Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  ‘HERETIC BURN, HERETIC BURN.’ The mob demands his blood.

  Our mouths slack, necks strain forward, eyes wide in disbelief.

  ‘By Bacchus, they’re not going to throw a Priest of Isis onto the pyre? Surely not!’ He’s not been tried…

  Fatty flaps an arm and tries to stop them. His mouth opens and closes but we can’t hear him. The hooded monk slings the priest like a sack of rubbish into the pyre. The blue robe of Isis flutters… flames swallow him.

  A roar reverberates around the Agora: a battle cry, visceral and furious. Theophilus surveys the mob with a look of smug satisfaction. How many supporters did you plant in the Agora today, Theophilus?

  Fatty gives up trying to call order, hugs The Book of Wisdom to his chest like a baby and runs off the podium.

  ‘Master, we must get to the Serapeum.’ Apollinos starts to turn.

  ‘Sweat Sophia! Noooooo!’ What’s Kiya doing?

  ‘Don’t kick poor Cassius. He’s not a horse, dear.’

  Cassius’ face disappears behind her wild hair; the two of them resemble a strange creature: a hermaphrodite centaur or some Egyptian god as she writhes about trying to get him to enter the Agora. ‘Relax, please lady.’

  ‘Save Seth and Henite! Please.’

  The tall hooded monk who helped throw the priest is heading towards Seth.

  Aeson’s seen him. He swoops towards the monk. Who does he think he is, Aeneas?

  The monk pushes his way across the podium. That’s a knife, not a staff in his hand.

  We bellow, ‘Aeson, look out! Behind you,’

  He can’t hear us. Leave the heretic. He’s been tortured half to death anyway, dear.

  The wind catches the monk’s hood and throws it back. He’s lost an eye. The cloaked Cyclops and Aeson run at each other like gladiators in the arena.

  ‘Sweet Sophia, it’s Lanky!’

  ‌46

  Aeson

  ‘Lanky, it’s you and me, Lanky.’

  What’s he doing? Why’s he stopped? He grins and turns towards Seth and Henite lined up with the rest of the prisoners, at the edge of the podium, ankles chained, and dangerously close to the pyre.

  Serapis, no! Lanky means to throw them into the pyre like the Priest of Isis. I’ve got to get to Seth and Henite before he does. Gut and heart pound as one. Out of my way. An inspector tries to block me. Take that, you mongrel. He slides forward into my knife, close as a lover he grabs my neck as if to kiss me. ‘Serapis, forgive me.’ My knife whines as I pull it free and he rolls towards the pyre.

  ‘Lad, get down, Aeson.’ That’s Dera’s voice. Where is he?

  So much blood, so many tortured cries. It’s impossible to pinpoint anyone over the mass of seething, fighting bodies: the Agora’s a battlefield. And the stench… burning flesh, it’s making me dizzy. Hold on, Henite. I’m coming.

  A soldier. He’s slashing his sword at me; his stomach’s open to my attack: metal slips too easily through human flesh. In sinks my knife.

  I’ve got to get to Henite before Lanky does. She’s hunched over, muttering, praying. Lanky’s going to push that young priest off the podium. Desperate, he flings himself into the pyre rather than be pushed by Lanky. An acrid stench of burning flesh makes me swallow. Henite, I’m coming.

  ‘Aeson, I’ll get Henite.’ Dera’s voice. It’s calm, even when he shouts… but where is he? He must be close.

  Another sword swipes past my arm. It belongs to a soldier. A knife spikes the soldier’s neck like a piece of chicken; blood squirts in my face and he crumples at my feet. Croc pulls the knife out and grins. ‘Twenty.’ That was close.

  ‘Aeson, down here!’ Follow Dera’s voice… there he is, pushing his way up the stairs towards Henite. As tall and strong as I remember him, skin an onyx gleam. Lanky’s spotted him.

  Another inspector, the kill in his eyes, sword coming at me. Shit, he’s bashed my knife from my hand, the bastard! Where did it land? His sword’s at my neck; can’t move. He’s got me in an arm lock. The inspector spins me round so I face the Archbishop. Theophilus, surrounded by bodyguards, sits safe on horseback. He nods.

  ‘Goodbye, Aeson Biblus Catamitus,’ growls the inspector in my ear… ‘Arhhh!’ A yelp of pain and his arm goes limp. Croc got him. Thank Serapis!

  ‘Man, you’re out of practice.’

  ‘Thanks, Croc. Serapis, No!’

  Dera’s nearly up the stairs. Hurry up! Lanky’s too close to Seth. I can’t get past this mass of bodies.

  ‘Aeson, duck.’ That’s Patch’s voice.

  I’m ducking, I’m ducking. And again: that soldier’s going to lob my head off if I don’t find a weapon. Feet shuffle around bodies, dead or dying, but no sword.

  ‘Pretty, catch!’ There’s Patch. Thank Serapis! The metal blade glints as it spins through the air: got it… and got you. The soldier’s face freezes in shock as he slips to the ground, eyes wide with surprise.

  More soldiers force their way up the crowded steps. We’re outnumbered.

  ‘Patch, help Dera.’ I point towards the stairs. He’s nearly at the top.

  Patch lunges his knife into the chest of another monk, hilt to heart.

  What’s that? An earthquake? Wood creaks, the podium groans: it was not built to hold so many.

  ‘What?’ Patch shouts above the roar, arms outstretched to balance himself as the podium moves, tilts downwards. Henite sways.

  Oh no! The stairs have collapsed. Dera’s gone! Monks, soldiers and prisoners look down at their feet in confusion. The podium sways under the excess weight.

  ‘Lads, JUMP.’ Patch herds the boys. They stab at monks and soldiers in their rush to jump off the collapsing platform.

  ‘Aeson, JUMP: it’s gonna collapse.’ Patch’s urgency is drowned out by the groan of wood. The podium legs splinter and crack… one’s leg gone. A thick shard of wood breaks away at an angle. The podium wobbles, the side nearest the pyre slopes downwards. Need to widen my stance to keep my balance, lean forward into the tilt of the platform: that’s it.

  Henite, I’ve got to get to Henite. I’m too close to the pyre. It’s hot on my legs. ‘Henite!’

  She turns, she knows my voice. Her ancient eyes meet mine.

  Lanky’s seen me coming; he knows my mind. He lunges at Henite and shoves her thin body into the pyre.

  ‘Die, heretic.’

  ‘HENITE!’

  She smiles as she falls into the flames. Her plaits whip up, spark and disappear. I look away, cheeks hot as the red glowing cinders that spin up from the flames. The hiss of spitting flesh makes me wrench.

  Got to hold it together. Seth needs me. Where’s Seth? Serapis, No! Monks follow Lanky’s lead – the black-cloaked swine push the shackled prisoners into the pyre.

  ‘NOOOO!’

  Seth’s head jerks back as he’s shoved into the flames. He heard me. Too late.

  ‘Aeson, get yer arse off there!’ Patch’s voice cracks with panic. ‘Behind yer, mate.’ Patch’s knife whizzes past me, into the shoulder of another inspector. They’re still coming at me.

  Wood splits… another groan, a steep tilt. The other podium leg’s given way.

  Where’s Lanky? I’ll kill him.

  His one eye looks my way and he jumps off the podium.

  I’ll slide into the pyre if I’m not quick. That back will do. Calf muscles tense, left foot on that dead man’s rump and I’m off.

  Serapis, keep that spot clear.

  Feet thud the ground. Failure is heavy in my chest as I land.

  Henite’s dead.

  Seth’s dead.

  ‘Aeson, get away from the fire.’ Sparks spit and sting my skin. That was Dera’s smooth voice. Where is he?

  There, fighting his way towards me, both eyes swollen like he’s been kicked in the face.

  ‘Dera…’ my voice cracks.

  ‘She’s with her god, lad.’ His hand’s on my shoulder, but I can’t feel it. I’m numb.

  ‘Where’s Kiya?’

  ‘She
’s with your father.’

  ‘My father?’ Does he mean she’s dead too? I stare at the hissing pyre in disbelief.

  ‘With Rufius.’ Dera yanks a sword from a dead man’s chest and passes it to me. ‘We need to get out of here, lad.’

  What’s Kiya doing with Rufius? No time for questions – that monk’s aiming straight for us. Out of the way, Dera… in goes the blade… the monk slips off my sword, agony in his young face. That thrust, into the black cloak of the boy, went through his middle like skewering a piece of chicken. So skinny, these desert monks, and so young. Where’s Lanky?

  ‘Man, come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.’ Croc darts past, slaps my back. Patch is behind him. Dera and I forge forward into the knot of bodies. Croc swipes at a monk. Instant death. ‘Twenty-three down.’ Croc can even grin in the middle of a kill. That’s my Croc.

  ‘Where’s the others?’ Croc spins his head, hair whipping around.

  ‘I see them, behind us.’ Patch and the boys dodge their way towards the exit nearest to Serapis Street.

  ‘Did you see where Lanky went?’

  ‘Lanky’s a deadman if I see him again.’ Croc loved the Snake People too.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘The Serapeum.’

  Dera’s strong face shines like polished jet; as a child I imagined he was made of a precious stone, not flesh. His gaze locks into me. ‘No, Aeson, lad. You must not go to the Serapeum. Please lad, come with me.’

  ‘Dera, we have to get the children to safety.’

  ‘The Serapeum is not safe.’

  ‘Dera, I know the prophecy, and I’m living it. If this is my destiny, I’m not hiding from it.’

  Where’s Fatty? He has The Book of Wisdom. At least I can get that to Kiya like I promised. There he is, hugging the book to his chest on the Law Court steps.

  ‘Croc, get the children. Head for the Serapeum. I’m going to get Fatty.’ My throat’s sore from shouting above the blare of battle.

  Where did Turk go?

  ‘Watch out! The Archbishop’s inspectors have spotted us.’ Croc points to the Temple of Phallus. An inspector points back at us, calls to some soldiers nearby and sends them towards us.

  ‘Shit, man. The legions are after us now.’ Croc, wide-eyed, darts me a look: time to run, man.

  I take a last look at the pyre. Faceless, black-charred corpses flop on top of the statues of Isis and Phallus.

  ‘This is not the time to grieve.’ Dera slaps my back, grabs a child in each arm and runs.

  ‘Run.’ Patch and about ten lads sprint past.

  ‘Faster.’ They’re gaining on us.

  ‘When we’re clear of the Agora, take the alley by Venus Street… we’ll loose them, man?’ Croc’s hair flaps round his face as he runs.

  My gut feels like it’s on fire. My legs don’t need cajoling; running will keep back the tears.

  Are we all here? Patch and the gang check out the corner that leads to Serapis Street up front. Dera’s coming up my rear with the children.

  ‘Run, boys.’ Croc herds the kids, their nimble limbs giving it all they’ve got. The fear and grief on their dirty faces; they know this isn’t a game. They’ve just watched the woman they called mother murdered.

  ‘Aeson, lad. Head for the Necropolis. It’s safer.’

  ‘I’m going back for Fatty. You run on ahead with Croc.’ The Archbishop won’t dare attack the Serapeum.

  ‌47

  Kiya

  This must be the prophesied Apocalypse! The Khamaseen screeches through the arcades. That sky is a sign: red-scarred horizon bleeds through dark clouds. Lanky, I should have plucked out both your eyes. Pain and hate make it hard to breathe.

  Cassius sways beneath me, then regains his footing. We’re helpless as children on the backs of these slaves: a cripple and an old man. All we can do is watch. The scene is slow, like in a dream. Henite and Seth martyred. My fate is to witness.

  The Librarian throws his arms over Apollinos’ head.

  ‘Apollinos, Cassius, where’s Aeson gone?’

  ‘Master, we must go. Once the monks have had their fill here, they’ll hit the streets again.’

  Rufius is in a panic. ‘We cannot desert Aeson.’

  I can’t see him either. He jumped off the podium before it collapsed into the pyre, but it’s impossible to see anything beyond the carnage: soldiers, monks, the pagan mob, the priests of the temples all stabbing and bashing and killing each other. Another desperate yelp of pain. The sound of men and women dying vibrates in my ears; my whole body is shaking.

  ‘BURN, BURN, BURN.’ Monks chant with lust.

  If only I could salvage their bodies from the pyre. Sweet Sophia how it rages now, full of bodies, flames feed on the flesh of martyrs, the black smoke thick with the smell of cooking meat. I must retrieve their bones. I must have something of them: Seth and Henite were father and mother to me. I know what they would say: the body is only a temporary home for the soul… but I want something solid to hold, something…

  ‘Sweet Sophia! There’s Aeson on the steps of the Law Court with Fatty… and there’s Lanky… our side of the podium, but the demon’s seen him… I must save Aeson… Cassius, take me in there.’

  ‘Cassius, hold your ground,’ Apollinos orders.

  ‘Aeson! The demon will kill him. Please, we must do something.’

  Lanky hates me more than he hates Aeson: I took his eye. I have an idea.

  ‘Over here. Lanky! You demon! LANNNKKKKYYYY!’

  ‘What, in the name of Bacchus, are you doing, girl?’

  ‘Aeson’s doomed. The prophecy said he will perish in flames. Aeson’s doomed. We must divert the demon’s attention.’

  Lanky grins as he charges towards Aeson. That puckered face sends a hot stabbing sensation through my chest as if the Demiurge himself is prodding me with his trident. How I’ve tried to forget that face. It’s haunted my dreams for ten years. How I wish I’d gorged out both his evil eyes. That night, the push of thumbs into liquid flesh like thrusting into a scallop, the shriek of pain before Lanky dropped me. Pyre-hot, my cheeks flush at the memory. The nights I would wake, my thumbs in his eye socket, his curses whipping around my ears.

  I knew we would meet again, knew you would seek out your revenge. I’ve felt your hate across the years, growing, hunting me. ‘Aoi, aoi, aoi.’

  ‘Aeson, my boy! Careful! That one-eyed Cyclops is after him.’

  Aeson can’t hear us from over there, but Lanky can.

  ‘LANKYYYY!’

  Red robes and white tunics block our view. Temple priests and slaves, they’re making a run at the monks. A mad surge of monks like a black wave pushes them back towards to the pyre.

  ‘HERETICS BURN, HERETICS BURN.’

  Lanky’s long scrawny face contorts, socket puckered where he’s missing an eye. He can’t get past the monks. He licks his lips; he’s enjoying this, a monster thirsty for blood. He laughs as another priest joins the flames. I must catch his attention before he’s out of earshot.

  ‘LAAANNNKKKYYY. Over here.’

  ‘Shout, dears.’

  ‘LANNNNKKKKYYY.’ We scream ourselves hoarse.

  ‘I will kill you, Lanky.’ My throat is a swollen knot. I will meet my mortal enemy. ‘Cassius, take me to that demon.’ I point my crutch at Lanky.

  As if he felt the evil eye on his back, he turns.

  ‘Sweet Sophia, Lanky’s seen me.’

  He raises his knife, points the tip towards our corner of the arcades, aiming right at me. The gaze of the demon is on me now.

  Whatever he’s shouting at me is drowned out by the monks’ chant. ‘HERETICS. HERETICS. HERETICS.’

  Terrified citizens flee the madness. Monks swarm past in pursuit – out of the alleys leading from the Agora as if the demons are running out of Hades.

  ‘He’s seen us! Lanky’s seen us!’

  ‘By Bacchus, that Cyclops is coming after us!’

  ‘We must stand and fight. Sweet Sophia, give me anoth
er chance. I will not fail you this time. I too am a warrior of Christ. This time I will kill him.’ Hate has made me strong. ‘Aoi-aoi-aoi.’

  Apollinos turns. ‘That’s it, master. We’re leaving.’

  The Librarian’s neck twists to keep Aeson in sight. His old eyes squint. So do mine. What’s wrong with Fatty?

  ‘Take me back, Apollinos. I will not leave Aeson. I am the master.’

  ‘Sorry, master. You’ll have to whip me later. Cassius, follow me. We can’t help Aeson now.’

  Monks run towards us, Lanky with them, mouth wide open in a raging battle cry. Cassius turns away from the Agora towards Serapis Street.

  The Librarian bellows out abuse and curses at the monks surging down the street. ‘Bastard butt-fuckers, bishop-whores.’

  ‘Cassius, put me down.’ I screech it, but his legs pump faster after his master. The Librarian’s still cursing at monks from Apollinos’ back.

  ‌48

  Rufius

  This cursed sea wind’s whipped my hair into a frenzy of knots. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t care less. From up here the mob looks like a swarm of insects. Monks flit like flies in the Agora in their black cloaks where the battle continues; others chase pagans down Serapis Street towards the gates of the Serapeum. On its manmade mount, two hundred steps from ground level, the battlements are lined with anxious faces, all smarting with the hot lust of hate, knuckles clenched to the bone. The frowns of important men: librarians in togas, Priests of Serapis, seven-starred gold diadems on their heads. Revenge rages in all of us.

  We squint down the length of Serapis Street. Sphinxes line the road all the way to the harbour, trunks of palm trees bend in the Khamaseen.