How can Rufius stuff his face when everyone else is on rations?
His rooms have been completely redecorated since the last time I was here. And now he has not just his office and a room leading off that for relaxation with couches, but two additional rooms beyond those. Looks like they’ve turned it into a makeshift scriptorium – scribes sit hunched over desks scratching reed pens across parchment as fast as they can.
Kiya’s crutch clicks as she hobbles round desks and checks their work.
‘How do you manage it, Rufius?’
Rufius looks up from the couch by the terrace. I know that bitter smell: Desert Honey.
‘Manage what, dear?’
‘All this?’ I wave my arm over the tables in front of him – pastries, fresh figs and exotic delicacies on enormous gold plates.
Rufius’ kohl eyebrows crease in disapproval as he takes my drift. ‘I didn’t see you complaining during your ten year jaunt around the Empire. Wrapped in rags were you, dear?’
A click of his fingers above his head and Apollinos, grey now, passes him the other half of a fig.
‘Where did you get those from? The fig trees in the Serapeum courtyard are bare.’
‘Oh, do stop dishing out the judgment, dear. Go and play Magistrates with your friend Fatty.’
Rufius’ nerves are as frazzled as mine.
Apollinos points over to the terrace. ‘There are four fig trees on the terrace, master Aeson.’
‘If I need a defence, Apollinos, I’ll pay a lawyer, dear. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.’
Kiya clicks back into the office. ‘There you are, Apollinos. Get to work. All who can write must copy – we don’t have much time.’
‘Ha, do what you’re told, Apollinos!’
It’s funny to hear Kiya boss Biblos slaves about. Rufius has that indulgent look on his face he saves for Diana. It amuses him that orphans and slaves – especially women – can be bold.
A sigh rolls up inside my chest and I plomp down next to him on the couch. At least some things are constant: Rufius is still Rufius.
‘Any word of Diana, any messages getting through?’
Kohl eyebrows crease in concern. ‘None, dear.’
‘Serapis, keep her safe.’
‘Still committed to your old god, dear? You do humankind a disservice. Diana will survive on her wits, my boy, on her wits.’ His speech slurs.
‘That’s rich coming from you. I still can’t believe you suggested to Damasus that I convert.’
‘What are you complaining about? You refused, didn’t you? Always wilful. It was for your own good, dear. Christians advance in this new world.’
I still can’t work Rufius out. He’s full of paradoxes. He chooses infamy, but insists I conform.
What mischief swirls in his cloudy old eyes? He raises an eyebrow. ‘What dirt do you have on Damasus? Not that it matters now he’s dead – and good riddance – but I always thought he was playing around with the novices.’
‘How can you gossip as Alexandria burns?’ I look over the balcony. Thin tendrils of smoke make patterns in the blue sky. Those pyres have been kept alight for three weeks.
‘Well, what do you suggest? Here, have a spoonful of Desert Honey – it might cheer you up, dear? I’m sure it’s got weaker over the years.’
The initial joy of being reunited soon thawed – Rufius is more infuriating than ever.
Kiya stamps her good foot on the ground and twists her contorted back to face us. ‘Either you two stop bickering, or pick up a pen and start copying.’
‘Ha! That told us, dear.’
That made us laugh too – the topsy-turvy absurdity of it: little Kiya ordering about the Director of the Scriptorium. It’s made Rufius wheeze he’s laughing so much.
‘That’s better. I was worried you might have gone soft. And that wouldn’t do for the fine Roman you’ve grown into. You’re too old for me now, so I do hope you’re not jealous, dear?’
Rufius’ gaze rests on his young body slave’s thighs.
He’s being ironic, but what perverse twist of emotion is this? Resentment? Disgust, that the old man still lusts after boys… am I jealous? I’m jealous! But why? As a boy I was relieved when he bent over for a Biblos slave instead of me. I don’t want to fuck him, but I still want him to desire me.
The boy giggles. His skin’s the same honey tone as mine, his eyes a paler blue. Rufius squints at the plates of food.
‘You’re going blind aren’t you, Rufius?’ The blue film over your eyes, the way you pat the table around objects before you find them. I couldn’t sleep with a man who can hardly see me, couldn’t admire me. Some of my lovers were as ugly as Gorgons but that heightened my own pleasure, fed my narcissism. I imagined their lust more lascivious on account of their ugliness. After all these years of calling Rufius shallow, I realise that’s exactly what excites me.
‘Not so blind that I can’t see you’re still my little Antinous beneath all that brawn, Aeson dear.’
He knows how I feel – he was someone’s ephebe once. I’m solidified in his memory. It pains him too, that I’m no longer his beautiful boy. Better change the subject.
‘Alright then, Rufius, here’s the gossip – I don’t usually speak ill of the dead but the Archbishop of Rome was a fat old crook.’
‘Ha! Was he fatter than me? Tell me he was, dear.’
‘That hippopotamus Damasus and his yapping widows – skinny as rakes –’
My pause allows Rufius to finish wheezing. Apollinos offers him a glass of water. Rufius shoos it away and points at the wine.
‘That’s better. Carry on, dear.’
‘The year Damasus died, the flabby old Archbishop fleeced an old matron called…’
A bang at the bolted door makes us all jump.
‘What in Hades is that racket?’
‘Master, it’s Cassius. Let me in.’ Cassius’ muffled shouts increase in volume as a young Biblos slave lifts the iron bolt and opens the door. He stands in the doorway, eyes round with fright, and gasps for breath. ‘Master, they’re letting them inside. They’re opening the gates, master. The Emperor –’
‘What, the Emperor here? Impossible.’
‘Slow down, Cassius.’
Cassius gabbles on without taking a breath. ‘Master, master.’ He addresses us both. ‘The Emperor’s reply arrived. They have agreed a short-term truce so the Prefect and the Archbishop can enter the Serapeum and read it out.’
We look at each other. The scribes in the adjoining rooms have put down their pens and lean over their desks to listen. The only sound is the click of Kiya’s stick. ‘Keep writing. Keep writing.’ She whacks her crutch on the desk nearest to her.
‘Ha, I’m convinced she’s got a pair of balls under her dress.’
Rufius and I walk out to the terrace – those fig trees are sinfully heavy with fruit. Monks, soldiers and citizens congregate outside the Serapeum walls and jitter with expectation. Beyond the harbour the Pharos reflects the midday sun. The sky is a brighter turquoise than I’ve ever seen it. A perfect day for fishing Dad would have said. What an odd thought, with the army stretched like a silver snake down Serapis Street.
Rufius looks at me – he doubts the wisdom of a truce as much as I do. He turns to the Biblos slaves gathered around the terrace. ‘Arm yourselves, my boys. This may not go as that old fool Olympus expects.’
Trunks are opened, scabbards and swords strapped to waists.
At last, something’s happening. My heart beats strong and steady in my chest. My limbs move towards the door as light as if walking through a dream. The stench of decay is hot in my nostrils. I am here. I’ve never felt so wholly in my body, so fully in the present moment.
From the balcony we watch temple slaves run across the courtyard to the Serapeum doors. The huge hinges crunch and scrape as they’re pulled open for the first time in three weeks.
Helmets of the soldiers form a line at the top of the Serapeum steps to prevent the mob from entering the temple.
Bring on my destiny. Whatever it is. Serapis, bring it on.