By Bacchus, I must have been out for the count. Where am I? Is this the Underworld? The sky’s dusk blue. Why do I feel like I’m riding a camel?
‘Rufius, we made it.’ Aeson’s voice. I’m in his arms; the familiar briny-leather smell of his sweat is a comfort. He’s limping, that’s why it’s such a jerky ride.
‘Rufius?’ His voice is faint… the Serapeum, we were in the secret passage, fighting monks. That’s the last thing I remember. I must have passed out. Never had the stomach for blood. The poor boy, he must have carried me the whole way.
‘Put me down, dear.’
‘Ouch!’ My arse. No need to drop me.
Aeson?
Has he collapsed? His eyes are closed.
Come on, elbows: lift and pull. If my gut didn’t get in the way, I might be able to push myself onto my knees a little easier than this. That’s it.
‘Aeson? What’s wrong, dear?’ Panic throbs fast in my chest. His tunic’s covered with blood. Not his – monk blood. Does he have a heartbeat? Need to check. Let’s get my ear closer. Yes, there’s a distant thump in his chest. Thank Bacchus! Perhaps he’s just exhausted from carrying my fat rump.
‘Please, dear. Wake up.’ Shaking his arm does no good. At least he’s breathing.
Where’s my boys? They left ahead of us. This ancient tomb’s deserted. Tall columns stretch up into the twilight, row upon row of loculi cut neatly into limestone. It’s still hot, but the air has the salty freshness of the ocean in it. The stars are out. White underbellies of seagulls fly overhead: are they the only living thing here?
Something’s happened. Biblos slaves would not have deserted us… Apollinos needs me.
‘Aeson, dear boy. Wake up.’ Out cold. His leg’s caked in dry blood.
What’s that shuffling?
Probably the surf scuffing the shore in the distance. Calm yourself, Rufius. Apollinos must be close by; he wouldn’t desert me… and Cassius, and where’s my new young body slave?
I want to call out to them, but something’s made me afraid to raise my voice.
There it is again: a shuffle: feet… above us… at ground level.
‘Apollinos, is that you?’ I sound like a timid virgin. ‘Apollinos, come down here and help me.’ That was an order.
‘I’m sorry, master.’ His voice came from up there, above the tomb.
‘Apollinos, where are you, boy?’
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, we 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.’