Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  ‘GOT IT?’ he shouts across the room, the veins on his gym-thick neck protrude. He’s a bloody nutter. I’m better off in the Necropolis. Lanky’s scarred face comes into my head. Maybe not.

  ‘Right then, who’s first?’ Olympus asks as if we’re taking turns at dice. ‘Cat got your tongues, boys? You. Name?’

  ‘Aeson Biblus Catamitus, I am.’ I say it with pride.

  A few splutters but no one dares laugh.

  ‘I am! Who else would you be, you fool? I’ll not abide insolence, nor will I allow superfluous, non-grammatical effluent in my class. If you want to imitate gutter-Greek, I suggest you join the theatre.’

  He thinks I’m putting it on. Don’t jumble your syntax, Apollinos would say. I hate elocution: talking right sounds soppy, but I got to do it. Belonging is acting. Gang life taught me that.

  ‘And you?’ He turns to Fatty.

  ‘I-I-I-…’ Fatty closes his eyes and lowers his head.

  Oh no, Fatty’s gone and pissed himself. Hot, stinking piss splats my ankles. Poor Fatty. He’ll never live this down. Olympus flares his nostrils and huffs like a bull. The class hold their noses to keep their laughter in. We’re in for a right hiding now.

  If Croc was here, he’d do something to save us. The image of him, clinging to the Stadium wall ready to shit his loincloth makes me miss him. None of this lot will help us. That boy, stubble already black and thick, in the front row’s enjoying this. Looks like a spectator at the stadium, he does: impatient for the kill. Stubble grabs his own neck, tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth; he points at me and grins. The longer this lesson goes on the better.

  ‘OVER YOU GO. TUNICS UP.’

  The class coughs and splutters to hide their laughter. Must be a sight – Fatty’s big white arse next to mine: gym hard and the colour of honey. Clench my bum cheeks tight to keep the muscle solid. The whip will sting Fatty’s flabby arse more than mine.

  ‌22

  Aeson

  ‘Right, I suppose you scavengers need to eat.’ Why does Olympus have to shout? We’re schoolboys, not soldiers.

  Chair legs scrape, tablets and pens clatter in our rush to leave the scriptorium.

  ‘WAIT UNTIL YOU ARE DISMISSED.’

  Olympus gives us a narrow-eyed look that says you’re not trusted.

  ‘This morning’s lesson was held in the scriptorium under this 600 year-old fresco for you to absorb the legacy of scholarship that precedes you.’ Olympus waves his arm at the ceiling, but his gaze fixes in on Fatty and me.

  ‘It seems some of you lack reverence, even in the presence of the Muses.’

  We’re in the front row next to each other. My thighs have held me in a hover above the seat of my chair since the whipping. Nine lashes for the nine Muses, Olympus said.

  ‘Next week we will meet in the Aristotle Lecture Hall. You will just need your ears. No writing, just listening. Tardiness will be punished. Dismissed.’

  Scrum for the door. Fatty and me, we hold back. Fatty waits for me to leave then follows. There’s no solidarity between us. It’s his fault we got that beating. Only one reason he’s cowering behind me: he fears the honey-noses more than he fears me. My bet is that boy with the stubble’s waiting for us outside the door with his cronies. My stomach’s tight, but I’m not scared, not me. Olympus, he scares the shit out of me, but Stubble, he’s a pussy compared to Lanky.

  Huddled round the door, Stubble and the others hold their pens like knives. They prod and poke as we hurry past into the corridor.

  Now where? Left, or right? Best head back in the direction I came.

  ‘Who’s your friend, Fatty?’

  Fatty’s a few steps behind me. Poor kid. S’pose everyone calls him that.

  ‘L-leave me alone.’ That high-pitched stutter would make anyone want to bully him. Thank Serapis my voice broke.

  ‘Leave me alone, leave me alone,’ they chant behind us as we walk down the staircase.

  I’m not running, I ain’t. Fatty copies my slow pace, but he’s itching to run.

  Two grand doors open onto the Courtyard of the Muses. It’s a little oasis with palm trees and flowers and the trickle of water fountains. Scrolls are stacked high on the polished wooden shelves under the arcades. Library slaves pad about in soft-soled sandals to stack and catalogue.

  Now where?

  The whiff of cooked meat and fish is coming from that door on the other side of the three Muses: that way to lunch. They’re going to stalk me the whole way, but they won’t do anything. I saw their faces when me and Fatty got a whipping. They were shitting their loincloths it could be them bent over Memory’s bench.

  Stubble and five or six of his cronies, pens raised like daggers, surround us.

  ‘What’s with the street slang, new boy?’

  Fatty and me, we back up. Nothing else we can do. Ambushed, aren’t we? Maybe I misjudged Stubble. The cool toe of one of the Muses is against my arse. Fatty slumps back on her other foot, hands over his face. He’s shaking. Still stinks of piss.

  The group of boys in white tunics with the yellow library stripe push and poke. Stubble stabs his pen on my forehead. Bastard! Can’t risk cuts on my face, can I, not before Rufius gets those adoption papers signed. Scars don’t go down well with Rufius. Perfection, that’s what he likes. My face is my ticket. Let’s flick his hand away.

  ‘Stop it, that hurts.’ Fatty’s sobbing.

  ‘I decide who plays the joker, who pisses, and when.’ Stubble’s staring, but he ain’t seeing us: the dead eyes of a bully.

  Out-numbered, but the rest will probably just watch if I hit him. My muscles are hard as his. How I’d like to test them on his face. All the paybacks I’ve imagined giving Lanky, and now this stubbly fucker, swill around in my head, all the dreams where I hunt Lanky down, and the nightmares when he hunts me down. I’m so angry my whole body’s a hot throb. My palms clench and unclench.

  Stubble prods my gut with his pen. It hunches me over. The whip welts on my arse sting as I bend. If he does that once more, I’ll, I’ll… Remember, Rufius is the Director of the Scriptorium. Make him proud… that’s what Apollinos said when he left me at the scriptorium door. Getting into a fight won’t make Rufius proud.

  ‘Got it, new boy?’ Stubble’s fat vowels really piss me off.

  They all join in.

  ‘Got it?’

  ‘Got it?’

  They’re enjoying this like Olympus enjoyed thrashing us.

  Not the face. My anger’s bigger than me now. It’s pushing at the edges of my skin. I’m going to hit him if they don’t back off. My fist clenches the Muse’s toe. Serapis, let me keep my cool. Me and Croc, we’ll get Stubble outside school, give him a scare. Keep cool.

  Fatty flays his arms about and scrambles higher up onto the Muse’s foot. He’s hanging round her ankle. What’s he playing at?

  ‘A-Aeson’s a murderer. H-he skinned a boy alive.’

  ‘Asin Biblas Ca’amitas, HE IS!’ Stubble’s doing an impression of my accent. Is that how my vowels sound, chipped and short? Why didn’t I pay more attention to Apollinos? I’m found out!

  ‘It’s t-true. A street kid t-told me.’

  ‘Shut it, Fatty. Aeson might think it’s funny to speak gutter-Greek, but we’re not stupid enough to believe he’s a pleb. We’re going to teach you both a little lesson.’

  Thank the Muses they think Fatty’s lying! In my new clothes, hair cut neat, skin scrubbed clean except for ink-stained fingers, street kid’s a step too far.

  ‘I’m not joking.’ Fatty’s not giving up. ‘A-Aeson’s dangerous. He’s in a g-gang of nasty street kids!’

  Maybe this can work in my favour. Time to front Stubble… right up to his nose, that’s it. We’re the same height. Grew loads this year, I did. Need to push the threat into my voice. ‘Fatty’s got it coming to him, but he’s mine.’

  Stubble laughs, but takes a step away from me. ‘He’s not yours, new boy. Who do you think you are strutting in here like you own the place?�
��

  ‘Aeson Biblus Catamitus, I AM.’ I hiss it like I’ve seen Lanky do, into his ear. Stubble shudders. He’s wary now. ‘I’m not interested in your turf, but Fatty’s mine, got it?’ Keep my voice low, push the threat into it… Croc and me, we’d have this lot for breakfast, we would. ‘Your pens won’t protect you when I creep into your bedrooms with my gang.’

  Now, let’s take Stubble’s hand and place it over the hilt of my knife hidden in my new scabbard under my tunic. Don’t go anywhere without it, not with Lanky still out there. ‘Put your pen away, if I was you.’

  Stubble yanks his hand back from the hilt and drops his pen. Eyeball him… that’s it. I mean it, and he knows it. His eyes have changed. He’s looking at me like I am a real person – someone he’s not so cock-sure he can push around.

  ‘Teachers!’ warns one of the boys.

  Two philosophers, both in Library togas with a yellow stripe, walk towards us through the courtyard.

  ‘Fatty’s useless to me. Do what you like with him.’ Stubble pushes away from me and looks at the others. They look unsure. He laughs. ‘Christ only knows what Aeson wants to do with him!’ They laugh too. So Stubble’s a Christian.

  ‘Watch your step, Aeson I AM.’ Doubt, that is, in Stubble’s cold eyes.

  They laugh and scamper after him like rabbits through the courtyard.

  ‘Y-you’ll miss lunch.’ Fatty eyes me like I’m a dangerous animal and hugs the Muse’s ankle tighter. Now I understand why Lanky put that fiction in Fatty’s head the night we did the warehouse job: fear’s a useful weapon. Fatty scans the courtyard – wondering if he was better off taking Stubble’s shit than being stuck with me.

  ‘If I was going to skin you I’ve had plenty of chances.’ I can’t help laughing. ‘Come on.’ He looks uncertain, but flops down from the Muse’s foot like a clumsy pup.

  ‘Where’s lunch then?’ I’m starving. Never can work out how just sitting in a classroom makes me as hungry as ten laps round the track at the gymnasium.

  Stubble and his cronies keep their distance as I walk out the Museum gates. First day at school was a success: fooled Master Olympus and my classmates that I’m a real honey-nose, I did… and scared the Library brats! Reckon I’ve got enough time to scoot along to see Kiya and Croc before dinner.

  ‘Coin for the cripple.’

  Kiya?

  What’s she doing here? Sophia’s head is tucked into Kiya’s dress to hide her sensitive eyes from the light. Why in Serapis’ name is she begging outside the Museum? She must be here for the book. It’s not like I forgot my promise. I’ll find The Book of Wisdom. Just need some time, that’s all… and now Rufius trusts me, I must be careful. If it’s pinched, he’ll suspect me… oh, no, here comes Fatty. He runs like a duck.

  ‘W-wait for me, Aeson.’

  ‘Coin for a cripple, sir?’ Kiya raises her voice. She’s worried. Something’s happened. ‘Kiya, what are you doing here?’

  ‘The demon’s back and he’s looking for you.’ Her voice is a fast whisper, dark eyes wide with panic.

  ‘A-aeson, thanks for earlier. I m-mean, do you want to come back to my house… I-I have a new p-pet puppy. You can p-play with him…’

  ‘Kiya, thanks for telling me. I’ll be careful.’ So she’s not come for the book. She reaches up and grabs my leg. Sophia wakes up with the sudden movement, her long neck reaches towards me, tongue flicks and hisses.

  ‘A-Argh, a s-snake! C-Come on A-Aeson, get away from the cripple. She’ll put a curse on us.’

  ‘Fatty, go home.’

  ‘Sweet Sophia, Aeson, listen to me. Lanky’s got Croc. And he’s after you too!’

  Serapis, no! ‘Where’s he taken Croc?’ Don’t need to ask. I know exactly where to find Lanky.

  ‘Aeson, come back!’ Kiya shouts after me. She knows I’m going after him.

  ‌23

  Rufius

  The sooner I get rid of Titus the better. He looks even more scrawny and lizard-like this morning.

  ‘Cassius, tell the guards to open the gates and hail a carriage, dear.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  The gates crunch and squeal as the guards push them open. They look embarrassed like it’s them giving off a long fart, not the gate. And so they should. They know full well I like Biblos to run smooth and serene.

  ‘We’ll get ’em oiled, master.’

  Titus looks like a man who’s had his fill. And so he should after guzzling my best wines and monopolising my sexiest slaves, but his lizard-face is as creased in worry as when he arrived, fearful and fretting like an old woman.

  ‘Rufius, so we do understand each other: my clients are important men…’ Titus’ tongue flicks over his thin lips. You would think a man involved in such a risky business would have a little more gumption. What does he expect me to do, draw up a legal document that guarantees the delivery of illegal books, for Bacchus’ sake?

  Cassius is trying his hardest not to look round the gate and down the street. So am I. School finished hours ago.

  ‘… Rufius? Rufius, your hospitality is second to none.’ Titus winks at Cassius. He would have preferred Diana’s company, but I won’t use her to oil the wheels of my business transactions.

  Curse it, Cassius didn’t notice the wink: he’s too busy staring at the gate. The slave’s as impatient as I am for Aeson’s return. Where is that boy? First day at school, and he’s late home.

  ‘My dear Titus, it appears you have quite exhausted the lovely Cassius.’

  Stepping on Cassius’ foot should get his attention. Cassius throws Titus an adoring look. It’s taken two days to convince Titus my delivery network is sound. That’s better.

  Now Cassius, the farewell speech. Come on, boy. ‘Cat got your tongue, Cassius?’

  Cassius blushes. ‘Biblos will miss you, please come again soon.’ Word-perfect but unconvincing.

  Cassius makes the excuse of helping the guards load Titus’ luggage onto the carriage. What’s Cassius gawping at?

  Titus and me walk out onto the street. Not a soul on the wide palm-lined avenue.

  ‘… Rufius, Rufius, do you comprehend the scale of the risk we’re taking?’

  ‘Sorry, my dear Titus, my son’s late. You know what boys are like, such a worry.’

  Titus nods, but he’s flapping again.

  ‘There can’t be another no-show. The Antioch failure makes me look unreliable. I lose a client, you lose a client…’

  Titus’ voice is hushed, but his words rattle out faster than Aeson charges around in his chariot. Why did I buy him that death trap? Where is that boy? I’ve had enough of repeating myself. How much reassurance does Titus need?

  ‘My dear Titus, as I have said, I will look into the failed delivery. You have nothing to worry about…’

  ‘You’re certain your people are trustworthy, Rufius?’

  ‘Rest assured, my operation is both reliable and discreet. It won’t happen again. You have my word.’

  Why didn’t that rogue Turk tell me about the no-show? Hoped I wouldn’t find out? I thought he had more brains than that. I’ll be paying him a visit on Venus Street tonight.

  ‘Master Titus, your carriage awaits. Biblos wishes you a safe journey.’ Cassius’ voice is seductive and his provocative pose draws Titus’ attention. Clever boy, he knew I was getting an ear-bashing.

  A slave clinks a glass as he polishes, another whips up dust from the high shelves above my head. Can’t I have silence in my own library? Titus has given me a bloody headache. Turk will answer for the no-show tonight… but more importantly, where in Hades has Aeson got to… ?

  ‘ATCHOW!’ Bloody dust.

  ‘OUT!’

  The boy on the ladder hurries down, the other replaces the glasses and patters out.

  ‘CLOSE THE DOOR.’

  At least my library door doesn’t squeak.

  What’s that rustling on the terrace? It must be Turk. I’m weary of these boys. Turk parts the bougainvillea, jumps over the balcony and
sits himself in a chair by the door. What a mess: hair full of dust, face sunburnt, scar tight and dry around his eye. He’ll have it for life. Looks like he’s been sunbathing in the desert… and he stinks of camel.

  ‘Bit old fer yer, that old Roman. Fancied a bit of variety, eh?’

  ‘You know the method of communication, Turk: you send a message and I come to you. Not the other way round.’

  ‘Special circumstances, special message, old man.’

  Has he been spying on my conversations with Titus? He can’t have, we conducted them in the privacy of my wine cellar. We were careful.

  ‘One of my boys died this week on the Antioch delivery.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘The stakes have changed so delivery price goes up. The trial was a joke, my boys tell me. They tortured a confession out of him, forced him to admit he was a soothsayer in possession of a magic book, then – ’ Turk slices the flat of his hand across his neck. De-capitation was it?

  I’m not in the mood for greedy street scum trying it on.

  ‘Heretical book trafficker executed by the authorities: hazard of the trade, dear. If it’s too hot for you Turk, I’m sure there’s plenty of Venus Street pimps with the balls for the job.’

  If I pretend to read this pamphlet maybe he’ll piss off.

  ‘You still owe me fer the Antioch job. Lost a man, didn’t I, eh?’

  ‘Stick to pimping if the book trade doesn’t suit you, Turk.’ I peer over the pamphlet. ‘Now, if you would kindly remove yourself from Biblos. If you come here again the deal’s off.’

  ‘You break our deal and the other little arrangement’s off too.’

  I was waiting for this. Well, I’m ready for him. Let’s raise an eyebrow and feign surprise.

  ‘Are you referring to Aeson?’ Where – for the love of Bacchus – is Aeson? The boy’s always late. I’m probably just being impatient.

  ‘You know exactly what I mean, old man. Pretty’s all dressed up, running around town in that fancy chariot. Well he’s on lease, and I’m calling it in.’