by Sarah Walton
‘Late fer dinner, Pretty, eh?’
We jump and turn round. Fatty gasps and points at Turk. He’s slouched against the wall of the temple. How can I make a run for it with Fatty?
‘Nowhere to run this time, Pretty.’
Boys step out of the shadows, daggers raised. Turk’s got us surrounded.
Turk grins and saunters up to me. His wound must have healed where I stabbed him in the gut, but his face, it’s crumpled on one side. Can’t make out what’s wrong with it in the shadow of the temple.
‘What do you want, Turk?’ Croc warned me Turk would blame me for the gang’s mutiny. He’ll blame me for that scar on his face too, so why wait until now to take his revenge?
‘The old cinaedus’ got the right hump with you.’
How does Turk know? Has he been spying on Biblos?
‘Tie him up and gag him, boys.’
A couple of young ones I don’t recognise bring ropes. Their hair smells like they’ve been to the baths… strange for street kids to wash. No point resisting the dirty rag they stuff in my mouth.
‘Check him for weapons. I ain’t taking any chances this time, eh?’ Turk scowls and touches his face. My gut flips: this is his revenge.
Turk grips Fatty’s cheeks so hard they wobble. Turk’s madder than I ever seen him. He’s been watching me, I reckon, but why let me live the high life for two years? Makes no sense… and where’s he been living if Lanky took over the old tomb?
‘Listen, fat kid. Yer gonna deliver a message for uncle Turk to the cinaedus. Know where he lives?’
Fatty nods his head. Everyone who’s anyone in Alexandria came to dinner at Biblos last year when the refurb was finished. No doubt that included Fatty’s honey-nosed dad. Rufius is such a show-off.
‘Run to Biblos, quick as your fat legs will carry you then, and tell Rufius this…’ Turk gobs near Fatty’s feet. ‘… tell the old Roman to get his soft arse down to Venus Street if he wants to see his precious Pretty boy alive again. Got it?’
Fatty nods like a pigeon and looks at me. Can’t talk with this dirty rag in my mouth, can I?
‘Trying to say something are yer, Pretty? Isn’t he el-lo-quent, boys?’
The boys snigger. None of them know what eloquent means, but it’s obvious he’s taking the piss. Serapis, please don’t let Kiya and Croc hear us out here.
‘Do what uncle Turk says, Fatty, or we’ll stick yer on a spit and roast yer. Bet all that fat tastes better than suckling pig, eh boys?’
They laugh harder this time. Fatty’s no threat to them, but I reckon they’ve heard the rumours about me. They know I manned up to Turk. Rufius was right: reputation is everything.
‘Off you toddle.’
Where’s Fatty going?
‘Eh? Villa Biblos is by the Great Harbour. Thought you said you knew Biblos, eh?’
Fatty knows. He’s scared is all, surrounded by a gang of feral street kids. This lot make Stubble and the Library brats look like angels.
26
Rufius
Venus Street and its catcalling tarts and drunks usually get my old juices flowing, but tonight the hoards of lusty Alexandrians and Roman businessmen gagging for flesh repulse me. That rogue Turk had better not hurt my dear boy.
Apollinos positions the house guard around Turk’s Honeypot. Honeypot indeed! The scoundrel must have pinched those two columns either side of the doorway from one of the old Egyptian tombs and had the hieroglyphs repainted: red, yellow and blue glyphs glow in the torchlight.
‘W-what if they t-torture him?’ The chubby library brat who insists he’s Aeson’s friend has snivelled the whole way here.
‘Turk won’t dare touch Aeson, dear.’ He’s got too much to lose, but I’m not taking any chances. Biblos guards are in position, swords drawn. We brought twelve with us, so some must have gone round the back. Patrons scatter when they see the swords. Oooo! I feel like a general watching Apollinos manoeuvre my slaves.
A boy’s head pops out the first floor window, and disappears back inside as soon as he sees us. Shouting follows inside The Honeypot. I can’t decipher what with the loud music and drunken mayhem of Venus Street, but it must have been a warning as five or six men have run out – some naked, tunics in one hand, purses in the other. Ha!
Apollinos marches over to give his orders to the Biblos guards standing next to me. ‘You two, either side of the door; swords ready.’ He’s very good at playing the boss.
‘Master, wait here until I give the signal.’ Off he struts again, my manly Apollinos.
Why’s Apollinos flapping his hand about? Is that the signal? Not much of a signal. He went into The Honeypot only moments ago.
‘Master, come quick!’
‘In we go, dears.’ I feel quite butch myself with my burly guard next to me. The podgy Library brat’s still sniffling.
‘Stop blubbing or wait outside.’
The fat boy – son of the eminent Magistrate Marcus Curius Advocatus – might be useful. I do hope that’s Aeson’s rationale and he’s not fucking the fleshpot. The boy sucks the snot into his throat with a loud sniff, and wipes his face on his tunic. Laundry slaves must love him.
By Bacchus, it looks like Turk’s fleeced a temple to deck out the brothel atrium: wall and floor mosaics of gods and humans in omnifarious positions. Lavish!
Apollinos waves us into a side room.
‘In here, master.’
My boy! Turk holds a knife to Aeson’s throat and pulls back my boy’s dark curls so hard it tugs the skin around his temples. The tip of the blade glows orange.
Fatty gasps.
Aeson sits rigid in a chair; Turk stands behind him. Perhaps I miscalculated Turk – that blade’s been heated for torture.
Don’t show your fear, Rufius. The face of a senator: expressionless.
‘Think you’re clever, eh, cinaedus?’ Turk’s eyes dart from one Biblos guard to another. The pimp’s rent boys are dotted around the room, each with a knife to their throats or a sword at their back. Turk won’t leave here alive if he hurts Aeson and he knows it. But I must not do anything to startle him. He’s unpredictable; he might lash out. Hide my fear, keep my voice low and calm.
‘Turk, let him go. I have papers to prove he’s my son.’
‘Wot do I care about the law, eh?’
Speak slowly so he takes it in, voice level, don’t show my distress.
‘I can give you two very good reasons, dear. Firstly, our little business arrangement, from which you have prospered, by the look of the décor in here.’ Why he chooses to live where he shits is beyond me. ‘Secondly – and far more worrying for you – is that, however much you dress yourself up, you are a thief and a murderer, and I have here the son of one of Alexandria’s most respected magistrates to prove it.’
Turk looks at Fatty. He recognises him. Ha! That’s tied his tongue, but why’s Turk not lowering his dagger? He will. I need to take the weight off my poor feet.
Fatty – he told me that’s what his friends call him – blurted out the whole story in the carriage on the way here, between sobs and begging to stop so he could pee. I made him piss from the speeding vehicle. Ha! His father won’t be happy to find out Turk had the boy find all the heretical Christian books in the library storehouses before his gang roughed him up. Of course, Turk will say I’m behind the book theft. I’ll address that if it comes to it. It’s my word against his, so a healthy bribe should smooth things over.
These couches are more comfortable than my own at Biblos! And those glass cups, they must have come from a wealthy household: the glasswork’s exquisite.
‘Fatty, sit down, dear. You make the place look untidy.’
He sits on the edge of the couch. A click of my fingers and Apollinos fills our glasses. Turk didn’t like that.
‘Drink up, Fatty dear. You look like you need one.’
I must not look Aeson in the eye, or I’ll turn into a blubbering mess.
Turk looks unsure of himself. He pulls Aeson�
�s hair back harder. My boy winces, but does not utter a sound.
‘You have until I finish my wine to decide, Turk. What will it be, my men alert the City Guard and drag you off to the Agora prison to await your trial… or you come to your senses and enjoy your good fortune?’
I take a sip, but keep my eyes on Turk’s hand, the one holding the red-hot blade.
‘Mmm, a good vintage.’
Turk needs to know there’s a lucrative way out of this – without him losing face. I’ve already humiliated him in front of his men. Let’s get up. Come on, knees.
‘Keep your distance, old man.’ Turk yanks Aeson’s hair. A drop of sweat rolls down Aeson’s forehead. My boy darts me a sapphire look as I lean over slowly to whisper in Turk’s ear.
‘Turk, don’t be a fool and throw away a good partnership. I’m going to sit back down and make you an offer to increase the price a fraction and you are going to agree.’ Only Turk can hear me, not Fatty, not the others. No reaction. ‘Any silly move on your part and, I assure you, I will do things to your dick with that knife of yours Caligula never even dreamed of.’
Turk’s eyes dart around him. He’ll give in – if the threat of losing his money didn’t work, cock torture will. Why Roman generals move straight for the torture implements, I’ll never understand. They would do far better just painting a gory picture in their victims’ minds. No sense cutting out a tongue when you want information.
Turk’s gaze follows me back to the couch. Fatty holds his wine glass in both hands to stop it shaking.
27
Aeson
So, Rufius is running a book scam with Turk – that explains why Turk didn’t come after me sooner. Rufius is the reason Turk’s come up in the world. This brothel’s just a sexy front for the real money-spinner. Rufius relaxes back on the couch as if he’s just popped in for a blowjob. Fatty sits snivelling next to him. He might be a cry-baby but Fatty’s got guts.
The blade’s getting hotter, tip close to my skin. One slice and I’m scarred for life. My gut, my heart, everything thuds: fear’s loud on the inside. Rufius will kill Turk if he cuts me.
And Croc was right about not trusting Rufius. It’s one rule for me, and another for him. He tells me not to steal books, but he’s got a whole frigging operation going on. If I get out of here alive, I’m bloody well pinching Kiya’s book back.
‘Turk, my dear, let us put our differences to one side. As my adopted son, Aeson is my property; if you hurt Aeson, you hurt me. And I know you do not wish to hurt me, for that would hurt our business relationship. Let’s renegotiate terms that will be mutually beneficial over a glass of wine.’
Rufius sips the wine and raise a kohl-painted eyebrow. He’s nervous, but no one except me can see it. What an actor.
Turk lets go of my hair. Thought he was going to have my scalp off before Rufius arrived, I did. He lowers the knife and plunges the hot blade in a jug of wine. It sizzles like fat on a spit. Thank Serapis!
Turk leans over me, and hisses in my ear. ‘Honey-daddy won’t be around forever, Pretty.’ Then slaps my back.
‘Druid, pour Aeson Biblus Catamitus ’ere a glass of our finest vintage.’
Druid! His skin’s blue there’s so much ink on it now. The last time I saw the tattooed Briton was over two years ago, the night we robbed the warehouse. Druid looks sheepish as he passes me the fancy glass. He mutters something in his own language and looks over at Turk, top lip curled into a snarl.
‘No hard feelings, Aeson?’
You need the protection of a gang when you’re a street kid. I shake my head and gulp the wine. Still in shock, I am.
Turk puts on his most magnanimous smile and sits down next to Rufius. Relaxed, like old friends; they’re peas in a pod, those two, the way their minds work, the way they put money first.
Rufius smiles back. ‘Lower your weapons, men.’
Biblos slaves replace daggers in scabbards, guards lower their swords, but stay put, hands on hilts. Apollinos won’t take any chances.
‘Druid, bring Rufius here a taster of our Desert Honey.’
Druid’s blue-patterned back disappears behind a wooden screen.
‘What strange barbarian religion does he belong to with all that scribble on his back?’
‘He’s a Druid, from Britain.’
‘Oh, I’ve never seen one. Do they paint their cocks too?’
Druid comes out again with a wooden box. He looks Rufius in the eye. ‘The Honeypot caters for all tastes, mister.’
Rufius recoils. Druid’s patterned face would give me the creeps if I didn’t know him. So Druid is Turk’s right hand man now Lanky’s gone. Reckon we’ve all seen the last of Lanky… thanks to Kiya.
Turk takes a couple of small glass pots from the box, mixes a dry, whitish paste from one with what looks like honey from the other with a spoon in a little dish, and passes it to Rufius.
‘A symbol of our partnership, eh, Rufius.’
Apollinos steps forward. ‘Master, no.’
‘Taste it, Apollinos.’
‘Master, it might be poison.’
‘I doubt it very much. Turk dear, do you have any idea of the value of this hairy Greek slave?’
‘More than I can afford.’ His chin juts. ‘The honey’s to sweeten it. Tastes bitter but the effect is mellow. It might even relax those veins on his neck.’
‘Ha! Yes, Apollinos gets awfully stressed, don’t you, dear?’
Apollinos takes the spoon, looks at it, then at Rufius.
‘Go ahead, dear. If it kills you, Turk’s not the businessman I thought he was.’
Apollinos sucks the honey off the spoon and swallows. His dark eyes are sad. So this is how Rufius treats his lovers when they’re too old. Thank Serapis he signed those adoption papers!
Apollinos plonks himself down on the couch between Fatty and Rufius as if he just fancied sitting down. Rufius laughs as the slave’s jaw relaxes. Apollinos laughs too. It’s not like he’s drunk. He’s not swaying or anything. He’s forgotten he can’t sit until he’s ordered to.
Apollinos drops the spoon and stares at it like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
‘Well, what’s it like?’
‘I’ve never felt so… so free.’
‘He might puke, but the nausea passes.’
Turk mixes himself a spoonful then passes it to Rufius.
‘Eh, pass it round, we’re celebrating Aeson’s new status.’ He looks at me as if to say, I’ll have my revenge, but I can wait. ‘Druid, mix up enough Desert Honey for everyone, eh!’
This stuff’s good. Every muscle in my body was tense. Now I’m all soft and relaxed. Fatty’s giggling away to himself.
Turk plays the host as if it’s a normal night on Venus Street and we’re customers. ‘More wine, Druid, eh, for our guests.’
I should want to kill Turk, but I don’t. We’re enemies, that’s for sure, but right now I couldn’t muster a curse let alone punch anyone. It’s like the god of war has taken a holiday and Eros took his place.
‘Yes, dear, and wrap some of that Desert… what is it you call it?’ Rufius has scoffed more than any of us. It doesn’t slur your speech like wine, but it makes your memory dark, and now and then I see things, things I know aren’t real. Like I thought I saw Dera standing in the doorway, but when I blinked and looked again he was gone.
‘Desert Honey.’
‘Ingenious! Your descriptive faculties are positively poetic, Turk dear!’ Rufius isn’t being sarcastic. This stuff makes you positive for no reason at all.
Fatty passes me another spoonful. Apollinos leans over the couch from his position behind me. ‘That’s enough, Aeson.’
Apollinos doesn’t trust Turk. Biblos guards are stationed at the edges of the room. They seem out of place in this happy haze.
‘No more for me, Fatty. Thanks for getting Rufius.’
His chubby cheeks blush.
‘Turk won’t cause you any more trouble now he knows my dad’s th
e magistrate.’
Fatty’s stutter’s gone. Must be the effect of the Desert Honey.
‘Turk’s not defeated. He’s just biding his time.’ Patience, that’s what sets Turk apart from the rest of them. Patience and planning.
28
Rufius
Frankincense. ‘Ah, divine scent!’ And do I detect patchouli… with overtones of neroli wafting from the bathroom? Indeed I do. Deific highs balanced with low earthy tones and the zest of summer oranges: finally, these Egyptian slaves have mastered my olfactory preferences. The calming effect the right combination of aromatic oils has on fractured nerves never ceases to amaze me.
Although, life’s been unusually peaceful recently. Heretic book market’s booming; the scriptorium can barely keep up with demand, and Turk’s running a smooth delivery operation. That means Titus is happy. Damasus has no idea I supply anyone else but him, which satisfies my vengeful desires, for now. And Theon doesn’t suspect a thing… perhaps I should increase the bribe money for the library scribes to prevent them blabbing? No, Apollinos would sense if they were disgruntled by the extra workload. Aeson’s knuckled down at school, although he still slopes off at night. Last week I told him to take the front door instead of climbing out from his terrace. The slaves can at least monitor his comings and goings that way, but my wilful boy seems to enjoy sneaking out of windows.
Fig… but there’s something else too… my nose twitches, seduced by the trail of scent I follow into the bathroom… the smell of Aeson’s skin, a manly scent.
Lamps make gold veins sparkle in the marble steps that lead down to the steamy bath. Is my muse aware he’s inspired the refurbishment of Biblos? This bathroom, decked out like a bloody temple, is a shrine to him.
What thighs! Aeson stands in the sunken bath, steam up to his thighs and obeys as his tall Nubian masseur – an indulgent gift from the Emporium – moves his arms this way and that. How my boy manages to come home from school such a mess everyday, I do not know. Better not pry. He’s secretive even now the adoption papers are signed.