by Sarah Walton
A rare rush of kindness makes my heart do a nosedive. Or is it a need to make amends for separating Aeson from his friends, from his home? A kindness to Kiya is a kindness to my boy.
‘Kiya, there is one other copy of The Book of Wisdom.’
What a trusting smile.
We don’t have much time. Those inspectors will be back here as soon as they realise the centurions have defected. ‘Apollinos, ready my litter.’
39
Aeson
The Arch of Venus: this is the very spot I first met Rufius. How strange. In that moment I never imagined I’d stand here desperate for Turk’s help. Venus Street was always quiet before sunset, but today the silence is eerie. Only the lustiest pleasure-seekers scuttle into brothels – nobody will dare loiter outside taverns today. Sensible Alexandrians are locked safe inside their homes.
By Serapis, Turk’s prospered by the look of The Honeypot! Marble clad entrance… and not all this stone’s been pinched from the Necropolis. The door boys are in better condition than we were. No scars or bruises.
‘Can I interest you in Desert Honey, our house speciality, sir?’
‘I’m looking for the boss.’
They look at each other and one runs inside without saying anything.
Luxurious for a brothel. Even the furniture looks new, not random pieces stolen from the rich. Incense mingles with the sweaty smell of sex. The Honeypot lacks the sophistication of Constantinople’s brothels, but the boys look more fun.
Is that Croc on the couch? Thank Serapis!
‘Croc!’
‘Eh?’ His head rolls back on the cushioned couch, eyes try to focus then close. Skin as flaky as ever. He looks like a leper. The only other customer lolls on a couch the other side of the room, a head bobbing up and down in his lap.
‘Oi! Croc, wake up.’ I need to know what’s happened at the church. Let’s chuck that jug of water in his face.
‘Man, what yer go and do that for?’ Croc’s eyes clamp open in alarm. ‘Aeson?’
His face completely changes when he grins: generous and gappy as ever. By Serapis, I’m pleased to see him.
‘Mate?’ He blinks like he’s seen a ghost and rubs the water from his face. ‘Aeson, man, is that you?’
Judging by the trouble he’s having pulling himself off the couch, uncoordinated as an excited pup, I’d say he’s mashed on Desert Honey.
‘Aeson, man!’ Arms bigger and stronger than they were when we said goodbye fling round my neck. The old feeling swells inside me. Memories of nights curled up together return. This is living, not the cold accumulation of knowledge. Living is belonging.
He can’t have any idea about what happened at the church.
‘Croc, where’s Kiya?’
‘Still squatting in the old Temple of Dionysus. The religious life wasn’t for me, man.’
‘Croc, the temple’s been looted – everyone’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
Confusion changes to alarm as he looks upstairs. No need to turn round: I know why.
‘Long time, no see, eh, Pretty?’ The sting in Turk’s voice tells me he’s not forgotten our old feud. He strides down the stairs like an emperor in his palace. His scar’s not faded. Age has deepened the deep gorge that travels from cheek to eye.
Croc reaches for his knife. A blue tattooed hand grabs his wrist. Druid!
‘That won’t be necessary.’ My voice reverberates in the small room – how different to the mouse of a voice I used to have.
‘You’ve changed, Pretty. Not as soft as you used to be.’
Turk lunges at my scabbard. No you don’t. My knife’s out and at his throat before he reaches it. Who’s fastest on the draw now? Trained by gladiators in the university gymnasium, I’ve worked my body as well as my intellect these past ten years. From the look of his gut, Turk’s been spooning Desert Honey for exercise.
‘Slower than you used to be, Turk.’ My knife hovers at his neck, his arm twisted back to his spine. A single slice of his throat and I’d never have to watch my back in Alexandria again.
He laughs, like it’s just a game. ‘Yer old honey-daddy wouldn’t be too happy if yer slit his partner’s throat, eh, Pretty?’
I lower the knife. He’s got the message: Pretty’s no pushover.
‘Turk, it’s been ten years. Why don’t we call it quits? You’ve done well for yourself here.’ Heretic books paid for that emerald fit for a Pharaoh’s finger.
‘I am a rich man, but that’s no thanks to you, eh, Pretty?’ Turk juts his chin. ‘S’pose you come here looking fer your heretic friends, eh? Well, by sunset, they’ll all be dead, the lot of ’em, and that dandy Greek will burn alive for being a soothsayer, performing magic rites in a temple, a whole bunch of crim-in-al offences they pinned on him.’ He says it as if he’s an upright citizen.
‘Where are they, Turk?’
‘Man, whatcha talking about? I was at the church yesterday. Went to give Kiya some Desert Honey… helps the pain in her leg. They was all fine.’
Turk’s enjoying this.
‘Inspectors looted the Temple of Dionysus this morning, eh. The Snake People were rounded up and thrown in the Agora prison. The Archbishop kicked off a riot when his inspectors paraded the sacred relics of Dionysus in the Agora. Prefect’s sent the army in to sort it.’
Croc’s eyes, glazed from the plant, fix in a wide stare on Turk. ‘Even the children?’
Turk’s face is serious. Even he doesn’t like kids punished for nothing. ‘The Archbishop’s inspectors took them all. Soldiers are herding heretics all over the city. Trial’s this afternoon. Public burning of the ringleaders at sunset. The rest will hand over their possessions to the powers that be – if they’re lucky they’ll just lose their heads.’
Think, brain, think. Under the 383 law some heresies can receive the death sentence, but Ophites don’t appear in any of the Emperor’s rescripts. What difference does it make? When they failed to pin heresy on a man in Athens, he was tried and executed for being a soothsayer instead.
‘Who’s the Magistrate?’
‘It’s not the Magistrate they got to worry about – he’s the Archbishop’s puppet.’
‘Man, shit! Man! The Archbishop’s an evil bastard.’
‘Croc, calm down, we’ll get them out.’
Turk’s dark eyes meet mine. He wants me dead. Come on, Aeson, what did those years of rhetoric teach you? Turk values money more than revenge.
‘Turk, I have a proposal for you.’
‘What can you give me I ain’t got, eh, Pretty?’
‘My inheritance.’
His eyes narrow, scar creases. That hooked his interest.
‘I will have papers drawn up and sign over the money I received on my twentieth birthday to you, every last solidus of it.’
Croc rolls his eyes in disbelief. ‘Man, are you mad?’
Turk licks his lips and grins.
‘Pretty’s not mad. He needs a gang to storm the Law Court. The two of yers got no chance of getting your friends back without my help, right, Pretty?’
‘How do I know you’ll keep your word?’
‘You don’t. But you’ve cursed me every morning for ten years when you looked in the mirror at your shave. You’d love an excuse to default on whatever agreement you made with Rufius – or have the ammunition to bribe him for a larger cut of the profits, wouldn’t you?’
Turk throws his head back and laughs. ‘A honey-nose inheritance for old Turk. You got a deal, Pretty.’
It’s ten years since I clasped wrists like a gladiator. Turk’s emerald throws a green light on my hand and my mind flashes back to the first time Croc introduced us. History repeats itself: shaking my life away feels familiar.
Turk slaps my back, just like he did when he welcomed me to the gang. ‘It’ll be just like old times, Pretty.’
‘My name’s Aeson, until we free my people.’ My people… yes, the Snake People are my people, my friends. My friends are my family.
> ‘Who’d a thought you’d come running to me, eh, Pretty? I was hoping for a chase at least, or have you lost your running legs? Never mind, you’ve still got a face on yer. Squealing like a cinaedus you’ll be if you screw me over.’
He eyeballs me and strokes his scar. ‘Druid, bring Pretty something to eat.’
Turk and I will always be enemies, but I’m relieved to face up to him. There’s a cold respect between us.
It’s Patch! He’s huge. The eye patch makes him look more like a pirate than an unfortunate street urchin now. ‘Patch!’
‘Aeson. Our little spies said you were back.’ His hand is large round my wrist. My second gladiator welcome home.
‘Man, Henite and Kiya can’t hardly walk. We’d need a small army to take on the Archbishop’s inspectors. I vote we wait ’til they’re released, then we jump the soldiers and…’ Sober now, Croc?
‘No, Croc, that won’t work. We need to get them out before they’re tried.’
Patch butts in. ‘Aeson’s right.’
Turk waves his emerald-ringed hand in the air.
‘Listen up lads, ’ere’s the plan. Trust uncle Turk. He’s a strategist now. How do you think I’ve been shifting tonnes of her-et-ical books for your honey-daddy right under the bishops’ noses for ten years without getting caught, eh?’
40
Kiya
Sweet Sophia, what a way to travel! I never dreamed I’d be carried through Alexandria’s streets in a litter! It’s bumpier than I imagined. I wish Sophia was here. I miss her scaly skin round my neck.
The Librarian’s not how I imagined either. He’s funny and kind. The only time he stops cursing is when he’s knocking back the wine or sucking on his silver pipe. Whiffs of Desert Honey that Croc brings me. Didn’t know you could smoke it. I could do with a lug – to numb the pain in my leg.
What’s the Librarian pointing at through the curtain of the litter?
‘What, in the name of Bacchus, is that on the hillside?’ He coughs on pipe smoke and swigs from his wine jug.
Rufius, me and the two slaves jogging along side the litter all squint at the high dunes beyond the city.
‘It looks like something’s moving on the surface. Unnatural. Apollinos, what is that?’
My heart twangs. I know what.
‘A demon army.’ My voice is level, but the mass of black bodies charging towards the city makes me gulp.
‘Demons? Ha! You’re not far wrong, dear. They will be Theophilus’ reinforcements. Wily bastard.’
The Librarian looks angry… or maybe it’s the wine he’s been knocking back since we left the house that’s made the veins in his cheeks turn purple.
‘Apollinos, tell them to hurry up! The Museum. We must be quick.’
We bump and jerk, curtains swing as the slaves speed up.
‘I thought we were going to the Serapeum?’
‘My most valuable books are hidden in the Serapeum, but The Book of Wisdom is in the Museum. It will be the first place that ignorant swarm loot.’
‘What books?’
‘Of no interest to you, dear. Joke books, cookery books, the ancient Karma Sutra… odd bunch, the Indians, obsessed with sex with women. Perhaps that’s where Emperor Claudius got the idea…’
‘Romans and their pleasures. What value are those books to mankind?’
‘… and the comedies, there are hundreds of Greek plays in the copying queues. They might be the only versions left in the Empire.’ He looks like a eunuch the way his kohl eyebrows rise when he shouts. ‘Hurry, I said.’
Goose bumps creep up my arms. My heart bangs fast as we jerk along. That sea breeze is not a good omen. Summer storm brewing.
‘Give me a drag on that pipe please, sir. The Desert Honey will help me stay open to Sophia’s guidance. We might need it.’
‘No need to make up excuses to indulge, dear. Here you are, don’t inhale too deep.’
We’re nearly there. Here’s the road that runs between the high brightly painted walls of the Soma and the Museum. Museum Street crosses Soma Street at the far end and runs parallel with The Canopic Way. A dash of chariots speed straight across both streets.
‘Put your head in, girl. You’re not on a donkey.’
‘There’s something not right about those chariots.’
‘What’s that, dear?’
‘Sweet Sophia, what’s that noise?’ Angry voices come from inside the walls of the Museum. A curdled shriek of human pain makes my spine stiffen. The Librarian’s chins wobble.
Chariots speed past us.
‘The chariots are all going one way, all heading for Sun Gate!’
He’s not listening to me. There’s danger up ahead. I feel it in my spine.
41
Rufius
‘Master, run!’ Antinous’ small legs are pumping towards us, fast with terror as the bonfires spread, merging one into another. Red flames roar up the white marble pillars into the great golden domed roof. The Museum looks like an enormous brazier.
Sacrilege! They’re burning books.
Theophilus’ inspectors flee like bats, from every alcove. Scribes run from the burning building. Librarians in togas carrying armfuls of books are thrown or pushed into the pyres by the inspectors, who chant their war-cry,
‘Burn the heresies –’
‘Burn the heresies –’
Book after book is thrown onto pyres. Soldiers help Theophilus’ bat-like army of inspectors. The fire will spread quickly now. Come on, Antinous.
What’s that soldier doing? He’s after my boy.
‘Run, Antinous. Run, my boy.’
The soldier’s sword swings and slices straight through his legs. Small knees hit the paving slab. A knife stabs his tiny chest. Still looking at me, still aiming to reach me, his gaze fades.
‘No!’
Apollinos unravels my toga. ‘Quickly master, step out of your toga. Master, quick. It’s too late.’ He drags me by the arm back towards the gates.
‘We must retrieve his body.’ What will I tell his brother, Cassius?
‘There is no time, master. Come.’
My feet are practically carried off the ground by Apollinos’ strong arms.
‘Master, what are you doing?’
Pulling away, I stumble to pick up a few scrolls scattered on the grass. ‘But the books! Apollinos, we must save the books.’ The Museum stored the classics and the only surviving copies of books in languages of ancient cultures. Authors’ names jumble in my mind… yellow rose petals falling in the Lateran Basilica… Damasus knew it would come to this.
‘Quick, master.’
A cohort of soldiers charge out towards the gate as the domed roof collapses into the roaring brazier of the building. That’s the most horrible noise I’ve ever heard: the groan of the Museum roof falling inwards smothering a building packed full of books.
‘The Serapeum, master. Please hurry.’
My chest is a heaving mass of phlegm. My legs are so heavy, I can barely run. Poor little Antinous. At least it was instant when the knife entered his tiny chest.
At the far end of Soma Street, Cassius waits with Kiya. How will I tell him?
‘We can’t cross the Canopic Way, master. We’ll take the streets parallel to the docks.’
Nearly there. Kiya’s watching us from the end of Soma Street. Her lips are moving, chanting her snake prayers. Cassius’ gaze searches behind us for his little brother. He’s seen the tears in my eyes and hides his face in his hands. Oh, how I’ve failed you, my dear, dear boys.
Kiya’s chant is a full-blown chorus. ‘Aoi-aoi-aoi…’
‘Please, stop that racket, dear.’
‘These words will guide the young slave’s soul to the Kingdom of God.’
‘Shut up, dear.’
Cassius’ muscular arms fling around my shoulders.
‘Cassius, it was quick, dear. Young Antinous did not suffer.’
He looks at the ground and nods.
‘Master, which
way?’
‘We take the back streets behind the Agora.’
Apollinos orders the four litter slaves. ‘You boys run back to Biblos, alert the household to lock up and stay inside, then meet us at the Serapeum.’
Apollinos looks at me. He’s right: only the slaves are safe at Biblos now. ‘We will be faster on foot, master.’
As we turn left round the back of the Museum walls, the army and monks turn right towards the Canopic Way, now a seething mass of black robes and soldiers. Alexandria will be a battleground by sunset.
I cannot bear the crying. I think I might break into a million pieces if Cassius continues. He’s nearly Aeson’s age. It’s unmanly.
‘Cassius, shush, dear, your brother was a Biblus and he died a Biblus.’
Kiya chips in, ‘He was a protector of books. His death was not meaningless.’
Cassius snivels, wipes his snot on the back of his wrist and nods.
That salty gust has the power of Neptune behind it. The Khamaseen’s coming.
‘Your scarf, Kiya, dear.’ Too late. The wind takes the orange cotton. The snakes on her long earlobes are dangerous marks to show.
‘Aeson gave me that.’
‘I’ll buy you a new one, dear.’
Make sense of this madness, Rufius. My temples thump. Surely the Emperor does not support this anarchy?
42
Aeson
‘Wind’s whipping up.’ Even my mouth tastes of salt, the gritty taste of home. I’d forgotten how unpleasant sand grating against my teeth is when the Khamaseen pelts the city with dust. Mouth’s so dry there’s hardly enough saliva to spit.
That’s it: my gob hits the pavement. Croc’s tatty old sandal stamps on it as he dodges a chariot. My nostrils are filled with the stench of fish; reminds me of fishing with Dad. Funny, how memory works, even in the middle of a crisis.
Ten years, but not much has changed running with the old gang. Turk’s gathered a paunch. Look at the state of you, Turk, gut weighing you down, more waddle than sprint. Alexandrian pickpockets don’t get paunches. A thief needs the agility of a goat in a city. It’s obvious who’s been doing the real work. Patch is up front, herding feral young recruits. At twelve we ran as fast as these wild winds too.