Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  ‘Cassius, Apollinos – any sign of Aeson?’

  ‘I’m looking, master.’

  ‘Dear Bacchus, this riot’s out of control.’

  What a sight! Pyres send black smoke up into the storm clouds above the marble city. The mob’s set the roof of the Temple of Isis on fire; the Museum, and hundreds of other temples, smoulder in the distance. Has the world gone mad?

  ‘Sweet Sophia! They died in a swarm of sinners!’ Kiya stares like a woman possessed. She’s not taken her eyes off the black column of smoke coming off the Agora pyre.

  Cassius, the poor dear boy’s clutching his spear like he’s got a hard-on. ‘Cassius, use your bloody eyes. Is Aeson on Serapis Street?’ Surely he would have the sense to seek refuge here.

  ‘I can’t tell, master.’

  Curse these old eyes; I can’t make out a single face in the blur of people on Serapis Street.

  ‘It’s Dera! Look, he’s reached the steps.’ There’s hope in Kiya’s voice.

  ‘It’s the giant!’ Cassius looks petrified.

  ‘It’s Dera!’ She points her crutch at the colossal hulk of a man. I know that African. It’s the hermit. My promise slides into my mind, If Aeson tries to return, I will stop him. Gods, keep my boy safe.

  ‘Who’s that on his back?’

  ‘It’s the Magistrate, master. The giant’s carrying the Magistrate on his back.’

  ‘He must have the strength of bloody Hercules to lift Fatty!’

  What’s wrong with Kiya? ‘Calm down, dear!’ She looks murderous.

  ‘Come, my mortal enemy, I will have your life this time.’

  ‘Apollinos, what’s she ranting about now?’

  ‘It’s that tall, skinny monk who martyred her people, master. He’s climbed that sphinx half-way up the Serapeum steps.’

  ‘Lanky didn’t catch me so he’s looking for Aeson.’

  A blur of black and steel-grey armour, a surge of horses and men enter Serapis Street from the Canopic Way, the harbour end. Bacchus, where’s my boy? ‘Cassius, fetch a jug of wine, dear.’ My nerves are stretched tight as a lyre.

  ‘No, Cassius, go down there and kill the demon.’

  How dare she order my slave about? Poor Cassius lost his little brother today. Grief’s selfish.

  ‘Cassius, wine, dear.’

  Her rage smoulders to frustration. She wants to run down there and take her revenge. Being a cripple must be like being old. We’re able-bodied for a sliver of time.

  ‘Off, off! Stop tugging on my tunic, girl.’

  ‘Librarian, is the gate open?’

  ‘Yes, yes, the gate’s still open.’ But Aeson had better hurry up; it won’t be for long.

  Apollinos frowns. ‘They’ll close the gates before the army get here. He doesn’t have long.’

  The army charge down Serapis Street: half-way here. Horses’ hooves pound louder as they close in.

  ‘Shut up, Apollinos!’ Bloody idiot slave, stating the obvious!

  Ah, here comes Theon. Kiya’s tugging on my tunic again. Don’t turn on the waterworks, dear.

  ‘Kiya, be quiet, or I’ll have Apollinos here take you inside, is that clear?’

  ‘Rufius, here you are. Thank Serapis you’re safe.’ His voice booms with bravado.

  ‘Theon, my dear, thank the gods. And Hypatia?’

  Theon places a hand on each of my shoulders. I’d forgotten this sense of comradeship, hazy memories of my military service. Don’t get sentimental, Rufius – remember what they called you in the army? Rufius the Cinaedus. Theon’s bravado is dread disguised as team spirit.

  ‘My daughter’s tending the wounded. What a political cock up this is.’

  ‘More like political manoeuvre. The Archbishop, the Commander and the Prefect: a suspicious triumvirate. Theophilus must have called in the monks to do their dirty work.’

  ‘What makes you think the monks were summoned, Rufius?’

  ‘Theon, dear man. Have you had your nose so tightly tucked in your books that you’ve missed the wave of destruction blowing across the Empire? Alexandria may feel like an island…’

  ‘Rufius is right, Theon.’

  We hadn’t noticed Olympus approach. Even at his age Olympus’ arms are hard. What’s he wearing a breastplate for?

  Theon turns to Olympus. ‘So you have been voted in as our Commander Olympus. Congratulations! I would have supported that action of course if I had been here.’

  ‘I’m surprised the Priests of Serapis gave you dominion over their sacred precinct, dear.’

  ‘It’s only until this blows over. My military background put me in the best position. Not that there will be any action – it’s impossible to scale these walls, but we’re ready for them if they try.’

  ‘Bah, you’ve got as much military experience as I have, Olympus.’ That wiped the smile off his smarmy face.

  ‘At least he’s not soft as a mollusc.’ Whose cheeky young voice was that?

  ‘Which one of you little runts said that?’ The insolent faces of young students smirk behind Olympus.

  ‘Rufius, my dear friend, since when haven’t you taken that age-old jibe on the chin? Ignore them. Their spirits are ready for battle; their manners can be forgiven after what we’ve witnessed today.’

  Here comes Cassius with the wine jug. ‘Give me that here, dear.’

  Ah! That’s better. Humour regained, thanks to Bacchus… Theon’s right. My sense of humour failure started this morning when I saw the graffiti on my wall.

  ‘Forever the peacekeeper, Theon. Thank the gods they didn’t vote you in as commander of this pathetic army of priests and librarians.’

  ‘Yes, Olympus is the right man for this job.’

  Olympus clears his throat at Theon’s sarcastic compliment.

  ‘Rufius, I heard your boy Aeson in the Agora. You must be proud of him. It’s a wonder he turned out such a fine figure of a man.’

  Ah, yes, Olympus taught him his Grammatica.

  ‘Well, men,’ Olympus thumps us both on the shoulder: ridiculous gesture from a librarian, even with those aging muscles! ‘Looks like those stragglers are the last of the citizens. We’ll need to get the gates closed after we get this lot inside.’

  ‘But, Aeson. He’s still out there.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do, Rufius? Let the army in?’ Olympus strides away, shouting orders to the Serapeum guards stationed along the fortress wall.

  ‘Who in bloody Hades does he think he is? Give a man a title…’

  Theon looks tired; his age has caught up with him. ‘Rufius, you shouldn’t taunt Olympus.’

  Cassius’ spear knocks wildly on the wall. ‘Master, master, it’s Aeson!’

  ‘Where Cassius?’

  ‘Just shot out of an alley near the Serapeum steps.’

  ‘Sweet Sophia. It is Aeson. But where’s The Book of Wisdom?’

  Theon heard her. ‘Well if he has The Book of Wisdom then it’s the only copy left in Alexandria. Books salvaged from the Museum have been coming in all afternoon. We’ve run out of shelf space. It’s times like these one puts one’s hope in those book smugglers the Archbishop was complaining about.’

  Theon’s gaze makes my face heat up. Did he know about my book business all along? It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters anymore apart from my boy keeping his speed up.

  ‘Cassius how far is Aeson behind the giant and Fatty?’

  ‘Not too far. He’s reached the Serapeum steps.’

  ‘Will he make it before they close the gates?’ You’re my eyes, Cassius, now Apollinos’ sight is failing him too.

  ‘Yes, master. The citizens who’ve just entered Serapis Street won’t, but Aeson will. He’s racing up the steps.’

  Come on my boy, run.

  Theon’s voice is a low whisper when he finally decides to ask. ‘Tell me you saved the comedies, Rufius?’

  My eyebrows rise in surprise from the habit of acting, then drop: what’s the point of the pretence now? ‘So you know about my li
ttle venture, Theon?’

  ‘I had my suspicions since the inspectors began snooping about.’

  ‘You turned a blind eye. Why?’

  Theon’s bookish squint is on the tendril of smoke above the Museum in the distance. ‘My love of literature surpasses my duty to Library policy. You may have saved more books than the Muses this afternoon, Rufius.’

  ‘CLOSE THE GATES.’ Olympus’ voice is crisp above the noise. Fear snaps in my gut.

  ‘Cassius, is Aeson nearly at the gate? Will he make it?’

  ‘He’s near the top of the Serapeum steps, master.’

  If only these old eyes could distinguish him from the rest of the rabble. ‘Point him out to me, Cassius.’

  ‘There, taking the marble steps two at a time. Look for the black giant. Aeson’s right behind him.’

  ‘My boy, yes, I see him. He’ll make it.’

  ‘Close the gates,’ echo the slaves as the order is passed on.

  ‘Lanky’s seen Aeson. He’s jumping off that Sphinx. Look!’

  Cassius looks at Kiya confused.

  ‘Kill the demon. Cassius, your spear, stop him!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That one-eyed monk – in front of Aeson – kill him, or give me your spear if you lack the balls to use it.’

  By Bacchus, the Cyclops monk has his knife out. Cassius adjusts his feet to take aim.

  ‘Throw it, Cassius, dear. This isn’t a bloody tournament in the gym’

  ‘This wind, master.’ The spear judders in the strong sea wind. ‘Argh! Take that.’

  We all hold our breath and watch the spear spiral through the air. It’s a good throw, direct and fast. We will it to spear Lanky, to stop him, cloak flapping about his feet, charging at Aeson.

  ‘No!’ A sharp gust of wind twitches the long spear from its course. Our gasps are a unison of disappointment.

  ‘Sweet Sophia, grant me revenge!’

  Come on, my boy, faster. Just a few more steps and you’ll reach the gates.

  Aeson and the one-eyed monk look up at the Serapeum gates. The great creak of them, iron grates on stone as the two huge doors move on their ancient hinges. Faster, Aeson.

  Lanky lunges at Aeson’s feet. Back they topple and roll down the marble steps.

  The huge hermit’s on the top step now, Fatty on his back. He ushers the children in through the doors, then looks back to Aeson.

  ‘DERA, GO!’ We all heard that. My heart trots. Aeson’s going to fight.

  We jump at the thud of metal bolts being put in place. Citizens outside the walls bang on the gates. Soldiers and monks run at the steps, slaughtering pagans in their path.

  ‘Oh, Apollinos, I cannot watch! So much blood.’

  Cassius is as frantic as Kiya. ‘Lanky’s throttling Aeson, master!’

  Kiya knocks her stick against the wall. ‘Aeson, get up. Kill him.’

  ‘Aeson, get up, my boy.’

  ‘Take aim.’ Olympus gives orders to start an attack on the monks outside the walls. The army pound up Serapis Street towards the steps.

  ‘Theon, you must persuade Olympus not to attack. Please, imagine if it were Hypatia out there.’

  ‘I’ll try, Rufius.’ He sounds defeated.

  ‘I’m the wealthiest man in Alexandria. Offer him whatever he wants: land, money, slaves. Theon, please.’

  ‘The giant, master.’

  The huge hermit strides towards us. Men move aside for him to pass. He kisses Kiya on the forehead and hands her the leather-bound book. She hugs it to her chest like a new born.

  ‘Thank you, Dera.’

  ‘Fuck that bloody book. How could you leave my boy out there to die?’

  Dera leans over the wall. ‘They closed the gates before I could get back out, brother.’

  ‘Oh, my boy!’ Lanky has Aeson pinned down by his wrists.

  That’s it, Aeson – reach for Cassius’ fallen spear.

  He’s got it!

  ‘Kill him, Aeson!’ Apollinos pinches my shoulder.

  Aeson stabs Lanky’s right foot with the spear then runs up the steps. The Cyclops howls like of a wolf shot by an arrow.

  Lanky pulls the spear out, then stumbles after Aeson.

  What’s the hermit up to with that rope? What use is that? No one can climb this wall. It’s smooth as glass… and it’s too windy to pull Aeson up. He’ll be smashed against the wall like a fly.

  ‘Save him, dear, and you’ll live like a king for the rest of your life, but harm a hair on my boy’s head and you’ll regret it.’

  The hermit ignores me and ties one end of the rope round his waist, the other he flings over the wall. ‘Everyone, catch Aeson’s attention.’

  ‘Aeson, up here,’ we shout. Biblos slaves wave and yell; Kiya screams like a Siren. Our voices are lost on the wind.

  ‘Keep shouting, brothers.’

  ‘Aeson’s seen us.’ My boy, he’s a blur but close enough at the foot of the Serapeum wall to know it’s him.

  ‘Aeson, lad. The rope.’

  Lanky stumbles up the marble stairs, bloody footsteps trail behind him.

  The rope’s too short. He’ll never reach it. My stomach’s in my mouth.

  ‌49

  Aeson

  This Khamaseen’s strong. It whines like a siren and bends the trunks of the palm trees lining Serapis Street so they look ready to uproot and join the soldiers and monks charging towards me… I don’t believe it, Lanky’s still after me, limping up the steps.

  The wind catches his black cloak, topples him sideways.

  Curse it, he’s up again.

  ‘Careful Lanky – don’t trip on your dress.’

  ‘Will you laugh when I cut off your lips and make you eat them, Pretty? You little fucker, you cinaedus-lover.’ He looks demented with his one eye fixed on me. ‘You butt-boy, you chicken-liver cinaedus.’

  Still gabbles like street scum. He’s nearly within reach of my knife. Patience, Aeson: I have a better chance of knifing him if I keep my ground, wait for him to come to me.

  ‘I’ll take out the cripple’s eyes when I find that heretic witch.’

  Has he seen Kiya? My gut jerks.

  ‘Come and get it, Lanky. Monasteries will take anyone, even scum like you.’ Saliva splatters my chin. Why bother goading him, palms up, drawing his hatred towards me? Revenge. We both want it.

  The army and the Christian mob rage up Serapis Street; makes my insides churn. Focus on Lanky. Serapis, let me avenge my friends before I die.

  ‘I’m going to kill you, Pretty.’ Lanky’s single eye bulges as he limps closer, struggling to keep his balance in the wind.

  Come and get it, you swine.

  ‘Aeson!’

  Dera’ voice? Where is he?

  ‘Aeson, up here.’

  The Serapeum wall’s so high, my neck wrenches right back. Ah, that’s sore where Lanky tried to strangle me. Dera’s up there on the battlements. What’s he yelling? The storm’s taken his words. Looks like he’s pointing down here.

  Is that the tail end of a rope swinging against the wall? Hard to tell in this light.

  ‘Aeson,… dear boy…’ Is that Rufius? Where are you, Rufius?… There he is, the other side of Dera. Oh, Rufius! My heart wants to run up the wall and kiss him. The roar behind me drowns out his voice.

  I don’t have long… the mob’s closing in fast, a seething mass of soldiers and monks tear up the two hundred steps. There’s not a hope in Hades the Priests of Serapis will open the gates to the sacred precinct now. I must see Rufius. Fight Lanky, and I die here on the Serapeum steps… I can’t leave Rufius with that memory. Revenge can wait.

  ‘Running away again, Pretty?’ Lanky’s teeth grit like a jackal thrown into a fighting pit.

  ‘I’ll kill you another time, Lanky. Careful now, or you’ll trip!’

  ‘Come back here, you…’

  Time to dash for the wall.

  Shit, this rope’s short by the height of two men. Come on, Dera – give me some more slack. />
  Can’t he see it’s short? Miming pulling on a rope isn’t producing any slack from Dera.

  ‘What?’

  Looks like he’s mouthing jump.

  Jump? No chance of that. I need a leg up to reach the end of it.

  Lanky stabs a finger in my direction and mouths at his cronies: kill him! His words are inaudible but the monks understand. Black cloaks flap as they speed up –they’re after me! They’ll swat me like a fly against this wall.

  Think, Aeson, think.

  The wall’s the only way… the pink polished surface must have one or two notches to get a foothold. The cool, ancient stone is puckered with tiny cracks where black veins run through the pink… hardly large enough for a child’s foot let alone my big feet. Let’s get these sandals off. I don’t scale a wall barefoot for ten years, then twice in one day.

  Come on wall give me a hole, just one nook to get me started. There’s one for my left foot… and a handhold above it… and there’s another. That raises me off the ground at least.

  Kill him! Lanky mouths the words and points at me. Monks bolt past him up the steps.

  Shit, come on, just one more crevice and I’ll be out of their reach. Come on, wall.

  There! Shallow, but it will take my big toe.

  Come on, come on; just one more foothold and I’ll reach the rope.

  Fuck, a spear! Missed. Chucking spears now are we, Lanky? He never was much of a shot.

  Hold tight, Aeson. Keep your grip. My palm strokes above my head, fingers like antennae. Shit, the wall’s smooth here. What about over to the left?

  Oh great, that was a raindrop that hit the back of my calf. And another.

  Come on.

  Come on. Ignore the pain in your clenched fingers and toes. Stomach strong, hold the position. That’s it. No rushing. This wall will lose what little grip it has in the rain. Just one more nook, that’s all I need.

  Arrows? Where did they come from? Above my head. What in the name of Serapis?… more arrows clatter and bounce off the steps… that one pierced a monk in the neck. Shit, I’m caught in the crossfire!

  ‘Take aim!’ Who’s instructing them? I recognise that voice; it makes me feel like a naughty schoolboy.

  Hundreds of arrows slide back above my head as bows are set. I’m out of range… if I’m lucky they’ll fly right over my head.