Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  ‘Just think of my inheritance, Turk.’

  ‘Eh, what’s happening there?’ Turk’s chin juts at a group of disorientated prisoners being pushed and shoved by inspectors towards the queue for the podium. His scar furrows as he squints. Eyesight failing you, Turk?

  ‘Looks like the Archbishop intends to start the trial before the Magistrate arrives, Pretty.’

  ‘He can’t do that.’ My guts! I need a shit.

  ‘I was here this morning. Theophilus might be out of line, but he’s got the army behind him and he’s got it in for yer Snake Mates.’

  Theophilus… I know that name, and the face… those dark eyebrows, that long nose. It’s the priest from the Law Court. Rufius warned me he’d make Archbishop one day.

  We strain to make out the faces in the queue of prisoners. Kiya, where are you? Where’s your lurch?

  ‘How’s Kiya’s leg?’

  Croc’s searching for her too. ‘Tongue as sharp as ever, but she’s more hunched than she was.’

  He nudges me and nods to the back of the queue. Henite! She must have been born old. Now she’s ancient. Supported by a child on each side, her long white plaits swing as she shuffles.

  No! An inspector raises his whip and lashes her back.

  Henite, hold your ground. If she falls, they’ll drag her through the dirt.

  Good, the man in front of her caught her weight before she toppled forwards. By Serapis, he’s a Priest of Isis… and in front of him are the Priests of Phallus, gold phallic diadems on their heads.

  That inspector’s preparing to lash the whip again? ‘Fucker.’ A rush of anger pumps me to my feet. I’m not watching this.

  ‘Easy, man.’ Croc’s hand’s on my arm, pulling me down.

  Theophilus steps to the front of the podium. The mob hush. I’ve seen bishops raise their arms like that all over the Empire.

  ‘Hear me.’ That’s him: stern, hard metallic consonants ring round the Agora. Monks nearest the pyre push forwards.

  ‘Hear me! The heretics will be tried here today in God’s eyes.’ Since when did the Archbishop run legal proceedings?

  ‘Where’s the Magistrate?’ The mob won’t stand for this. Pagans won’t watch their priests tried by a Christian.

  ‘A-Archbishop! Archbishop. L-let me th-through.’ That can’t be Fatty’s stutter?

  ‘FATTY!’ What a surprise. Fatty’s nearly as tall as Theophilus but twice as wide. His toga has the imposing thick purple stripe of a patrician. Shame he still has the stutter.

  ‘Croc, why didn’t you tell me Fatty’s the Magistrate?’

  ‘Don’t make no difference. He’s shit scared of the Archbishop.’

  Turk juts his chin towards Fatty. ‘That’s what an inheritance buys you, eh? Where’s your purple stripes then, Pretty?’

  Fatty and Theophilus look like they’re arguing at the back of the podium. Theophilus shakes several documents at the Magistrate. Fatty looks angry. He won’t want to try the Priests of Isis. Theophilus forces the parchment into Fatty’s hands. If that’s an Imperial rescript, Fatty has no choice. He has to read it.

  ‘The h-heretics, namely the M-manicheans, the Apollinarians, the Encratites, the Apotactites, the H-hydroparastatae, the S-saccophori…’

  Theophilus steps forward, black cloak raised like bat wings as he lifts his arms, ‘… AND THE MONSTROUS FOLLOWERS OF THE SERPENT: THE ODIOUS OPHITES.’ He bellows it.

  ‘What bullshit! Theophilus added that on his own authority. As far as the Emperor is concerned, Ophites were flushed out over a century ago.’

  Not a single heckle. The pagan mob couldn’t care less about a heretic Christian.

  Fatty steps forward, his round body wrapped in the folds of his toga eclipses Theophilus.

  ‘B-bring out the heretic ringleader. The Ophite will be tried first, then the P-priests of I-Isis will be tried for the crime of sacrifice.’

  The mob roar like a stadium audience hungry for a fight. Jeers, hoots, hisses from the pagan mob. My ears thump with their hate. They will riot if their priests are sentenced. Fatty looks worried; he knows it too.

  Seth! What have they done to you? Shackled like a slave, long hair lank over his face. An inspector jabs Seth’s back up the wooden steps and on to the platform. We may not share a god, but friendship binds us. For an orphan friendship’s as strong as blood.

  ‘This man.’ Theophilus clutches Seth’s face in his fingers, forcing Seth to look at him. ‘This odious Ophite is not only a heretic of the most monstrous order, but a soothsayer. He was caught charming snakes from baskets and divining the future.’

  Theophilus surveys the crowd as if he owns them. That pause is well practised. Citizens look startled, the monks disgusted. Nobody moves. It’s as if their position were fixed, from the moment he first spoke.

  ‘This monstrous worshipper of the serpent will be tried before God. If found guilty, in the eyes of the one and only Sublime God, he will meet his death in avenging flames, burned alive for heresy and magic.’

  ‘What the fuck, Aeson. Sit your arse back down.’ Croc’s at my ankles, yanking me down by my tunic.

  ‘But the death penalty only applies to the Encratites, Saccophori, and the Hydroparastatae.’

  ‘Don’t be a fucking martyr, Pretty.’

  ‘Shut it, Turk.’

  ‘That’s it, man.’

  Stomach flat to the tiles again, my gut tenses for a fight.

  ‘Croc, is that old rope still there?’

  Don’t give me that look like I’m a mad fucker, Croc. You never managed the jump – the drop made you lose your bottle.

  ‘What, the one we hooked on the Temple of Isis? Don’t get any stupid ideas, man. Say you make the jump without breaking your bloody neck? Then what? They’ll tear you to pieces before you get up onto the platform. But let’s say you made it, what’s your plan? Kill the Archbishop, carry Henite to safety? You and me, we’re street kids, not heroes.’

  Fatty raises both arms for silence. The obedient hush from the monks is punctured by pagan catcalls.

  ‘Th-this man is accused of being a magician and a p-procurator for the rites of heresy in the Roman Province of Egypt in the city of Alexandria.’

  The monks’ jeers drown Fatty’s voice.

  ‘S-SILENCE. The law s-states, as promulgated by the Emperor Th-theodosius…’ – so, it’s Imperial parchment – ‘All p-persons who resort to their own h-heretical rites, who assemble in public to present the false appearance of m-mysteries, to the outrage of the t-true religion, We order to be afflicted with the supreme p-penalty.’

  Poor Fatty looks like he’s surrounded by a bunch of school bullies up on that podium, with the lines of dark-cloaked inspectors and soldiers and Theophilus towering above him.

  ‘W-who will defend this m-man?’

  Lawyers mutter from the safety of the arcades and rearrange the white folds of their togas. No one will defend him today.

  ‘I will…’ Seth’s voice is thin from lack of water.

  Theophilus swishes his cloak in front of Fatty’s white toga. Did the arsehole smile at Seth?

  ‘Present the Magistrate with the evidence, inspectors.’

  Four inspectors climb the podium with bundles of scrolls and baskets of snakes. A toothy one with a skeleton grin steps forward. ‘This scroll contains evil spells used by the Ophites, those despicable heretics who worship the snake, for all manner of heretic rites. And in those baskets are the snakes several of my men witnessed being charmed and kissed by this man during his magical rites.’

  ‘Aeson, sit down.’

  ‘No Croc.’ You’re right to be afraid, old friend. So am I. ‘I’m not going to lie here and watch my friends prosecuted without Justice having a hand in it.’ The streets gave me my wits, but I’m now part of another world and I know the law.

  Patch grabs my ankle, Croc my tunic.

  ‘Lads, please.’

  They release me. The leather tie holding the eye patch has engraved his skin between eye and ea
r, like a wedding ring grown tight on a fat finger.

  ‘We’ve got your back, Aeson.’ Patch’s grip is strong on my shoulder.

  Turk spits. ‘We don’t have his fucking back.’ By the look of Patch’s glare, there’s no love lost between those two over the years. ‘If you want to risk your life for that bunch of fanatics, you’re on your own, Pretty. The deal’s off.’

  ‘Is your word nothing, Turk?’

  ‘You know the rule of the streets: save your own arse.’

  ‘He’s right, man. If you go down there you’re dead.’ Croc, your voice is so gentle. How many nights did I fall asleep with your breath in my ear?

  ‘Will no one defend this man?’ Theophilus’ voice is slow. Every word is accentuated, provoking, threatening.

  ‘Go, before I sit on you, man.’

  First, feel how I love you, my old friend… you always kept your eyes open when we kissed. Your long hair’s as greasy as ever. Lips dry from the wind, but generous as I remember them. It feels like kissing a brother now.

  ‘How sweet, a parting kiss.’ We ignore Turk’s sarcasm.

  ‘If I’m going to watch you die, I expect a good show.’ Patch’s comment is for Turk’s sake.

  ‘Patch.’ I nod him a salute.

  Must keep my legs bent so no one in the Agora notices me. Crouching low as I run back along the arcade roof, several heads nod. The eyes of the young ones follow me. What stories have Patch and Croc filled their heads with? He could jump through the skies. He took on the leader. He’s the reason for Turk’s scar? Or am I just Pretty, the cinaedus’ boy? Whatever, I don’t expect them to risk their lives. This is not their battle.

  Here’s where we climbed up, good a place as any to slip back down.

  ‌45

  Rufius

  What’s Theophilus doing on the Magistrate’s podium again? Fatty looks lost.

  ‘Does that bishop think he’s the bloody city Magistrate, Apollinos?’

  Kiya is in a panic. ‘Sweet Sophia! They have Seth! And there’s Henite too… oh, no, and the children. They’re going to burn him alive.’

  She must know the Ophite they arrested this morning. In front of the line of soldiers and inspectors, the heretics are shoved up onto the platform with the Priests of Isis and Phallus, their robes blown about in the wind.

  ‘W-will someone d-defend this man?’ Fatty’s not as eloquent as his father was.

  ‘I will defend him.’

  That voice. It is like milk and honey over broken skin. It cannot be…

  ‘My boy?’

  ‘Aeson! I see him.’ Kiya’s finger stretches towards the opposite end of the Agora over Cassius’ head. Cassius cranes to see too.

  ‘Apollinos, hoist me up onto your back so I can see him. That’s it, dear: over you bend, quickly.’

  Where is he?

  ‘I will defend him.’ Even from this corner of the arcade, Aeson’s voice projects with clarity.

  I let out a groan: my money paid for that university accent. Where is he? I can hear him but I can’t see him.

  Apollinos cranes his sweaty neck too. ‘There, master, heading for the podium.’

  The crowd part, as if Aeson’s voice has sliced a pathway through the mob. Their gaze follows him. That is how it always was: mesmerised eyes stalked him. Boy no longer, a confident, muscular stride. Fashionable tunic, short Roman haircut, a glint of the gold necklace I gave him for his toga virilis around a neck strengthened in the gymnasium. My money drips off him. They will listen to that voice. That’s one thing a cinaedus knows: the people love a drama. This mob will demand his defence is heard. What say you to that, Theophilus?

  ‘Sweet Sophia, Aeson’s walking into the demon’s lair.’ The priestess’ head dips into the nook of Cassius’ neck, tense with anticipation.

  ‘My fearless boy, have you lost your senses? Leave the heretic to his fate.’ My fatherly pride is deflated by fear for my son.

  ‘He’s doing the goddess’ bidding. Seth is an Aberamentho!’ Kiya’s head swivels like a meerkat from Aeson to the heretic waiting to be tried. Why does my boy love these foolish Snake People?

  ‘Yes, dear.’ I pat her coarse mop of hair, but my eyes do not leave Aeson: a real man… but then he always was the manly one of the two of us.

  ‘Will they kill Seth?’ The priestess’ voice rasps with fear.

  ‘Theophilus is acting beyond the Emperor’s rescript. There is no telling what he will do, dear.’ There’s no point lying to her; the answer will unravel before our eyes. Swallowing is becoming difficult: calm yourself, Rufius.

  Aeson coughs as he climbs the podium steps. A seagull circles, then swoops away from the black smoke billowing off the pyre.

  ‘I, Aeson Biblus Catamitus, will defend this man and represent all the accused.’ He faces the crowd and waves his arm to indicate the line of prisoners on the podium, poor Christian heretics shoulder to shoulder with Priests of the temples adorned in gold diadems.

  A cheer goes up from the mob, hammers and brooms punch the air. Clever boy, he has the pagan mob on side.

  ‘Look at Seth: the joy of seeing Aeson has brought the power of the serpent into his spine!’

  What nonsense is she blathering about now? ‘Save your tears, dear. Win or lose, Aeson’s made himself a target.’

  ‘He’s brave like you – like when you took on the Archbishop this morning.’

  ‘I was just entertaining myself, dear. Aeson’s nothing like me.’

  Aeson’s a head shorter than the Theophilus, but beauty swats all other qualities like flies. We hold our breath: us, the mob, the soldiers: who will speak first – archbishop or lawyer? The two men face each other. Silently, I sense their minds circle each other.

  ‘On what authority do you defend this man?’ Theophilus hides his surprise. He did not expect a defence, and less from a Biblus Catamitus; he’ll be seething. A swell of pride stings my eyes. Don’t get sentimental, Rufius.

  ‘I have trained and practised in the Law Courts of the Empire: Constantinople, Athens, Carthage, Antioch. I am familiar with the Emperor’s rescript… and the Ophites are not mentioned. The Magistrate will verify this.’

  ‘Th-that is correct.’ Fatty looks so confused his fat face wobbles.

  ‘Furthermore, charming snakes from baskets can be seen everyday in the Emporium, and there are no laws sentencing snake charmers to death.’

  The pagan mob laugh; some hoot. My boy’s on a roll.

  ‘I put it to you, Archbishop: on whose authority do you speak? For it is not the Emperor’s.’

  Direct as ever. The Archbishop stiffens. The noise from the crowd is deafening. They couldn’t care less about the Ophites. Most are too young to have heard of the sect. They holler for Priests of Isis, for their gods burning on the pyre.

  Fatty raises his arms to hush the mob. Everyone in the Agora waits for Theophilus’ reply. Aeson looks out across the crowded Agora. You have the stage, my boy: what will you do with it?

  ‘Sweet Sophia, there’s the inspector from this morning. What evil is he whispering into the Archbishop’s ear?’

  ‘What is that book Toothy has in his hand?’

  ‘I have a bad feeling about that book, master.’

  Theophilus takes the leather-bound codex from the inspector and opens it. His smile makes me gulp. He passes it to Fatty and turns to the mob.

  ‘Aeson Biblus Catamitus, you are unable to defend the aforesaid persons due to being found in possession of heretical books. This morning you deposited this book full of magic and evil spells with Library Customs. Inspector, arrest this man. He is suspected of being part of an Empire-wide heretical smuggling ring.’

  A gasp from the mob.

  ‘What in the name of Bacchus possessed Aeson to register a heretical book?’

  What’s Kiya so excited about jigging up and down on Cassius’ back? ‘I knew he’d keep his promise. It’s The Book of Wisdom, I know it.’

  ‘What evidence do you have?’ The sturdiness of Aeson’s v
oice doesn’t give away the twitch I sense in him, slight bend of the knee, clench of his calf. He’s contemplating his next move.

  ‘Here is the ticket.’ The inspector waves a strip of parchment in the air. ‘It reads: Aeson Biblus Catamitus.’

  Oh, the fool! Why did he register it? Theophilus’ spies are everywhere.

  ‘Until you charge me, I can put forward a defence.’

  That’s it, my boy. Who’d have thought you would grow up to take on the Archbishop of Alexandria.

  ‘Then we will try your case first.’

  Fatty looks like he has something to say about that. ‘I d-decide the order of the cases.’

  Good old Fatty! What’s my boy doing, itching his ear like that? Now the other ear: what’s he up to?

  ‘Cassius, what’s excited you, dear?’

  ‘Look, master, look.’ We follow the direction Cassius’ finger is pointing – behind the podium to the Temple of Isis. Men and boys swing, one after the other, from the temple roof to the Law Court to the ground and scatter into the crowd. So that’s what the ear thing was: a signal.

  There’s the blue Briton… and there’s Aeson’s friend with the flaky skin. Crocodile. Well I never!

  ‘Croc! He hates heights. Sweet Sophia, cushion his fall.’ Her eyes are scrunched up, not daring to watch Crocodile make his jump.

  ‘Calm down, Kiya. They’re like monkeys, those street boys.’

  ‘You can open your eyes now,’ Cassius murmurs to her.

  ‘He did it, he did it.’ She’s like a child, poise gone.

  Now what’s he doing? Aeson points into the crowd, then back to the podium; then to another head whose face is hidden from us. He’s giving orders.

  Toothy makes a dive for Aeson.

  ‘Move Aeson. That’s it my boy! Ha, they’ll need to be faster than that if they want to catch him.’ He’s not lost his speed. Apollinos could never catch him. ‘Now get off that podium, Aeson.’

  Street kids stream on to the podium. Ten, twenty, more… inspectors lunge at them. The mob won’t watch for long… there’s no spectators at an orgy… here they go!

  The crowd surges forward in a thrash of metal. Hammers and kitchen utensils hack desert staffs. The Commander of the Army shouts from his horse to soldiers. Swords are drawn. There’s no space for battle formation – the Agora’s too frenzied for military order. Soldiers and monks crowd onto the podium to protect the Archbishop. What does the Priest of Isis think he’s doing barging up the stairs? He should be running away… he’s going for the Archbishop. He won’t get very far. Monks jump him like a pack of wolves. His white robe flutters in the wind as a tall, hooded monk hoists him onto his shoulders. Another monk throws his diadem into the pyre.