Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  ‘Bahh!’ Just cushions! My boy’s gone again! His bed’s been empty until dawn every night. No wonder Apollinos complains Aeson yawns through his lessons.

  To add insult to injury, he’s used the brand new silk cushions we chose together to feign his presence in the bed. Sapphire blue… to match his eyes. Cursed cushions! The netting rips as I throw cushions across the room. Bah! My patience is frayed… take that. Another cushion bounces off the ledge of the terrace… and that… palm fronds swish as the cushions fall into the gardens below. And that…

  ‘What ya waiting fer honey-daddy?’

  One dirty leg swings over the balcony. The other follows. Torn tunic and it’s filthy!

  ‘Aeson! What in bloody Hades are you doing? Is this how you treat your new clothes, you ungrateful…’ those legs are too long and hairy to be Aeson’s.

  A canvas bag hits the terrace, followed by a grunt.

  ‘Like me new outfit, do yer?’

  Turk! What’s he doing? Dancing? The pimp swings his hips on the terrace, picks a bougainvillea flower and throws it to me with a kiss.

  ‘You should be on the stage, dear.’

  ‘Missing lover-boy, eh?’ His laugh is wicked.

  ‘Where is he?’ Disguise your horror Rufius.

  ‘Give yer a fright, did I?’

  ‘Get down off that balcony, or I’ll call the guards.’

  ‘Calm down, old man. Looks like yer heart’s ready to jump straight into yer tomb.’

  He saunters into Aeson’s bedroom like he owns the place, drags his dirty fingers along the furniture, makes a show of surveying the floor mosaic, squats and runs his fingers across the newly polished panther, its horned prey in its paws. His hands are black with dirt. Is that blood caked on them?

  ‘Nice job you done ’ere. Gotta floor just like this in me own abode. Get yer little brickie to help yer? Or is he too high ‘n’ mighty to get his hands dirty nowadays, eh?’

  So that’s how Aeson knew what a diameter was.

  Turk’s gained a scar. The deep gash runs across his cheek and ends dangerously close to his right eye, healed but still red and puffy. The way the skin’s puckered and creased around it adds ten years to him. He empties the canvas bag full of ancient, high quality papyri into a pile on the bed.

  ‘And what do you propose I do with this lot? I needed these books two weeks ago.’

  ‘Blame Pretty for the delay.’

  ‘I’m not interested in doing business with you, Turk. What sort of service do you call this?’

  ‘That’s gratitude fer yer.’ He shakes his head. ‘You’ve been well serviced for two weeks, eh?’ He jerks his chin upwards on the last word like all street scum. Thank the gods Aeson’s stopped that. Next Apollinos must get him to round his vowels, or he’ll be bullied by the Library brats.

  ‘Put that down.’ He takes Aeson’s new silver stylus from its box on the clothes chest and spins it in his fingers.

  ‘How sweet. Pressie for Pretty, eh? Didn’t want to disturb you and our Pretty while you got to know each other, did I?’

  He’s playing the dishonoured pimp. Not a surprise. A boy doesn’t just walk out of a street gang.

  ‘I’ll pay you off for the boy.’

  ‘A lifetime? Good little shafter is he? Expensive, that is. Anyways, what would a man such as your good self do without a bit of variety, eh?’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘I’ll lease him to yer. Annual lease, say one solidus a year. If you get bored you can trade him in for a new one.’

  ‘A solidus! I doubt you’ve ever seen a gold coin, you scoundrel.’

  ‘Seen a number of ’em in that casket of yours.’

  I’ve bartered with enough street scum to know he’s bluffing.

  ‘Apollinos!’

  The ruffian’s got me! Turk’s dirty arm’s around my chest, cold metal at my throat. The hard, flat surface of the blade against my neck draws all my focus. Play the game, Rufius. Aeson’s worth more to Turk alive. If Turk has him, it’s just to barter with. A bead of sweat drips from my nose onto my lip.

  ‘Get rid of the slave when he arrives or I’ll be back to slit your throat, eh, Roman.’ He spits out the words. Saliva flicks on the back of my neck.

  A clink of bangles and the slap of feet coming down the corridor is welcome. It’s only Diana.

  Turk disappears swift as a gecko; bare feet spring off the balcony ledge and dart behind the bougainvillea.

  ‘We can have this conversation now or later, old man.’ His voice is full of malice from behind the flowers. ‘I’ll lynch yer when you least expect it.’

  The door swings open and Diana’s gaze darts around the room. She knows something’s wrong but has the sense not to let on.

  ‘I’m in the middle of something. Tell that lazy sod Apollinos I have no need of him.’

  ‘Apollinos not here.’

  ‘Where in Hades is he?’

  ‘You sent him to find pimp, master.’

  Curse it, so I did! Oh the irony of it.

  She frowns at the pile of papyri on the bed. I dart her a meaningful look.

  ‘Send one of the slaves to find Apollinos. I’ve no need of more Venus Street ruffians tonight.’

  I poke my finger under a page of one of the books: Eusebius’ Commentary on the Nature of the Son of God in the Psalms. It proves the old Nicene Bishop of Caesarea held heretical views. Titus’ purse will spill over for that one – top of his list if I remember rightly. Very timely, you disfigured little pimp. I was just about to give up on you.

  ‘Off you go.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  A shuffle of flowers and Turk jumps back on the terrace as the door closes.

  ‘That’s it, Roman, got yer balls in a twist, didn’t I? Can’t talk with an audience can we, eh?’

  Diana’s disobedient ear will be back at the door as soon as she’s sent one of the boys for Apollinos. Any danger and she’ll call the guard. Was I less cowardly in my youth?

  ‘Back to the negotiations, eh? With those looks I could rent Pretty out for one solidus a time. You’re getting a good deal at one solidus a year, old man.’

  ‘It’s all about ownership, dear boy. Diana would have no value if she had another master. It’s a lifetime or nothing.’ I usually enjoy the negotiation but there’s more at stake than usual. Aeson isn’t just another boy. My stomach quivers at the thought of losing him. Exile in Alexandria is only bearable with Aeson.

  ‘Pretty’s got a debt that only he can pay. I can’t sell you a lifetime.’ Turk slashes the bedclothes with his knife.

  ‘Everyone has a price, dear.’ He knows what my raised eyebrow means: I’m not buying his threats.

  ‘It’s a matter of honour, see? Pretty made me lose face.’

  What’s he talking about?

  The blade of the knife pulls my attention. Turk grins as he strokes it up and down his arm. How dare he threaten me! I could have him and his little band of scum sent to the mines. Cool it, Rufius. He’s useful to you remember. And Aeson’s safe as long as he can be pimped.

  ‘Three solidi a year. That’s my final offer.’

  He shakes his head. A stench of fish comes off his matted hair.

  ‘Ain’t the point. Gotta reputation to maintain, ain’t I, eh? This is what I got fer letting him get away with it.’ He touches his scar. ‘Uprising. Mutiny in me own camp.’

  He can’t blame Aeson for some mutinous gang member giving him that scar.

  ‘Five solidi, and that’s my final offer.’

  ‘We ain’t understanding each other, old man.’ His hand strokes up and down the blade to keep my attention on his knife. ‘Pretty needs to be made an example of, get me? But I understand he’s worthless to you scarred, or blind. So I’ll lease him to yer for five solidi a year. When you’ve finished with him, or when his stubble’s too thick to be a lover boy, I’ll get me revenge.’

  Never have I encountered a boy who can excite such extreme reactions in people. Hide yo
ur distress, Rufius. If you can haggle with the Archbishop of Rome, you can match this street scum. I pick up a newish looking book of folded parchment from the bed: another heretic historian. It bounces as I throw it back onto the mattress. I hate treating books like balls.

  ‘You’re quite right. The boy’s already started to bore me. But boys are not my only interest. I’ll settle for an annual rent of the boy, but you will only get my other business if you agree to its annual renewal.’

  ‘And why would I do that, eh?’

  ‘Because I’m looking for a business partner and I think you and your band of boys might have the appropriate… skills. There is a fortune to be made in heretical books like these, my dear Turk. A fortune that makes five solidi seem a paltry sum.’

  Turk looks deformed when he grins and his scar creases at the corner of his eye. He looks at the scrolls and rubs his hand over his stubble.

  ‘Partners, eh? These rich clients of yours, they live in grand houses with other fings of value, fings of value to me?’

  ‘My dear Turk, there is no need for you to make a criminal of yourself. The price I will pay you for each delivery will far outweigh the need to fleece my clients.’ No need for Turk to know they’re not my clients. ‘All you need to do is make the deliveries on time.’

  Titus is getting impatient; he’s dealing with powerful men. If I install my own distribution network, he can charge the same but without the risk. He’ll agree to it. The authorities are getting hotter and every week there’s a new case of torture. Just being in possession of a book of magic – the judges now lump heresy with magic, no doubt the bishops’ doing – can result in execution.

  Turk picks up a scroll and looks at it with renewed respect.

  ‘You give me addresses, my gang delivers. That’s it?’

  ‘That’s all there is to it, dear.’

  Turk cackles and slaps me on the shoulder. He really does need a bath.

  ‘Fastest messenger service in the Empire, eh?’ As he jerks and juts his chin, the hoodlum bares his teeth. Against his dirty, sun-charred skin they look white, but a build up of yellow scum shows now he’s closer to me. The chin gesture, everything about him repulses me. Only a few weeks ago I was delighted to watch him do business on Venus Street.

  ‘Sounds like you’re getting a bloody good bargain for five solidi. Unlimited boys for a year and a risk free delivery service. Most educat’d men would spend more on boys than that in a month.’

  At least he still has a sharp tongue.

  ‘So we are partners, you and me, eh?’ He waits for me to confirm the deal.

  ‘Partners, dear.’

  He takes a twirl and a bow, then yanks me forward and kisses me.

  ‘You really should be on the stage, dear.’

  My bottom jaw softens slightly. The ingenuity of these boys, surviving on their wits delights me.

  We both turn at the knock at the door.

  ‘Master, Apollinos is waiting for you.’ My clever little huntress knows not to come in.

  Turk’s muscular arms swing his body up onto the Bougainvillea.

  ‘I’ll return for the dosh and the addresses.’

  ‘Wait! Where’s Aeson?’

  ‘Don’t get your tunic in a twist. Pretty will be back…’ he shouts over his shoulder. When he secures his footing on the branches of the wallflowers, he swings back round. ‘… unless I change my mind.’

  ‘Remember the fortune, dear.’

  Dear Bacchus, let his greed outweigh his lust for revenge.

  The Pharos flame is out now the sun’s up. The moon’s a translucent shaving – almost dissolved into the morning sky. Diana jingles her bangles at the door.

  ‘Come in, Diana.’

  ‘Aeson will be back. That man don’t know where Aeson is.’

  ‘Remember what I said, not a word to Aeson about that man, you hear?’

  ‘Tut.’

  ‘Stop that tutting and sing me one of your fanciful Nubian stories, dear.’

  Her voice is as exquisite as her face: full and soft, but nothing can calm me with my Aeson out there. Tales of strange desert creatures, half-human, half-animal, only serve to stimulate my imagination about what cruel tortures Turk might have in mind. Egypt may be part of the Roman Empire, but it’s another world with its exotic mysticism… like that mad new fad of grown men running into the desert to live like wild animals in caves. Only Egypt could have produced the hermit.

  ‘You sing well, Diana.’

  Aeson will send me to an early grave with all this worry.

  ‘In vino veritas, dear lad, as the saying goes; I am in my cups, you will never love me with all your heart. I know this is true; your beauty will give meaning to my half life, while the other half is nothing… How does it go? Ah, yes… When you are good to me I spend all day among the blessed, but when you are not I’m plunged into darkness.’

  ‘Tut, can’t sing with you mutter, mutter to yourself.’

  ‘Sorry, sweetie. Theocritus. Poetry. Just came back to me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A silly old fool like me by the sound of it. Carry on warbling, dear.’

  ‌

  ‌Part II

  ‌

  A Year Later

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  The Western Desert is peaceful and the yellow mountain glows gold in the late afternoon sun. Shadowy entrances to tombs of forgotten Pharaohs chequer the cliff face.

  Although the hermit’s cave was deserted for many years, a red cross has been repainted above the rock-hewn altar. But Dera the Hermit has returned a broken man. The wilderness has not withered Dera’s body; he’s far from the punished figure of an aesthetic. Black arms strong as ever, chest hard as marble, his presence is still imposing, but his heart is heavy with failure. He didn’t stop Aeson running off to fulfil his promise to his father.

  Dera stares at the steep rock face. When the sunlight catches its crystalline underbelly and glitters, it reminds him how he’s failed; like gem hunters seek crystals winking under volcanic dust, seekers of Wisdom follow the snake, digging ever deeper into their souls… and his soul is dark with fear that prophecy will have its way.

  The suffocating despair that gripped him in the city when Aeson disappeared is tight around his neck. After thirteen years trying to convince the boy’s father that Aeson should learn the bricklayer’s trade, dissuading him from sending Aeson to writing lessons, destiny finally caught up with them all. Dera searched everywhere for the boy, even slept in the guild tomb of the bricklayers in the hope Aeson might visit it. Dera returned to his desert cave plagued by dark thoughts. Night after night he chews the sacred seeds and stares into the fire. If the seekers stop coming with food in return for prophecy he won’t return to the world. Never again. He’s resolved to die in his cave: another hermit’s corpse for the birds. Let them peck my flesh to the bone, he thinks. I’ve failed Aeson. What good is the long-sight if I can’t change fate? The hiss of his snake in its basket snaps him out of it.

  Dera spots the long shadow of a man cast against the yellow mountain. A seeker, thinks Dera. He’s in no mood for a soul journey today. After nights haunted by apocalyptic visions, his heart pounds with the conviction that the time is fast approaching when the prophecy he witnessed in this cave fifteen years ago will begin to unfold.

  Dera guesses the seeker is in his early twenties. He’s made a few enemies by the look of the scar that slices across the right hand side of his face. His eye puckers as he squints at the sunbeams falling through the mouth of the cave.

  ‘Tastes like shit. You trying to poison me, eh?’

  The seeker spits the crushed seeds on the floor of the cave. His sharp urban slang’s Alexandrian and there’s something rough about the way he juts his chin up at the end of his sentences. The seeker is Rufius’ pimp-turned-business partner, that scoundrel, Turk. To Dera he’s just another seeker; he’s not in the mood for cityboys enquiring how they’ll make their fortune, but he needs the dates they bring as payment.
r />   ‘The plant’s harmless. Drink this.’ After weeks without seeing a soul, Dera’s voice jerks.

  Turk looks at the goatskin flask Dera hands him with suspicion. City people don’t trust anyone, thinks Dera.

  ‘It’s just water, brother.’

  Turk gulps from the flask.

  ‘You a Christian, eh?’ Turk’s chin juts towards the red cross on the cave wall. He doesn’t trust the hermit, and he doesn’t like the way the cross looks like it’s pulsating. He’s not here for prophecy. Turk’s here to trade. S’pose I got to test the stuff if I’m gonna flog it, he thinks.

  ‘Surrender to the plant. Focus on what you want it to show you.’

  ‘How do I do that, eh?’

  ‘Look into the flames.’ Dera throws resin crystals into the fire. They sizzle and smoke out the cave with a woody scent.

  ‘I want to be rich – not just a bit – honey-nose rich, eh?’

  Another lost soul, thinks Dera.

  Logs cracking on the fire startle Turk and he checks for his knife, then his hand goes limp on the hilt.

  ‘Books, I see books and heaps and heaps of gold in the fire…’ Turk’s voice starts to drift, his eyesight blurs: the red cross, the walls of the cave fade into each other like smoke mingling with smoke. Turk’s head slumps forward; bile burps onto his chest. The plant’s taken him: he’s given up the fight for control.

  ‘Man, oh man! What you doing up ’ere, eh? Out ’ere in the middle of nowhere?’ Turk sweeps his arm out towards the desert, stares at the pink ray of light on the back of his hand until it fades, then shivers as the Sun drops behind the mountain.

  What a chatterer this one was, thinks Dera. He didn’t stop talking.

  ‘The desert’s my home, brother.’

  ‘You’d make a mint in Alexandria with this stuff. What a buzz. Needs something to make it less bitter: cinnamon, no, I’ve got it: honey. That would do it. So what do you say?’