Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  A faint smile begins in his eyes, but does not reach his lips. ‘You made me, Rufius.’

  The thump of hatred on the wooden door throws the bolt free again from its iron latch. Aeson dives on it; shining muscles force it back.

  ‘Go, now.’ The panic’s gone from my voice. My belly is a bag of smoke, but my heart gives me courage. The foreign sensation propels me towards him, pushing his hard chest into the passageway. He looks disorientated as he shuffles backwards through stray papyrus. It’s elating, the strength I have in my body from this new bravery. ‘Mind your head.’

  He ducks, bends his knees to fit under the low ceiling of the passageway.

  ‘It will take you to the Necropolis.’

  He looks shocked. At the change in me? I want to laugh from the lightness I feel.

  ‘Now GO!’

  The wooden door buckles, cracks and spits under the weight of the monks. They’re working together now.

  ‘Go on.’ I push him further into the passage.

  ‘You’re coming with me, Rufius.’

  ‘No chance of out-running them with my old legs. Go, my darling. Run.’

  I understand for the first time why the Greeks put lovers into battle together. I would rather die than live without honour in his memory.

  He leans forward and pulls me to him in an embrace. His smell, sea-salt and leather, coupled with a foreign sensation. So this is what it feels like to love from my heart, rather than my loins. This whole wretched life of mine was worth this one moment.

  ‘You must go now, Aeson.’

  He’s frozen, hunched bent-kneed in the damp mouth of the passage. No matter, as long as I can get this bloody door back in place. No one can see the joins when it’s closed. Now, let’s push the door back in position. As long as Theophilus gets what he wants he’ll be satisfied. And the Archbishop wants this old cinaedus’ arse nailed to a crucifix. Don’t think about it, keep pushing. They’ll knock the door bolt free any moment. Every thrust hurts my old knees.

  Wood splits. An axe winks maliciously through the splintered gash in the door. A hot fear burns my skin from the inside. The roar of the mob makes my stomach jerk. No time to vomit, Rufius.

  The gap’s narrowing.

  What’s he doing in there?

  ‘There’s a torch in the wall bracket. Pick it up and RUN!’

  Nearly there… one more heave and I’ll have the secret stone back in place. This will be my final act. Oh no! Accompanied by incontinence it seems from the warm wetness trickling between my legs. Skidding in my own urine is not the way to do it.

  Right, let’s regain my footing, that’s it. Now, heave.

  Another hack: a metal axe head glints through the wood.

  Push, Rufius, Push.

  Sweat drips from my hair onto my dry lips. Salty. I miss the dinner I’ll never eat. The wine jug’s still on my desk where I left it.

  No time. I cry and push, grunt and push.

  The old stone grates. The black gap narrows. I have the chance to do my duty before I die: a father’s duty… one more push, Rufius… on an empty stomach, incontinent and bloody sober. Well Bacchus, it seems the only god I ever really worshipped will have the last laugh.

  ‌56

  Aeson

  What’s Rufius trying to do, close the door to the passageway? His old legs slip and slide on the wet marble; he’s pissed himself.

  ‘Run, my boy, RUN!’ His voice is fast and shrill like an ibis protecting her nest.

  ‘Rufius, leave the door. Get in here.’ My voice echoes in the low passageway hacked into rough granite. Looks like it slopes downwards. It’s dark in here. One torch doesn’t throw enough light. Biblos slaves must have taken the rest from their brackets.

  Rufius pants and pushes.

  ‘Dear boy, you won’t outrun them with me. GO!’

  Stone grates and another inch of yellow light is shut out from his office. He’s nearly got it closed.

  ‘Rufius, for Serapis sake, get in here.’ My voice cracks. ‘I know you love me.’

  ‘Stop bloody gibbering. RUN.’ His face is red with tears; he grunts against the will of the ancient stone, wet sandalled feet skid.

  ‘You’ll do yourself an injury, Rufius.’

  ‘I beg you, dear, go.’

  The stubborn old fool intends dying in his office. I’ll have to go and get him.

  Thuds at the door make the room shudder. The monks have given up with the axe – they’re battering it down. We don’t have long before the mob break through.

  Phew! If he watered his wine his urine wouldn’t reek. If I turn to the side, I’ll get back through the slit.

  ‘No, no, Aeson do as you’re told. I’m your father…’

  His legs give way as I gather his flesh into my arms.

  ‘Put me down, dear.’

  I’ll struggle to carry him through the narrow slit between the ancient granite and the wall.

  ‘You’re coming with me. Now, get in there before I push you in…’

  By Serapis! That thud dislodged the door from the top hinge.

  ‘Get inside, Rufius. Sideways, go in sideways.’

  ‘I’m too fat, dear. What… what, I’m not a cow to be pushed and…’

  Another thud and the top bracket chinks on the marble floor. A hand gripping an axe reaches through.

  ‘Cinaedus, we’ll roast your fat arse.’

  ‘That’s it, dear. Push!’ Fear got the better of him. ‘That’s it, now in you come, my boy.’

  He’s in. Now let’s squeeze back through myself.

  Just in time. The door flies inwards. Monks rush into the room.

  ‘Let me pass, brothers.’

  That’s Theophilus’ voice. Rufius’ face is furious in the torchlight.

  ‘Rufius, take the torch. Go now.’

  Feet pound into the office.

  ‘They’re gone!’

  ‘What?’ The Archbishop’s fury makes his usually steel voice judder.

  ‘There’s nobody here.’

  ‘Impossible. Search the place. Find him.’

  Bookcases bang as they’re pushed over, and book trunks hacked to pieces.

  ‘Wait. Brothers! The walls. Check the walls. This temple’s full of secret chambers, hidden rooms. I know you’re here, Cinaedus, crouched in some hole!’

  A monk points at the gap.

  ‘Your Holiness, look: a hole in the wall.’

  Monks run towards the slit, push each other to get through. It’s too narrow; only one man can enter sideways. Daylight’s blocked as monks gather around the narrow entrance. Wild sun-scorched desert faces flicker in the torchlight.

  My feet are planted firmly on the floor, cool granite either side of me. Cassius’ sword in my right hand, my faithful gold knife in my left. I’m ready for them.

  ‘Rufius, go.’ My voice is a rough whisper.

  A monk, wide-eyed and deranged, glares at me through the gap. He tries to squeeze through sideways. One thrust of my sword slices right through his neck. Got you! He falls, half his body inside, half outside the passage.

  The monk behind him steps on his chest, sideways to the wall.

  ‘Got you too.’

  Blood explodes into my face as the arteries in the monk’s neck spurt their contents.

  The next launches from the head of the second dead monk, and throws himself sideways through the narrow gap.

  ‘In the name of Christ!’

  My knife: up and under his stomach. That’s it. His hands fumble to hold in his guts as they empty, hot and stinking onto my feet.

  ‘Arh!’ Sharp pain; that’s a knife through my thigh. How?

  Bastard monk the size of a dwarf’s crawled in over the dead bodies. Keep your balance, Aeson. Ignore the pain.

  Rufius stabs the monk through the back before he’s on his feet. ‘Take that, dear!’

  He grabs the monk’s axe.

  ‘Rufius! What are you doing?’

  ‘Giving you a hand, dear.’

  ‘Th
e heretics are in that secret room, Archbishop.’ The monk’s sycophantic pant makes me want to kill them all.

  ‘Kill them, brothers.’ We can hear Theophilus, but we can’t see him. All we can see are the angry faces of the monks.

  ‘Rufius, stand back.’

  A skinny monk swipes at me as he throws himself through the gap. ‘Pagan pigs.’

  His throat throbs under my left arm as I slit his throat. His head falls back slack from his body where he’s fallen in the doorway. If their bodies pile up high enough, that will create a temporary barrier.

  ‘Kill them, I said.’ Theophilus is impatient.

  ‘Rufius, I’ll hold them off. Take the torch and go. Now!’

  Take that! Madly I stab at each one that tries his luck. Their numbers work to my advantage. In their crazed hurry to kill us, they’ve blocked the small gap in the doorway.

  One by one they fall.

  Rufius kicks at heads. The cluck of a crushed skull makes him puke. It’s a different thing to whipping a disobedient slave.

  Here’s the next red-faced desert madman climbing over the fallen bodies. Rufius thrusts the torch as I follow up with the blade. The mad monk falls back against the monks behind him and the gap gives me a brief view of the office.

  My bladder slumps. The room’s full.

  New arrivals pull bodies away from the entrance.

  ‘Kill the pagans.’ They scream their war cry.

  How long can we keep this up? My thigh’s a wooden ache where I was stabbed.

  ‘Brothers, empty the books into the room and torch it.’ Theophilus’ orders halt the frenzy to enter the passageway. The Archbishop must think we’re trapped in a room. That may work to our advantage.

  ‘Theophilus, the fool!’ Rufius whispers.

  Books, scrolls, a chair leg catapult through the gap and force us further back down the passage.

  ‘Burn in Hell, pagan pigs.’

  Torches fly through the gap.

  Rufius’ hand is on my back.

  ‘Oh my books, my books! You ignorant bastards.’ Rage makes his voice squeak.

  Monks snigger at his girly lisp.

  ‘Burn, Cinaedus. Burn with your books.’

  ‘Burn cinaedus –’

  ‘Burn heretics –’

  Oil! They’re throwing on oil. More torches. This thing’s going to go up. Books ignite and flare, bodies of monks hiss like snakes as the flames burn through cloaks to their flesh.

  Rufius drops the torch in a coughing fit.

  I must get him out of here before he chokes. The fire’s eating the air. I’ll have to carry him.

  Flames lick the walls around the low entrance.

  ‘That hermit… he said…’

  ‘I thought you’d know better than to listen to prophecy, Rufius.’ I’ve never once seen him consult a soothsayer.

  ‘Hold this.’

  He takes my torch. His wheezing is sharp, dangerously quick.

  ‘Let’s get you… in my arms… that’s it. Got you.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Too far to carry my old blubber, dear.’

  Bent-legged, shuffling down the low passage with Rufius in my arms is killing my leg. Small mercies we’re travelling downhill to the Necropolis, but the staleness of the air worries me more than the heat on my back. Once I’ve put enough distance between us and the fire we’ll be safe from the flames but the smoke only has one way to go if they close that door…

  ‘Rufius, how far into the Necropolis does this go?’

  An unintelligible groan is all he can manage.

  ‘Rufius?’

  He’s losing his strength. The torch he’s holding waves around and knocks against the tunnel wall.

  ‘Keep hold of that torch, Rufius.’

  ‘Shit, fucking ceiling.’ It’s getting lower.

  Come on legs, keep going. I can’t see more than a foot’s pace in front of me.

  What’s that rumble? The door. They’re closing the door to the secret passage. The heat, smoke and sickly smell of burning monk flesh makes me retch. The final thud of stone into its groove shuts out the murderous chants of the monks.

  It’s getting harder to breathe. That doorway was the only ventilation. The ceiling’s jagged surface forces me to bend nearly double over Rufius.

  ‘Rufius, don’t give up. Rufius.’

  The torch swings and drops from his hand.

  There’s no way I can hold Rufius and the torch. Let it go. There’s only one way out – I don’t need my eyes. I limp into the blackness.

  Must keep going. At least it’s downhill. We must be beneath ground level now. It’s cooler, but the smoke followed us. My lungs are tight.

  Rufius’ feet hit the walls. Careful, don’t break his legs. The passage is narrowing. What if I adjust my angle to the side, like this. That’s better.

  Breathe.

  Can’t breathe.

  Have to breathe.

  The air’s putrid down here. It’s thick, hard to suck in a breath at all. Shit.

  Don’t panic.

  Rufius’ limbs loll heavy and slip in my sweaty grasp.

  ‘Rufius, hold on, Rufius.’ Stay with me old man. Don’t leave me now. Not now.

  Endless blackness, more jutting ceilings, no sign of an end to this stifling heat.

  Keep going, Aeson. The exit can’t be too far now. We must be passing directly under the Serapeum. The ground’s levelled. If it’s level that means we’ll have to head upwards to exit. Don’t think about it. Keep going.

  Curse you to Hades, Theophilus.

  My sandalled feet shuffle, back edges against the limestone wall. Mind his legs.

  Need to clean my nostrils. Too much filth and dust up them to breathe. Every tiny inhale makes me cough.

  We could lie down, folded in each other’s arms just for a moment.

  Mustn’t crumble to that image, mustn’t imagine stopping.

  ‘I refuse to die in the way you’ve ordained, Theophilus.’

  The tunnel echoes with my voice…

  A violent cough. I gag, desperate for air. The lack of air will kill us if we don’t get out of here, and fast. Focus, Aeson. Forward, legs. I can do this. Ignore the pain.

  Rufius, a dead-weight now, pulls my arms low to the ground. He’s stopped wheezing.

  ‘Rufius?’

  No sound. I strain my neck to reach my cheek to his mouth: a faint snuffle. He’s alive.

  I push on, readjusting Rufius’ limp body in my grip at every step. Jaw clenched and defiant I struggle uphill. Don’t give up, Rufius.

  I refuse to die down here.

  Every step is a great achievement now. Am I moving at all? I’m not certain. My body is foreign to me, like that first attempt to propel my pen across a page. I want to give up, but I won’t.

  The rooftops of Alexandria tease me. I wish I could be running to my death along red tiles under a turquoise sky. To see its skyline once more, the Great Harbour, the Pharos. The thought gives my legs some strength.

  I will see Alexandria one last time.

  Keep going, just keep going.

  We’ve travelled in a straight line the whole way. The exit must come out somewhere in the centre of the Necropolis. I can see the rough-hewn tunnel walls.

  Or is my tired mind playing tricks on me?

  Yes, I can see the edges of the tunnel.

  ‘Rufius, we’re nearly there… Rufius?’

  ‌57

  Rufius

  By Bacchus, I must have been out for the count. Where am I? Is this the Underworld? The sky’s dusk blue. Why do I feel like I’m riding a camel?

  ‘Rufius, we made it.’ Aeson’s voice. I’m in his arms; the familiar briny-leather smell of his sweat is a comfort. He’s limping, that’s why it’s such a jerky ride.

  ‘Rufius?’ His voice is faint… the Serapeum, we were in the secret passage, fighting monks. That’s the last thing I remember. I must have passed out. Never had the stomach for blood. The poor boy, he must have
carried me the whole way.

  ‘Put me down, dear.’

  ‘Ouch!’ My arse. No need to drop me.

  Aeson?

  Has he collapsed? His eyes are closed.

  Come on, elbows: lift and pull. If my gut didn’t get in the way, I might be able to push myself onto my knees a little easier than this. That’s it.

  ‘Aeson? What’s wrong, dear?’ Panic throbs fast in my chest. His tunic’s covered with blood. Not his – monk blood. Does he have a heartbeat? Need to check. Let’s get my ear closer. Yes, there’s a distant thump in his chest. Thank Bacchus! Perhaps he’s just exhausted from carrying my fat rump.

  ‘Please, dear. Wake up.’ Shaking his arm does no good. At least he’s breathing.

  Where’s my boys? They left ahead of us. This ancient tomb’s deserted. Tall columns stretch up into the twilight, row upon row of loculi cut neatly into limestone. It’s still hot, but the air has the salty freshness of the ocean in it. The stars are out. White underbellies of seagulls fly overhead: are they the only living thing here?

  Something’s happened. Biblos slaves would not have deserted us… Apollinos needs me.

  ‘Aeson, dear boy. Wake up.’ Out cold. His leg’s caked in dry blood.

  What’s that shuffling?

  Probably the surf scuffing the shore in the distance. Calm yourself, Rufius. Apollinos must be close by; he wouldn’t desert me… and Cassius, and where’s my new young body slave?

  I want to call out to them, but something’s made me afraid to raise my voice.

  There it is again: a shuffle: feet… above us… at ground level.

  ‘Apollinos, is that you?’ I sound like a timid virgin. ‘Apollinos, come down here and help me.’ That was an order.

  ‘I’m sorry, master.’ His voice came from up there, above the tomb.

  ‘Apollinos, where are you, boy?’