Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  More shuffling feet, dirt kicked over the edge. There he is. I can just about make out his gangly shape in the twilight. The old slave’s being pushed forward, pelvis out, torso bent backwards, awkward and contorted… and what’s that… a blade at his neck? My throat dries.

  More Biblos slaves, all with knives at their throats, are pushed forward, necks pulled back. Dark figures hold the row of slaves at the edge of the tomb. My poor boys! Their captors hide behind them.

  ‘Rufius! So you made it out then, eh?’

  Turk! I know that cheeky street-sharp voice anywhere.

  There he is. He strolls along the line of prisoners. The rogue’s dressed as a soldier… more like an actor with that old-fashioned breastplate he’s wearing. His face is a ghoulish blur under his torch. I’ve never liked being looked down on. It irritates me.

  ‘Turk, what in Hades do you think you’re playing at…?’

  Oh, I see, that pimp’s changed sides. Those knives at my boys’ necks belong to monks. I can just make out their hooded cloaks. The scoundrel!

  Aeson’s still breathing. If I whisper they won’t hear me from up there.

  ‘Aeson, stay here. Play dead. I’ll deal with Turk.’ Can he hear me?

  ‘Kissing Pretty goodnight, are yer? How sweet!’

  Come on, knees, up you push… on to my feet. That’s it. If I walk to the middle of the tomb things will look less of a blur up there. What’s that brightness behind me? The Serapeum burns on its mount. Fires rage on its terraces, the canal below it, and Lake Mareotis beyond glows orange.

  Turk follows my gaze.

  ‘Shame! That put an end to our little book business, eh?’ He juts his chin up, teeth glint in the torch.

  ‘Trading with swine now, Turk?’

  The monks growl and curse. Spit as much as you like, dears.

  ‘Pagan scum, I’ll slit your neck.’ That was a monk’s snarl. Cassius whimpers and falls to his knees. The monk with a knife to the poor boy’s throat kicks the backs of Cassius’ legs again. How dare they manhandle my boys.

  ‘These slaves have committed no crime. I’m the one you want.’

  ‘Oh, yes. The Archbishop – my new mate Theophilus – he’ll be well pleased when I deliver the cinaedus’ secret her-eti-cal library, won’t he, eh?’ Should earn a fortune for that lot of books, eh!’

  What’s he pointing at? The books bags are in a pile near the exit to the tunnel.

  ‘Ha! And I thought you had brains, Turk. You disappoint me. You won’t get a single copper piece for those books. They’ll burn, every last one of them.’

  ‘You’re right there, cinaedus. We’ll burn your enormous arsehole along with the books.’

  ‘Oooo! And I’ll stoke the flames with my enormous farts, dear.’

  The monk pushes Cassius aside. Oh shit, humourless monk coming at me… now what? Aeson’s knife, where is it?

  ‘Arhh – ’ That shrill shriek of pain and then the silence is horribly familiar. Who’s been killed?

  ‘Leave my boys alone.’

  White tunics of Biblos slaves flash as Turk waves his torch to see who’s been knifed.

  A monk falls forwards from behind Apollinos. That’s it shove him over the edge. The thud on the ground as the monk falls on the far side of the tomb floor makes me jump. A silver hilt sticks out from his back.

  More monks fall forward from behind Biblos slaves. My boys look as surprised as I am.

  Hands reach down, pull knives from the monks’ backs or slit throats to finish them off.

  Who’s up there?

  ‘Turk, man, you double-crossing bastard.’

  Crocodile! That flaky-skinned street urchin… and there’s more of Turk’s gang. The one with the eye-patch, the tattooed Druid and three or four more wipe their knives clean on monks’ cloaks. Ha! They didn’t even see them coming. Ha! Ha! It’s a mutiny.

  Crocodile lunges at Turk. Ha! I could fight better than that; waving his torch about won’t save him.

  ‘Turk. Fight me, man, you coward.’

  Oh why couldn’t Crocodile just stab him in the back and be done with it? Why the display of brawn?

  ‘Come on, Crocodile, give it to him. Ha! Outwitted by one of your own, Turk, dear.’

  Turk juts his chin and pulls a short sword from his scabbard.

  They circle each other; the gang watch. What’s Cassius shaking his finger at?

  ‘Master, look out –’

  A monk jumps off the bottom step. He’s got a knife. Oh shit. My stomach flips. Back to the tunnel…

  He’s got me by my tunic.

  ‘Help!’

  ‘Not so fast, cinaedus!’ He’s jumped me. My knees won’t hold his weight and mine… down I go. Off, get off me… he’s on my back, pushing my face into the dirt. Not the hair. A cold blade’s at my neck… he means to slit my throat…

  Aeson! Those are my boy’s sandalled feet – left foot dark with his own blood.

  ‘Get your filthy hands off him.’ My boy’s voice is raspy. ‘Drop the knife, monk.’

  The monk’s raised his weight off me, his arm jerks backwards, elbow into Aeson’s groin.

  ‘Arh!’ Aeson’s gasp. My boy stumbles backwards on to his heels. He’s over, in the dust. Get up, Aeson…

  ‘Leave him to me, brother.’ It’s the hermit. He appears like a bloody genie. The African’s huge legs tense as he grips the monk by the neck and gives it a sharp twist. Snap of breaking bones makes me shiver. That’s the end of him.

  ‘Turk, man, I should have slit your throat years ago.’

  We look up at the edge. Croc has Turk in an arm lock, knife at his throat.

  ‘Well boys, what shall I do with him?’

  ‘He’d make a perfect latrine slave, dear.’

  Ha! Turk looks ridiculous: flabby gut fallen out under his breastplate.

  ‘Tuck yourself in, dear! Your gut puts mine to shame!’

  That got a laugh from what’s left of his gang.

  ‘Cut off a hand.’

  ‘A leg –’

  ‘Cut off both legs –’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of you, dear boys.’

  ‘Aeson, you decide, man. What’s the punishment for betrayal?’

  Biblos slaves run down the steps to me. There’s no time for fussing. The urgent throb in my gut’s telling me we have to get out of the city.

  ‘Apollinos, go to Biblos. Find Diana. We’re leaving Alexandria. Theophilus may think I’m dead, but he’ll send his hounds to loot Biblos. We take the next ship to Rome.’

  Will my Alexandrian boy stay here in Alexandria with his friends? He’s a man now. I have to let him go. Look where control got us.

  Cassius and my young body slave help Aeson to his feet, weight on his good leg.

  ‘You’re gang leader now, Croc. It’s up to you.’ My boy’s weary.

  Croc pushes Turk over to the man with the eye-patch. ‘I’ll decide your fate later, Turk.’

  ‘I’m going with Rufius.’ Aeson’s voice is a mixture of regret and resolve.

  He’s coming with me? My heart calms. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath since he left ten years ago and now I can breathe again.

  The hermit rests a hand on Aeson’s shoulder. ‘I buried Kiya, lad. Her soul is at peace.’

  Aeson puts his hand on the African’s and nods.

  The hermit picks up a torch and raises it in the air so we can see each other. He looks down to face me. ‘Brother, the Great Harbour is overrun with soldiers and the Prefect has enforced a curfew on the city. Any man without his authority on the streets at night will be arrested.’

  ‘Well, I won’t abandon my household… my family…’

  ‘The safest route out of Alexandria is by river or over land.’

  ‘Go, Apollinos. Fetch Diana.’

  ‘You can’t travel with an entourage of slaves. You must be inconspicuous.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that, dear?’

  Aeson limps forward. ‘Apollinos, w
e will travel separately.’ Aeson’s voice has my authority in it. By Bacchus, he’s my son. ‘At Biblos change into rough cloaks – you’ll find a guide on Venus Street to take you across the desert. Meet us at Aswan. We’ll regroup there and find a tribesman to take us out of Egypt.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ He clicks his fingers for the slaves to follow.

  My poor boys look afraid to leave me. ‘Don’t worry, dears. Apollinos will take care of you.’

  Croc jumps down from the ledge, runs over to Aeson and plants a boisterous slobber on his lips. They laugh their old we-got-away-with-it laugh. I’ve heard it before; it used to make me jealous.

  ‘Man, you crazy fucker! Only you could climb the Serapeum wall!’

  ‘What’s that noise?’

  Dera and Croc run to the top of the steps. They don’t say anything, they just stand there looking east towards the city. Aeson and I climb the steps up to ground level to see what they’re staring at.

  It looks like a funeral procession winding up Serapis Street, a twinkling line of torches. Instead of turning left towards the Necropolis, the lights snake down the Canopic Way.

  Patch pokes the air with his finger. ‘Heading for the Theatre, I reckon. Look there’s a pyre burning in the Theatre, see.’

  ‘Serapis knows what poor bastards they’re burning.’

  ‘I imagine, dear, that Theophilus is roasting something far more impressive than a bunch of heretics.’

  ‘Serapis.’ Aeson’s tone is bitter.

  ‘That’s the Archbishop’s style dear… in full view, so the whole city can watch the cremation.’

  The hermit turns to Aeson and I. ‘We must go. Alexandria won’t be safe tonight. Those monks have a taste for blood. Tonight they will do unspeakable things.’

  ‌58

  Rufius

  Does the hermit seriously think I can pass for a fisherman with my dyed hair?

  ‘I’m not getting in that thing, dear. I’ll sink it.’

  The hermit steadies the boat, checking both sides of the canal for people. Water laps against the wooden hulls of colourful fishing boats as they bob in the torchlight by the bridge.

  Aeson takes my hand to help me in. Thank Bacchus my Biblos slaves went with Apollinos. They would never have forgiven me for such demeaning transportation. What a life fishermen must have, paddling down these mosquito-infested canals, back and forth to the lake everyday. Doesn’t bear thinking about. These reed sacks the hermit made us throw round our shoulders reek of fish.

  ‘Not even a cushion, dear. It stinks worse than a smokery. Bah! We’re doing the owner a favour pinching his boat.’

  Aeson pulls the oars back slowly in time with the hermit. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s nervous. ‘Shush, Rufius. Keep your voice down.’

  There’s the city wall, coming into view ahead of us. I can’t see any guards on the bridge. Why are Aeson and Dera being so cautious?

  ‘Every last city guard will be in the Agora looting the temples, dear. What –’

  ‘Rufius, shush! Alexandria’s under curfew.’

  It’s such a squash in here. We should have taken a bigger boat.

  ‘Who goes there?’ The bridge guard’s voice makes me bounce on the hard wood. Give a pleb an iota of power and they act like the bloody Emperor. The bridge is almost above our heads… so where’s the bossy guard?

  The hermit stands and speaks in his slow, level voice. At least he pronounces all his consonants.

  ‘We are just fishermen, sir. We request permission to pass under the wall to fish in Lake Mareotis.’

  The guard peers over the bridge, his torch held out in front of him. Well, that’s a first: a bridge guard dressed in full armour.

  ‘Oooo, isn’t he grand!’

  ‘Shush!’ Aeson turns to face me. It’s impossible to make out his features but I know he’s frowning.

  ‘Why’s there three of you fishing together? You lot usually fish alone.’

  ‘Safety in numbers, sir.’

  He sucks the night air in through his teeth, coughs and spits. Delightful manners, dear! His gob plops somewhere in the black water near the boat.

  ‘Gutless fishermen,’ he mutters loud enough for us to hear him.

  Dera stands, huge black legs spread wide on the curved sides of the hull, and sways with the movement of the boat to retain his balance. What a man. He wouldn’t look out of place in the arena. Aeson holds his breath in anticipation.

  ‘Why should I let you pass?’

  Oh, I’ve had enough of this. Since when does a bloody bridge guard pose a threat?

  ‘Because a gold coin might put a smile on that ugly face of yours, dear.’

  Aeson groans.

  ‘Who’s calling me ugly?’

  ‘Never you mind, dear. You’ll feel like a beauty after a night on Venus Street. Whores will tell you anything if you pay them well enough.’

  He disappears from the bridge. That’s the clank of the gate bolt being released, the slap of his sandals on the bridge steps… here he is, the surly oaf. He must have outgrown his old armour years ago.

  ‘Show us yer money, old man.’

  He leers over us, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, the other outstretched towards us.

  Come on, purse, let’s have you. Here it is, tied inside my fishy tunic. What I’d give for a bath.

  ‘Hand it to him, Aeson, will you, dear.’

  The bridge guard holds the coin up to his torch, bites it between his teeth and grunts. What’s he going to do, eat it?

  ‘Where did a bunch of poor fishermen get a gold coin, that’s what I want to know… an’ you don’t talk like a fisherman talks.’

  I’m bored of this oaf.

  ‘The Serapeum. Where else, dear man? What are you doing here when the rest of the city guard is looting the temple? I do hope your colleagues give you your fair share of the profits.’

  ‘What, no one told me…’ His breastplate clanks as he stuffs the coin under his tunic.

  That’s it: back up the steps you go, dear. His sandals slap along the wall and out of earshot.

  ‘Ha! Off we go, dears. Put your backs into it. I want off this stinking excuse for a boat as soon as possible.’

  ‘Rufius, will you keep your mouth shut. He might alert the army.’

  How can a beauty travel the Empire and retain his innocence?

  ‘You still have a thing or two to learn about people, dear. We’ll finish your education when we reach Italy.’

  My gut’s tight and I’m sweating so much my tunic’s stuck to my skin under this fish sack. The relief of being outside the city walls has turned to apprehension. The sight of so many boats on fire in Lake Mareotis harbour makes me queasy.

  Dera and Aeson stop rowing and look at the lake port. Dera exhales with a low whistle. ‘Deserted as the streets of the Necropolis. The looters have been and gone.’

  Taverns and shops along the port are shut up, some have had their windows smashed in, and furniture and rubbish litter the street that runs parallel to the lake. The torches have not been lit tonight and the flames from burning boats nearest to the port don’t throw much light out here. We’re swamped by the blackness of the lake. It feels like we’re being swallowed up by the dark.

  I feel a tantrum coming on. I’ve not eaten since midday – even this fish sack’s starting to smell appealing.

  ‘If those looters have burnt Biblos, I’ll, I’ll…’ My shoulders slump forward. I don’t have the energy to throw a temper fit. Aeson’s hand on my shoulder is a comfort at least.

  A great blast of noise – like an avalanche of rocks falling – comes from the city. We turn towards Moon Gate. Can’t see a thing from here.

  There it is again. It’s coming from the Serapeum. Aeson stands up in the boat to get a better view.

  ‘They must be pulling down the great columns that support the temple.’

  And I thought I would get old and die here in Alexandria. It was home for a while. Where in the world will an o
ld cinaedus rest his fat old knees now?

  ‘Aeson, sit down, dear. Exile isn’t so bad.’ I fell in love.

  ‘He’s right, lad. We must go, there’s a long journey ahead of us.’

  Lake Mareotis stretches out into infinite blackness; it will take us to the Nile, then up river into Upper Egypt. Perhaps we can charter a decent boat and crew further up river. This is going to be an uncomfortable journey. By Bacchus, I hate boats.

  The oars slosh in the water. Despair hangs in the silence between us.

  We’ll find no rest in any town along the Nile tonight. Pyres rage high from of the Temple of Antinous; their flames light up the riverbank. What a sad sight.

  ‘Looks like the destruction has spread down river, brothers. Every Temple of Antinous we’ve passed has been in flames.’

  Does that giant hermit have to state the obvious?

  ‘The Emperor Hadrian would turn in his grave, dear.’

  ‘You’re shivering, Rufius.’ Aeson offers me his fish sack.

  ‘Don’t be soft, Aeson. It’s boiling, dear. I’m shaking with rage.’

  Perhaps Rome’s not the best destination. What if this new law condemning cinaedi is actually enforced… in avenging flames in the sight of the people? Bloody intolerant Emperor this one, and now his head’s stuck up the church’s arse it’s only going to get worse. At least the lawyers who drafted it made some concession for a final show of exhibitionism.

  ‘Here, Rufius, I pinched a pot of Turk’s Desert Honey.’

  Ha! That’s my boy. What did Apollinos say? – once a thief, always a thief.

  ‘Shall we retire to my villa on the Naples coast? It’s near Baia.’ I was joking, but why not? Retirement has never occurred to me. But look where being Director of the Scriptorium got me: on a stinking fishing boat dressed in a sack!

  ‘What do you think, Aeson?’ Please say you’ll come. My heart pounds with longing. Bacchus, do not part us again.

  ‘Really, Rufius! Would you retire to the coast?’ Is that hope in his voice? ‘It might be an idea to keep a low profile…’ He’s worried about the laws too, about a cinaedus who refuses to hide his tasselled tunics and jewels in the closet.

  ‘We could copy a few more versions of The Book of Wisdom in honour of little Kiya, dear.’