Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  Turk opens his arms wide in front of him. His right eye wrinkles with his grin. ‘Come back with me to Alexandria. You can stay at my place – right nice pad I’ve got – you prepare the plant, I sell it and we split the profit straight down the middle. Like partners, see?’

  ‘I don’t like the city.’

  ‘Eh, eh? Now listen to me.’

  Dera watches as the seeker – he never asks their names – picks up a handful of the sacred white seeds and opens his palm, like he’s the one with the knowledge.

  ‘This is freedom, eh? It’s alright for you in your tax-free cave, blissed out and miles from anywhere, but what about all those poor fuckers in the cities, eh? Give ’em wine; let Dionysus feed ’em. Wine muddles your head. This stuff, it gives you insight.’

  ‘The sacred plant is not a city drug, brother.’

  ‘Why not, hermit? Thought your god was into sharing, eh? Can’t be no more dangerous than wine. Won’t kill you if you guzzle too much, so how can these seeds be more dangerous, eh?’

  ‘In the desert the plant offers clarity. In the city it would create confusion.’

  Turk leans back against the slab of rock that serves as an altar. The plant’s sucked his energy.

  ‘But you said yourself, eh? It shows you the path of wisdom…’

  Dera thinks of Aeson’s path and urgency replaces the sense of failure he felt earlier.

  ‘… nuffink dangerous about wisdom, eh?’

  ‘Destiny is best avoided, brother.’

  ‘Eh? Eh, so that’s why you’re hiding out here in the desert.’

  Ash floats up from the embers in a waft of frankincense then hovers like specs of dust in the fading pink haze.

  Turk needs another tack. He stares at the embers and thinks. Rufius says everyone has their price. So what does the hermit want? Turk props himself up on his elbow and eyeballs the hermit.

  ‘Eh, listen, I know you’re communing with your god and all, so what if you get to stay in your cave? Here’s the deal: I send one of my men out here twice a year, maybe more if this stuff takes off, and you supply me with the crushed seed. As long as it sells like I reckon it will, you won’t have to worry about food – I’ll pay you in dates and salted fish.’

  Turk’s voice is light and confident like he’s landed the solution to a problem. Maybe he has, thinks Dera.

  ‘Think about it: all the food you can eat, just you and your god in the desert, eh?’

  Seeker and hermit look out at the sky dusted every shade of pink.

  What harm can it do? thinks Dera.

  ‘I will harvest the plant on one condition, brother.’

  ‘Anyfink you want.’

  ‘Create a safe place for people to take it – somewhere people will experience the visions away from the stress of their everyday lives.’

  ‘Eh?… I know just the place, cushions and all.’ Turk grins so wide his right eye puckers closed and his scar crinkles round his eyelashes like a raisin.

  God has many disguises, thinks Dera. Kiya’s convinced her snake is the Holy Spirit. Who am I to judge? Sophia, if this is my path guide me.

  Turk’s still high on the plant as he climbs back down from the hermit’s cave. His vision has convinced him that Rufius and their book business will line his pockets with gold. The guide he hired is waiting with two camels.

  ‘How’d you get that scar then, mister?’

  Turk scowls at the guide. He’ll get his revenge on Pretty one day, but right now he needs to keep Rufius happy. Can’t complain about the old cinaedus, he thinks, as the camel lubbers along and throws his body back and forth in a steady rhythm. If it weren’t for Rufius, I wouldn’t have Turk’s Honeypot. Can’t believe I got prime position on Venus Street.

  Σ

  ‌20

  Rufius

  What a vision! Aeson stands in his tunic as Cassius passes Apollinos the toga virilis. He’s learnt to let the slaves do their job at last. No one folds a toga so it stays where it should like Apollinos, and I want everything perfect for the ceremony this afternoon. This is an important day. Today my boy becomes a man. Still slender at the waist, he retains the featherweight air of youth… but it won’t be long before the heavy bulk of manhood ruins him.

  The sweet smell of honey cakes wafts from the kitchen into his bedroom. We flare our nostrils and inhale. Villa Biblos finally feels like home.

  Aeson rolls back his shoulders as the folds of white cloth are draped across his body, pride in his face. That’s how a boy should look on his toga virilis.

  ‘Rufius, what do you think? I’m all wrapped up like a bleeding mummy!’

  ‘Carpe diem, Aeson, my boy. If ever there was a day ready to be plucked it’s the 17th of March. I remember my coming-of-age, and look at me now, dear!’ Let’s give him a twirl. ‘I’m still in my toga virilis!’

  Aeson laughs. The slaves look to the floor; they’d get a whipping if they joined in my self-mockery. Regardless of the number of gold rings on my fingers, my toga has no purple edges. Bah! The powers that be may deny a cinaedus his stripes, but I prefer my brooches. That will not be Aeson’s fate. I do not regret shunning the system, not entering public office, but my boy will be a real man… in Rome’s eyes anyway.

  Apollinos is such a fusser. He lifts Aeson’s arm. ‘Stretch, that’s it.’ Do I detect new respect in Apollinos’ tone?

  Aeson’s bicep drags under oiled honey-coloured skin, and, by Bacchus, how those shoulders have strengthened. It seems like only yesterday he was soft as a child. Did Hadrian think these thoughts as he watched Antinous grow away from his desire? Was it bitter sweet for him too? Their blossom is short-lived, poised between beauty and death. A tear? I’m a sentimental old fool.

  ‘Turn a fraction to the side. That’s it.’

  The breadth of his chest, the coy curl of black hair peaking out from the top of his tunic hints at the man he will become. Most Roman boys would not look so grave, but my boy has begun the steep climb toward middle age. What was it Horace called middle age?… that privileged ridge from which you see both sides – the one you’ve slowly climbed and the one you are destined to stumble down all too quickly. Well, I’m certainly tumbling down, but at Aeson’s age I had no idea there was a climb ahead… Damasus would complain I was carried up in a sedan chair. Ha! That light furrow between his eyebrows… Aeson’s conscious of his upward trudge. Today, I hope, I will release some of his angst. Never have I loved a boy like this: his happiness is as essential to me as my own.

  ‘Look like a right honey-nose, I do, don’t I?’

  ‘What is the point of looking that fabulous when you speak like a gutter-kid.’

  Apollinos frowns. ‘He’s just excited, master. His writing’s up to Library standard.’

  ‘Apollinos, you know as well as I do he must be able to speak. It’s all about appearances. Next week he joins the academy.’ He’ll be bullied for it. Those Library brats will mock him. A reputation is forged in a day. And don’t I know it! My lisp, contrived as it is, sealed my reputation on my first day at university.

  Rather than sulk, Aeson lifts his chin.

  ‘Rufius, do you approve of my toga virilis?’

  ‘Yes, yes. It suits you, dear. And today is a day to celebrate. Today is the Liberalia. And we will celebrate in style with Bacchus.’

  ‘Your favourite god, master.’ Apollinos is scolding me again.

  ‘I may worship the vine, dear, but Eros is my favourite god.’

  Cassius giggles. Apollinos eyeballs him. I assigned the boy as Aeson’s body slave. Aeson deserves some young flesh too, but I won’t abide slaves taking the piss.

  Apollinos reaches for the whip. The tyrant’s had one hung on a hook in every room.

  Aeson frowns and touches Apollinos’ hand. ‘No whipping today, Apollinos.’ Punishment alarms him.

  Apollinos pulls the folds back into place. He’s irritated he didn’t get to whip Cassius. ‘You must keep your left arm tucked into your side, to hold the folds in place.’ />
  ‘Aeson will be addressed as master from today, Apollinos.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ His neck’s red with irritation.

  ‘Aeson, dear, before we leave for the Temple of Ceres, I have a surprise for you.’

  ‘I’ve never seen that temple.’

  ‘It’s a small one, a Roman one. Liber, the god of freedom, is like Bacchus.’

  ‘Cicero rejected the equivalence of Liber to Bacchus, master.’ Apollinos is such a know-all.

  ‘Cicero, that old airbag! Aeson, dear, you’ll obviously learn Cicero’s speeches, but look to Fronto, mentor to Marcus Aurelius – they were lovers you know. Even that old fart Cicero gushed over Fronto’s talent. As for Bacchus and Liber, stories of the gods are no more than tales fit for school children. However, I’m always happy to bow my head to any god who likes a drink and a healthy dose of fun. And today we are going to have exactly that.’

  ‘I want to come to the party too.’ Diana practically falls through the door in her desperation not to be left out. A girl after my own heart.

  ‘Yes, Diana, women may attend the ceremony, but I think you’ll enjoy the party better at Biblos.’ She’d only get bored and start jingling her bangles.

  She skips over and kisses Aeson’s cheek. ‘You look like you’re wearing a blanket, Aeson.’

  ‘I might have to wrap you up in here with me.’

  By Bacchus, Aeson’s flirting with the girl! Surely he’s not banging Diana! That would be foolish. Screaming babies are not welcome at Biblos. I’ll have to have words with him… but not today.

  ‘Come here, my boy. I have a surprise for you.’

  Diana skips out. She knows what it is. Cassius opens the door.

  As we walk into the garden, slaves’ comments about how manly Aeson looks in his toga virilis please him. Thank Bacchus he’s not humble. One should covet a compliment.

  White silk hangs over a statue at the centre of the fountain. Aeson knows who it is. He’s posed for it for months. Apollinos has rounded up the whole household for the unveiling.

  ‘Apollinos, unveil the statue.’

  Apollinos reaches across the jets of water spurting from the open mouths of fish and pulls away the cloth. The slaves cheer and chatter about its likeness… the body slaves are all thinking the same thing: that cock’s way too small for my boy. I had it sculpted in the Greek style and I wasn’t going to spoil the tradition by turning Aeson into Priapus.

  ‘Ha! Go and take a look at the inscription, dear.’

  Aeson needs practice walking in a toga. It’s bloody awkward holding your left arm to your waist. There’s a knack to avoid looking deformed. Water splashes the white wool as he leans forward.

  ‘Read it out, dear, so everyone can hear.’

  ‘Aeson Biblus Catamitus.’

  There’s a whistle from Cassius, and a genuine cheer goes up as the news sinks in.

  Aeson’s gaze is glued to the pink marble plaque. He must be a little shocked. Turn around, look at me, Aeson, my love.

  ‘We’ll have the legal documents drawn up soon, dear.’

  Aeson drops his right hand onto the edge of the fountain to support himself.

  ‘My boy, are you well?’ Do not cry, Aeson. Keep face. The slaves will talk, and talk travels. On the tongues of Library scribes it will be round the University in no time: the cinaedus’ boy blubbered on the Liberalia – that’s not manly.

  ‘Yes, Rufius. It’s just the heat.’ His face is flushed when he looks at me. Oh no, his lip’s trembling.

  Hold in your emotion, Aeson.

  He stares at the ground like an actor preparing himself. When he looks back up his expression is changed. He grins at the slaves.

  ‘Let’s get the ceremony over with so I can get out of this toga and we can party.’

  The cheer is raucous.

  Apollinos gives his shoulder a gentle grip. ‘Congratulations, young master.’

  Remarkable. He’s even seduced Apollinos. Not literally – the only thing that turns the old slave on is his cursed whip these days, but it was only a year ago he was warning me off the little thief.

  ’Fifteen it says here. Serapis knows, I’m nearly sixteen!’

  ‘We’ll have another done for your sixteenth birthday.’ So I can look back and keep a chart of his ripening, for when his beauty is a distant memory.

  ‘Perhaps we should commission a statue in your toga virilis. What do you think, dear?’

  ‘How’s this?’ He lifts his chin high and gazes into the distance, towards the climbing wallflowers, wistful like he wants to climb them and escape over the wall.

  ‘Memorise that pose, dear.’

  ‘What, this one?’

  By Bacchus, I’m in my cups!

  ‘Come here, dear boy, and embrace your father.’ This is the only way to protect Aeson from Turk. If Aeson’s my son, that scoundrel cannot claim him.

  We face each other. An embrace is impossible in a toga, so our right arms lift to each other’s shoulders. I push his dark curls back from his forehead. Paternity has never appealed to me. I would never have taken a wife just for children as many men do, but I could have adopted. What rich Roman doesn’t want to leave a legacy? But domesticity’s a passion killer. Bacchus, let my lust survive this legal arrangement.

  ‘Thank you, Rufius. Thank you for trusting me.’

  Something in his gaze saddens me. I can adopt him, but I’m still locked out. I’ll never access his inner world. I was wrong to think this arrangement might make us friends, stop him treating me like his client, his honey-daddy. His sapphire eyes are glazed – like glass, I can see in, but cannot pass beyond the transparent barrier.

  ‌21

  Aeson

  Library brats – now I get why Rufius calls them that – whisper, snigger and point at me, have been since Apollinos left me in the queue for the scriptorium. Just like my first night in the Necropalace, this is.

  The sight of a tall man in a toga marching towards us shuts them up. Must be the teacher, but he doesn’t look like the other teachers I’ve seen around the Museum: skinny and hunched or fat and soft. This one’s brawny and walks like a general. We follow him into the room in silence.

  ‘SIT.’ We sit. Chairs scrape on the marble floor.

  He circles us like a lion circling its prey. Not all of the librarians wear togas. Rufius doesn’t. It’s the strict ones that do, I reckon.

  ‘I’m Master Olympus.’ Bellows for lungs, he’s got.

  ‘WRITE IT.’ We stare. Someone sniggers. There’s a clatter of wax tablets. The rolls of parchment in the paper stands must be for the scribes. Write what, his name, or the whole sentence?

  ‘Who was that?’ He thwacks his large desk at the front of the room, then turns his back to us and reaches up above the red granite statue of Memory in the corner for the whip.

  Let’s take a sneaky glance up at the ceiling before Olympus turns around. Never thought I’d see the Library from the inside. I made it, Dad.

  The scriptorium’s directly under the domed roof Hadrian added. Sunlight streams down on us through high windows. This is where the scribes work. If Rufius is Director of the Scriptorium he must be in charge of this room. The old man seemed to enjoy filling my wardrobe, buying me gifts. Even got an ID card: Aeson Biblus Catamitus. DOB: 365. Honey-coloured skin, blue eyes, black hair, no distinguishing features. Rufius said his lawyer in Rome is drawing up the adoption papers. Not pretending, is he? I mean, here I am… in the scriptorium of the most famous library in the world. What a ceiling painting! The Muses, stark naked, cavort with Egyptian scribes and Greek scholars with long beards; hieroglyphs are written on tall obelisks… and there’s the Great Pyramid. Wish I could climb up there on the ladders in the rows of shelves, scroll upon scroll stacked like they were in the Library warehouse. Flat shelves for the new page-turning books piled just as high.

  ‘I SAID WRITE, NOT PRAY.’

  The whip thwacks my desk. Shit, my stylus, it’s heading for the floor. Caught it! More snig
gers from the library brats. Head down. What am I meant to be writing… his name?

  Olympus is like Apollinos the way he leers over my wax tablet. Must write something. What are the letters? One letter at a time, said Apollinos. Walk through the alphabet if you’re not sure. α, β, γ, δ, ε, ζ, η, θ, ι, κ, λ, μ, ν, ξ, ο. Omicron, that’s it. His name starts with an O.

  Must hold the pen how Apollinos taught me. Olympus stares at my hand. Keep it steady, Aeson. That’s it. θλψμπυσ. Not bad. The letters are round and clear.

  ‘THIS IS A LATIN CLASS!’

  Oh no! I completely forgot. Roman numerals, come on brain, think… a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h…

  ‘A-Aeson can’t write L-latin.’

  Who said that? Posh honey-nosed accent. My gob won’t twist into the right shape to make those long vowels. Nudges travel down the rows of wooden desks. Olympus’ attention switches to the fat boy squeezed into his tunic in the front row.

  ‘Yes I can.’ I’m not letting some honey-nose show me up.

  ‘SILENCE. NO ONE SPEAKS UNLESS I TELL THEM TO SPEAK. OVER MEMORY’S BENCH, BOTH OF YOU.’

  Memory’s bench? He must mean the low wooden frame in front of her statue. So it’s not gymnasium apparatus.

  ‘B-but…’

  ‘SILENCE!’

  The fat boy gets up from his desk. I knew it – that stutter – it’s Fatty! Thank Serapis, Turk didn’t kill him. Little shit! Can’t blame him for wanting revenge. I must have scared him halfway to Hades when we robbed the warehouse.

  We both take the slow walk of shame to the front of the room. Our classmates are in hysterics. They’re as nervous as we are.

  The whip unravels. Olympus’ strike, fast and practised, licks across the front row of desks and catches someone’s hand. A stylus flies into the air.

  ‘You are the cream of Alexandria… so you think. To me you’re just a bunch of little ignoramuses. And those of you whose faces I have to see again next year will suffer, so I advise you not to muck about, but to work your itchy balls off. Got it?’

  The silence is rigid.