Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  Evagrius raises an arm again. ‘If you refuse us entry, we have no option but to inform the Emperor and let him decide.’

  A hush falls over both sides at the mention of the Emperor. More muttering between the Head Priest and Olympus, inaudible from down here… here we go: Olympus has his arms up in the air again.

  ‘You have our agreement that the only course of action is to inform the Emperor.’

  We look at each other. The following year’s taxes are estimated based on the readings of the Nilometers, positioned strategically along the river and gathered by the Priests of Serapis.

  ‘Too many chiefs, dear. They want control of the Nilometers – taxes are what Theophilus gets out of this. He’s no fool. Whoever controls the Nilometers controls Egypt…’

  ‘If Theophilus takes the Serapeum, he takes Egypt, but surely the Emperor won’t allow that, Rufius?’

  ‘We’ll see, dear. The Emperor’s ear’s been bent by bishops before.’

  We look down Serapis Street. The sacred avenue is packed all the way from the temple steps to the harbour with the peaks of copper helmets, the black hoods of monks and the Christian mob. A drawn out peel of thunder beyond the harbour turns their heads to the sky. Both sides wait for the thunderbolt in silence.

  What a bright bolt! Rufius and I gasp with the men on the battlements. A jagged scar cuts through the sky. Thousands of helmets glint in the white shock.

  An old librarian screams, shaking in a sodden toga. ‘We’re all doomed!’

  ‘Oh will you shut up! It’s a summer storm and yes, it’s bloody likely we will all die here. Now, Aeson, dear. Toddle off and tell Apollinos to collect my stash of best Egyptian wine from the cellar and some of Turk’s Desert Honey.’

  He’s not changed one bit.

  ‌

  ‌Part IV

  ‌

  Three Weeks Later

  While the Serapeum swelters and stinks under siege, festering in the heat that followed the summer storms, watched night and day by the Egyptian legions and hordes of desert monks, messengers whip their horses into a gallop along the Nile. One carries Emperor Theodosius’ reply in his saddlebag sealed with Imperial wax.

  At the top of the two hundred marble steps cut into the hill, behind the enormous gates of the Serapeum, Aeson paces the western battlements that overlook the Necropolis. Did Croc and the gang take refuge in the Necropolis? he worries. He can’t sharpen one more sword, throw another dice with Fatty, or stare beyond the city for sign of horses kicking up dust another day. The ocean, flat as a mirror to his right, teases him, the way the smell of cut grass teased him cooped up in the schoolroom with Apollinos as a boy. He kicks the red Aswan granite wall – the Serapeum’s become his prison.

  Steam pumps into the hot blue sky above the bath complex on the far side of the temple buildings. At least the Prefect hasn’t cut off the water supply… yet. The Nile still flows into the cisterns under the temple where the Nilometer measures the river level, but Evagrius’ tolerance hinges on the Emperor’s reply. The Prefect’s not as cock-sure of the Imperial response as Theophilus.

  The wait makes Aeson’s gut groan with anxiety. Is this how Seth and Henite felt, queuing up on the Magistrate’s podium for their trial? He just wants it over with. The bruises where Lanky and countless soldiers and monks attacked him have faded, but Lanky’s stalked his dreams for three weeks. Aeson runs down the battlement steps, nine floors below to the sacred precinct. He wants to find Dera. He never believed the prophecy, but fear has taken hold of him, and now he has a burning need to know how he will die.

  The heat’s more oppressive in the sacred precinct than up on the battlements. It’s unnatural, even for summer. Aeson flaps his tunic to cool his sweaty skin and sniffs the stagnant air in the large courtyard dominated by the colossal statue of Serapis. That’s a sharp stink! The back of Aeson’s throat heats up like he’s eaten too much pepper. The first time he smelt rotting flesh was when he took Dera to have his wounds dressed. He remembers how it hit them both, how their necks jerked backwards with the shock of it as they entered the room where the doctors had set up a makeshift hospital. It’s a smell that lingers in your memory, reaches all the way down your throat, strangling from the inside.

  Delirious moans come from a makeshift surgery as he passes. Flies and wasps hover around the door. Aeson clamps his mouth shut to avoid swallowing them and sweeps semicircles with his arms as he walks through the swarm. The hum makes his shoulders tense.

  Dera crouches under a palm tree near the statue of Serapis built into the spacious columned sanctuary that only the Priests of Serapis can enter. The statue looms above him, its head with the basket of grain level with the fourth floor. It’s rumoured the inside is gold, overlaid with the less precious metals – silver and bronze. The statue’s so large its right hand touches one side of the sanctuary and its left hand the other.

  Dera looks up. His face is still bruised where Lanky and the monks attacked him in his cave.

  ‘Still a devotee of Serapis, lad?’

  ‘I don’t know what I believe anymore. Perhaps Rufius’ hedonism is the only sensible faith.’

  ‘How is the Librarian?’

  ‘Rufius? He’s been locked away in his rooms, petrified he’ll catch a disease.’ Aeson’s laugh is hollow.

  ‘That’s wise. The Serapeum’s full of fever, tiny invisible demons hover in the air.’

  ‘The death toll reached eighty this morning.’

  ‘Sit down, lad. Pacing won’t speed up time.’ His voice is calm, patient as Aeson crouches beside him.

  ‘What will become of us, Dera? First the rain won’t stop, now the sun burns hotter than a furnace. The bread’s mouldy, the people are sick – look at the state of everyone.’

  They look over at the tables under the arcades that skirt the sacred precinct. A queue of wounded women and children shuffle forward, gazes fixed on the ladles of slop being handed out in bowls by temple slaves.

  ‘I suppose this is luxury after your years in the desert.’ Panic quivers in Aeson’s voice.

  ‘This siege is tougher than the desert, lad. Harsh as it was, I chose that life. In here we’re prisoners.’

  ‘I should have followed medicine instead of a public life. At least then I could help. What good is the law at times like this?’

  ‘Stop taking the responsibility of the world on your shoulders, Aeson lad. There are more qualified doctors in the Serapeum than in the whole of Alexandria.’

  ‘Cursed flies.’ Aeson waves his arm around his head. ‘A battle I can deal with, but this waiting’s driving me mad.’

  Dera rests a hand gently on Aeson’s knee. ‘Save your anger for the final battle, lad.’

  ‘Will there be one?’

  Dera’s eyes focus on an invisible point above the large rectangular pool of water. He’s having a vision, thinks Aeson.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will I die here, Dera? I was never clear on the exact details of the prophecy.’

  Dera claps his palms loud in front of his face, as if to wake himself from the vision.

  ‘Our fate depends on our wits. Look, the temple slaves know to keep themselves occupied. Take up a mop and join them. This must be the cleanest fortress that’s ever been under siege.’

  Dera’s focus shifts to a procession of priests wearing the seven pointed star diadems of Serapis. They enter the sacred precinct to perform the daily rites. Frankincense wafts from hand-held burners they swing from side to side.

  ‘Or comfort Kiya, lad.’

  ‘She’s busy with Rufius. They’ve put the scribes to work copying books.’

  ‘Excellent use of time. Sophia works in mysterious ways. Talking of which…’

  What’s caught Dera’s eye? He’s looking at the balcony two floors up.

  Kiya lurches along, hunched over in an expensive blue dress. Rufius must have given her that.

  ‘The Librarian’s charity has always impressed me.’

  ‘The city’s waifs
and strays entertain him.’

  Dera shoots Aeson a look, dark eyes soft with compassion. ‘Does an act of love have to be serious, Aeson?’

  ‘I’m just disappointed Rufius didn’t visit me in Constantinople, that’s all.’ Aeson’s index finger traces the black lines in the pink marble floor. He knows he’s being childish.

  ‘Perhaps that was an act of love too… perhaps the Librarian worried you might be ashamed if he turned up in the capital with painted eyebrows and jewellery?’ Dera’s voice is soft.

  Kiya is almost graceful as she passes the food queue. Children, crouched under the arcades woofing down their rations, look up when they hear the click of her stick on marble.

  Dera stands and bends over to greet Kiya, forehead to forehead the way Snake People always do. Aeson wonders what secrets pass between Aberamenthos when their brows meet.

  ‘Aberamentho.’

  Dera nods with the same reverence.

  ‘Aberamentho.’

  Kiya’s contorted right shoulder rises with pride.

  Aeson’s happy she’s achieved her goal. What have I achieved? he thinks. I’ve met Rufius’ goal, but did I ever really want to be a lawyer? It wasn’t my idea to learn to write either. How pointless my years of study seem now. The only useful thing I learnt was how to climb ropes. My life’s been composed by other people… until now. I chose to return.

  Kiya’s stick clicks as she shifts position to look down at him. She doesn’t have time for self-pity. ‘Aeson, what are you doing hanging around nattering? We need your help.’

  Dera slaps his shoulder. ‘Go with Kiya; help with the copying. Write, lad.’

  A commotion draws their attention. The sacred geese clack and flap out of the way of a slave running towards the Priests of Serapis.

  ‘Your Holiness, the Nilometer,’ shouts the slave in a panic.

  The Head Priest of Serapis appears from the inner sanctuary. The slave bows and jabbers at him, ‘If we have no water we’ll all die in here, your Holiness…’

  ‘Guard the cisterns until I have assessed the situation.’

  ‘But the baths need a constant flow, and the lavatories use 200 cubits to maintain a ceaseless flush of fresh water. We have to block the pipes to the baths and lavatories in order to ration the drinking water supply.’

  The Head Priest notices Dera, Aeson and Kiya listening.

  ‘Shush, slave. Keep your voice down. You’ll cause a panic.’

  Kiya knocks Aeson’s shin with her stick and hisses at him. ‘Aeson, come on. We can’t do anything about the water supply. There’s books to copy.’

  Σ

  ‌51

  Aeson

  How can Rufius stuff his face when everyone else is on rations?

  His rooms have been completely redecorated since the last time I was here. And now he has not just his office and a room leading off that for relaxation with couches, but two additional rooms beyond those. Looks like they’ve turned it into a makeshift scriptorium – scribes sit hunched over desks scratching reed pens across parchment as fast as they can.

  Kiya’s crutch clicks as she hobbles round desks and checks their work.

  ‘How do you manage it, Rufius?’

  Rufius looks up from the couch by the terrace. I know that bitter smell: Desert Honey.

  ‘Manage what, dear?’

  ‘All this?’ I wave my arm over the tables in front of him – pastries, fresh figs and exotic delicacies on enormous gold plates.

  Rufius’ kohl eyebrows crease in disapproval as he takes my drift. ‘I didn’t see you complaining during your ten year jaunt around the Empire. Wrapped in rags were you, dear?’

  A click of his fingers above his head and Apollinos, grey now, passes him the other half of a fig.

  ‘Where did you get those from? The fig trees in the Serapeum courtyard are bare.’

  ‘Oh, do stop dishing out the judgment, dear. Go and play Magistrates with your friend Fatty.’

  Rufius’ nerves are as frazzled as mine.

  Apollinos points over to the terrace. ‘There are four fig trees on the terrace, master Aeson.’

  ‘If I need a defence, Apollinos, I’ll pay a lawyer, dear. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.’

  Kiya clicks back into the office. ‘There you are, Apollinos. Get to work. All who can write must copy – we don’t have much time.’

  ‘Ha, do what you’re told, Apollinos!’

  It’s funny to hear Kiya boss Biblos slaves about. Rufius has that indulgent look on his face he saves for Diana. It amuses him that orphans and slaves – especially women – can be bold.

  A sigh rolls up inside my chest and I plomp down next to him on the couch. At least some things are constant: Rufius is still Rufius.

  ‘Any word of Diana, any messages getting through?’

  Kohl eyebrows crease in concern. ‘None, dear.’

  ‘Serapis, keep her safe.’

  ‘Still committed to your old god, dear? You do humankind a disservice. Diana will survive on her wits, my boy, on her wits.’ His speech slurs.

  ‘That’s rich coming from you. I still can’t believe you suggested to Damasus that I convert.’

  ‘What are you complaining about? You refused, didn’t you? Always wilful. It was for your own good, dear. Christians advance in this new world.’

  I still can’t work Rufius out. He’s full of paradoxes. He chooses infamy, but insists I conform.

  What mischief swirls in his cloudy old eyes? He raises an eyebrow. ‘What dirt do you have on Damasus? Not that it matters now he’s dead – and good riddance – but I always thought he was playing around with the novices.’

  ‘How can you gossip as Alexandria burns?’ I look over the balcony. Thin tendrils of smoke make patterns in the blue sky. Those pyres have been kept alight for three weeks.

  ‘Well, what do you suggest? Here, have a spoonful of Desert Honey – it might cheer you up, dear? I’m sure it’s got weaker over the years.’

  The initial joy of being reunited soon thawed – Rufius is more infuriating than ever.

  Kiya stamps her good foot on the ground and twists her contorted back to face us. ‘Either you two stop bickering, or pick up a pen and start copying.’

  ‘Ha! That told us, dear.’

  That made us laugh too – the topsy-turvy absurdity of it: little Kiya ordering about the Director of the Scriptorium. It’s made Rufius wheeze he’s laughing so much.

  ‘That’s better. I was worried you might have gone soft. And that wouldn’t do for the fine Roman you’ve grown into. You’re too old for me now, so I do hope you’re not jealous, dear?’

  Rufius’ gaze rests on his young body slave’s thighs.

  He’s being ironic, but what perverse twist of emotion is this? Resentment? Disgust, that the old man still lusts after boys… am I jealous? I’m jealous! But why? As a boy I was relieved when he bent over for a Biblos slave instead of me. I don’t want to fuck him, but I still want him to desire me.

  The boy giggles. His skin’s the same honey tone as mine, his eyes a paler blue. Rufius squints at the plates of food.

  ‘You’re going blind aren’t you, Rufius?’ The blue film over your eyes, the way you pat the table around objects before you find them. I couldn’t sleep with a man who can hardly see me, couldn’t admire me. Some of my lovers were as ugly as Gorgons but that heightened my own pleasure, fed my narcissism. I imagined their lust more lascivious on account of their ugliness. After all these years of calling Rufius shallow, I realise that’s exactly what excites me.

  ‘Not so blind that I can’t see you’re still my little Antinous beneath all that brawn, Aeson dear.’

  He knows how I feel – he was someone’s ephebe once. I’m solidified in his memory. It pains him too, that I’m no longer his beautiful boy. Better change the subject.

  ‘Alright then, Rufius, here’s the gossip – I don’t usually speak ill of the dead but the Archbishop of Rome was a fat old crook.’

  ‘Ha! Was he fatter
than me? Tell me he was, dear.’

  ‘That hippopotamus Damasus and his yapping widows – skinny as rakes –’

  My pause allows Rufius to finish wheezing. Apollinos offers him a glass of water. Rufius shoos it away and points at the wine.

  ‘That’s better. Carry on, dear.’

  ‘The year Damasus died, the flabby old Archbishop fleeced an old matron called…’

  A bang at the bolted door makes us all jump.

  ‘What in Hades is that racket?’

  ‘Master, it’s Cassius. Let me in.’ Cassius’ muffled shouts increase in volume as a young Biblos slave lifts the iron bolt and opens the door. He stands in the doorway, eyes round with fright, and gasps for breath. ‘Master, they’re letting them inside. They’re opening the gates, master. The Emperor –’

  ‘What, the Emperor here? Impossible.’

  ‘Slow down, Cassius.’

  Cassius gabbles on without taking a breath. ‘Master, master.’ He addresses us both. ‘The Emperor’s reply arrived. They have agreed a short-term truce so the Prefect and the Archbishop can enter the Serapeum and read it out.’

  We look at each other. The scribes in the adjoining rooms have put down their pens and lean over their desks to listen. The only sound is the click of Kiya’s stick. ‘Keep writing. Keep writing.’ She whacks her crutch on the desk nearest to her.

  ‘Ha, I’m convinced she’s got a pair of balls under her dress.’

  Rufius and I walk out to the terrace – those fig trees are sinfully heavy with fruit. Monks, soldiers and citizens congregate outside the Serapeum walls and jitter with expectation. Beyond the harbour the Pharos reflects the midday sun. The sky is a brighter turquoise than I’ve ever seen it. A perfect day for fishing Dad would have said. What an odd thought, with the army stretched like a silver snake down Serapis Street.

  Rufius looks at me – he doubts the wisdom of a truce as much as I do. He turns to the Biblos slaves gathered around the terrace. ‘Arm yourselves, my boys. This may not go as that old fool Olympus expects.’