Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  It’s slipping round the back of my left hip. Dera tied the linen too loose on my right shoulder. Let’s hitch it up. That’s better. It won’t bounce now.

  What’s that sound? Heavy, measured footsteps. They’re getting closer. A black-cloaked man turns the corner. For a moment he’s as alarmed as I am. Sweet Sophia, an inspector like the ones in the Agora this morning, large wooden cross round his neck. My heart squeezes tight, my good leg’s solid from fear.

  ‘What do we have here?’ He speaks like a ventriloquist, through clenched, broken teeth.

  ‘Just a beggar, sir.’ My voice is loud and angry.

  A strong hand grips my arm.

  ‘Let me go!’ Quick, think.

  His other hand grabs my shoulder. My crutch hits the ground. Sweet Sophia, keep the book safe.

  ‘Not just a beggar. Ah! The mark of the serpent. The Archbishop warned us there would be more of you.’

  ‘Get off me.’

  He yanks me up; my feet lift off the ground.

  ‘Stop, you’re hurting me.’ The linen sheath feels light on my shoulder like the scroll’s been dislodged. Don’t fall out. Sophia, keep the book safe.

  ‘What are you doing here, heretic?’ Yuk, Spittle. Better shut my eyes, or his gob might blind me. ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?’ Oh shut up! And stop spraying me through the gaps in your nasty chipped teeth.

  ‘Begging, sir. Hungry, is all.’ Blessed Sophia, please don’t let The Book of Wisdom fall out. I must stay as still as possible, not struggle.

  The book’s slipping free. Sweet Sophia, no! Panic makes me light-headed. A gull gives out an unnatural cry from the palm tree above my head.

  We both look down as the discoloured, yellow papyrus bounces on the pavement. His face is so close I can smell wine on his stale breath. Teeth grind together, menace in his demon eyes like he’s working some evil magic.

  ‘Let me go.’

  His hands release my shoulders.

  ‘Ahh!’ A sharp pain stabs my hip as I land on the pavement. The book! My nails scratch the dust, desperate to pull myself towards the ancient scroll. His big hairy hand snatches it. Sacrilege: an ape hand embracing a goddess!

  ‘What do we have here then?’

  ‘Give it to me.’ My eyes are hot with tears.

  ‘Shut your mouth, Heretic.’

  He unrolls the papyrus. His face is hideous, his sharp chipped teeth grind with an evil fervour. ‘Heretic magic. This is going to the Archbishop, and so are you. Get up.’

  He picks up my crutch and swings it high in the air as if he intends to thrash me with it.

  ‘Give me the Book.’ Whatever the demon was thinking about doing with my crutch, he’s changed his mind.

  ‘Get up, Snake Bitch.’ He throws the crutch on my gammy leg. Numb. You can’t hurt a lame leg, Demon. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do.’ His fingers pinch my arm, drag me after him faster than my crutch will move. I’ll have to hop.

  ‘Slaves, open the gates.’

  Two guards open the gates onto great gardens full of exotic plants and pale slaves from the Northern provinces. He pushes me inside.

  ‘Follow me, Snake Bitch.’

  ‘No! I curse you. Aoi-aoi-aoi. I came into this world like mice from the rubbish tips. No father, no mother. Aoi-Aoi-AOI- AOI…’

  Ouch! He slaps my face so hard my head swings back.

  ‘Shut your heretic mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.’

  The Inspector’s other hairy hand has The Book of Wisdom tight in his grip.

  Sweet Sophia, keep the book safe. Kiya, we must keep quiet, chant silently, for the book’s sake.

  What are the slaves staring at… have they never seen a cripple beaten?

  Gates squeal as they close behind us.

  What beautiful flowers. The Librarian must be a good man to grow such a sweet-smelling garden. Keep your focus on the book, Kiya.

  ‘You two, lazy good for nothings.’ Two centurions reclining in the atrium rearrange their tunics. ‘While you’ve been tempted by the devil, I’ve been doing God’s work capturing heretics.’

  Fear, not a soldier’s honour, makes them scramble to their feet.

  The demon brandishes The Book of Wisdom in the air like an eagle on a battlefield.

  ‘If there’s one heretic book, there’s more to be found somewhere in this house.’ He looks up at the terraces, room after room. It’s enormous.

  ‘Now make sure this Snake Bitch doesn’t try any magic on you. Don’t let her out of your sight. She’s as sly as the serpent god she worships.’

  ‘We don’t worship a serpent god.’

  ‘Quiet, Bitch.’

  Are those centurions looking at him as if he’s mad, or looking at me as if I might bite them? Both.

  This atrium’s grander than the Law Court, all clean white marble.

  Aeson! It’s only a statue of my old friend posing like the god Antinous, but it’s so lifelike I yearn to reach across the fountain and hold his perfect marble hand. Will I ever see you again, sweet friend? Did you find another copy of the sacred book in the great libraries of the Empire? Or did you forget?

  The centurions on either side of me poke a finger into my shoulder to hurry me.

  ‘Tut. You try walking with a crutch.’

  The inspector stomps ahead. I must keep up with him, mustn’t lose sight of The Book of Wisdom.

  ‌38

  Rufius

  ‘What, in bloody Hades, do you think you’re up to, bringing beggars into the house?’ Has the whole world gone mad?

  ‘Sweet Sophia, Let me go!’

  What a couple of gormless centurions – they release her armpits and she finds her balance on the old crutch she’s carrying.

  Theophilus, Apollinos, the slaves and I all stare at the cripple. She gawps at the painting of Dionysus cavorting with nymphs and satyrs by a lake like she’s never seen a fresco before. Her deformed figure looks like some strange creature stepped out of the scene. That smell of stale sweat must come from her.

  ‘Apollinos, take the poor wretch outside and feed her.’

  Theophilus’ toothy inspector waves a papyrus scroll in the air. ‘Not so fast.’

  ‘Well, have you found the heretical library, inspector?’

  The inspector yanks the cripple by the ear.

  ‘Get off me!’

  ‘No, Archbishop. But I caught the heretic delivering this – look, Archbishop, the mark of the snake, on her lobes.’ Toothy hands the scroll over to Theophilus like he’s showing his mother his exam results. Now what? I’ve had enough drama for one morning.

  ‘Give that back to me.’ She’s a feisty little monster. I like her. She didn’t bat an eyelid at the Archbishop and she must recognise him.

  We watch Theophilus roll open the papyrus and hold it under his long nose like he’s holding a toilet sponge from some public latrine.

  ‘“Aoi-aoi-aoi”… magic words… Jesus said, “I led Sophia out of the chaos…”’

  The cripple gasps to hear the sacred words of her people.

  ‘The same heresy you bribed a Magistrate to return to The Library ten years ago I believe, Rufius?’

  That bloody book again! It’s like a lingering fart. Theophilus will try to frame me for this. The Snake People’s heretic book in my house does not look good. Why was she bringing it here? Turk wouldn’t have sent her. He’s learnt prudence.

  ‘Where’s the rest of your books, Rufius?’

  Theophilus looks from her to me, triumph in his eyes. The smack of the scroll in his hand makes us all jump.

  Cassius quivers and drops his flute. ‘The inspector found her outside the gates of Biblos, master.’ Clever boy.

  Think you have me, don’t you, dear? We’ll see about that.

  ‘What were you doing creeping around my house, girl? Cassius, tell us what you saw.’

  Apollinos nods for him to speak up.

  ‘I was by the gate with Antinous. The inspector found the cripple outside the house.’

>   ‘Is this right, Antinous? The cripple was not intercepted on the grounds of Biblos?’

  Poor Antinous, he can barely manage a nod.

  The inspector takes a step closer to Theophilus. ‘She was on her way here to add that book to the Librarian’s heretic library, Archbishop.’ Does he have to accompany each syllable with a spray of spittle?

  ‘You can’t prove a jot, dear.’

  ‘I will have evidence, Rufius. With the cripple’s testimony, I’ll bring your heretic black market business to its knees.’ His thick eyebrows crease like he’s giving a naughty boy a telling off. ‘Inspector, we need a confession from her.’

  ‘I will have the truth from her before the day is out, Archbishop.’

  Keep your venom in that gob of yours, Toothy.

  ‘I’ve never seen this girl before in my life.’ I dart the girl a swift look. There is intelligence in her dark eyes. I hope you follow my drift, dear… for both our sakes. ‘Come here, girl.’

  The click of her crutch and drag of her shrivelled child-sized foot along the mosaic is foreign to Biblos. Even my latrine slaves are perfect. Get over the stench, Rufius. I need her on side. If they take her, they’ll torture her until she will confess to anything. ‘Do not be afraid to speak, dear.’

  Straightening as much as her crooked back allows, she takes a breath like a young Library student about to deliver his first public oration. But with a difference – I detect no nerves, no twitching or fidgeting. The girl is stillness itself. There is beauty in that.

  ‘I’m not scared of that demon.’ What a little fireball. With the resolve of a judge, she continues in her level tone, a voice trained to sing, to hold a steady note. Balancing on her good leg, she raises her crutch and uses it to point at the inspector. ‘He’s the heretic.’

  Like a great black crow diving for its prey, the inspector raises his arms to swipe at the girl. ‘You, Snake Bitch…’

  ‘STOP! Only I administer punishment in this house.’ Well… and Apollinos.

  That’s it man, you and your rank, toothy grin can just back off.

  ‘That’s better, Inspector, remember your place, dear.’

  ‘Let her speak, Inspector.’ Theophilus needs to check he has a reliable witness. He needs to know she’ll crack. I think not.

  ‘You weren’t on your way here, were you, dear?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Good girl. ‘I was on my way to the Kingdom of God – that’s the only confession you’ll get out of me.’ Her face is defiant.

  Ha! The cripple has a sense of humour.

  The inspector’s teeth clench. ‘I’ll wring the truth from your godless lungs.’

  Oh my dears, the boys are trembling. It’s getting far too serious in here. Let’s see what fun we can have with these badly dressed Christians.

  ‘Music!’ Apollinos just stares at me. ‘Something jolly. That tune they play when the cinaedus comes on stage in Petronius’ Satyricon.’ Even if it is at my expense, I’ll hear laughter in Biblos today.

  Cassius makes a squeak on the flute and Antinous raps the tambour.

  ‘Excellent. Now Inspector, take a drum.’ Don’t just look at it, you ill-humoured idiot. ‘Here.’ His face is a masterpiece of confusion as I shove it in his hand.

  ‘I’ll play the tambourine. That’s it. Now, you must have seen the play. The dance goes like this, two steps to the left, then a jump to the right.’ Better tuck my toga under my left arm, or I’ll lose it.

  They all stare at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.

  ‘DANCE, I SAID!’ At least that got a jump out of the dull Philistine.

  Even a shimmy of these old hips failed to illicit a titter. Alright, Apollinos, you can stop shaking your head at me. And you, you dull Christian oafs can stop glaring.

  ‘ENOUGH!’ Theophilus’ face is red with fury.

  The tiny drum catapults from the inspector’s hand and skittles across the room towards the terrace.

  ‘Yes, enough cavorting, dear, I’m the only dancing queen in this house.’

  Theophilus’ irritation is reaching fever pitch. This is almost fun. He turns on the centurions. ‘You two useless hounds.’

  The centurions straighten in unison, with a click of their army issue heels. ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Take the heretic to the Agora prison.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Theophilus looks ready to explode with the irritation of leaving Biblos empty-handed. His black robe swishes as he storms towards the door.

  ‘Watch your step, Rufius.’

  Toothy follows him out. At the door, the inspector turns to me,

  ‘I’ll get a confession from her, cinaedus.’

  ‘Enough of these insults! Get out of my house! Out, out, out.’

  Stomping my feet like a child scaring pigeons feels good. The inspector eyes me warily.

  ‘OUTTTTT!’

  That’s it, off you run.

  Where does the cripple think she’s going? No point you hobbling after him, girl. The centurions take an armpit each. She’s so slight their fingers meet at her shoulder.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ they say in unison.

  Her crutch, smooth and dark where her armpit rests on it, clatters to the floor.

  ‘Why the rush, my dear centurions?’

  ‘We got our orders, sir.’

  One of them lets go of her arm. ‘Ah, you little minx! She bit me.’

  ‘Ha! Just a scratch, centurion. You’ve seen worse than that in battle surely?’

  ‘Cassius dear, go and check the horrid old crows leave Biblos.’

  ‘Orders is orders, sir.’

  They’re not comfortable with this work. Killing barbarians is one thing, torturing a harmless cripple… there’s no honour in that.

  Cassius returns short-breathed. ‘The Archbishop has left Biblos, master.’

  ‘Apollinos, close the parlour door.’

  That bloody squeak had better be fixed.

  ‘Let the girl go, centurions.’ They stop, but do not release her.

  ‘Stop struggling, dear.’

  ‘But The Book of Wisdom!’ Her face is wet with tears. If her will was matched by her body she’d floor these two oafs.

  ‘Apollinos, bring me two purses and a generous handful of gold coins.’

  ‘We’re not open to bribes, sir.’

  ‘Come now, are you not Mithras’ men? All legionaries worship that mighty god. Look here, even an old cinaedus like me respects his might in war.’ I point to my new mosaic floor. The image of the bull being overpowered by Mithras was Apollinos’ idea. I wasn’t sure at the time, but it will serve its purpose now – create an affinity between us.

  Both men mutter under their breath. Dear gods, what have those bishops done to our men? They’re afraid of praying aloud.

  ‘Mighty Mithras is your protector in battle, is he not?’

  The bolder one turns over his wrist and looks at it. The bull, the mark of Mithras is obvious from here, even with my old eyes.

  ‘I am no Christian, sir, but we are sworn by oath to our legion.’

  The other one touches his wrist to cover a scar, white like a sunburst, as if he’s cut out his mark. He’s hidden his faith. At least I wear my shame: I finger my cameo brooch.

  ‘These are strange times, and we must all do what we think is right.’ They’ll not be able to refuse the gold, enough to take themselves and their families away from this warring city.

  Coins clink as they pour from my right hand, then drop like water into my left palm.

  ‘More than the meagre pension the Legion will give you in twenty years when you retire… if you live that long.’

  Yes, that’s it. They’re mesmerised by the sound of money falling through my fingers.

  ‘Buy a few hectares somewhere, watch your children grow and marry.’

  Gold winks in the sunlight from the terrace, a blurred waterfall, as I let it drop into two leather purses. ‘Men of property, with country villas.’

  They’
re both won over, faces full of the future I’ve painted for them. At least money’s not lost its power.

  Only when the hard slap of centurion shoes can no longer be heard in the distance does Diana slink back into the parlour. She curls up at my feet and hisses at the Snake Girl. ‘What’s she doing here?’

  The cripple gazes at the bust of Aeson.

  Diana looks ready to pounce. ‘Fancy him, do you?’

  The cripple’s mouth moves in silent dialogue with Aeson’s bust.

  ‘Stupid cripple.’

  ‘Diana, stop that hissing.’ The soft light of love in the Ophite’s eyes stirs something within me. ‘Do you know this boy, dear?’

  ‘Aeson was my friend.’ Her speech is measured and spacious.

  A friend of Aeson? Her back is wet with sweat. She walked here in the midday heat. She could do with a bath, but there is no time for that. I’ll pour her a cup of water myself.

  ‘Drink this… and tell me your name, dear.’

  ‘Kiya.’

  ‘Why did you come here, Kiya?’

  ‘To ask you to protect The Book of Wisdom, keep it safe in your secret library.’

  How does everyone know about my bloody library?

  Her glazed stare fixes on something invisible in the distance. ‘To save our secret mysteries from the Archbishop’s bonfires.’

  ‘I’m no Christian, dear.’

  ‘You’re a librarian, protector of books.’

  She looks at me in a way nobody has ever looked at me… as if she is looking at a brave man.

  ‘I’m just an old fool, dear.’

  Her eyes lock into mine again. She may have a crutch but I do not pity her. She’s sexless, but somehow mesmerising.

  ‘Sir?’ The intensity of her gaze makes me feel read, absorbed by her.

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘You do have a library, don’t you? It’s not just city gossip?’

  Apollinos shakes his head.

  ‘Yes, dear, but I don’t have a copy of The Book of Wisdom. It was returned to your people ten years ago on Aeson’s request.

  Apollinos’ lips tighten in disapproval.

  ‘Then the Archbishop took the only copy.’ She hunches further over her crutch, defeated.