Kiya and I sway like we’re riding bloody camels across the desert – being carried across the city on the backs of slaves is even less dignified. Apollinos’ back is wet with sweat. Ha! Kiya’s face couldn’t get any redder; she made such a fuss about Cassius carrying her.
‘Comfortable up there, dear?’
‘Sweet Sophia, make the slave put me down.’
Cassius has held his breath all the way from the Museum. Kiya smells like the rubbish tips. At least it’s stopped him sobbing, taken his mind off his younger brother… memory plays the scene of Antinous’ legs being sliced off yet again: the boy collapsing on his kneecaps… crushed yellow rose petals falling from Damasus’ fingers… block it out! I must block the memory.
What in Bacchus’ name is going on in the Agora?
‘Halt, everyone! Apollinos put me down.’ Apollinos releases his grip on my arse and I slide off his back. I don’t believe my eyes. Hundreds, no thousands of black-cloaked monks chant and pump their staffs in the Agora. ‘What’s that pyre for?’
‘Sweet Sophia, pyres are built for one reason: funerals.’
Cassius looks up, blonde curls lash his face in the wind. ‘The heavens are angry.’
Kiya nods. ‘This weather is an omen.’
Rain clouds drift over the Agora and the sun casts a sickly glow through the grey.
I must have a closer look; an invisible cord of curiosity pulls me to the Agora entrance.
‘Master, get on my back. We need to get to the Serapeum.’
‘Get off me, Apollinos.’
The old slave’s right – we should move on before the monks spot us – ‘Where did they all come from?’ My voice sounds confused.
Kiya leans over Cassius’ shoulder to get a better view down the street. ‘Sweet Sophia, the demon army has descended from the desert. The End of the World has come.’
We stare, jaws loose with amazement, through the arch at the arcade entrance. The spectacle is too fantastic. ‘That can’t be Phallus!’
It is Phallus! The horny old god’s being paraded on the shoulders of the monks. Their wild dance, black robes swish as they hoist the god on their shoulders. By Bacchus, they’re trying to bash off his knob!
We watch their sadistic ritual: they queue, to give the god’s enormous cock a mighty whack with their staffs. My hand moves to my groin; I wince as Phallus’ cock droops. My heart does a nosedive as if a heavy weight is dropping through me, heart to stomach. It’s off…
Like a great fist has punched us in the guts, we gasp in unison as the god’s huge cock is flung into the fire.
‘Phallus, a eunuch!’ The shock cracks in my voice.
‘Sweet Sophia! Where’s the army?’
‘The army’s in the Archbishop’s purse, dear.’ Disgust makes me spit out the words.
A cheer goes up; the monk that laid the final blow is raised up on shoulders and paraded around the Agora, arms punching the air in victory.
We stare dumbfounded. Even Apollinos is rooted to the spot. This cannot be happening.