by Sarah Walton
‘Really?’ Is that what you left me, Dad – a bottle of Tyrian ink?
‘Really.’ He mimics my exclamation and shoots me a warning look. ‘This ink here is the common sort, made from a solution of copper, soot and charcoal, and not worth anywhere near as much.’
‘What does the purple stuff cost?’
‘It can cost as much as three pieces of gold.’
I was conned. That copyist in the Emporium gave me silver.
‘How much does three pieces of gold buy?’ A boat, a house?
‘That was the sum the master paid for me.’ His stare fixes on the statue of Memory. So does mine. Yup, Apollinos was Rufius’ bum boy. No doubt about it.
‘Enough talk. Back to the alphabet. Practise, practise, practise.’ He never calls me by my name. Can’t bring yourself to call me master either like you were told, can you? That’d be strange for me too.
If I push the side of my hand into the desk it’s easier to make the α round.
‘That’s it. Now try to pick up the pace.’
The faster I go the more the letters lose their roundness. The brickies would laugh at me struggling. Apollinos don’t laugh. I like him for that.
‘Shit!’ The pen’s slipped out of my hand again. I’m burning up with the shame of failing.
‘If you don’t learn to write, he’ll tire of you. Learn, and you might hold his interest – the master likes a project.’ Is he trying to help me, or himself?
‘And you avoid a whipping for failing to teach me, right?’
His sigh’s lost its edge of irritation. ‘The master intends to present you at the Library. He has a fantasy that you will enter public life.’
My head spins. Public life! That’s way beyond Dad’s vision. But then what exactly was Dad’s vision? What would Dera think? It’s a trade. Can’t imagine Dera would like the idea of me as a… what?
‘What d’you mean, public life?’
‘The law, politics.’
A politician? Dera definitely won’t rate it.
‘I just wanna learn to write.’ My voice sounds bewildered.
‘There are degrees of writing. Beyond copying there are the arts of transcription, translation, of putting on the page one’s private thoughts, the thoughts of a nation, or the words of the gods.’
I can’t do all that. The room feels smaller like I’m being sucked into an airless tunnel.
‘Little by little. Great books are written word by word.’ Apollinos speaks in the low, gentle tone mothers use to trick babies to eat.
Breathe, Aeson, breathe in the roses from the garden. Are those hairs on the back of my hand new? Everything’s changing so fast. Must keep up with it. This is the pace of my life now. Money did this; money made my life speed up.
‘What does a politician do?’
‘Talks.’
‘Then why am I learning to write? Anyone can talk.’
‘To talk well is the highest art. Oration requires written preparation.’ His tone is no nonsense. ‘You’ve missed your first level of schooling. We have a year to bring you up to speed. You’ll join the Library school midway through the Grammatica, which will polish your writing skills, teach you the basics of oration as well as Latin and Greek.’
‘I speak Greek.’
‘In a fashion…’
‘You taking the piss?’ That’s another difference between us. You speak like a honey-nose, Apollinos, with your fat vowels.
He ignores me and continues. ‘You will learn all you need to know by reading Homer and Virgil. There will be some geometry and astronomy, but you won’t have the opportunity to focus on any subject in detail until you finish your Grammatica. Then, if the master wishes, you will progress to the Rhetor.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You will learn to speak. Not recital, but composition, public speaking. You will acquire style – how you say something is as important as what you say. Listen to the politicians in the Agora…’ He’s on a roll. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Apollinos so excited. He strides over to the statue of the Muses and rests his long fingers on Memory’s marble shoulder. ‘Finally, you will learn how to memorise your speeches.’ He looks into the eyes of the goddess and caresses the marble like Rufius strokes Diana. ‘But first you will master the alphabet.’
I can’t be an orator. This pen won’t ever feel like ropes do in my hands.
‘I’m just a brickie’s son.’ Shit! That’s not what I told Rufius.
‘All in good time. The best civil engineers know the perfect mix for mortar.’
It’s a good comparison.
‘From the bottom up.’
He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something then clamps it shut to stifle a laugh. I didn’t mean Rufius’ bottom, but that’s what we’re both thinking.
‘You have wit beyond your years. We just need to make you sound like it.’
Rufius would snap at you for saying we. I like it – makes me feel like we’re a team. I like that I know it’s the first person plural too, makes me feel well clever.
‘Deal. Shake on it?’
He stares at my hand.
‘Deal.’ He says the word like it’s the first time he’s ever struck a bargain. That’s another difference between us: I can trade. ‘We all stumble when we learn something new.’
That made me smile. Everyday you dole out another bit of pride, don’t you, Apollinos? But then so does Rufius every time he bends over.
18
Kiya
‘Aoi-oia…’… what if he’s dead, or worse, that lanky demon has him? It’s impossible to concentrate on the magic words tonight. Two weeks I’ve prayed for Aeson, begging he’s safe and no sight of him. If I kiss my snake one more time my lips will fall off.
Sophia’s awake now the moon’s high. Hungry Sophia? I must be careful not to let any dormice escape this time. What a wriggler this one is. I’ll have to pinch its tail tighter. That’s it. Sophia’s mouth opens and closes round the mouse. I don’t like to watch Sophia eat: mouse tail hanging out of her mouth, the little body manoeuvred down her endless throat. I have an affinity with mice. They’re born spontaneously from the rubbish tips like I was. Henite found me – newborn, wrapped in tax returns, wills and leases.
Let’s try again. Eyes closed this time. ‘Aoi-aoi-aoi. Ma-ma-amen. Aoi-aoi-Ah! What made the floor vibrate? It was heavy. What if it’s a demon? I’m too scared to open my eyes.
‘Kiya. It’s just me.’ A kind, hush of a voice… ‘Aeson!’
Thank Sophia he’s alive. What’s different? The moonlight from the window lights up his face. He’s clean. New tunic.
‘Why can’t you visit at normal times and come through the door like everyone else? We were worried sick. Where have you been?’ I sound like Henite when she nags me. Every nasty death’s been through my head.
‘This was the quickest I could get away. Got myself a right generous honey-daddy – I mean men-tor.’
‘Mentor. Only rich kids have mentors.’
Where’s The Book of Wisdom? He doesn’t have it with him, just his sandals strung around his neck.
‘I’m learning to write… but your book, I’m sorry Kiya, I don’t have it.’
‘It was our only copy.’ My eyes burn with tears. It’s not his fault, but he looks so ashamed.
‘I know where it is. Just can’t steal it yet, but I will. I promise.’
‘It’s not stealing if it’s our book.’
We both jump at the grunt of snoring somewhere below in the temple. Sophia hisses.
‘It’s only your friend Croc – he’s sleeping.’
‘Croc? Here?’ His eyes are wide and urgent.
‘Yes. He needs to rest.’
Croc was just as desperate to hear if I had news of Aeson when he turned up at the church yesterday. There’s love between them.
‘Turk shut him in a loculus. Croc said he escaped somehow. It was all a bit jumbled, then he fainted, from hunger Henite said.’
Aeson crouches down beside m
y straw sleeping-mat.
‘Kiya, take me to him.’ His voice in my ear is like seashells stroking the beach.
‘He’s in the room below this one.’ I can’t refuse him.
Aeson stares at the floor like he’s willing it to open. A lot of tiles are missing: Dionysus is almost erased, only his wild hair remains, but his Maenads still dance around him. This temple must have been beautiful a hundred years ago.
‘Man, am I glad to see you!’
How did Croc open that door without it creaking? It always creaks. Gives me the creeps, the way these two just appear without warning.
‘Croc!’
The two of them look as different as marble and brick under the moonbeams that fall through the high window. Same height, same age; one clean, dressed like a rich boy, legs and arms gleaming with oil; the other in a threadbare tunic, skin scabby and caked in grime like plaster crumbling from an old tomb.
They hug, push each other on the shoulders and laugh. Left out as usual – I never get a hug and a push.
‘Shush! You’ll wake Henite and Seth.’
‘SHUSHHH!’ They both hiss.
‘Don’t make fun of me.’ I swipe my crutch at Aeson’s legs. He jumps and grabs the rope hanging from the window. So that’s how he got up there, the rope must be attached to the roof terrace… but how did he get on the roof? ‘I was in deep meditation before you two interrupted me.’
‘Croc, let’s climb onto the roof. No one will hear us up there.’
Croc grabs the window frame and pulls himself out onto the rope. He looks nervous hanging there. ‘Aeson, man, we need to talk. You’re in serious shit.’
What about me? Well, I have my own adventure: I follow the power words and they lead me to the Kingdom of God… but I’d prefer to climb up to the roof terrace.
‘Come on, Kiya. Pray later.’ Aeson holds out his arms. Is he teasing me?
He grabs me under my armpits… over his shoulder I go. He smells like a honey-nose. His grip’s strong like a man. I don’t let anyone carry me, but this is the only way up to the roof.
Croc leans over the edge of the roof terrace and clutches my armpits as Aeson raises me up.
‘Careful with my crazy priestess, Croc.’
Sweet Sophia, no one ever called me theirs before. Henite says nobody can be owned, that even slaves’ souls are free, but I’m fine being his.
Croc hauls me up and over. ‘Up you come, bossy.’ Croc grins as I shrug out of his grip. Never noticed the gap between his front two teeth until now. Aeson likes you, so I will too.
‘I can see the whole city.’
Croc laughs and looks down at the rope to check on Aeson. No need. Aeson swings himself over the ledge with the grace of an angel.
Sweet Sophia, it’s like I can reach up and touch the Kingdom of God. We lie on our backs on the limestone, arms outstretched over our heads, fingertips touching fingertips like angels. No, like friends. My cheeks hurt I’m grinning so wide.
I turn my head to the right, and look at Aeson. He smiles back. When I look the other way, Croc laughs his hiccup giggle. I laugh too.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get your book, Kiya.’
‘I know.’
‘The scribes will copy it. Then I’ll get it for you.’
‘Seth said they won’t. He doesn’t trust them.’
‘Give me some time to get settled in.’
‘U-huh.’ How am I going to save Aeson’s soul without the book? Only the Aberamenthos know the magic words by heart. How will I get my robes?
Aeson pinches my fingertips. ‘Kiya. I promise.’
Something in his voice, the gentle way he has, makes me believe him.
‘I believe you.’
‘Man, stuff the book. Turk’s on a warpath for yer balls. You got no idea what kicked off after you scarpered.’
‘I went to the Necropalace looking for you. It was deserted.’
‘Keep your voices down.’ Why are they getting so wound up?
‘Turk won the fight.’
‘Lanky’s dead?’
Lanky’s the tall demon. He’s still out there: I can feel his evil spirit.
‘He ran off. I ran off too, soon as Turk won. Turk hunted down the ones who took our side. It was out and out war. Made an example of the traitors…’
Croc’s talking fast like he’s running for his life. ‘… Turk found me sleeping near the rubbish tips, put me in a tomb and closed the slab. Man, dark as Hades in there it was… had to dig me way out, like a fox – dug right under the limestone. Kept thinking, I’m gonna die down here.’
Croc’s fingers let go of mine. He’s shivering.
‘There’s a price on your head, man. I know Turk. He’ll come after yer. And yer old honey-nose Roman won’t be able to do nuffink to stop him. Nuffink.’
‘Where’s Turk now?’
‘Gone after Lanky, but he’ll be back. Some of the boys said he was just making a point. Turk’d calm down after a few weeks and forget about it. I said man, I said, no – Turk don’t forget nuffink. He bears grudges, Turk does.’
‘And Patch?’
‘Patch was so scared he went it alone. I said, Patch, I said, we should stay together. He was having none of it. Druid’s gone into hiding too. S’pose he can hide easier than the others with all his body paint.’
Croc doesn’t laugh at his joke.
Aeson flicks him a gold coin and winks.
Croc bites it and looks amazed. ‘Man, d’ya know where the cinaedus’ stash is? We can do a job. With you on the inside, it’ll be a synch, then scarper, live like emperors. You in?’
‘I need Rufius to trust me.’
‘Oh Rufius, is it?’ Croc looks at Aeson like he’s betrayed him. ‘So now you’re bumming honey-daddy you forget yer mates, is that it?’
‘I promised Dad, see, before he died, that I’d learn to write.’
‘Man, you and your promises. Aeson, life changes. Sometimes it don’t make no sense to keep ’em. Sometimes, it’s wrong to keep ’em.’
Arm flung over forehead, Croc stares up at the sky. Aeson looks sad. His fingers are limp. I press my fingertips into his.
‘Make him love you then, your mentor.’
‘Love!’ Croc nearly spits out the word. ‘Love don’t come into it, Priestess. You gotta keep a honey-nose interested, keep him dangling. Hard work the oldies are.’
‘I just want to learn to write, then I can earn my own money.’
‘What good’s writing?’ He doesn’t seriously think he can make a living from writing does he?
‘She’s right. That’s what slaves are for and they don’t charge for it.’
‘Dad told me if I could write, I wouldn’t have to work like a donkey.’
Aeson’s fingers clench into a tight ball. He pulls his hand away from mine. The world seems smaller all of a sudden, even up here under the stars. I have an idea…
‘What if he adopts you, like Seth did with me.’
‘Adoption?’
‘She’s crazy as she looks. Adoption. Don’t know any lads who’ve managed that one.’
Croc’s such a know-all. I cross my arms in front of my chest.
‘Ouch!’
A kick’s more effective than words. ‘I have one good leg, remember.’
Croc rubs his shin and winks at me. ‘I’d shag yer even with yer gammy leg.’
‘Tut.’ A click of my tongue is all I can manage. Shag! Sweet Sophia!
‘Serious, not a mercy fuck.’
‘You’d be lucky.’ I’ve heard girls say that to foul-mouthed boys. ‘I’m a bride of Christ.’ That bit’s my own invention.
‘Croc, drop it.’
‘You’re one of us now, Croc.’ I hiss and flick my tongue out like Sophia. That will scare him. Gappy grin gone.
‘Kiya, real life just don’t work like that. Honey-noses don’t fall in love with street kids.’
‘Love’s not a snob.’ Aeson’s not listening to me, but I say it anyway. Maybe one day the
words will fall in… like the magic words. Seth says if you repeat them enough one day they click open the gate to the Kingdom of God.
‘How do I keep a honey-nose who’s got everything money can buy sweet for that long, Croc?’
‘If you want to be loved, be lovable.’
‘She’s right. Be a little charmer, you do that natural enough.’ Croc pushes himself up onto his elbow and looks across at Aeson to get his full attention. ‘But you gotta be sly, play the game. He grassed us up to Turk, remember?’
‘I’ll play him my way.’
‘Your honey-daddy, your game. I’m just saying, don’t trust him, man. He’s crafty. Let him get one over, and he’ll spit yer out like gristle.’
What’s Croc looking at me for? What do I know about seduction?
‘I still say, make him love you.’ If I wasn’t a bride of Christ I’d fall in love with Aeson.
We stare up at the stars. It’s quiet up here. This high up the city noise is just a murmur.
Aeson’s curls fall back and cushion his head. He laces his fingers in mine and pulls my arm up again. He does the same to Croc, but Croc’s fingertips get a kiss. Wish he’d kiss mine too.
‘Love’s like cement: it binds people together.’
‘Don’t go all mushy on us, man.’
‘Cement?’
‘Just saying. There’s nowhere better in the world to be on a clear night than the rooftops of Alexandria.’
‘Too right.’
Up here everything feels possible.
Sophia, make the old Librarian love him.
Their grunts, from the room below are driving me mad. I wish they’d stop it. It’s too hot for a blanket but I pull it over my head to block out the sound of their lovemaking. It makes me feel lonely. I reach for Sophia’s dry, muscly body… she’s no comfort tonight.
19
Rufius
Tiptoes, Rufius. This is bloody ridiculous – creeping around like a thief in my own home. Perhaps it’s the heat that’s woken me. You know full well why you’re awake at this time of night, you old fool. I won’t disturb him… I’ll just take a peek at my lover’s beautiful face in the dawn light.
He’s pulled the mosquito netting around his bed together. Ever so slowly, let’s peel it back, that’s it and lean over him. Head tucked under Egyptian cotton sheets, he’s silent. I can’t imagine my muse snores. Careful, Rufius, don’t wake him. Finger and thumb pull back the sheets at a turtle’s pace.