Apollinos should be back by now. We need to organise a distribution network for Arch-bloody-bishop Damasus’ books. Where did that slave put my letter box? Boxes everywhere. I hate mess. This villa needs a complete overhaul: new floors, fresh plaster, walls skimmed and painted. Looks like it’s been in this state for a century or more. I can’t even decipher the images on the frescos beneath the peeling paint. Is that a bird in a tree? Bah! There’s dust everywhere.
Ah, here it is, on my desk. Titus’ list rests on top of Damasus’ list: now that’s justice. What an ugly lizard of a man Titus was. I don’t trust him any more than I trust Damasus… although I do like the crackle of his top quality parchment… I’ll need reliable messengers to deliver all these books. Not my own slaves: nothing can lead back to me. Ha! Satisfaction at last – I’ll fiddle Damasus and he won’t have a clue. I’ll have to make deliveries to his clients too, but from the look of this list, Titus is better connected. That will give my old slave something else to fret about.
Where is Apollinos? I hate pacing, but I can’t sit still. On a hot night like this it’s good to feel the cool marble of the terrace under my feet. Bah! Cursed yellow silks sway around the terrace doors in the sea breeze; they nearly tripped me up. The stars are bright tonight… perhaps I’ll have a starry sky painted on the bedroom ceilings?
The view over the harbour’s not bad. Shocking that only fourteen years ago the Royal Palace, built on its own promontory, would have blocked the horizon. Now a peninsula submerged forever, the coastline gives no hint it ever existed. Theon said this house was built for one of the royals, designed by Greek architects, so it’s solid… unless another great wave washes Alexandria clean away from the limestone lip of Egypt. What a terrifying thought!
Humph! Old-fashioned wall paintings will have to go… and this terrace needs enlarging, but the house has potential. I will call it Villa Biblus… no, Biblos, now I’m in a Greek city. Apollinos will like that. Villa Biblos.
Bah! My glass is empty.
‘Wine, dear.’
Why can’t the slave walk without drawing attention to herself? The girl’s an exhibitionist. I can’t fault Alexandria for shopping. She’s just one of many exquisite finds at the Emporium: expensive, captured in some remote city. The slave trader was vague, but it’s evident the girl’s not been a slave long enough to become meek. As useless as a princess in a laundry room, master, complained Apollinos. He might be right, but I like to watch her. Hair black as a panther: Indian hair they call it; eyes set wide on her flat face, skin the sheen of high-polished ebony, tight as if it’s been waxed and stretched for a funeral mask. She’ll add a decorative touch to Villa Biblos. She’s more of a pet, but I can’t expect Apollinos to understand that. He’s too practical.
‘Were you trained by a herd of hippos?’
Did she tut?
‘Tut.’
Ha! A tutting slave, well I never! ‘Do you want a whipping, girl?’
Her almond eyes widen in surprise. Sized me up as a soft old fool, have you? She’s not wrong: I’ll leave the whipping for Apollinos.
‘I suppose you’ve worked out my preference by now, dear?’ I hold her chin in my hand. As her skinny black arm offers me the cup, gold bangles I picked out for her livery clink. ‘My guests might enjoy you, Cunty, but I’ll pretend you’re mine to keep their greedy hands off you.’
‘It bites!’ She looks down at her groin.
‘Ha! Feisty.’ Usually slaves try to melt into the wall paintings.
I had to dismiss the boys tonight. Dear things, but anything short of that blue-eyed siren only serves to torment me.
A door slams downstairs and Apollinos shouts orders. He’ll have his work cut out for him training the new slaves: they all fancy themselves, but they’re young enough to be moulded.
Here comes his flat-footed slap up the stairs.
Good, Apollinos has a scroll in his hand. He looks rather dishevelled, and why’s he panting like he’s run a marathon?
‘Did Crocodile give you the run around, Apollinos?’
‘The Ophites, master, they set their snakes on us.’
‘Ha! So that’s snake blood on your sword?’
‘Yes, master.’ He exhales loudly. Apollinos hates anything that slithers, even worms. The new slaves will have fun with him when I tell them. Ha!
‘I hope that’s the Pistis Sophia you’re carrying, Apollinos?’
‘Yes, master. Here’s The Book of Wisdom.’
The papyrus is old, translucent in places. Second century, I’d say. And here are the mysterious, untranslatable words, the vowels that make no sense. Some scholars call it magic – ‘aeeiouo iao aoi oia’ – I call it Christian jibberish, but it’s what it’s worth that matters.
‘Bugger! This book’s on both Damasus and Titus’ list. I’ll need two copies.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Stop panting and have a glass of wine, Apollinos.’
‘Master?’
‘You’ve earned it, dear.’ He looks at the jug. ‘Not my wine, dear.’ His neck’s red with embarrassment. I shouldn’t tease him.
‘Thank you, master.’
‘One down; a list to go, Apollinos. Is Croc clear on the details of his next job?’
‘But, master, I only told them to steal, er, borrow the Gospel of Philip.’
‘Was the Greek boy with him?’
‘We followed two boys.’
‘Excellent. We need to get all these books on Titus’ list tonight as well.’ He squints at the parchment over my shoulder. The girl’s dark eyes narrow: she’s taking it all in.
‘We can’t manage all of them, master, not in one night.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too many. Someone will notice.’
‘Well if they do, it won’t lead back to us, but to a gang of thieving street urchins.’
‘No, master, not tonight. It’s too risky. We don’t know the guards’ routines…’
‘No?’ Waiting and pacing has made my nerves ragged. ‘NO! How dare you. Cunty, pass me the whip.’
She winks at Apollinos and hands it to me. Ha! She’ll fit in at Biblos just fine.
‘Kneel down, Apollinos.’ I should send the girl out to save his humiliation, but better she sees it than feels it. He pulls his tunic up and lowers his head. It’s been years, but he knows the drill.
Apollinos whimpers after the first few thrashes. That’s enough. The sight of red lines across his back hurts me more than him. ‘Pull down your tunic, for Bacchus’ sake.’ Apollinos knows better than to defy me… perhaps it was the snakes?
The girl’s face is grim as I hand her the whip. Not as soft as you thought, girl?
‘The whip is not just for decoration in this house, girl. Do as Apollinos tells you, or it will be the same for you. Apollinos, after you’ve had a glass of wine – the good stuff – nip down to Venus Street, find that pimp Turk I told you about, and bring him back here.’
‘Turk? What shall I tell him, master?’
‘Tell the pimp I have a job for him. We need an army to pinch this lot.’ I hold out Titus’ list to Apollinos.
The tall Greek walks quietly to the door.
‘Apollinos!’
‘Yes, master?’
‘You’ve forgotten Titus’ list.’ He pads back over to me. ‘Keep your wits about you, dear.’ I say it gently.
‘Yes, master.’ His gaze is on the broken mosaic floor. We’ll need a new floor too. Apollinos is good at dealing with builders.
‘Girl, I told you to keep my glass filled.’
By Bacchus, she still looks like she has better things to do than pour my wine. Ha!
‘You’ll keep your looks here, sweetie.’ Her skin’s soft against my thumb. My perfect boy has the same sharp cheekbones.
She thumps back to her position by the door, next to the ivory bust of me as a boy.
‘You walk like a bloody elephant, Cunty.’
Back to pacing. A bird flutters out of the palm fronds hanging over the terrace. How bright the Pharos shines beyond the harbour. Now customs are closed the docks are quiet and tavern lights line the main quay. No ships dock this end of the harbour, just houses for Alexandria’s rich. Apart from a drunk singing a sea shanty in the distance, the only sound is the waves lapping against the seawall. Aeson and Croc will be at the other end by now, at the Library warehouses.
‘Be careful, my Olympian-eyed boy.’
I’m my own man. His defiant voice echoes in my mind; that crackle of boys’ voices as they’re breaking never fails to excite me. How I long to watch him grow and harden into a man. My whole being throbs at the thought of it. Hurry up, Apollinos. I must have that boy.