by Sarah Walton
Trunks are opened, scabbards and swords strapped to waists.
At last, something’s happening. My heart beats strong and steady in my chest. My limbs move towards the door as light as if walking through a dream. The stench of decay is hot in my nostrils. I am here. I’ve never felt so wholly in my body, so fully in the present moment.
From the balcony we watch temple slaves run across the courtyard to the Serapeum doors. The huge hinges crunch and scrape as they’re pulled open for the first time in three weeks.
Helmets of the soldiers form a line at the top of the Serapeum steps to prevent the mob from entering the temple.
Bring on my destiny. Whatever it is. Serapis, bring it on.
52
Rufius
We crowd the third floor balcony. Even Biblos slaves shove for a view of the sacred precinct three floors below. Why, in the name of Bacchus, Apollinos made the slaves polish the thick granite balcony ledge is beyond me. Now what’s he doing?
‘Apollinos, leave the door to my office open, dear.’
Olympus looks ridiculous with that breastplate over his toga. Bloody idiot! What is he thinking letting Theophilus and his pawn Evagrius and that hairy centurion Romanus into the sacred precinct? They could have read the Imperial response from outside the temple walls. Typical, typical!
‘Did Olympus consult the Director of the Scriptorium? No! Even if the Museum Library’s been burnt to a cinder, I’m still in charge of the Serapeum’s collection. At least if Olympus and the Head Priest of Serapis didn’t consult the old cinaedus they could have warned me, given me some time. Are they really so confident the Emperor will favour us? Bloody fools the lot of them, fools!’ Anger’s made me as sober as Hades.
‘Shush, master.’
Olympus and the Head Priest of Serapis look nervous as they wait for the party to approach the steps of the inner sanctuary.
Serapis stares ahead as if the god is waiting for them too. The sacred precinct gleams from the sunbeams that fall into the courtyard open to a turquoise sky and reflect off the bronze statue. We’re only at neck height. Serapis’ head looms above us at the level of the fourth floor. I could touch the god’s left earlobe if my arms weren’t so old and stiff.
‘How many slaves fell from the scaffolding building the statue?’ Aeson’s voice is morbid.
‘You should know, dear, being a builder’s son.’ That poke wasn’t necessary.
‘You’re my father too, Rufius.’ Aeson’s sapphire gaze is sincere. He might be hard and hairy, but there’s still nothing to match looking into those eyes – they calm me.
‘What are you muttering, Rufius?’
Aeson’s furious I didn’t visit him in Constantinople. But I did it for him. Everything’s been for him. ‘Nothing. Ignore me, dear.’
That stupid slave’s closed the office door again.
‘Apollinos, I said leave the bloody door open. Take the boys to the Serapeum Library and gather as many books as you can – you know which – the ones we can sell.’
‘Yes, master.’
Apollinos points to four Biblos slaves. Where’s he going?
‘Apollinos, take the slave stairs. You won’t be seen that way. If you can get into the inner sanctuary, take the books from the chests.’
‘But, master… that’s forbidden.’
‘Fuck the rules, Apollinos.’ By Bacchus, does he expect a happy ending? ‘What are you waiting for, a whipping? Bring the books to my office – and hurry up about it.’
Bare feet slap marble as they run.
What’s that clicking? Wretched cripple: I told her to stay put. Will no one do as they’re told?
‘Saviour of Books, you will be rewarded in The Kingdom of God.’
Aeson spins round, a frown on his face. He usually has a smile for her. ‘Kiya, get back inside. Rufius flogs books to the highest bidder. He’s a trader, a smuggler not a saviour. And Rufius, this isn’t an opportunity to profit. How, in the name of Serapis, do you intend to smuggle those books past the mob? If this goes the way we think, we’ll be lucky to get out of here alive.’
What’s eating him? I follow his gaze… he’s staring at the hermit in the sacred precinct… he’s thinking about the prophecy. That’s fear, not anger. ‘Keep your tunic on, dear! You should go inside yourself. If Theophilus sees you he’ll want revenge for humiliating him in the Agora. He’ll pin the blame for inciting the bloodiest riot Alexandria’s ever seen on you. He’s probably already commissioned that hack of a historian, Rufinus. Ha! That’s a fine epitaph: riot-starter. Personally I’d prefer to be remembered as a cinaedus, dear.’
The veins in my neck throb. Aeson still drives me mad. Ha! I’ve not felt this alive for ten years.
Kiya shoos Biblos slaves back into my office and sets them to work. The rest of us, Cassius, Aeson and Kiya – she’s as wilful as him – lean over the polished ledge.
‘Here comes the entertainment, dears.’
Evagrius marches into the main courtyard with Theophilus.
‘Oooo, dressed for the occasion!’
The purple stripe on the Prefect’s toga’s thick enough to put him under suspicion of treason. Theophilus kicks up his ankle-length black robe – at the head of the pack by a stride. That black hat makes him look even taller and meaner.
‘Perhaps I should try black? It’s very slimming.’
‘Shush, Rufius.’
Romanus cuts a stocky figure in comparison. The commander leads twenty men in chainmail and helmets, faces red from the heat. Centurions are unarmed at the gates by temple slaves. Swords clatter, thrown in a heap. Ten or so monks in black cloaks file in, shouldering for a position as near to the Archbishop as possible. Flies to shit.
Olympus and the Head Priest of Serapis stand between the bronze feet of Serapis, seated on his throne. Behind them are three rows of priests, gold seven-pointed star diadems on their heads.
Now what’s happening? Looks like a mothers’ meeting on the steps of the inner sanctuary between the scheming triumvirate.
‘What are they saying, dear? Can you hear them?’
‘Rufius, shush. They’re whispering.’
Aeson’s right hand moves to the hilt of his knife, white knuckles clench.
‘No playing the hero, dear.’
He taps my hand to pacify me. His palm’s sticky with sweat.
Evagrius takes up his position on the steps leading to the inner sanctum.
My gut churns: too many figs. Don’t let me get the runs now.
Serapis shines behind him. The god’s sapphire eyes wink in the sunlight; his massive arms and hands out-stretched either side of the sanctuary make the men beneath him look like toy gladiators.
Evagrius holds up the letter in his right hand. We hold our breath. Even the hum of flies has stopped. ‘Citizens, the Imperial letter has arrived.’
Evagrius’ fingers fumble as he breaks the seal. He’s as anxious as we are. Whoops, the letter nearly slipped out of his hand. The Prefect wipes his brow with the back of his hand and casts his eyes down the page. Evagrius’ shoulders roll back, he straightens with confidence.
Aeson whispers something to Kiya.
‘No, I’m staying here.’
Aeson’s sensed the Prefect’s confidence too.
Evagrius clears his throat. ‘Emperor Theodosius to Evagrius, Augustal Prefect, and Romanus, Count of Egypt.’ Evagrius’ voice booms around the sacred precinct, engineered along the lines of a theatre to bounce sound off walls and into the central courtyard.
The Prefect clears his throat again and raises his chest as if preparing for the performance of a lifetime. Maybe it is.
‘Spit it out, dear.’
Shaved heads and helmets turn upwards in our direction. Aeson kicks my shin.
‘Ouch, what was that for, dear?’
‘Keep quiet, Rufius. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’
Theophilus looks up, searching the balconies on every floor… he’s spotted me. Under his dark gaze I feel
as if I’m falling, plummeting down into the crowd beneath us. Me and my mouth. That wasn’t so clever… but someone had to heckle.
Theophilus’ focus returns to the Prefect – Evagrius’ voice booms with authority.
‘All persons shall recognise that they are excluded from profane entrance into temples by the opposition of Our law, so that if any person should attempt to do anything with reference to the gods or the sacred rites, contrary to Our prohibition, he shall learn that he will not be exempted from punishment by any special grants of imperial favour –’
Monks in the courtyard cheer. Although the army outside the gates can’t hear the words, they join in.
Theophilus raises his arms for silence but it’s no use. That is the cry of victory.
Our men exchange desperate and confused glances as the courtyard fills with monks. Olympus raises an arm to order the gate slaves to shut the Serapeum doors. Watch out, Olympus. Too late, that hooded monk’s got him, pulled down from his perch on the top step of the inner sanctuary. It’s such a scramble of bodies I can’t make out what’s happening… the hooded monk looks up, his face splattered with Olympus’ blood. His eyes lock onto Aeson and Kiya.
‘Lanky!’ they gasp together.
Kiya twists, contorts her back to look up at Aeson. ‘This time he must die.’
Cassius looks petrified. ‘It’s going to kick-off, master.’
No it’s not, dear. Our people are running. Look at them slip and hide themselves among the mob, ducking under the arcades and into concealed passageways leading off the courtyard.
Cassius tries to take my arm. ‘Master, come.’
‘Off me, Cassius.’ My fist pounds the air. ‘Cowards, stay and fight, you cowards.’
The courtyard’s filling up with monks. Black-hooded scoundrels keep their gaze fixed to Theophilus like dogs to their master. What’s he saying, index finger pointing up to Serapis?
‘… God’s work… heresy… destroy Serapis.’
A silent shock wave skims across the sacred precinct and monks and pagans stop in their tracks. Muttering flitters from every tongue:
‘Destroy Serapis?’
‘No human hand can touch him –’
‘The earth will split open –’
‘Crumble into the abyss –’
‘The Nile will not flood –’
‘Egypt will starve –’
‘The sky will crash down –’
‘Ha!’ Nobody will dare touch the statue.
Theophilus doesn’t believe a word of that nonsense – the people’s superstition doesn’t serve his purpose, does it?
Romanus struts up the steps, double-headed axe in hand. His soldiers stand straight and still at the sight of their commander.
‘Legions of Egypt, there is more wealth in this temple than the Emperor has locked away in the Imperial Treasury. This statue is made of gold, laid over with silver and bronze to disguise it. Who will take up this axe? The man who takes the first strike earns his weight in gold for his pension. Who will take my axe?’
He waves the axe like a gladiator in the arena goading his opponent.
‘Clever bastard.’ That’s the same carrot I held under the noses of those two centurions at Biblos: gold. Romans can’t resist it. My gut groans.
‘Apollinos, where’s Apollinos and my boys?’
We can’t shift our gaze from the spectacle below. Romanus holds the axe above his head and bellows again.
Centurions push and shove through the gates into the sacred precinct. Word’s got out there’s profit to be made. They look to Romanus. Here goes again, muscular arm raised, axe high above his head.
‘I said, who will take up this axe?’
‘These old knees will buckle in a swoon if that hairy commander does that again.’
Not even Cassius pays any attention to my attempt at lechery. Humour died when Evagrius read out the Emperor’s letter.
‘Who will take this axe?’ Romanus barks it like an order this time.
53
Kiya
Sweet Sophia, what blasphemy! This can’t be happening? Surely that centurion’s not going to hack off Serapis’ head with the axe he snatched from the Commander? He’s no god of mine, but Serapis is as old as Alexandria.
The centurion’s nearly reached Serapis’ shoulder, nearly at our level: neck level. We stare gormless as fools. Aeson, the Librarian and his slave, all of us clench the balcony ledge for support. They’re gobsmacked. My jaw’s slack too.
The centurion looks up from the ladder with greed for the promised gold – then looks down at the upturned faces and waves the axe. There’s no cheer of support. Everyone’s petrified. Will the skies fall? Will the ground swallow us up?
My breath catches high in my chest. What would Dera do now? Should I pray? Yes, I’ll pray. ‘Aoi-aoi-aoi…’
‘Stop that, dear.’
Where is Dera? It’s impossible to single him out in the squash of bodies packed into the sacred precinct below.
‘Aeson, can you see Dera?’
He leans over the balcony, muscles in his forearms tense as he swings forward on the wide ledge to peer under the arcades of the courtyard.
Rufius is wheezing with worry. ‘Can you see my boys? Apollinos, where are you?’
We should have stayed together.
Aeson? His mouth gapes open in shock. ‘Sacrilege. This is sacrilege. That centurion, he can’t… Serapis, stop him!’ Aeson’s words blurt out in a panic.
Turn neck, turn: I must face Aeson to know he hears my words. He must snap out of it. Aeson must keep his wits. Twisting my neck hurts more everyday.
‘Aeson, we are watching Dera’s prophecy unfold. Dera’s teacher, Antoninus, dead and buried now, saw it before him. I have seen it too. Serapis will die today.’ My voice sounds far away from me.
I can’t hold this position: my neck’s seizing-up. Sweet Sophia, keep me supple, at least until Aeson is safe, keep me mobile. Henite would massage my spine when the tightness set in. A tear splats the pink granite ledge. It’s mine but I can’t feel my face.
This scene below, this was in my vision: black-hooded monks, helmets glinting in the sun, the centurion on the ladder climbing in our direction, the tall evil Archbishop, all fade in and out of focus, their edges brushed out like we’re in a desert haze. Rubbing my eyes doesn’t help solidify the scene. My vision is happening now. The marble ledge feels solid but this moment has collided with prophecy.
What’s Aeson saying?
The sound’s gone.
What’s he looking at? Why’s he pointing?
My head turns slowly, movement is thick; everything is slowing down. What’s Aeson shouting about? Why’s he climbing onto the edge? Rufius is trying to stop him. He’s shouting too. They’re looking at the ladder, but it’s not the centurion Aeson’s climbed on to the ledge to meet.
Sweet Sophia, it’s Lanky! He’s on the ladder, close behind the centurion. He’s coming for Aeson.
Come on neck, bend. I know what happens next, but I must witness it, like a compulsion. I have to watch the events for real, for them to be real. That’s it, an awkward angle but if I can hold this contorted body, one arm on the ledge, and lean my weight into my stick, I’ll be able to see the demon coming. Come on, demon. I’m ready for you.
Lanky looks up at the centurion. So do we.
The centurion’s at chin height now, level with the fourth floor. His mouth is wide open, ferocious like a lion roaring before a kill. Serapis waits, bushel of grain on his head – the grain he makes grow when he floods the Nile. The centurion swings the axe in circles to build up inertia, sunbeams flash white off the double-headed blade.
We hold our breath.
The axe swings into his jaw.
His attack gains force. There’s a dent in the metal of Serapis’ jaw. Hollow? The god is hollow! Splinters of wood chip and fly out at every bash of the axe. It’s speeding up now, faster, faster he swings.
Sweet Sophia, the noise! My ears
are working again. The mob is wild in the sacred precinct below… no thunder, no earthquake… only the sound of metal bashing metal again, and again, and again. Sobs choke up into my throat with each strike.
‘Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake,’ chant the monks.
Victory and relief heckles from the mob: they’re jubilant.
‘The sky’s still there –’
‘The sun’s still shining –’
‘The old gods are dead –’
Theophilus raises his arms, his black cloak spread out like bat’s wings. ‘In God’s name, bring the false god to his knees. You see what tricks your priests have played with you. Hollow! The idol is hollow…’
The Archbishop rages on, but my gaze is fixed on Lanky. Sweet Sophia he’s jumped on the ledge where Aeson waits for him. The one-eyed devil grins. They fly at each other like gladiators in the arena. Like dogs set on each other in a pit, they bare their teeth and lash their knives at each other. Hate makes men ugly. Their feet shuffle near the edge of the ledge, but they don’t care if they fall…
Sweet Sophia! Aeson’s down. Lanky throws himself on top of him, black cloak shrouds them both…
… Lanky’s up. He grabs a fist full of Aeson’s hair and yanks him up.
‘Prepare to die, Pretty.’ Lanky’s knife is at Aeson’s throat.
‘Cassius, do something!’ Rufius and Cassius try to grab Lanky’s legs. The demon kicks back, sending Rufius flying.
I can’t save him from down here. I need to get up on the ledge.
Sophia, give me the strength. Bless me with mobility, just this once. My arms are strong: I can pull my body up onto the ledge.
‘Cassius, leave me – get Kiya off that ledge, dear.’
Now, crawl, crawl to him. His ankle. If I get his ankle I can topple him.
‘I’ll kill you Lanky.’
Got it.
Lanky lets out a yelp. ‘Snake Bitch!’
Kick as much as you like, Demon. I won’t let go. His free foot kicks me in the face. That hurt. My blood tastes metallic. I’m not letting go.
‘Leave her ALONE!’ Aeson punches him. The demon’s head swivels as if it will turn right round on his neck. He’s losing his balance; now’s my chance… I don’t have the strength to push you, but this broken body can pull you… I’m going to kill you demon. Shift my legs to the edge, that’s it. Now, reach for his ankle with my other hand. Got it. You won’t kick me off like a dog this time. Ready to fly, Lanky?