How in the name of Bacchus do these sedan curtains open?
‘Stop there, dears – at the entrance to the Museum.’ The dishevelled trotting boys look relieved.
We fall out the sedan and stagger to the gate. Crocodile’s good fun. He dragged me into nearly every seedy bar and whorehouse in Alexandria. Shame the feisty Aeson couldn’t join us.
‘Why wouldn’t your pimp let me take the Greek boy?’
‘Cos’ he’s new. He don’t know the rules.’
The Museum guard’s nearly as old as me. Who appoints these mongrels?
‘All librarians must present their identity cards after hours, sir.’
Insolent slave! Doesn’t he know who I am? Well he’s about to.
‘You are addressing the Director of the Scriptorium, Rufius Biblus Catamitus. I’m here to inspect my office.’ My speech is slurred, and I’m swaying about like I’m back on that bloody boat again. Crocodile puts a hand behind my back to steady me. Sweet boy.
‘Apologies, sir. We expected you earlier. Your secretary has arranged your rooms.’ He bows and eyes Crocodile with suspicion. ‘Who is this?’
‘Let my guest pass or you’ll regret it.’
His gaze drops to the floor as he takes a step back, and waves at the guards to open the gates. Crocodile puffs out his chest and struts through into the gardens after me.
The massive Greek columns would dwarf Damasus’ churches back in Rome… and the roof, lit by hundreds of torches, is an eruption of gold. Crocodile isn’t impressed. He flicks his hands through the water fountains and splashes me. Playful, but simple.
‘So d’ya live ’ere at the Museum then?’
‘I have an office here and another at the Serapeum.’
‘Where’s your house then?’
‘Overlooking the harbour I believe.’
‘Don’t yer know?’ He laughs.
‘I arrived this morning.’
Suitably disinterested. Good. I dislike whores nosing into matters that don’t concern them.
A hinge squeaks. It cuts across the hush of the Museum gardens, and a guard opens the night door at the side of the large main entrance. No doubt grumpy at the gate sent a messenger ahead of us down some hidden pathway.
The entrance hall is enormous. Crocodile stops by the statue of the Muses and looks up. Alabaster glistens in the torchlight… the three colossal women have the fresh faces of young boys.
‘Nice tits.’
‘I’d prefer them without the udders, dear.’
A slap of sandalled feet makes Crocodile turn. I can guess who that is: Apollinos in his usual flap.
‘Master, master.’
‘You’ll have to excuse the slave, Crocodile, dear.’
‘Master.’ Apollinos is sweating so much it looks like he’s bathed in his tunic.
Crocodile slaps the foot of Memory, throws his head back and hiccups with laughter. His passion gap reminds me why I brought him here.
‘Unauthorised guests aren’t allowed into the Library after hours, master.’
‘Rules are made for breaking. Now, do you have something for me?’
‘Rules for breaking. Like it, man. Philosophical.’
Apollinos looks at the boy as if he’s a bad smell – Croc’s tatty trousers are a tad musty – and passes me a small wooden box. Um, a sniff of those intense earthy tones is enough to relax me. One of the benefits of Alexandria: good quality intoxicants. Perhaps it won’t be quite so dull here after all.
‘That will do. Where did you get it?’
‘The Emporium, master.’
Apollinos swipes Crocodile’s dirty fingers off the wall paintings. Trying to scratch off the gold leaf? Ha! The rascal.
‘Oi, get off, will ya?’ Crocodile shrugs him off.
‘Apollinos, lead the way. My guest is hungry, I’m sure.’
‘Starving, man.’
‘You just can’t get the slaves these days. I do apologise.’
‘Man, I can see that.’ He’s still laughing away. It amazes me how jolly street urchins can be.
Not a bad sized room, generous terrace… the frescos will need modernising.
‘It’s a bit on the poky side, wouldn’t you say so, Crocodile?’
‘Can’t swing a cat in ’ere.’
‘This office has a splendid view of the Great Harbour, master.’ Apollinos holds back the curtains for me to see. The Lighthouse casts a yellow glow over the water.
‘If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.’
The cushioned seating built into the terrace is ideal for entertaining.
‘Wine and music for our guest, Apollinos.’
‘But, master, there’s a letter, from Archbishop Damasus of Rome.’
‘Hand it over.’
The snap of the seal sends a pinch to my heart. Curse Damasus! I’m like a slave to him now. He’s not written this – cautious as ever. If we get caught, it won’t be Damasus’ neck under the executioner’s sword. His first order: The Gospel of Philip and The Book of Wisdom.
‘Here, Apollinos, check these books are in the Library catalogue.’
I exaggerate a sigh. Crocodile sighs too, then hiccups. Ha!
Apollinos frowns as he reads.
‘The Archbishop requests the delivery is made in two weeks… a Constantinople address. Master, that’s a tight deadline… and who will deliver the books? I’ve already acquainted myself with the catalogues: the Library has The Gospel of Philip stored in one of the warehouses on the docks, but The Book of Wisdom is not in the catalogues…’
‘Oh do stop panicking, Apollinos. Damasus wants us to sweat and I refuse to get my toga in a twist for a jumped up bishop. Do I have to do all the thinking around here? It’s quite simple. We borrow The Gospel of Philip and have it copied. Then we find the church, or whatever hovel the Ophites are hiding in, and…’
‘Ophites haven’t been heard of for at least a century, master. What if the Ophites are extinct and their books buried with them?’
‘Then loot their tombs, dear. You know as well as Damasus why that book is in demand. Ophites taught that Jesus was a mere man, that any man can attain divinity. At the rate the bishops are condemning heretics, there won’t be any books left that teach anything other than the Nicene Creed soon. Basic economics of demand and supply, Apollinos. That book is valuable.’
Apollinos nods towards Crocodile who is leaning forward, elbows on knees, listening with keen interest.
‘Perhaps I should fetch the guest some food, master… and we continue in private?’
‘Maybe Crocodile can help us?’
‘That depends, man.’
‘Well, of course, Crocodile, I can see you are a man of business. I’ll make it worth your while. We’re looking for a group of Christians.’
‘Man, give me more to go on than that. Alexandria’s full of ’em.’
What was it Hippolytus wrote about them in his Syntagma? Ah, yes… ‘They wear the mark of a serpent on their earlobes.’
‘You mean the Snake People. They keep to the desert, but you sometimes see ’em in the Agora on market day.’
‘Where do they live?’
He shrugs and plucks a fig from one of the two trees potted in large urns either side of the terrace. ‘Where’s the grub?’
‘On its way.’ Apollinos’ tone is curt. Ha! How he despises my taste for rough trade: a delicacy suited only to the discerning palate.
‘Send a slave to fan the boy. He’s sweating nearly as much as you.’
Apollinos opens the door, mutters an order to the slave outside who pads over to the terrace with a peacock feather fan.
Crocodile lounges back on the cushions, one hand thrown over his crotch.
‘Dunno where the Snake People live, but it’s easy enough to find out.’
Street urchins are so resourceful.
‘How?’
‘Follow them. The women come to the Saturday night-market to sell baskets. Me and the boys don’t bovver with ’em. They got nothing to pinch.’
He picks up the fruit knife and tests the blade, cuts his palm and squeezes it to stop the bleeding.
‘Saturday is tomorrow, master. You have a welcome dinner with the Head Librarian.’
Apollinos snatches the gold knife from Crocodile’s hand before he can slip it under his belt. ‘That’s Library property. You can’t trust these street kids. They’re all thieves.’
‘Ha! Takes one to know one, doesn’t it, Apollinos. We’re little more than thieves now Damasus has us under his fat thumb. Off you trot.’
Two slaves enter as soon as he’s gone. I recline and pretend not to notice Crocodile slip a knife under his trousers as a slave kneels to remove my sandals.
‘Crocodile, come and sit here and tell me all about your little friend.’ I pat the couch.
‘Which little friend?’ He strokes his groin. ‘You mean Aeson?’
‘Both, dear.’ I’ve drunk too much to cause a stir, but as long as he’s hard, we’ll have some fun tonight.
‘Man, give us some of that.’ He nods at my wooden box. ‘And I’ll tell ya all about him.’
Two slaves enter with washing bowls for our feet.
‘Watch it! That tickles.’ He laughs like he’s choking.
‘My dear, if they weren’t so filthy you wouldn’t need them scrubbed so hard.’ I’m laughing too, but at the look of disgust on the slave’s face.
‘What’s that on your arms and legs?’ His limbs are scaly like he has some sort of skin disease. As the slave scrubs they turn red and blotchy.
‘That’s why they call me Croc.’ He grins.
‘After your scaly skin. Why don’t we all have names which mean something… what would you call me?’
He rubs his hand on his fine stubble. ‘Peacock, is what I’d call yer.’
‘Why Peacock?’
‘Cos you dress like an old Pharaoh, and you got a low hanging belly and a skinny neck.’
‘You might want to work on your seduction technique, dear.’
The slave at my feet is smirking. He deserves the bowl kicked in his face… drenched the little shit. Serves him right.
‘Bring beeswax and a pipe. Let’s smoke Dionysus’ health, dear.’
‘What’s the beeswax for?’
‘Your flaky skin. It must itch terribly.’
He stares at me with surprise. He’s probably never had a tender thing done for him in his life.
‘We don’t want you shedding your skin over my cushions like a snake.’ I don’t want to spoil the atmosphere and get too paternal. He’s the entertainment after all. ‘Well take off your trousers so the slaves can wash you down, dear.’ I like them cheeky, but clean.
His name does suit him. He’s scaly all over.
‘What do you want me to do when I get to where the Snake Women live?’
‘Apollinos will fill you in on the details.’
‘What you after? I wanna know what I’m getting into here.’
Perhaps there’s more he can do for me. To borrow all the books Damasus demands will eventually raise suspicions.
‘Crocodile, how good are you at climbing?’
He looks nervous all of a sudden. ‘Like climbing walls, you mean?’
‘Yes, walls, terraces, roofs.’
‘You want Aeson. Climbs like a monkey, he does.’
‘Interesting. And would you and Aeson be available to do a job – for me, not Turk?’
‘Sounds like you need a librarian, not a thief.’
‘Out, slaves. That’s quite sufficient.’ I must keep a muzzle on my mouth. Damasus is shrewd. I must be careful too. As Apollinos keeps reminding me, in the East they gladly administer the death penalty just for handling heretical books if there’s so much as a hint of magic in them.
Croc gets up, slides his cock back and forth in his hand and waits for me to turn my arse to face him. They’ve covered his skin in so much wax we’ll slip all over each other… beeswax might make a better lubricant than olive oil.
‘Slave, leave the beeswax.’
‘Good idea, man.’ He sticks his hand in the pot, rubs the wax between his palms and coats his cock. By Bacchus, my sphincter’s gasping for him – I’m in the hands of an expert!
‘You see, dear, it mustn’t look like an inside operation.’ What’s he waiting for back there?
‘Let me get this straight – the Director of the Scriptorium, who has access to every book in the city, wants to steal his own books?’
He’s laughing so much, his cock’s bouncing.
‘Well when you put it like that it doesn’t sound like theft at all, dear.’
He throws his head back, pumps his arm fast and laughs. Delightful!
‘Man, I’m blasted. The moon, the stars, they’re all spinning.’
‘Pop him in, dear.’