Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  ‘Monks, sir, they are.’ The Captain’s gruff voice is full of disdain. ‘Religious revolution’s no good for the tourist trade.’

  My breath’s caught in my chest. Feels like I’m wearing heavy stones, not sandals, when I try to shuffle down the deck.

  ‘Just like Athens. That’s how it started there.’ The Captain clears his throat and spits. ‘The bishops calls ’em in from their monasteries and the swine come running in their black rags.’

  ‘It’s against the law for monks to enter cities.’

  The man next to me has been with us from Constantinople. Round his neck hangs a cross. ‘Who’s going to remind that ignorant horde of the law? There’ll be blood on Alexandria’s streets tonight, Captain, mark my words. Best stay away from the temples.’ Even Christians are repulsed by monks.

  ‘That’s difficult in Alexandria: there’s a temple on every corner.’ My tone is sharp.

  ‘They won’t touch the Serapeum.’ The Captain spits again, oblivious to the sympathies of his cross-wearing passenger. ‘Not even the monks would dare mess with the jewel of Egypt.’

  ‘I have to get to the city, Captain, before that black army arrives.’

  ‘That mob will reach the city before noon.’

  ‘Fire! Fire! East. Fire!’ The lookout’s voice sends panic across deck. Heads turn away from the army of monks. Over the tiled rooftops of the ghetto a thin flute of black smoke rises into the hazy-blue sky. From this distance it looks harmless like the exhalation of a pipe-smoker.

  Get your bearings, Aeson. Where’s the Temple of Dionysus in relation to the smoke?

  ‘What’s burning?’ My voice is trembling.

  The Captain nods, black teeth clench, his attention is on the lookout.

  ‘What do you see, lad?’

  ‘Temple of Dionysus on fire,’ shouts the lookout.

  ‘NO!’

  The Captain catches my urgency.

  ‘And the buildings nearby? Can you see, lad?’

  ‘Just the temple.’

  ‘That’s the pattern we’ve witnessed in other cities, sir: the monks target the old religions first.’

  A passenger chips in. ‘Same as Athens.’

  ‘It is, sir, indeed it is. Safer at sea than on land these days. When they’ve destroyed the pagan temples, they’ll move on to the small fry: their own kind, the heretic churches.’

  I can’t take anymore of this gruff old sea dog’s complacency.

  ‘Captain, can’t this boat move any faster?’ My voice trembles with impatience.

  ‘Calm, sir. That smoke’s no fire. It’s a mere smouldering, a bonfire.’

  Henite and Kiya don’t burn their rubbish – it goes to the tips, to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

  Passengers look alarmed – heads dart from the smoke to the approaching monks.

  ‘Stay calm everyone; no need to let a little religious fervour spoil your trip. Serapis is untouchable. The Serapeum is safe to visit. We’ll dock here tonight.’

  He’s thinking profit.

  ‘Get the Artemis docked, Captain!’ It’s an order. I learnt that sharp tone from Rufius. I rarely use it. ‘Back downstairs, Kelso. I need your help.’

  ‘Egypt.’ The Captain bellows our arrival and frowns as I rush down the gangway before he’s given the signal to disembark, pirate grin set stiff in his face like comic graffiti scribbled on the wall of a public toilet.

  ‘Sail on the Artemis again. Avoid the temples tonight,’ shouts a deckhand.

  The wooden walkway lunges sideways to the mooring as I grab the rope.

  ‘Tickets for the Museum, Pharos and Temple of Serapis – buy at a discount from your cabin slaves. Disembark for Alexandria.’

  The deckhand delivers his stock line to the group behind me. ‘Pleasure to sail with you, sirs. Don’t forget to buy your tickets for the wonders of Alexandria.’

  Business goes on as usual in the tourist trade!

  Solid ground feels strange. My legs sway with the rhythm of the sea. The hum of the docks waking up comes into earshot: deckhands shout orders, cargoes lugged here and there, roars of wild animals in cages that swing from pulleys. Incense… sandalwood and frankincense… and camel shit: the smell of home.

  Library slaves at the customs desk look more like regal concubines. Rufius has certainly made his mark as Director of the Scriptorium.

  ‘Copy and return service. Declare your books for the Great Library of Alexandria.’

  For Serapis’ sake! Rufius has upped security. Every boat moored has a desk at the end of it. I could push past the guards and make a dash for it up Neptune Street… but what if they catch me and lock me up? My priority is to reach my friends to warn them about the monks… if I’m not too late. I’ll have to declare The Book of Wisdom. Rufius will have to help me get it back. I want Kiya to have this one, penned on the best quality parchment in Tyrian ink. It took me ages to copy, hunched over the Library of Constantinople’s version.

  ‘Any books to declare, sir? Bag for searching, please.’ The slave looks at my bag in anticipation. It was never this strict before. They always searched the boats, but not a passengers’ personal hand luggage.

  I look towards the Temple of Neptune. Or shall I make a run for it? Soldiers stand shoulder to shoulder with armed Library Guards along the exits from the harbour. Why all the security?

  Passengers from the Artemis shove past me. The two library slaves in pristine white tunics with plaited leather belts both look up at me impatiently. The rope between me and the streets that lead into the city makes my heart leap at the thought of being detained. I need to get to the Temple of Dionysus.

  ‘Sir, your bag, please… if you could give your papers to my colleague.’

  ‘Just this book.’ I take the leather bound codex from my bag and put it on the desk.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Aeson Biblus Catamitus.’ Curiosity lights up the official’s face. My cheeks heat under his gaze. These are Rufius’ staff. Everyone at The Library knows the name Biblus and the gossip about the scandalous cinaedus who adopted his lover.

  ‘Papers, master Biblus.’ Extra polite. This is Alexandria. They don’t care. Rufius is his boss: end of story.

  The slave takes my identity papers and copies the description onto his parchment on the large desk. I’d forgotten how beautifully Alexandrian scribes write.

  ‘Skin: honey-coloured.’ He looks up.

  ‘Distinguishing marks: none.’

  ‘Eyes: blue.’ His dark Egyptian gaze meets mine for an instant. Slaves know better than to hold a stare, even Library slaves.

  I don’t have time for the bureaucracy.

  ‘I’m late for an appointment.’ Careful, don’t sound too impolite. This is the only bit of power they have.

  ‘Welcome home, sir. The new process takes a little longer. Your residence in Alexandria?’

  ‘Villa Biblos.’

  ‘First two words of the book?’

  ‘Aoi, aoi.’

  ‘What’s that? Spell it please, sir.’

  The Library official leans forward to listen to our conversation. Have they been asked to listen out for heretical books entering the city? Officials were confiscating books in Athens. No, Alexandria is not Athens and Rufius is always on the look out for heretical books. It’s his business. I’m being paranoid.

  ‘Alpha, Omicron, Iota.’

  ‘Here’s your book collection ticket. It will be ready to collect in one month. There’s a fast service for a fee if you need it sooner?’

  My hand shakes as I snatch the small square of parchment.

  ‘One month is fine.’ Rufius will get it back sooner than that.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  At last! His colleague lifts the rope from its bronze post.

  Now, let’s get out of here. I duck into a familiar street just before the Temple of Neptune, drop the folds of my toga on the ground and step out of it. Stomach muscles and thighs clench: time to run.

  The image of hundre
ds of monks in black robes racing into the city fires my limbs to a speed I’ve forgotten I had since being chased through these same streets in my youth. Good job I kept up my exercise regime on board ship. The ground beneath me feels as though it’s still swaying with the waves as I speed past familiar buildings. My legs remember the short cuts to Dionysus Street without thinking about the way. Serapis, keep my friends safe.

  ‌34

  Rufius

  —The Agora—

  Half the city’s in the Agora. There’s a tension in the air like something’s about to kick off. I could do with a dose of entertainment. Let’s see what going on?

  ‘Cassius, dear, stop the litter over there.’

  Silk curtains sway and jerk as the boys slow to a halt.

  ‘No, no, not here. Closer to the Magistrate’s podium. I want to hear what’s going on up there.’

  Theophilus. What tyranny is he conducting today? He’s morphed into a bloody Damasus… without the frilly frocks. The Archbishop looks more like a monk in that drab black cloak. At least he shaves. At thirty-six he was an irritation; at forty-six he makes my chins wobble. He has the height foreigners talk about when stereotyping Egyptians, a head taller than the inspectors and the Magistrate – Fatty’s father must have bribed every voter to secure Aeson’s fat little school chum that post. Theophilus dwarfs them all.

  ‘Bring up the heretic.’ That’s a voice people won’t mess with: the hard arrogance of a lawyer with a gentleness that wins hearts.

  A man… a Greek… is dragged onto the podium. Theophilus’ lictors have had their fun: arms, legs and face swollen and bloody. I do believe it’s that Ophite Aeson was arrested with ten years ago… Seth, that was his name. Thank Bacchus Aeson’s in Constantinople.

  Theophilus clutches Seth’s jaw in his long fingers. ‘This man…’ Theophilus looks startled as he turns Seth’s head to the side and peers closely at his ear. ‘A serpent? This man wears Satan’s seal!’

  O the drama, dear!

  ‘This odious Ophite…’ Theophilus surveys the crowd. His pause creates a soft murmur from the audience. ‘The followers of Satan are still among us, citizens!’

  The audience looks startled, as if Satan himself might creep up and throttle them.

  ‘The monstrous worshipper of the Serpent will be tried this afternoon. If found guilty, in the eyes of the one and only Sublime God, he will have a public execution. Take him away.’

  What a dull lot this is! Not one heckle as the lictors drag the Greek off the podium. Perhaps the crowd will liven up when the laws are read out. How I despise the way the people hang on distant orders from the Emperor.

  Theophilus waves his hand at the Magistrate. Poor Fatty looks like a scared sheep.

  ‘The h-heretics, namely the M-manicheans, the Apollonians, the Encratites, the Apotactites, the H-hydroparastatae, the Saccophori…’ Fatty’s tone’s changed; he’s adopted the metallic hardness of a university-trained voice, but he never lost the stutter. He’s more nervous today than usual.

  Theophilus raises his voice above Fatty and points at Seth, ‘… and the monstrous followers of the serpent, the odious Ophites.’

  Supporters mumble their agreement.

  ‘O-o-ophites are not listed in the edict.’

  Theophilus ignores Fatty’s objection.

  ‘Carry on, Magistrate.’

  ‘N-no heretic shall establish a church, tomb or perform their feral rites in small towns or in renowned cities.’

  Fatty’s flushed face clashes against the thick red stripes of his toga, he looks up from the scroll, as if offering the hecklers a chance to speak. Fatty’s no heretic basher.

  I’ve never witnessed a large crowd remain so quiet.

  ‘I-if this right be rashly p-presumed by any p-person, the aforesaid house, wherever such forbidden constructions have been made, shall immediately be vindicated to the resources of Our fisc. All p-places which have received either the abode or the ministers of this sacrilegious doctrine shall immediately become fiscal p-property.’

  ‘Confiscate property?’

  ‘They can’t do that.’

  That got a murmur at least.

  ‘If any heretic should f-flee the company of the good under the false p-pretence of the solitary life and assemble the secret gatherings of the lowest classes, he shall be subjected to the law as a p-profaner and corrupter of the C-catholic discipline, which we all revere. Thus he shall be outlawed during his lifetime.’

  No one will object to that. Most city people think hermits are troublemakers.

  ‘It is a crime to leave inheritance to hermit communities that subscribe to the heresies, namely the A-apollinarians, the V-valentinians…’

  Theophilus leans over to whisper in Fatty’s ear. He shakes his head, then looks at the Archbishop’s lictors and adds,

  ‘And the O-ophites.’

  Women prisoners lined up at the bottom of the podium steps pull their scarves tight round their heads. I recognise that old woman. She was at the Law Court the day Aeson was arrested too.

  Fatty’s level voice hardens. He’s not comfortable with the administration of this law with Theophilus breathing down his neck.

  ‘Investigators will be appointed by the b-bishops of every province.’

  The audience looks at the black-cloaked Investigators on the podium. Motionless, lined up like soldiers ready for their orders.

  ‘Informers will be well r-received and no crime will go unheard, r-regardless of the period of time since it was c-committed.’

  Lawyers mumble, gathered in groups at the front.

  Theophilus’ long face is non-negotiable.

  ‘All p-persons will convene on the same day for Easter in line with the C-catholic discipline.’

  Heretics mutter and shush each other. One of the investigators shifts; his heavy shoes scratch against the wooden podium like gladiator sandals in the sand of the arena.

  And the sentence? The question on everyone’s closed lips.

  ‘The supreme p-penalty applies.’

  Lawyers mutter and rearrange the white folds of their togas. Only the young ones, without a reputation to lose, will risk defending a heretic after this.

  Theophilus surveys the response with a look of satisfaction. Perhaps it’s the harshness of the sentence, or the threat of the inspectors that’s clamped the hecklers’ mouths.

  ‘The sentence is death.’

  Oh, you just love the sound of your own voice, don’t you, Arch-bloody-bishop. Let’s pull these curtains apart.

  ‘And the sentence for farting, dear?’ Diana stops fanning me, Cassius looks startled, and Fatty’s eyes widen. Theophilus isn’t amused.

  ‘Seize any man who dares to make a mockery of the Emperor’s laws, of God’s sublime jurisdiction.’ His dark gaze fixes on me.

  Let’s have a swig of wine… and raise my beaker to him.

  Nervous sniggers and coughs snort from the crowd. Children giggle. Everyone needs a little light-relief.

  ‘Ah, the cinaedus thinks the death penalty is amusing. I wouldn’t laugh, cinaedus, the same penalty applies to your kind. Magistrate, I suggest the law updated last year which condemns cinaedi to death by public burning is displayed in the Agora. The party’s over, Rufius.’

  A lump’s stuck in my throat only laughter will dislodge… and laughter has no place on Theophilus’ podium. Fatty looks over at me apologetically; he’s weaker than his father.

  ‘Ignore Rufius. He’s on the drink again.’ That was Olympus’ boom of a voice. Has he finally discovered a sense of humour?

  Seagulls screech overhead. Those gulls know that Ophite will be fresh quarry before today’s over. Theophilus looks set on revenge.

  ‘Inspectors, show the people the heretical relics found in the Temple of Dionysus.’

  Two black-robed inspectors display an enormous silver goblet and some old bones above their heads.

  ‘It’s sacrilege,’ mutters a woman.

  Boos and hisses gain in volume fr
om the pagan mob. An argument’s started at the back of the Agora. People look round nervous; some hide weapons beneath their tunics. The tension’s at breaking point. This crowd’s going to riot.

  It’s time to leave.

  ‘Cassius, take me home. To Biblos, fast as your legs will run, boys.’

  ‘Bloody bumpy ride. I thought this litter was supposed to be more comfortable on my old bones than the carriage.’

  Winding up Diana is one way to get her arms to work faster. ‘You told Cassius run to avoid arrest by Archbishop.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Diana. Theophilus won’t arrest the Director of the Scriptorium. Heckling in the Agora is standard practice. You know that, dear.’

  That’s it, fan those peacock feathers like you’re trying to fly this litter.

  Biblos’ high walls appear to jig up and down as we bounce past. Home sweet home.

  ‘Diana dear, what’s that?’ It looks like large black letters scrawled on the wall near the gate. Graffiti! Bloody kids. The paint is still shiny and wet. It’s blurred. Damn these old eyes.

  Diana looks out of the litter’s silk curtains, then back at me. Her gold bangles jingle as she speeds up her fanning. Is she being thick on purpose? My girl has the eye of a hawk.

  ‘Diana, what’s that graffiti on the wall?’

  Insolent girl! She doesn’t want to tell me.

  ‘Stop with the fan, Diana. Apollinos didn’t teach you to read for nothing, dear. What does it say? You know my eyes aren’t what they used to be.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  My neck’s too stiff to crane out through the curtains.

  ‘Stop!’

  The bumpy dash towards the gate continues. What’s wrong with these slaves today?

  ‘STOP I SAID.’

  I crane out of the curtain at Cassius. He’s hurrying them past the graffiti.

  ‘Cassius, stop this litter immediately, or I’ll have you all flogged.’

  The litter stops at the gates. Both polished pink sandstone walls either side of the great gates are covered with large ugly letters. I can read that myself it’s so big.

  C I N A E D U S

  The word smacks me round the face. Surely I’m numb to the sting of ridicule? But this isn’t kids having a laugh; this isn’t the plebs joking in the Agora. The brush that painted this graffiti was thick with malice.