by Sarah Walton
We laugh uncontrollably.
‘Oh, Diana, you must move your head from my bladder before I piss myself.’
Apollinos yanks Diana off me, shaking like a schoolboy, face wet with tears.
‘Sit, sit here next to us, Apollinos.’
We take deep breaths to calm ourselves down. I cough and slap his knee. He knows that means wine and gets up to pour me a cup, still chuckling to himself.
‘Thank you, dear.’ That’s better. ‘Oh, Apollinos. That poor wretch Jerome is quite obviously a hedonist at heart. He told me he tried going out into the desert, like they do – lived in a cave, ate scraps pigs would turn their snouts up at. He couldn’t hack it. It wasn’t God’s calling, was how he put it. He was quite proud of himself though, like it was a notch on the bedpost.’
‘Well he had the ladies in a swoon over him. Pauline’s daughter fasted for a week to impress him when all along he was banging her mother.’
‘Likes them skinny does he?’
We laugh, but the thought of those dear girls, all bones and elbows, struggling to eat a sprig of asparagus sobers us.
‘Apollinos, you don’t think Aeson will turn out like them do you? What if Aeson stops eating, or runs off to the desert, or worse still…’
‘Master, calm yourself. Aeson has a healthy appetite.’
‘Aeson hungry boy.’ Diana thrusts her tongue into the side of her cheek several times.
‘Vulgarity is not becoming in a lady, Diana dear.’
My boy’s no fool, although it is a shame he refused to be baptised. Christianity is the best club to belong to if one wants a career in the Senate these days.
‘What does Aeson have to say, Apollinos?’
He breaks the seal and reads, then hands the letter to me.
‘The usual: doing well in his studies, his health is good.’
‘Aeson not going to write to papa about orgies.’ Diana sounds incredulous.
The thought of my boy at an orgy has me in an emotional tangle. How jealous I am of any hand that touches his soft curls, his honey skin when I cannot. Bah! These thoughts merely serve to torture me.
‘Amuse us, Apollinos. Let’s hear what our hedonist masquerading as a monk has to say.’
Apollinos clears his throat. Aeson may be the love of my life, but Apollinos is my pillar.
‘My most esteemed Director.’ Apollinos’ voice is as level and sober as ever. ‘I know, even in exile, that you and my dear departed mentor – might I be so presumptuous as to call him friend, for Damasus was that to me –’
‘Departed? Did he say DEPARTED? Diana, stop leaning on my stomach. My bladder’s full.’
Apollinos’ eyes flick ahead. His wide grin discloses what’s coming next.
‘Just tell me is he dead, Apollinos?’ The loud impatience in my voice brings several slaves padding over.
‘Dead, master. Damasus is dead.’
‘Apollinos, at last. We can go home to Rome.’
Up we get, on my feet, tunic flung over my head. Oh, I want to kiss everyone, to dance. Apollinos looks shocked as I plant a kiss on his lips. Diana tuts as I slobber over her. Cassius and his brother Antinous stare at me in confusion.
‘Cassius, Antinous, fetch the musicians. Biblos is celebrating.’
‘Would you really return? I hear Rome is not so accommodating to, to…’
‘Say it Apollinos, to cinaedi. I’ve heard the reports… but nobody’s ever actually been sentenced under that law.’
‘That is true, but how many men have been unofficially exiled, blackmailed, like you?’
I sit back down. Now I have the option, would I take it? I look around me, at the house, the marble, the rose garden, my beautiful family. Alexandria accepts everyone, the more exotic the better.
‘Biblos is home for now.’
‘And when Aeson has finished his studies?’
‘He can’t return.’ A dark foreboding falls over me, the memory of the huge black hermit, the smell of him still lingers in my memory: animal fur and a bitter body odour. ‘Perhaps Constantinople. There are more eunuchs in the Imperial court than courtiers they say.’
‘But master, they are slaves. It is your patrician status polite society takes issue with.’
‘Enough, Apollinos. I will have my party and we will celebrate. Remember, no invite to that old bully Olympus… and don’t tell anyone we’re celebrating the death of the Archbishop of Rome. Say it’s my birthday or something. My colleagues won’t care – any excuse for free wine and food.
Part III
Seven Years Later
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Peace is disrupted in the Egyptian deserts. Gates of monasteries are flung open and an exodus of monks abandons caves, hovels and remote oases. They have been summoned by the Archbishop of Alexandria to do God’s work. It’s against the law for monks to enter the towns and cities: they’re outcast, considered filthy fanatics and troublemakers. The Archbishop finds them as repugnant as any other civilised person, but trouble is exactly what he needs to stir up in Alexandria.
The yellow mountain, dotted with Pharaohs’ tombs, looks like honeycomb in the dying sun. It will be dark soon. Dera the Hermit is blind to the trouble heading in his direction – he did not see three monks approach in black hooded cloaks. The weight of prophecy has hung in the air for twenty-five years; he’s numb to its nagging knowledge. There is nothing he can do to stop the destruction of the Serapeum. Aeson is safe. That is all that matters.
Dera flexes his inky fingers and rubs his palms together to bring back the circulation. How strange and out of place the pen looks on the rock: a tool that belongs in a library, he thinks. His work is done. Seth and Henite will finally have a spare copy of The Book of Wisdom. The top page of parchment lifts at one corner. Dera places a rock on the book to keep the pages from flying free in the breeze that wafts into the cave, rolls up the original scroll he used for copying and puts it back in his date bag. He’ll return them both soon. It will be my last journey into the city, he thinks.
With a sense of satisfaction he picks up the bowl of paste on the altar, mutters thanks to the Holy Spirit of Sophia and eats the sacred plant. After months of abstinence it tastes more bitter than usual.
A shadow blocks the sun from the cave and casts a chill across Dera’s body. He’s disappointed his prayer’s been interrupted. Dera smells them before his opens his eyes: the stench of human filth. When he sees their black cloaks he knows they are not seekers. Monks.
‘In here, brothers.’ The spiteful voice of the tallest monk makes Dera’s spine stiffen.
‘He’s on a trip, look at him.’ A second voice with a city snigger.
Three monks stare down at him cross-legged in front of the altar. They must be Nicenes – only Nicenes would travel in a group. They’re a long way from a monastery, thinks Dera.
The tallest of the three sits down by the fire. There’s a hollow black socket where an eye once was and his face is tortured into a frown of perpetual rage.
‘He’s off his head.’ Menace in the one-eyed monk’s voice unnerves Dera. He blinks, tries to shake off the effects of the sacred plant. ‘Are you with us, brother? We come for a prophecy.’ The skinny monk has the mocking tone of a bully.
Dera’s not fooled by his request: Nicenes think prophecy’s a sin. And these three are the typical, uneducated louts that would be on the streets, scavenging and stealing, if monasteries hadn’t recruited them.
‘And for some of that.’ The third monk swipes the bowl from the altar.
‘Be careful, brother. The plant is potent. Sit, we can taste the wisdom of the plant, discover our paths together.’ Dera’s inky hand beckons them in the hope they will soften to hospitality.
‘We don’t need yer hermit wisdom,’ spits their lanky one-eyed leader.
‘There’s only one path,’ chips in another, breathless and wheezing from the climb. He looks as though he’s not fasted a day in his life. Dera is n
ervous as the fat monk picks up the stack of parchment. ‘What’s a book doing up here, brother?’
‘Just my scribblings. It is of no importance.’
‘Read it.’ The monk thrusts the top page in front of Dera’s eyes.
‘Aoi, aoi, aoi. When Jesus had risen from the dead, he spent eleven years instructing his disciples on the Mysteries of…’ Dera’s voice is level, but he knows, whether he reads or not, they’ll be trouble.
The fat monk looks at the other two. ‘Sounds like heresy to me, brothers.’
The tall monk’s single eye narrows – yes, it’s Lanky. He snatches the wad of parchment. Dera’s large hands flex. He wants to snatch it back, but is anxious not to aggravate them. He can feel their rage simmering: they’re looking for an excuse for violence.
‘Stay where you are, brother.’ Lanky’s knife’s out, his face an evil one-eyed scowl.
‘Settle, and chew on the plant a while, brothers. We are all the same in Christ.’
‘Have you not heard the laws passed against magic, hermit?’ Lanky circles Dera in slow, measured steps. ‘Think the law won’t catch yer out here, do yer?’
‘Please sit, brothers.’ Dera beckons them to the fire.
‘Shut it, heretic scum.’ Lanky kicks Dera hard in the stomach.
The monks look surprised that the hermit did not shift from his spot cross-legged, back straight on the cave floor. His stoicism unnerves them – they want a reaction. Lanky hovers the parchment over the flames. ‘We will sit, brother, and watch this heresy burn together.’
‘That’ll teach yer some wisdom, eh, brother,’ wheezes the fat monk.
A charge of anger pulses through Dera’s body and before logic can stop him, he shoots up. Even Lanky’s shocked by his height.
Three blades are at the hermit’s throat, their tips jab up at his neck.
Lanky’s single eye locks into Dera’s. ‘Stay, dog. Watch and suffer.’
Page by page Lanky feeds The Book of Wisdom to the fire. Parchment folds in on itself, blackens and burns.
Aoi-aoi-aoi, Dera chants silently to himself.
The monks laugh and jab Dera with their knives making little red cuts on his aubergine skin. They’re jubilant when the last page sinks into the embers. Like demons, they jump and leap around the fire in their black hooded cloaks, high on the plant and the glory of their destruction.
‘Get up and fight, you heretic scum!’ The hard leather of Lanky’s sandal breaks the skin of Dera’s jaw. Sour and metallic, blood fills his mouth. His other foot presses the hermit’s head down against the cave floor. Wicked laughter echoes in the cave.
‘Come on. The Archbishop needs us in Alexandria, and I ain’t staying up here all night with heretic magic,’ wheezes the fat one.
‘Finish him off and get a move on.’ Lanky stamps down on Dera’s skull. The sharp sting of a knife burns in his neck, and his sight fades with the pain.
Sophia, let me die well, he prays. I must follow the snake up my spine and leave my body from the crown of my head. Through my crown, through my crown… aoi-aoi-aoi…
Leaving Dera for dead, Lanky and the monks descend the yellow mountain, and cross the Western Desert to the marble city of Alexandria.
The law has kept monks out of the cities – even the pious rich are disgusted by extremists who never bathe and live on slops – but Archbishop Theophilus is a strategist and fanatics are what he needs now. Rioting in Alexandria between the faithful and heretics of all kinds – pagans of the old religions and heretic Christian sects – is out of control.
Archbishop Theophilus, now an imposing man of forty-six with sharp black eyes, nods at the lines of inspectors he’s employed to hunt out heretics. Taller than all of them, slender and self-assured he eyes his recruits.
‘Today we do God’s work.’ Theophilus’ level, steel voice echoes round the stables.
Horses grunt and clop their hooves as if they too are gearing up for war. Theophilus has the support of the Prefect and the army, but that will not be sufficient to stamp out heresy once and for all. The monks must obey him, they will obey… if he wears their drab hooded cloak, does not flaunt the wealth of the Alexandrian Church, he, Theophilus will win their loyalty.
Theodosius is now Emperor of both the East and the West, and Theophilus intends to take full advantage of the Emperor turning a blind eye to the wave of destruction of pagan temples sweeping the Empire. Every year the Nile must flood. Egypt’s grain feeds the Empire and whoever controls the Nilometers wield Egypt’s power. As long as the Nilometers are in the hands of the Priests of Serapis, the Church of Alexandria is overshadowed by a bunch of pagans. Only the Priests of Serapis stand in Theophilus’ way.
Besides, thinks Theophilus, as he looks out of the window of his carriage on the trot to the Agora, since Emperor Theodosius was excommunicated by Archbishop Ambrose, it’s us bishops who must uphold the will of God. This is my chance not only to bring order to the city, but to knock a few bent noses straight. Alexandria will not tolerate the unnatural habits of Rufius’ kind. There’s no place for a cinaedus in a Christian city. His boy may have escaped trial, but Rufius will pay for humiliating me, vows Theophilus.
The Archbishop’s face is flushed pink with determination and vengeance as he leans his head out of the window. ‘Whip those horses to a gallop. God’s work is waiting.’
The slave lashes his whip on the horses’ rumps with a lust that matches the Archbishop’s thirst to see his plan put into action.
He must be careful – in the eyes of the people the Archbishop must appear innocent. Theophilus has no intention of going down in history like Damasus the Ear-tickler, Damasus the Butcher. Theophilus’ eyes do not glaze over like dreamers lost in their visions – he is a realist who never let’s go of his focus – but today he allows his imagination to project into the future: I will be remembered as Theophilus Destroyer of Idolatry, or Theophilus the Great… no, too worldly… Theophilus the Virtuous… Theophilus the Pious… or simply Saint Theophilus. Too lofty? If they made Damasus a saint in the West, the Eastern Nicenes will not hesitate to call me a saint, he ponders.
‘Yes, I like the sound of that: Saint Theophilus.’ He repeats it to himself like a prayer as the white marble buildings of The Canopic Way speed past.
Σ
33
Aeson
‘Alexandria.’ My cabin boy sighs like he’s watching the love of his life. So do I. ‘It’s the shiniest city I ever seen, sir.’
‘Yes, Kelso, it is.’ The haze is still blurring the view no matter how much I squint to pinpoint the Serapeum in the distance.
We hang over the side of the ship, and let the spray pitter-patter up our arms as sailor boys run about the deck, climb masts and shout above our heads. Nearly home. How could I have stayed away so long?
With a jerk and creak the ship is manoeuvred from the open sea into the less choppy waters of The Great Harbour. I wish this boat would hurry up and dock. My childlike excitement matches Kelso’s, but I’m anxious too… how will it be with Rufius… now I’m a man? The saltwater’s left little white splashes on my forearms… will my hard muscles repulse him?
‘Sir, what’s that big gold roof behind the docks?’
‘That’s the Museum.’
The boy’s gaze follows my finger, eager to explore the city skyline. ‘Beyond the Library warehouses is the Emporium, and behind that… can you see those two obelisks? That’s the Agora.’
‘Where’s the Temple of Serapis?’
‘Hidden under the mist. Look to your right where the land rises upwards.’
‘All I see is the city wall… there’s a hill in front of it, but it’s covered in clouds.’
‘Keep your eyes peeled. The mist will rise soon and you’ll see the most magnificent temple in the world on top of that hill.’
Passengers jostle for the best position to see the Serapeum; some mumble to Apollo to give them a view from the harbour. Here comes the Captain with his black-toothed pirate grin,
skin more charred than when we set sail from Constantinople.
‘Look everyone, the mist’s rising – keep looking. See her pink walls, like a fortress. These old sea legs go weak every time I see The Temple.’ The aging sea dog will be flogging tourist tickets after he’s whet their interest.
Kelso bounces on the balls of his feet. The mist raises its white skirts like teasing maidens, ever so slow, as the ship glides past the Lighthouse.
‘Keep looking, Kelso, you’ll see it soon.’
‘Serapeum. Starboard,’ bellows the Captain.
‘Ahhh!’ A collective sigh as passengers’ heads turn in unison to their right.
The Serapeum, elevated on its hill above the city, glows bold pink in the morning sun: now I’m home. A deep line of blue tapers into the canal that weaves around the Serapeum and the city walls, then into Lake Mareotis and out to the Nile that snakes into Egypt, green shores and the barren desert beyond.
‘It’s a temple for giants!’
I tousle Kelso’s hair. The nights would have been longer without him… but only one man can quell my loneliness. Can I see Biblos from here?
‘What is that?’ Kelso’s finger points to the sandy dunes outside the city walls, beyond the Western Necropolis.
‘Looks like a plague of locust swarming down the dunes, but they can’t be insects…’ the distance is making whatever that moving herd is appear smaller. Even from the city, the sand dunes of the Western desert are a long way off. If the approaching herd is making any noise, we’re too far away to hear it. The slop of waves against the hull and the yells of the deckhands are all we can hear out here in the harbour. They don’t move like animals. My gut clenches. ‘Captain, what is that?’
Kelso leans further over the side and squints. So do the other passengers.
The Captain frowns and yells up at the lookout, ‘What do you see, boy?’
‘MONKS!’ The panicked yell of the watch competes with the screams of seagulls high above our heads.