by Sarah Walton
‘FIRE!’ A military voice – Olympus. I bet my old school master’s loving this. A flurry of arrows shower down on monks and soldiers. The wounded fall back on the steps. Shrieks of pain make my head spin. This is no riot in the Agora. It’s full on war. Come on wall: get me the fuck out of here!
Yes, a nook big enough for three fingers. If I can get a solid grip, I’ll be able to push off with my left leg and use the inertia to thrust my body up to the rope in one movement. Deep breath in… and out…
Chink of metal on marble. Fuck, where did that arrow come from? Misaimed from the battlements. Don’t tell me they’ve armed the Priests of Serapis!
Concentrate. Let the noise recede: the wind, the rain, the battle; it’s just me and the rope. I can do this. I did jumps like this a million times as a boy.
Now, jump…
… Made it!
A cheer from the battlements – so I have an audience.
And Lanky?
Still on the steps, wringing your fists at me. Your men won’t reach me with their spears now.
Ouch! By Serapis, this wind is strong. Even with my weight, it’s swinging the rope. Dera will have a hard job pulling me up all that way safely. I’ll have to climb.
Oh, Alexandria, what a mess you are! Temples burn despite rain pelting in briny sheets off the sea, carnage everywhere.
The rope swings and twists violently. Keep your grip, hands. Just climb. That’s it, one hand over the other. Now I’ve got enough rope below me, let’s get my legs round it. No use walking up the wall against the rope in this rain – I’ll slip all over the place. Come on arms, find your rhythm.
How much further? Rain runs down my neck as I look up at the faces hanging over the wall, willing me upwards. There’s Rufius. I’m coming. My fingers speed up urged on by my heart. I’ve missed him most of all.
That was a clap of thunder out at sea: white horses froth high and fast. Sea rain’s the wettest, coats everything in oily brine. It’s not just the wind howling as it shuttles up Serapis Street from the sea. What’s going on down there now? It’s hard work to spin the rope so I can look down over my shoulder.
By Serapis! So many, packed into Serapis Street, the mob undulates and writhes up the wide avenue like a great snake. That’s blood, washing down the steps with the rain. Only moments ago I was down there; my feet are clean. So many dead, so soon. All those limp bodies at the bottom of the steps. Centurions step on corpses as if they’re ramps. How did this happen?
‘Aeson, get a move on.’ Dera’s voice… I can’t look up without the rain pelting my face. This rope’s getting way too slippy. Dera’s thick neck strains. Come on, hands, faster… focus on the rope. It’s losing grip.
Fuck, the pain’s pulling at my armpits from every angle now: feels like my shoulder muscles are tearing. Muscles wobble like fig syrup. Come on, arms, don’t fail me now. This is the highest wall I’ve ever climbed. I must move more gently, conserve my strength.
‘Aeson!’ Dera’s voice. I must be close – I hear him clearly now.
The ledge. At last!
By Serapis, the men’s eyes: right up close. I can see the colour of them as they look down over the enemy, hatred in their gargoyle-faces.
Biblos slaves in white tunics stretch their arms over the ledge. Rufius must be up with them, but I can’t see him. Come on, arms, just two more hands up the rope and then they’ll pull me over, just two lunges away from Rufius.
There’s Cassius’ mess of blonde hair, wild in the wind. His hands reach towards me. ‘Master, throw up your hand.’
Where’s Rufius?
Dera’s thick neck strains from my weight. ‘I’ve got you, lad. That’s it, leg up, lad.’ His firm grip’s round my wrist. Skin squeaks against wet skin… and slips free. It’s too wet.
‘Get his legs.’ Dera’s order to the Biblos slaves is pointless. Three of them reach for my legs but it’s no good, the strength’s gone from my kick. All I feel is the slip of smooth granite as I slide from Dera’s grip.
‘Aeson. Don’t let go.’
Serapis, give me the strength to kick. This kick’s for Rufius.
Four Biblos slaves grab my ankles. Dera holds his position.
‘Over you come, that’s it.’ Dera’s huge hands lift me under my armpits.
My feet slap the wet stone of the battlements. The ground feels good and solid.
Dera’s face is blacker than I remember, eye sockets darker, eyes sunk deep into their hollows. His skin has that leathery look of hermits, but he still has a builder’s body.
‘Dera! I’ve never been more relieved to see a rope!’ It feels good to rest my hands on his shoulders, broad and strong as ever.
Cassius and Apollinos. How I’ve missed them all. Biblos slaves crowd in around me, but I need to find Rufius…
‘Your fate is tied to the fate of the Temple, lad. We must get you out of here. There’s still time, before the army completely surrounds the walls.’
‘Forget the prophecy, old friend. I’m not running from my destiny anymore.’
Dera’s bare chest heaves and drops – even his sigh is bigger than most men’s. His gaze has that faraway look, like he’s having a vision.
‘Dera, can you hear me… where’s Rufius?’
There’s Kiya. Thank Serapis she’s alive. Croc was right, Kiya’s smile’s still the same, but her wet dress clings to the bones jutting out in the wrong places. Her small frame’s so contorted she has to twist her neck sideways to look up at me. It wasn’t just Rufius I returned for. I wanted to deliver on my promise in person.
‘The book, do you have it, Dera?’
‘I gave it to Kiya.’
‘Does she know Henite and Seth are dead?’
Dera’s nod is slow and sad.
‘Our brother has returned!’ She’s learnt to project her voice like the Aberamenthos. She leans against the wall, crutch raised in one hand like a wand, and there it is, The Book of Wisdom in its leather binding in the other. She wants to give me a grand welcome. How I’ve missed her big, determined love. If she’d let me I’d pick her up and squeeze her like a puppy.
‘Sweet Saviour, you kept your promise. I knew you would… but Lanky is back. We must kill him.’ There is something unhinged in her speech – she’s gabbling, her teeth chatter.
‘Don’t worry about Lanky, Kiya.’
‘Your Librarian, he’s a saviour of books too.’
‘Rufius, saviour of books!’ That copy would have gone to the highest bidder. If I wasn’t welling up, I’d laugh. Where is Rufius… to share the joke? Why didn’t he call me back from Constantinople? My gut churns in anticipation. Some new boy in his life I expect: a fresh young project.
Biblos slaves fuss and try to towel me down.
‘Stop that. Where’s Rufius?’
50
Aeson
Everything’s a blur, a wet mirage in this rain. Where are you Rufius? Impatience throbs fast in my heart. How will it be, now I’m a man?
My friends – Dera, Kiya, Apollinos – crowd in around me, but I’m not home until I find Rufius, not properly.
No Rufius here… just drenched archers, hair pasted to foreheads and shaved heads of Temple guards. Poor excuse for soldiers: shiny swords hanging from belts are for display not battle. One of those old bookworms is responsible for misfiring at me I expect. They wipe the rain from their eyes like children. No match for Egypt’s legions. He’s taller than most men, so why can’t I see him?
‘Apollinos, where’s Rufius? I heard his voice just now.’
Apollinos nods towards the porticos and smiles.
The porticos – that’s more like Rufius – he wouldn’t want to get his hair wet.
There he is standing with the other librarians, Cassius beside him. My heart leaps to sob. Catch it, hold in my tears. Rufius doesn’t like me blubbing.
How Rufius’ face has bloated, cheeks and nose red from too much wine. His height doesn’t disguise his weight anymore. Even Cassius, who’s sh
ot up, is still a head shorter than him.
Has he seen me? He’s squinting in my direction. I have to get to him. The longing makes me push past my friends; the urge to touch him, to feel his solid, grounded weight in my arms again drives me to the portico.
‘Rufius, I’m – ’ my voice cracks, interrupted by his shift in focus. What’s he looking at?
Rufius’ frown shoots to Kiya.
‘Librarian, saviour of books!’
‘Oh do shut up, dear, for Bacchus’ sake!’ That’s my Rufius! Insensitive as ever. I mustn’t let my amusement show.
Kiya continues to mutter to herself, teeth chattering. She must be in shock.
‘Take her inside, Cassius, and dry her off.’ My authority surprises me. That tone was spontaneous. Well, I’m still a Biblus heir, but what should I call my guardian now? Not father – too domestic for Rufius.
Rufius shuffles to the front of the portico. His gaze is on me. I feel the hotness of it. How I’ve missed being watched by him. We’re trying to reach each other, like there’s an invisible cord connecting us.
Kiya hobbles over and plants herself between us. ‘Saviours of books, Sophia thanks you.’
Dera’s face is creased in concern; his age shows now. ‘Sister, if you will not let go of the book permit me to carry you.’
Kiya doesn’t put up a fight as Dera lifts her crumpled frame into his arms. She let me carry her once, the night she took Lanky’s eye out. She saved my life.
Was that a swift pulse of affection on Rufius’ face? ‘Show them to my rooms, Cassius dear.’
Cassius gracefully indicates the way through the porticos to the corridor that leads to the librarians’ chambers. Dera follows, Kiya in his arms, then turns and looks at me, grief-stricken. He’s thinking of the prophecy.
I love him, I love them all, but I just want them gone so I can give Rufius all my attention.
The old man’s been slowly making his way to me, shouldering librarians and slaves. This is a first – people move to Rufius, not the other way round.
Khamaseen wind blasts sheets of rain inside the porticos forcing the librarians to the back wall to stay dry. Not Rufius. He shuffles to the edge of the portico, jug of wine in hand.
I can’t move, like my feet are in cement. The over-flowing gutter on the roof of the portico showers me in a steady waterfall.
Rufius clasps a portico column for support. He’s just an arm’s length away from me. He hugs the red granite column. Keep that sob down, Aeson.
‘I’m here.’ My voice is a whisper. ‘Take my shoulder, Rufius.’ Yes, Rufius, that’s what I’ll call him. Man to man now.
Why doesn’t he take my shoulder? He’s unbalanced. I’m kissing distance from him. If he falls I’ll catch him. He’s still squinting at me, even this close. Are those tears on his face? Impossible to tell in this rain. His thin hair’s wet, probably white under the yellow hair dye, and plastered to his scalp – so he did watch me climb? Why does that please me, that he saw me? Close up his age is sharper. His tunic sags over his belly like the dress of a pregnant woman.
‘Still the hedonist I see, Rufius.’
‘Ever the man, my boy.’ He surveys me as he would a repainted room, checks me for flaws.
‘Polished enough for you, Rufius?’ Why am I searching his eyes for approval?
His head jerks, surprised. This is Rufius without the act. I have such an urge to rub away the smudged kohl where his eyebrows have run down his face.
‘Still climbing like a monkey, dear?’ What is that expression on his face? Disappointment?
‘Well, Rufius, are you pleased to see me?’
It is my own disappointment, that he no longer sees a boy he desires. I didn’t expect this… those years, yawning at the thought of performing my after-dinner duties, gagging at the sight of his saggy arse… and now I miss his lust…
He’s never held my stare so long. His eyes were brown, but the steel-blue film of age has clouded them, the whites of his eyes now the colour of yolks. His face has not sagged, but filled – makes him look almost jolly. Better not tell him that.
‘What do your young eyes see? An old cinaedus gagging for a blow-job?’
He still reads a face like he sucks meaning from a book.
‘An old friend is all.’
Rufius’ free arm reaches to me, at last, jug in hand.
‘Come here my boy, my heir… if you can bear to embrace a doting old fool.’
We both jump at the smash of pottery – red wine splashes our feet.
Is that joy folded in the creases of his eyes? It’s hard to tell. I’ve seen him satisfied, amused, pleased with a recent purchase, self-congratulatory at my progress, but simply happy? My chest heaves as I scoop his bulk into my arms and kiss into his ear. ‘Why didn’t you reply to my letters, Rufius?’ My arms barely reach all the way round his middle.
He lets go of the marble column. Lean on me, Rufius. His soft cheek slides against mine, wet and warm with our tears. Relief trembles through our arms as we hold on to each other.
I didn’t picture our reunion like this. Everything I’ve achieved in the Empire has been under his gaze; his scrutiny followed me everywhere. When I won my first oratory competition, delivered my first defence – when I fucked it was under Rufius’ omniscient surveillance.
‘Why didn’t you visit me, Rufius?’ My sob puffs into his ear.
‘Who’s the cinaedus here, dear?’ I’ve never heard such tenderness in his voice before. There’s no edge to it, just the lightness of the joke.
‘Hold your fire.’ That was Olympus’ voice. Archers shuffle backwards away from the wall in response to the order, pushing us into the shelter of the portico.
‘I’ve got you, Rufius. Hold on to me.’
My feet balance for both of us; his weight in my arms, his smell near me again is the thing that was missing in my life. This closeness is what I needed to feel whole.
‘Who put Olympus in charge?’
‘Can you believe it, dear? Olympus was in the mil-it-tary, don’t you know. Terrifying thought isn’t it, dear?’ Rufius lifts his tunic for effect. Our laughter breaks our embrace.
I’ll have to take a step back from Rufius to get a view of the arcades on the level above the porticos. There he is, my old teacher, dressed for battle, skin sagging over bony knees.
‘Let’s get out of this bloody rain. You look like a drowned rat, dear.’
My bent arm extends for Rufius to rest his hand, as if he were a young maiden on her wedding day. Will he take it?
‘Shall we?’
‘I’m not your young wench, dear. You can lead my funeral procession but until then, this cinaedus does the leading.’
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way, Rufius.’ My grin is ear to ear and our laughter is filled with the relief that we have negotiated a way to cope with my age without compromising Rufius’ reputation.
‘Appearances, dear, are everything. Have you forgotten what I taught you?’
He may be a cinaedus, but he’s more man than most.
‘Pagans, hear me!’ Theophilus! His voice projects from below the battlements. Rufius and I look at each other.
‘Surely you remember the Archbishop’s dulcet tones from the podium, dear?’ Rufius chuckles and whistles to himself.
He saw me? ‘You were there, Rufius?’ What did he think of my delivery?
That wink tells me I didn’t let him down. ‘He looked ready to murder you, dear. Didn’t I warn you he’d be trouble?’ He chuckles between wheezes. His tired eyes turn serious and he nods towards to the wall. I take his weight and we walk into the rain and find a place along the battlements.
‘What nonsense is Theophilus spouting now?’
‘Pagans, is there someone in charge, or are you an anonymous collective hiding behind your false god?’
A roar of anger goes up from our men; spears and bows punch the wind.
Theophilus stands at the front of the mob, a head taller than the two men dress
ed in their official garb either side of him.
‘That’s the Prefect, Evagrius, on his left. Look at the thickness of his purple stripe dear. I bet there’s no blood spilt on that toga.’
Romanus stands on the other side of Theophilus, chainmail belted at the waist, long sword at his hip and ridge helmet; the copper strip the length of his nose is too thin to cover his broken hooter, splayed flat from too many battles. The commander of Egypt’s legions mutters something to Theophilus and spits on the bloody steps.
‘Now there’s a man, dear.’ Rufius gives my hard muscle a playful pinch, but frowns as he watches the scene below us.
Olympus steps out of the arcades on the floor above us, arms raised, palms flat, patting the air for quiet.
‘You address Olympus. I represent the Priests of Serapis and the people. This is a matter for the law, not the church.’ I keep expecting him to pull out his whip and tell them to bend over Memory’s bench. If Fatty’s watching, he’ll be thinking the same thing.
Evagrius holds up his arm.
‘Olympus, you address Evagrius, Prefect of the city of Alexandria. I do not have to remind the Priests of Serapis that they are breaking several laws by barricading the Serapeum. Now, open the gates, release the prisoners and let the law deal with the guilty.’ His voice struggles against the howl of the wind.
Bowmen’s heads on the battlements tilt upwards and wait for Olympus’ response. Olympus looks uncertain of himself, a far cry from the tyrant who whipped me for getting my Latin wrong. The Priests of Serapis whisper in his ears.
‘The Temple is fortified to protect it from sacrilege. Blood cannot be spilt in the sacred precinct.’
The Head Priest of Serapis steps in front of Olympus. The seven pointed star on his diadem glints in the rain. ‘Evagrius, the Nile will not flood if the precinct is not protected. In just a few weeks we must perform our duties to Serapis or Egypt’s crops will fail. These doors will remain closed until you call off the legions and send those swine back to the desert. Serapis will protect us –’
Only someone who had been at the receiving end of Olympus’ whip would sense his struggle not to whack the Head Priest for stealing his thunder.