Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  ‘I’ve met my match in you, dear boy.’

  ‘So Rufius, tell me again, why you won’t cut me in on the book deal you got going with Turk?’

  ‘Not that again. Let it go, dear. Do you realise the fortune you are set to inherit now that I’ve adopted you? Hum? Do you, dear?’

  It’s not the money. Don’t trust Turk, do I. He’ll be working up some long-term plan, some clever scheme to get his revenge… I want to keep him close so I know what’s going on in his head.

  ‘Don’t trust Turk. He’ll do you over, Rufius.’

  ‘My dear boy, remember last year – did I not demonstrate I can outwit that ruffian?’

  Don’t remind me, Rufius. Lost face having my honey-daddy come to rescue me from Venus Street, didn’t I.

  ‘He’s sly, Turk is.’

  ‘Forget about Turk, dear. Concentrate on your studies.’

  Rufius reaches for the honeypot. I’m starting to feel heavy-headed, drowsy. It’s not usually like this.

  ‘Maybe Diana had a point, Rufius. Maybe we’ve been spooning too much Desert Honey.’

  ‘It’s fine for me, but you do look a little peakish, dear. I don’t want Desert Honey getting in the way of your schoolwork.’

  I’m hot all of a sudden. Need water. I glug from the jug, water pours down my face. Don’t want to go all loony like he did on me earlier, seeing things that ain’t there and talking crazy.

  Rufius steps down into the bath. His arse hangs loose over the tops of his legs. Usually Roman men’s bodies are still hard at his age. Don’t bother me. It’s interesting, like watching frogs and lizards go about their business. Rufius ain’t like other people. He’s who he is, no matter who’s watching.

  ‘Come and join me, dear. The water’s just the right temperature.’ He smiles as he sinks into the steam. Least he’s got his teeth.

  I ain’t telling Croc about Rufius calling me master. There’s something about Rufius being so up front about taking it. He’s dead honest, don’t give a shit what people think of him. I respect that. Wish I was more like that – especially at school when those honey-noses make fun of the way I speak.

  Never trust him. Croc’s words echo in my dizzy head.

  You’re right you are, Croc, but I got respect for the old honey-nose. Anyways, Rufius and me, we got a deal, don’t we. As long as he keeps up his end of it, I’ll keep mine. He’s been kind to me. Croc don’t know him like I do.

  ‌30

  Rufius

  Apollinos flapping again – what a surprise! He had to paint on my eyebrows twice this morning he was so distracted, and now he’s charging about the gardens like a general under attack from barbarian hordes. Why’s he shouting at the guards on the gates? I can’t hear a thing up here on the balcony.

  ‘Apollinos, what’s all the fuss about? I’m up here, dear, on the library balcony. Come here now.’ He disappears into the house.

  ‘Diana, do you have any idea what the fuss is about?’

  ‘Tut! Big black giant outside gates.’

  ‘Giant?’ The natives do have wild imaginations.

  Apollinos barges in, snorting from the stress. ‘Master, we must talk about the security. The men are jittery. They say a giant’s been hanging around the walls of the house.’

  ‘Ludicrous. Giants only exist in myths.’

  Cassius is bothered by the conversation.

  ‘Cassius, stop biting your fingernails and come here. What’s all this talk of giants?’

  ‘A huge black giant, big as a Titan is watching us, that’s what the guards say, master.’

  I won’t have fear at Biblos.

  ‘Rubbish! I will not entertain any more talk of giants. The guards are exaggerating. Apollinos, sell them both.’ What sort of security scaremongers the household? Biblos is a refuge, and it’s their job to maintain that illusion.

  ‘Master…’ A finger is all that’s needed to silence Apollinos. ‘The rest of you: out.’

  We wait for Diana, Cassius, and my two Egyptian body slaves to leave the room. Apollinos closes the doors and joins me on the terrace.

  ‘If he comes here again, inform me. Tell no one else, do you hear? In the meantime, increase security. Ex-gladiators, not cinaedi this time, dear.’

  ‘You see this as a threat then, master?’

  ‘No, no, no! I see this as a failure in security. Any decent guards would have scared off a spy. Since that unfortunate incident last year when Turk’s man was executed by the authorities, there’s been a string of sham trials. No witnesses, no evidence, but every month another innocent man or woman is tortured and executed before a Roman magistrate. The bishops are behind it of course. We need to be careful.’

  ‘Possession of heretical books isn’t illegal, master.’

  ‘No, but magic is illegal and magistrates can sentence soothsayers to be burnt alive and these Christian books that the bishops have unwittingly…’ – consciously in the case of Damasus – ‘… created a black market for are full of magic miracles. Our book trade is highly political. Do I have to remind you of the reason for our provincial exile, dear?’

  ‘No, master, how can I forget! It looks like Damasus’ seal on this letter.’

  ‘A letter from Damasus, what were you waiting for, dear?’ The wax cracks as it breaks. The paper is the smoothest quality. The client’s in Milan. That’s Ambrose’s territory. Turk had better be extra vigilant – Ambrose is one of those irritating archbishops too bloody pious for bribes. What’s on the list this time? Damasus takes no chances – the cunning archbishop never writes in his own hand. Twenty, no thirty books this time. Demand grows and supply dwindles… no different than any other product.

  ‘Apollinos, we need to make plans to move my collection soon. I’m not taking any more chances. This operation is getting too big… I’ve got three lists’ worth of books from Titus waiting in the scriptorium to be copied, and now Damasus wants to send some ecclesiastical twit from Rome to make a new Latin copy of the Greek version of the Hebrew Bible, whatsit called?’

  ‘The Septuagint, master.’

  ‘What’s all that noise outside?’

  Apollinos darts to the door.

  ‘Stop right there.’ Biblos guards shout at the gate. Feet patter all over the house. Metal clangs against metal as swords are drawn.

  ‘Stop!’

  It’s Fatty. He’s run past the guard on the gate and into the atrium. The poor boy’s red-faced and desperate.

  ‘For Bacchus’ sake! Those guards can’t even stop a boy from breaking an entry.’

  ‘S-sir, y-you must help.’

  ‘Calm down, dear. Cassius, give Fatty a cup of wine.’

  Fatty waves the beaker away. ‘S-sir, Aeson’s been a-a-a…’

  ‘Aeson? What’s happened to Aeson?’ I knew things were too peaceful. There’s always a drama round the corner with that boy.

  ‘Spit it out, dear.’

  ‘A-arrested.’

  ‘Aeson’s been arrested?

  Fatty grabs the wine, gulps and nods.

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‌31

  Kiya

  Sweet Sophia, this crutch has blistered my armpit with all this rushing. Shoppers dart out of my way as I half-hobble, half-run. I’ll whack them with my crutch if they don’t budge. They stare as I pass like I’m possessed by a demon. Come on leg. The knee of my good leg keeps giving way, but I’m not slowing down.

  Orators on their podiums look at me strange. Usually I skirt the shadows of the Agora arcades, but straight across is quicker. Nearly there! I overheard Henite telling the other Aberamenthos that Aeson and Seth are locked up in the Law Court prison. Henite told me to stay at home. As if!

  There’s the Law Court, between the Temple of Isis and the Temple of Phallus. And there’s Croc, down the alley between the buildings. Why’s he outside?

  Phew! The alley in the shadow of the Temple of Isis is cooler. The black marble wall’s cool too as I lean against it and wipe the sweat off my face with m
y scarf.

  ‘Henite told you to stay at home, Ki.’ Croc’s frowning.

  ‘Sweet Sophia, as if! Croc, just tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Aeson and Seth are banged up in a cell, the one at the end back there.’ He nods up the alley behind the Law Court. ‘There’s a tiny window too small even for a kid to squeeze through.’

  My ears feel like they’re ringing.

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Ki, don’t you know?’ Croc’s shoulders slump as he sighs. ‘Aeson pinched that book of yours.’

  ‘Aeson has The Book of Wisdom?’ He kept his promise. I knew he would. Everything will be alright if he has the book.

  ‘Ki, they’re in big shit and it’s all ’cos of that stupid book.’

  Croc blames me.

  ‘Where’s Henite?’

  ‘She’s inside talking to Rufius.’

  ‘Rufius?’

  ‘You know, the honey-nose cinaedus – the Roman who adopted Aeson.’

  Henite’s talking to a Roman? Things must be bad.

  ‘Firstly, Croc, do not call Aeson’s new father a cinaedus. Aeson would be insulted. Secondly, what are we out here for? We need to get the book.’

  ‘What about Aeson?’

  ‘That’s why we need the book. The magic passwords are in it. If the Aberamenthos work together, they can transport Seth and Aeson directly to the Kingdom of Heaven… or one of the places on the way.’ I’m not certain exactly how it all works, but Henite must know.

  ‘Ki, stop! You can’t go barging into a court spouting that magic stuff. They’ll lock you up for being a magician too.’ Croc looks petrified. He was a thief before Sophia saved him. No wonder he looks like he’s seen a demon. He’s probably still wanted for some crime.

  ‘Croc, you stay here. I’m going in.’

  What an atrium! The marble must be polished everyday. The guards on the gate told me no begging. Thank Sophia, they let me pass when I said my family was inside. That statue of Justice is nearly as tall as the atrium. Clerks scribble away at their desks, slaves stack papers and carry scrolls from one shelf to another. Nobody looks up. Where’s Henite? She must be in one of the rooms off here. But which one?

  ‘Bah! That’s making a fuss over nothing, dear. Aeson is a Roman.’ That must be Rufius shouting. Only a cinaedus would lisp like that. His voice is coming from that room on the right with the large wooden doors.

  As I pull open the door the shouts and appeals blast into the atrium. A clerk closes the door behind me.

  A group of people, some I recognise from the church, and others – honey-noses I’ve never seen before – all shout at a huge round man sitting at a desk. He must be the Magistrate. He’s trying to hush everyone and get them to sit back down, but nobody’s taking any notice. They’re all talking at once.

  Nobody turned as I entered… except that monk standing against the wall near the Magistrate’s desk – what’s a monk doing in here? I can’t see his face under the black hood of his cloak, but his head’s turned towards me. I don’t like the weight of his stare: gives me the creeps. If I sneak along the back row of chairs, behind the Aberamenthos, I’ll avoid his gaze… no good: he’s so tall he can still see me over their heads. If I sit down he won’t be able to see me. Anyway, I’ve got to rest my leg. That’s better.

  ‘Let me speak!’ That’s the Magistrate. I’ve heard him before in the Agora. He’s not got the best voice for his job. And that scroll on his big cherry-wood desk, it must be The Book of Wisdom.

  Everyone ignores him and continues to shout over each other. It’s impossible to make any sense of the babble. Their arguing won’t help Aeson. I wish Seth was out here and not locked up. He’d make everyone listen to each other.

  ‘Hello K-Kiya.’ It’s Fatty, Aeson’s school friend. He looks worried.

  ‘Hello Fatty. What are you doing here?’

  The chair creaks as he sits down.

  ‘Dad’s the Magistrate.’ Why’s he blushing?

  ‘Well, tell your dad to let Aeson go then.’

  ‘He won’t l-listen to me. That p-priest over there says it’s a serious crime and there needs to be a p-public trial.’ Fatty nods towards the tall man in the black hooded cloak of a monk. He’s no monk… he’s a demon!

  As if the demon had heard my thoughts, he takes a step away from the Magistrate’s desk and stares in our direction at the row of chairs at the back of the room.

  Fatty and me, we stare straight ahead until he looks away.

  The hooded demon listens to the appeals bombarded at the Magistrate, arms crossed under his cloak.

  ‘One at a time,’ orders Fatty’s dad.

  ‘They’re innocent citizens, your honour. Aeson’s only a laddie.’ That plea was from Henite.

  The demon unfolds his arms, and lifts his hood back. In his thirties, I’d say. There’s nothing of the monk in his face. He’s clean to start with. Monks are always filthy and this man’s not undernourished either. Smooth-shaven, sharp features, he has that hard, grave look that men respect. But I see through him: he’s evil like all demons.

  ‘Quiet, all of you.’ His smooth voice projects above everyone’s.

  All heads turn to the left – Rufius’ curled hair dyed red, Henite’s headscarf, and the backs of the other Aberamenthos’ heads – to stare at the demon priest. He crosses his arms again inside his cloak, and steps in front of the Magistrate’s desk.

  ‘I should not need to remind you, Magistrate, that it is a crime to be in possession of magical books. And this heretical book…’ He points a long, clean finger at the scroll on Fatty’s dad’s desk, ‘… is packed with incantations, heresy and magic words.’

  ‘My dear priest, we understand your concern, but I can assure you my son is innocent in this matter. I am the Director of the Scriptorium and can speak on behalf of the Great Library of Alexandria. The Library took this book from its owner for routine copying last year. The boy was merely returning it.’

  Aeson’s adopted dad’s a quick-thinker. Henite knows it’s a lie. So do I. The Library had no intention of giving us our book back, but the Magistrate doesn’t know that and neither does the demon priest.

  The priest isn’t ruffled. He reaches for the scroll. Oh, no you don’t. Get your demon hands off our sacred book. I press my lips together as he reads from The Book of Wisdom.

  ‘Magistrate, listen to the magic spells in this evil book.’

  Old Papyrus crackles as he unrolls the scroll. ‘Listen to this blasphemy: And Jesus stood before the offering and made the invocation, “Hear me, O Father of boundless light: iao iouo iao aoi oia psinother theropsin opsither nephiomaoth marachachtha marmarachtha ieana menaman amanei… and the heresy goes on.’

  The demon priest slings the scroll onto the Magistrate’s desk in such a fury Fatty’s dad jumps in his seat. He’s as nervous as Fatty.

  ‘Those are the sacred words of Jesus. How dare you.’ Henite whispers it. She’s as shocked to hear the passwords spoken from the mouth of a heretic priest as I am. Her scarf is wrapped tight round her head, covering her ears. It’s hot in here, but I put mine back on too. Keep your earlobes hidden, girlie, if them Romans are about. Romans, priests and demons fall into the same group for Henite.

  The Aberamenthos start to appeal to the Magistrate again in low voices. They sense there’s a demon in the room too.

  ‘Order!’ Fatty’s dad bangs his hand on the desk.

  ‘Heretics, all of them, Magistrate. The Archbishop sent me here to ensure the law was carried out. Here is your evidence.’ The priest points to The Book of Wisdom. ‘Try those men tonight and torture them for a full confession. They are magicians, diviners, both of them, unholy heretics.’ The priest’s words are poison, but his tone is level and smooth. My ears feel like they’re burning with evil.

  ‘Next you will imply it is illegal for The Great Library to hold books, dear. I remind you that this book is the property of the Library until returned. Aeson was on Library business. I remind you, you
r honour, of the Library’s manifesto: The Great Library of Alexandria aims for a comprehensive collection, regardless of the race, language, religion or politics of its books. The Library is above censorship.’

  Rufius turns to the priest. He’s not scared of him. ‘And I remind you, priest, to keep your nose out of Library business.’

  ‘God will see justice at the trial…’

  Rufius sweeps up his toga and marches around the Magistrate’s desk, white folds of linen eclipse the demon’s black cloak… Rufius looks like a chubby white angel! He clicks his fingers and his slave follows him.

  ‘Magistrate, a word, if I may, in private, in the name of The Library?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Director.’

  Rufius’ toga has no official red border and he swings his hips like a woman. The priest follows Fatty’s dad and Rufius, his gaze on Rufius’ hips as they sway in the folds of fabric, murder in his eyes.

  Rufius turns, and snaps at the demon. ‘This is Library business priest, dear.’

  ‘The Archbishop of Alexandria has given me the authority to act as I see fit to ensure the law is upheld.’

  Rufius looks at the Magistrate, who coughs and looks up at the demon.

  ‘I can assure you, Brother Theophilus, the law is the only issue of consequence in this Law Court. If the Director of the Scriptorium, the owner of the book in question, wishes to speak with me in private, the court is obliged to hear him.’

  ‘And I remind you, Magistrate, that an infamous man may not come to the defence of another person in Roman law.’

  Rufius raises his painted eyebrows, puts on the face of an actor, eyeballs the demon as if to say, bring it on, and sends him a patronising smile. ‘Theophilus – a novice, I imagine?’ Oh, Rufius is entertaining the way he turns back to face Fatty’s dad, lispy and innocent as a girl. ‘If the Archbishop wishes to send his minions, I can’t imagine this little matter is a priority, can you Magistrate? This is not a trial. I merely wish to talk with you in my capacity as Director of the Scriptorium.’

  Fatty’s dad doesn’t like the priest either. Fatty’s got a mini-bronze Phallus hanging round his neck. They’re pagans.