the steps like a carpet laid out for the arrival of an emperor. He’s not wearing it right. ‘Noblemen, honoured warriors of Alexandria, we are gathered here tonight to celebrate this great victory.’

  A cheer goes up from the gang. There’s something of Seth in Turk. This skill is why he’s the leader, not Lanky. The gang loves a performance. They stamp their feet.

  ‘Quiet. Bring me my wench.’ Turk milks it. He intends to drag this out.

  ‘Up you get, Pretty.’ Lanky’s voice is sharp and full of menace.

  My heart judders.

  Turk looks down at me, his gaze hot on my neck. Don’t look up. As long as I don’t look up he’ll ignore me.

  ‘The little library boy called for you when we blind-folded him. He likes them soft, does our Pretty – thinks he’s a man.’

  What did they do to poor Fatty? He was too frightened to snitch. The gang laugh and whistle. My cheeks burn. Serapis, help me.

  ‘Quiet, minions,’ Turk orders. ‘Come, Cleopatra! Take my hand. Let me show you who’s the man.’

  More whistling. What do I do now? Am I expected to hold his hand and act like a flipping girl? Lanky’s wicked grin turns me hot with anger. I’ll get you back, you ugly bastard.

  ‘Come on, Cleo.’ The lads egg me on, demanding to be entertained. ‘On your feet, Pretty.’

  Croc nudges me. ‘Aeson, get up, man.’ There’s panic in his voice. I’ll lose the gang’s sympathy if I don’t play the part. They want a show.

  Take a gulp of air, swallow my pride. I know what to do: suck in my cheeks and face the gang.

  They whistle encouragement, ‘Go on, Pretty!’

  ‘Untie me, Marcus, so I can perform my queenly duties.’ My voice quivers, high and nervous. Will Turk untie me?

  The gang whistle and cheer. Turk leans over me to slip the hard edge of his knife between my wrists. Thank Serapis, Patch left a little slack in the rope.

  Now, how to play a girl? Pinch my cheekbones to blush. My hair keeps blowing back in my f
ace every time I give it a girlie flick… and another flick. The lads laugh. Repetition, that’s the key to comedy.

  Turk offers his hand. ‘My lady.’

  Flutter of the eyelashes and look away from Turk, like I’m shy. The lads love it. I catch Croc’s eye as I look down. He winks. Lanky sneers. I could slit his skinny throat.

  Turk exaggerates his gestures. ‘What shapely thighs you have, Cleo, darling.’

  Cover my leg, make a big O with my lips and gasp, ‘Marcus, dear, where’s my queenly robe? My queenly thigh is shy.’

  Turk grins, clicks his fingers and a small boy scrambles up the steps with a dress, torn at the neckline. What fat old noblewoman did this belong to?

  Swing my hips, take a step up to Turk’s height. I know: I’ll wrap the robe over my head and under my chin, less Cleopatra, more desert nomad shielding her face from the sand.

  The gang whoop and hoot. But as soon as they get bored, I’m done for… like when Saracen fell too many times in the arena. Better keep it going then, raise my voice to a squeal, ‘Marcus Antonius, you are the ugliest man I ever seen in my life!’

  Patch is the only one not laughing. He stands at the front, arms crossed, and glares at Turk with his one eye. Because he knows what comes next? Think brain, there must be a way out of this. I need my eyes.

  ‘Cleo, my love, you are the most hideous looking woman I have ever seen, but if I make you my queen, I promise you’ll be the ugliest woman in the Empire.’

  Their bodies are scarred like soldiers’ broken from battle. Are those missing fingers and teeth from fights, or punishment? One bad line from me and they’ll demand my punishment… concentrate, Aeson.

  I know what they want: off with this veil and whimper, ‘Oh Marcus! Make me your Queen and givus a kiss, you ugly fucker.’

  Now, pucker up, close my eyes and face Turk.

  The shrieks are wild.

  ‘KISS, KISS, KISS, KISS.’

  Turk has no choice.

  The kiss is not what I expect, not just for show; it’s tender. He’s hot for me. Bet he’s hard under that toga.

  ‘Ooooo, Marcus! You have such manly lips!’ I squeal with delight.

  Turk lunges at me, his tongue searching for mine. This is my chance. One hand round his neck, lift my robe and pull the knife. The blade’s at his throat in an instant. He’s not afraid like Fatty. He struggles and cries out, ‘You little fucker!’