Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  ‘Cassius, help me down.’ He doesn’t look me in the eye.

  All eight slaves stand with their eyes fixed on the ground. A numbness floods my body and mind. None of us has moved; we all just stare at the huge, ugly letters.

  Apollinos’ snorts as he opens the gates to let us in.

  ‘I’ll call painters, master.’ His voice sounds distant.

  My face is hot with tears. The last time I cried was when Aeson left for Constantinople ten years ago. Diana’s small hand, bangles jingling, finds its way into mine.

  That bastard Theophilus is behind this.

  ‘Come, master, come.’ Diana gently tugs my hand, directing me through the gardens. Slaves stop clipping and pruning and drop their gazes.

  Tears quietly fall and I stumble on the folds of my toga.

  She clicks her fingers when we reach the atrium. ‘Prepare a bath.’ Her small hand squeezes mine. ‘You feel like new man after bath.’

  Sweet girl. A new man! Her dark mane of hair glistens in the sunlight. We both look at the statue of Aeson’s coming of age in the atrium fountain. Maybe it’s time to leave? Alexandria has changed; it’s getting as intolerant as the West… and I want to see my boy again.

  I reach up to touch Aeson’s face.

  ‘Come, master.’

  Outside the walls of Biblos, Apollinos shouts orders at slaves to clean the walls… to wash away the shame that I have worn with pride all my adult life. The thought makes my cheeks flush in anger.

  ‘Fuck you, Theophilus.’ Enough of these tears. I’ll show you which one of us is the fop. Every heretical book in The Library will be copied, despite your ignorant laws and policies. I’ll flood the market with books. Rufius the Cinaedus will have the last laugh.

  ‌35

  Aeson

  Must catch my breath. Blue veins rise on the backs of my sweaty hands rested on my knees. This corner used to reek of incense, bellowed out from the Temple of Mithras; all I can smell is piss in this deserted doorway. That flute of smoke has thinned, but I need to keep running. Trouble’s on its way.

  The streets of my childhood are the same… even the dogs congregate in the same shady alcoves, but on my sprint across the city I felt disorientated. Streets that are usually busy day and night were deserted. I saw no violence, but the streets perspire a silent threat. Women rushed into alleys, quietening crying children, fear in their eyes. They know an army of monks is descending on the city. I need to warn my friends, check they’re safe… then I’ll tackle Rufius. He won’t be happy I’m back against his will.

  The Canopic Way. I stop and gawp at the width of it, the colonnades stretching ahead of me. It must be the widest road in any city in the Empire. Why’s it empty? That pounding… the heavy shoes of soldiers. Here they come. Eight men to each row march in my direction. I need to get out of their way.

  At last: the Temple of Dionysus. Fear whips and tosses in my gut at the smell of burning. Why are the great wooden doors ajar? They’re always shut tight. I fling them open and rush into the courtyard. I’m too late. The huge incense braziers have been thrown on to a fire in the centre of the courtyard. Tables, chairs and beds are piled up, charred black they crack and hiss. A thin line of smoke reaches into the morning sky. My heart pounds in my ears. Where is everyone?

  Fragments of pages with blackened edges stick to the sides of one of the braziers. No one in Alexandria would burn parchment even if they were desperate for fuel.

  Fear sends my legs sprinting inside the kitchen. That bucket’s been dropped in a panic. Spilt water stains the floor. What happened here? The echo of my feet thudding upstairs in the emptiness makes me nervous. My throat tightens at the thought of what I’ll find inside.

  ‘Kiya? Henite?’

  There’s no one here.

  Why am I going to Kiya’s bedroom? The temple’s deserted. Her room is empty… except Sophia’s basket. That will be empty too. Kiya doesn’t go anywhere without her snake.

  I kick off the lid. Ah! Sophia! She rears up her head and opens her hood. What a size she’s grown to. What’s she doing here? Panic paints horrific images in my mind in my rush from room to room. The frenzy mounts… if they’re not here, where are they? Seth, Henite, Kiya… Croc. Venus Street. Turk will know where Croc is.

  I stop in the courtyard. The letters scrawled across the courtyard wall where Croc, Kiya and I used to line up for Seth to measure our heights make me want to puke.

  H E R E T I C S

  My fingers trace the faded names on the wall below the graffiti: Croc, Kiya, Aeson. The lines that marked our heights are still visible below our names. We were so small.

  The graffiti paint’s still tacky; they can’t be far. The roof. I might be able to see something from up there. I run into Kiya’s room and pull myself up onto the roof… I lifted Kiya up here countless times.

  I pace in circles on the flat roof. No sign of them in the deserted streets of the ghetto. Black smoke rises from temples all over the city, blown inland by a sea wind. The Khamaseen’s coming.

  Sun’s hot on my back and a sharp pain shoots through my temples. This can’t be happening… but somehow this feels like it was always going to happen, that I was always going to stand here on the roof and watch Alexandria burn.

  The monks are still a long way off, a plague moving down the dunes. The army has done this.

  Is that a voice? A girl’s voice. ‘Kiya?’

  Like a child who’s lost his mother, my movements are uncoordinated – I bang into the stairwell walls in my rush to follow her voice.

  ‘Kiya?’ I turn in a circle in the courtyard. Absentmindedly, I pick up a basket and put it upright. A snake! Half a snake, cut by a sword. My gut pinches.

  There it is again. A whimper. It’s coming from outside the temple.

  Opposite, on the steps of the Temple of Aphrodite, a young priestess sobs and chants to her goddess as she covers her face in the wet ash from the braziers with mournful strokes.

  Let’s crouch next to her, try to get her attention. Glazed eyes stare through me: the empty look of grief.

  ‘Child, what happened here?’

  She’s bewildered.

  ‘They took them all.’ She raises an arm and points in the direction of the Agora. Her hand trembles, teeth chatter.

  ‘Who? Who took them?’

  ‘Soldiers. They took them all.’

  Other children peer out from the doorway of the temple and watch us.

  ‘Where are the adults?’

  ‘They took them all.’ Still she points towards the end of the street, her long sleeve in eerie profile, eyes suddenly wide as if she has seen a ghost, or a monster behind me.

  I turn to where she is pointing, but there’s nothing there.

  An older girl tiptoes in quick silent steps, takes her hand and leads the child away.

  There is nothing I can do to help these children crouched in the shadow of a temple raped of its sacred purpose like street urchins in the Necropolis. Doom thickens around me. I have arrived at the destiny Dera warned me of… but I feel strong, like for the first time in my whole life I have a purpose, like this is my cue to fulfil some fated task. How strange. I feel more confident than I’ve ever felt in my life.

  Serapis, keep my friends safe until I find them.

  ‌36

  Rufius

  Good, the folds of my toga are perfect today, and I’ve kept Theophilus waiting just long enough to let him know who’s the master of this house. How dare he barge in here and demand to search Biblos.

  ‘In we go, Apollinos.’

  ‘Perhaps, the cameo is too, er, audacious for a meeting with the Archbishop, master. Why don’t you give it to me?’

  This brooch is just the right accessory for the occasion: my favourite cameo: me as a young buck. I’ll not have him think those bigoted laws have riled me. The death sentence. Indeed! The law condemning cinaedi has been echoing round and round in my poor head since this morning… atone for a crime of this kind in avenging flam
es. Erase the thought, Rufius. He wouldn’t dare.

  ‘The brooch stays, Apollinos.’ I’ll not have Theophilus think he’s frightened Rufius Biblus Catamitus!

  ‘But, master, the Archbishop knows about your library. You need to tone down…’

  ‘That self-righteous prat doesn’t know anything, Apollinos. Why would he be here talking and not burning my books as we speak? He suspects, but suspicions have no weight in court, dear.’

  What in Bacchus’ name is that squeak? The slaves who pulled open the tall doors to the ground floor parlour look mortified.

  ‘How can I make a serious entrance accompanied by squeaking doors, dears!’

  Apollinos is still fussing behind me. ‘They will be oiled, master.’

  ‘Don’t bother me with the method, Apollinos.’

  How disappointing – no slave head bobbing between Theophilus’ legs! Biblos hospitality not good enough for him? Where does he find his pleasure? In the darkness of the shame he preaches with church orphans, or does he obey that pleasure-hating god of his and abstain?

  The dark cloaks of the Archbishop and his inspector strike a harsh contrast to the sunlight steaming in from the terrace. Antinous’ sweet voice and the strum of the harp are at odds with Theophilus’ sour face: dark eyes framed by bushy black eyebrows –they’ve never seen a pair of tweezers.

  My stomach is a tight knot. This is the first time Biblos has failed to seduce her guests. The slaves look insulted. Cassius and Antinous aren’t used to being rejected. Even the centaurs and satyrs look like they want to leap from the frescos and run out of the room.

  Straight-backed on the couch, Theophilus’ dark eyes meet mine. This will be an entertaining battle.

  ‘Theophilus! What a pleasant surprise.’ Not bothering to rise to your host? To Hades with etiquette.

  Let’s flash a plucked leg as I recline, to irritate him.

  ‘Wine.’

  Let’s fiddle with my brooch as Cassius pours. Oh, the disgust on the Archbishop’s face. Superb!

  ‘Thank you, Cassius.’ My wine’s well-watered. The slaves want me to keep my wits: they’re afraid of him. ‘A beauty isn’t he, Bishop?’ I flick up Cassius’ tunic and his muscular buttocks tense.

  Not rags you’re wearing are they, Theophilus. Now I’m closer to you, I can see the quality of the fine linen mix. Possibly open to a little bribery then?

  ‘I see your walls have been painted, cinaedus.’ So he did order the graffiti. Pathetic! What an intellectual disappointment. Well if it’s cheap insults he wants…

  ‘Apollinos will put you in better humour, Bishop. I keep him for guests with unusual tastes.’

  They both look like they want to kill me. Theophilus’ furry brows furrow to a hard black line.

  ‘I’ll be brief, Rufius.’

  ‘Excellent! Your little speech this morning must have exhausted your oratory repertoire.’ My smile is wide and sarcastic.

  His temper flushes his cheeks pink.

  ‘You’re not above the law, Rufius. You would be wise to co-operate with me.’

  ‘Bah! Enough of this nonsense. That law is nothing new. The death sentence has been in place since the forties, and not a single case has reached trial. And as for books, you’ll find nothing even mildly heretical at Biblos.’

  ‘Your kind is an embarrassment to the Empire and an insult to God.’ His deep growl of a voice is level, his gaze moves in disgust from my brooch to my hair.

  ‘Didn’t my hairdresser do a splendid job today.’ I twirl a ringlet. I do like a good hair day! Ha! That riled him.

  ‘Guards!’ Theophilus’ voice rings across the house.

  A metallic clatter from the Atrium and two centurions appear in the doorway, both sheepish. Good Romans: they didn’t turn their noses up at Biblos’ pleasures.

  ‘My dear centurions, I’m pleased to see Villa Biblos’ hospitality is appreciated.’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ Theophilus stands, drinks tray clatters to the floor. The soldiers’ backs straighten, hands move to hilts, but they’re ready for nothing.

  ‘Enough, Rufius! You mock the Church, you mock the Empire, you mock mankind.’

  ‘That’s better, dear. You needed a little colour in your cheeks.’

  Theophilus glares at me. I do believe his eyebrows are as black as my kohl.

  ‘Where is it, Rufius?’

  Ha! I win today, Theophilus! I lift the folds of my toga and pretend to search for my under-exercised penis. ‘It’s been dormant for years, dear.’

  Apollinos’ gaze heats the back of my neck and Theophilus’ dark robed silhouette casts a shadow over me as he blocks the sun from the terrace. The size of him towering a head above me is disturbing.

  ‘Do not underestimate me, Rufius. Tell me the location of your secret library.’

  I drop my toga. He’s knocked the play out of me. At least Damasus could banter.

  My fingers twist my curls faster.

  ‘Secret library? Oh, you must mean my private collection.’ An almost imperceptible movement of my index finger has Apollinos behind my couch in an instant. ‘Apollinos, dear, fetch my collection of pornography for the Bishop.’

  Theophilus is seething. ‘The privilege of your birth has dimmed your senses. This is not the Empire you were born into. The Emperor has a vision and minor details such as trials will not stop us stamping out heresy. Your heretic collection is well known to the Church of Alexandria.’

  That’s the same look on Theophilus’s face as when I left the Law Court ten years ago with Aeson. He’s not forgotten how I belittled him. This is about his personal revenge.

  ‘What! Hear that, Apollinos. The Bishop’s not interested in my pornography! Look around you, dear.’ My arm waves at the statues and frescos. ‘I’m a collector of art… or do you call this heresy too?’

  ‘Harbouring heretical books is the reason I am here. Your motivation does not interest me. Nor will my Inspectors be interested in the protests of a cinaedus. I can pin you down with heresy or infamy. There are enough young boys who can make declarations in the courts about that.’

  ‘Oooo! Pin me down!’ A swing of my hips is in order. ‘Bring on your inspectors, Bishop. This old Roman could do with a little fun.’

  Theophilus’ thin top lip curls in disgust, his smooth steely voice deepens. ‘Give me the information I want, and I will show you mercy. Fail to disclose vital information regarding the pollution of heresy in this city and I’ll see you burn.’

  ‘Come now, Bishop, this is very dull. You’ve been sucked in by idle gossip. What interest would an old cinaedus have in heretical books?’ I do enjoy demoting archbishops.

  ‌37

  Kiya

  Dera kneels and ties my scarf round my head to hide my earlobes.

  ‘Give The Book of Wisdom to the Librarian, sister. He will protect it. Now dry your eyes. Sophia tests us all. That’s his house across the street, the one surrounded by the high pink wall.’

  We touch foreheads the way Snake People do. His energy field pulsates around me like he’s wrapping me in his strength.

  Off he runs back in the direction of the Agora, huge in his rough hermit cloak. Will I see him again? Will I see my family again? I feel naked without Sophia round my neck.

  Sweet Sophia, why are slaves painting walls in the midday heat? It’s baking. Those young beauties all look like Aeson – how he used to look anyway with that curly black hair.

  Sophia, give me courage, I must get this book to the Librarian. The Library is the only safe place now. That’s what Dera said. My head spins at the memory of the soldiers and inspectors, the confusion. Go girlie, do what Dera tells you. Sophia, keep Henite safe. My heart aches at leaving my snake. Some terrible foreboding makes me think I won’t kiss her scaly skin again. Stop it, Kiya. It’s up to me to save The Book of Wisdom now.

  The bump of the scroll against my hip feels wrong under my dress, like it’s just a recipe book. The slaves will hear the knock of my crutch… yes, that’s right, Beautiful,
ignore me, back to your painting. To them I just look like an old woman hunched over her stick.

  What’s the Librarian trying to cover up? Graffiti! It’s all over the city. The atmosphere’s thick like after a funeral: quiet, but not peaceful.

  This must be the entrance. Grand like the gates to Cleopatra’s palace Poseidon sent a wave to swallow. Will they let me in?

  ‘Oi, where do you think you’re going?’

  What a silly short tunic he’s wearing. Gym-pumped thighs, but his chest and legs are not plucked. Young, but manly, hard and hairy: that’s how he likes me, Aeson had told me when I asked him why he didn’t shave his chest like other boys his age. This slave might look like Aeson, but he doesn’t make me think sinful thoughts like Aeson did.

  The slave looks at my crutch.

  ‘Beggars go round the trade entrance.’ He points down the palm-lined road. The wall looks like it goes on forever. ‘All the way to the end.’

  There’s fear in his eyes. What terror are you expecting?

  ‘Thank you.’ I’d like to rap him over the head with my stick.

  Sweet Sophia, the heat. This dress is damp with sweat. My armpit will be chaffed raw by the time I reach the back entrance. A throb of urgency quivers in my gut. I can’t have passed the trade entrance. There’s been no gate, no door in the high wall. Seagulls perched in palm trees move their necks at the knock of my crutch on the pavement. Even they are silenced by the heat. The trade entrance must be round the next corner, at the back of the house.

  Thank Sophia, Aeson’s far away. Remember that day, sweet Aeson, when you gave me a piggy-back after Lanky broke my crutch? The memory of running through the Necropolis makes me smile. We will have you in common at least, the Librarian and me. My stomach groans with nerves at the thought of meeting him. He’s harmless, a soft-hearted old Roman when you get to know him… but Aeson, you were a beautiful boy and I’m a cripple. What if he won’t receive me? What will I do with The Book of Wisdom then?