Library brats – now I get why Rufius calls them that – whisper, snigger and point at me, have been since Apollinos left me in the queue for the scriptorium. Just like my first night in the Necropalace, this is.
The sight of a tall man in a toga marching towards us shuts them up. Must be the teacher, but he doesn’t look like the other teachers I’ve seen around the Museum: skinny and hunched or fat and soft. This one’s brawny and walks like a general. We follow him into the room in silence.
‘SIT.’ We sit. Chairs scrape on the marble floor.
He circles us like a lion circling its prey. Not all of the librarians wear togas. Rufius doesn’t. It’s the strict ones that do, I reckon.
‘I’m Master Olympus.’ Bellows for lungs, he’s got.
‘WRITE IT.’ We stare. Someone sniggers. There’s a clatter of wax tablets. The rolls of parchment in the paper stands must be for the scribes. Write what, his name, or the whole sentence?
‘Who was that?’ He thwacks his large desk at the front of the room, then turns his back to us and reaches up above the red granite statue of Memory in the corner for the whip.
Let’s take a sneaky glance up at the ceiling before Olympus turns around. Never thought I’d see the Library from the inside. I made it, Dad.
The scriptorium’s directly under the domed roof Hadrian added. Sunlight streams down on us through high windows. This is where the scribes work. If Rufius is Director of the Scriptorium he must be in charge of this room. The old man seemed to enjoy filling my wardrobe, buying me gifts. Even got an ID card: Aeson Biblus Catamitus. DOB: 365. Honey-coloured skin, blue eyes, black hair, no distinguishing features. Rufius said his lawyer in Rome is drawing up the adoption papers. Not pretending, is he? I mean, here I am… in the scriptorium of the most famous library in the world. What a ceiling painting! The Muses, stark naked, cavort with Egyptian scribes and Greek scholars with long beards; hieroglyphs are written on tall obelisks… and there’s the Great Pyramid. Wish I could climb up there on the ladders in the rows of shelves, scroll upon scroll stacked like they were in the Library warehouse. Flat shelves for the new page-turning books piled just as high.
‘I SAID WRITE, NOT PRAY.’
The whip thwacks my desk. Shit, my stylus, it’s heading for the floor. Caught it! More sniggers from the library brats. Head down. What am I meant to be writing… his name?
Olympus is like Apollinos the way he leers over my wax tablet. Must write something. What are the letters? One letter at a time, said Apollinos. Walk through the alphabet if you’re not sure. α, β, γ, δ, ε, ζ, η, θ, ι, κ, λ, μ, ν, ξ, ο. Omicron, that’s it. His name starts with an O.
Must hold the pen how Apollinos taught me. Olympus stares at my hand. Keep it steady, Aeson. That’s it. θλψμπυσ. Not bad. The letters are round and clear.
‘THIS IS A LATIN CLASS!’
Oh no! I completely forgot. Roman numerals, come on brain, think… a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h…
‘A-Aeson can’t write L-latin.’
Who said that? Posh honey-nosed accent. My gob won’t twist into the right shape to make those long vowels. Nudges travel down the rows of wooden desks. Olympus’ attention switches to the fat boy squeezed into his tunic in the front row.
‘Yes I can.’ I’m not letting some honey-nose show me up.
‘SILENCE. NO ONE SPEAKS UNLESS I TELL THEM TO SPEAK. OVER MEMORY’S BENCH, BOTH OF YOU.’
Memory’s bench? He must mean the low wooden frame in front of her statue. So it’s not gymnasium apparatus.
‘B-but…’
‘SILENCE!’
The fat boy gets up from his desk. I knew it – that stutter – it’s Fatty! Thank Serapis, Turk didn’t kill him. Little shit! Can’t blame him for wanting revenge. I must have scared him halfway to Hades when we robbed the warehouse.
We both take the slow walk of shame to the front of the room. Our classmates are in hysterics. They’re as nervous as we are.
The whip unravels. Olympus’ strike, fast and practised, licks across the front row of desks and catches someone’s hand. A stylus flies into the air.
‘You are the cream of Alexandria… so you think. To me you’re just a bunch of little ignoramuses. And those of you whose faces I have to see again next year will suffer, so I advise you not to muck about, but to work your itchy balls off. Got it?’
The silence is rigid.
‘GOT IT?’ he shouts across the room, the veins on his gym-thick neck protrude. He’s a bloody nutter. I’m better off in the Necropolis. Lanky’s scarred face comes into my head. Maybe not.
‘Right then, who’s first?’ Olympus asks as if we’re taking turns at dice. ‘Cat got your tongues, boys? You. Name?’
‘Aeson Biblus Catamitus, I am.’ I say it with pride.
A few splutters but no one dares laugh.
‘I am! Who else would you be, you fool? I’ll not abide insolence, nor will I allow superfluous, non-grammatical effluent in my class. If you want to imitate gutter-Greek, I suggest you join the theatre.’
He thinks I’m putting it on. Don’t jumble your syntax, Apollinos would say. I hate elocution: talking right sounds soppy, but I got to do it. Belonging is acting. Gang life taught me that.
‘And you?’ He turns to Fatty.
‘I-I-I-…’ Fatty closes his eyes and lowers his head.
Oh no, Fatty’s gone and pissed himself. Hot, stinking piss splats my ankles. Poor Fatty. He’ll never live this down. Olympus flares his nostrils and huffs like a bull. The class hold their noses to keep their laughter in. We’re in for a right hiding now.
If Croc was here, he’d do something to save us. The image of him, clinging to the Stadium wall ready to shit his loincloth makes me miss him. None of this lot will help us. That boy, stubble already black and thick, in the front row’s enjoying this. Looks like a spectator at the stadium, he does: impatient for the kill. Stubble grabs his own neck, tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth; he points at me and grins. The longer this lesson goes on the better.
‘OVER YOU GO. TUNICS UP.’
The class coughs and splutters to hide their laughter. Must be a sight – Fatty’s big white arse next to mine: gym hard and the colour of honey. Clench my bum cheeks tight to keep the muscle solid. The whip will sting Fatty’s flabby arse more than mine.