Rufius Read online

  ‘Aoi, aoi, aoi.’

  That’s the prayer I’ve heard Dera singing from his room for thirteen years. She’s a Snake Girl alright.

  The copyist smells of ink. He stares down at the purple marks he’s made with his reed pen on a corner of parchment, replaces the cork stopper on Dad’s glass ink-bottle, puts it back on the desk and narrows his eyes as if to say, where did you pinch this from?

  My useless inheritance, ain’t it? Dad, a brickie born and bred, left me a bottle of ink, a statue of Serapis and a bag of tools. I can see his feverish face staring up at me, his dying wish: write, my son. Don’t jump ropes like a monkey. Learn to write. My promise to him was as mad as his dream – that I’d learn to write. Purple ink won’t feed me and he never trained me up on the tools. Convinced he was, certain I’d become a scribe. Serapis, curse that prophecy.

  ‘Well, how much will you give me for it?’

  We both look at the bottle on the desk. Ink’s useless without the skill of the sacred art, so I’ll have to sell it to buy some lessons, won’t I?

  ‘Five silikas and no more.’ The copyist talks like a honey-nose.

  Five silver coins sounds like a fortune, but how do I know what ink’s worth? Let’s try my luck.

  ‘Ten silikas and you got a deal.’

  The copyist looks like he’s trying not to smile.

  ‘It’s your lucky day. I’m feeling generous.’

  I hold open Dad’s drawstring purse before he changes his mind and watch him count the coins as he drops them in. That’s more silver than I ever seen.

  The hullabaloo of the Emporium makes me feel dizzy as I step out of the shop.

  ‘Silika for the cripple.’

  She’s still here, smiling up at me. Pretty for a cripple. Her stick clicks on the ground as she uses it to pull herself up on to her one good leg. The foot of the other one is shrivelled, the size of a baby’s foot. She must be about my age. Big, round Egyptian eyes with that far away look Dera has when he’s having a vision. Need to keep my focus on the snake.

  ‘Aeson, where are you rushing off to? Wait for me. It’s important. You must go home.’

  Dad’s dead. Ain’t got no home. I’m getting out of here. She’s doing my head in.

  I weave through the crowds, and leave the click of her stick behind me. Can’t shake the memory of cementing Dad in that low, dark hole in the tomb wall. Got to perk myself up. Now I have everything I need for my quest.

  ‌3

  Kiya

  Sweet Sophia, what’s Dera got me following prophecy boy for? I expected Aeson to be a bit more unusual. Henite will be wondering where I am. I have to be at the Necropolis before sunset to finish inscribing the tomb. If I nip down this alley, I’ll cut him off. Well, I s’pose his beauty is unusual, and those piercing blue eyes, the colour of sapphire… the same colour as the gems in the eyes of Serapis in the Serapeum.

  This pillar will do. He won’t see me waiting behind here. After chiselling stone, it’s good to breathe in fresh air. Dust is caked inside my nostrils; I’ll have a good pick later. Sophia’s scaly skin undulates around my neck where she’s wrapped herself. I like her weight on my shoulders – makes me feel solid and heavy on the earth. Snakes’ bodies are all muscle. I wish I could move with their grace, instead of jerking along on my crutch.

  Here he comes. Out with the stick.

  ‘Ah! What the…’

  He’s down in the dust. Go get him, Sophia.

  Laughter bubbles up in my chest at the sight of Aeson pinned to the pavement by fear at the sight of Sophia slithering towards him.

  ‘Get that snake away from me.’

  ‘Sorry, Aeson, but I need you to listen to me.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘My name’s Kiya. I’m a tomb-inscriber.’

  ‘You’re a crazy cripple with a snake. Leave me alone.’

  Sophia hisses.

  Aeson shuffles back on his arse. People always keep their distance when Sophia’s with me. God’s Holy Spirit protects me.

  ‘Because you are in danger. You’re not safe in Alexandria. Your fate is bound to the fate of the temple and the temple is doomed.’

  His blue eyes roll.

  ‘Not you too! I’m sick of hearing about my fate. I’m me own man.’ He shakes the leather purse tied to his belt. ‘Here, this is my only link to Serapis – have it. Serapis knows, it didn’t bring Dad and luck.’

  He raises his right arm and throws something at me. ‘Take it.’

  It lands and spits gravel up at the bare ankle of my good foot.

  ‘I’m sorry, Aeson.’ He’s an orphan like me. Silently I chant, Aoi-aoi-aoi-amen. Dera the Hermit says the words have a healing frequency. I feel Aeson’s anger collapse, fall away as I continue to chant, Aoi-aoi-aoi-amen-aoi. Let the healing thoughts lap his body like the waves caress the beach. Sweet Sophia, work your magic.

  I slip down my crutch and pick up the tiny statue of a household god.

  ‘Serapis.’ It’s been skilfully chiselled.

  ‘Dad prayed to this stupid chunk of wood all his life and now he’s dead.’ His voice cracks. ‘Maybe he’ll bring you better luck. With your leg, or something.’

  I prop my crutch under my armpit so I can hold the tiny statue in both hands. It’s so light, the wood so smooth. I know as well as any Alexandrian the form of Serapis with his beard and basket of grain on his head.

  ‘Grief makes us do odd things.’ I know that well enough in my job. Night after night I watch mourners beat out their grief on their chests, tear the skin on their cheeks with bloody nails… although most women cheat and buy a beaker of blood from the local butcher to paint their faces.

  What’s this? A faint sound – not audible, but with a quality Dera, Seth, Henite and the other holy Aberamenthos have taught me to hear with my mind – makes me still my breathing. Concentrate on the silence, block out the city noise. There it is: a ring of bright, white energy only years of continual prayer can create buzzes around the statue.

  ‘I can’t take your god.’

  ‘Don’t blame you. He’s useless.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. It’s too powerful to give away.’

  I hold out my arm. ‘Sophia, come here.’ She slithers up and back around my neck. Released from the snake, Aeson gets up with the grace of a cat.

  ‘Here, take back your god. Keep Serapis safe.’

  Aeson looks sad as he takes Serapis. He tucks the god into his purse.

  ‘I’m sorry about your Dad.’ Dera called Henite to nurse his dad, but she said he’d given up on life by the time she arrived.

  He nods. ‘How do you know Dera?’

  ‘Dera’s a holy man.’

  ‘That’s what Dad used to say. He’s clever alright, but I’m not buying into no prophecy.’ His eyes roll again. Sunlight makes them even bluer. Celestial, Seth would call them.

  ‘Dera has visions.’

  ‘Having visions don’t make you holy.’

  My heart’s beating so fast. Sweet Sophia, maybe Aeson’s an angel… all that energy round the statue of Serapis. I’ll know if I touch him.

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Please.’

  His hand is warm. There’s definitely divine energy coming off him. Sweet Sophia, it’s throbbing all over me!

  ‘Ouch, you’re strong for a girl.’

  He pulls his hand back and laughs.

  ‘Aeson?’ I know that deep, calm voice. That’s Dera the Hermit.

  We both look back towards the Emporium exit. The hermit’s size always surprises me: Dera the Hermit must be the biggest man in the world… and the gentlest… funny how people cross the street to avoid him. Strong as the columns of the Temple of Serapis. His skin glistens, tight across muscles like aubergines. He never comes to church. Seth says hermits are loners. But he has that calmness about him all Aberamenthos have. Please, Sophia, help me grow wise like our holy ones.

  ‘Aeson, come with me. It is what your father
would have wanted.’

  ‘My father wanted me to be a scribe.’

  ‘You are not safe in Alexandria, Aeson.’

  ‘Dera, I’m not coming with you.’ Aeson sounds like he wants to run into Dera’s arms, but instead looks up at the tall wall next to us, uncertain. ‘Bye, Kiya.’

  ‘Aeson, come with me, please.’ Dera stretches out his great sea-monster arms towards Aeson.

  With one quick movement, Aeson runs up the side of the wall, pulls himself on to a window ledge and is away. He won’t get far – there’s a gap in the buildings. Sweet Sophia, he’s going to jump it!

  ‘Aeson, don’t jump…’ I’m not sure if my voice can reach him.

  He’s mad if he attempts that jump. He looks back at Dera, then at the gap between him and the next block, takes a few steps back and launches himself at the wall on the opposite side of the street.

  The huge African runs along the street adjacent to the wall.

  ‘Aeson, you promised your dad not to climb. I’ll find a way to pay for your apprenticeship, put you on the tools like you always wanted. Aeson, come back.’

  Aeson stops, turns and yells back, ‘I promised Dad I’d learn to write and that’s what I’m going to do.’

  We watch Aeson disappear over the rooftops.

  ‘Dera, why don’t you stop him?’

  ‘Not even I can jump like that, Kiya.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s the prophecy boy… I mean he’s not taking it very seriously?’ And I didn’t expect the prophecy boy to be so smelly.

  ‘You know every nook of Alexandria, Kiya.’

  Dera’s gaze shifts to the desert dunes, beyond the Serapeum on its hill.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The Necropolis. He might go to his father’s grave.’

  ‘And if he’s not there? I heard your thoughts. You’re leaving us, going back to the desert, aren’t you?’

  Dera laughs a strong, hearty laugh. ‘You’re a sharp one, Kiya. Keep listening like that, with the wisdom of Sophia, and you’ll make a fine Aberamentho one day.’

  My cheeks burn hot at the compliment. Me, an Aberamentho!

  ‘I’m going back to the desert, Kiya.’ His aubergine hand looks camouflaged against Sophia’s skin as he bends down and strokes her. He looks me straight in the eye. ‘Keep close to him, Kiya. Any trouble, tell Henite or Seth. They know how to find me.’

  My cheeks blaze hotter at the honour of having a task other than inscribing dead people’s tombstones.

  ‌4

  Aeson

  Reckon I lost him. Even Dera can’t keep up with me. The Canopic Way that cuts across the city and joins the East and West Necropolis seems bigger than usual. It’s so wide I reckon two ships could easy fit side by side across it. Tall marble buildings make me feel small. My bag strap’s too long, but not as long as it was last month. How tall will I grow? Tall as Dera? That would be top.

  A boy-racer swerves as he charges past in his chariot. Thinks he owns the road, he does. Some honey-nose’s son. Dad told me to stick to the main roads. Look where caution got Dad? I’ll nip down this side street, away from the traffic.

  I swallow the puky feeling that’s lodged itself permanently between my belly and throat. If I play at guessing smells that will keep my mind off Dad. Flare my nostrils and inhale. Incense, but which? Amber. No. Patchouli. Horseshit. Shit doesn’t count as it hides behind every smell in Alexandria. Rotting vegetables. Cabbage, that is. Fresh baked bread. Grilled meat… and honey… sweet-chicken sticks. Yum! Sweet-chicken brings back happy memories.

  What’s that noise? I look up the street. The Khamaseen roughs up my hair as it speeds through the alley off the desert. Thousands of voices hurry past on the wild wind: I’ve sniffed my way to the games.

  A cheer goes up from the stadium. Dad bought me sweet-chicken the last time he took me to the games. We’d sat with the other labourers on the marble steps, gawping at the rich on swanky cushioned balconies as exotic as the beasts and gladiators.

  The sun’s low in the sky over the Western Necropolis. Didn’t Dad say something about tickets selling cheap for the last fight of the day?

  Umm, sweet-chicken. My stomach groans. Food stalls skirt the huge walls.

  ‘Five chicken sticks please.’ Dad would call me greedy, but I’m my own man now.

  The face of the chicken man shines with sweat, like he’s coated in honey too. He peers at me through the smoke from the grill, hands me the sticks and coughs. For a moment I thought it was Dad’s feverish face.

  ‘Sir – what about my change?’

  ‘What change?’ He bellows it. People push to be served, laugh and point at me. My cheeks burn. Reckon I’ve been conned, I do.

  Drum rolls signal the last fight of the day. There’s the ticket man.

  ‘Lucky you are, lad. The Prefect of Alexandria’s got Saracen back on.’

  ‘Saracen!’ My gob goes limp like an idiot.

  ‘Chop, chop or you’ll miss him. I’ve got ten on him myself.’

  I bite the chicken sticks hard between my teeth, and open my bag to get my purse.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, lad. Hurry up those steps or you’ll miss him.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  The ticket man chuckles as I rush up the stairs to the cheap seats. Ten what? Surely he didn’t bet ten silver coins on Saracen. Ten silver coins is what I got for the ink, and now the chicken man done me over, I got nine.

  Another drum roll; I’ll think about it later. I run through the arch and squeeze onto the back step of the top tier. The cheer of the crowd is one big, throbbing roar. My body thumps with the pulse of the stadium. Can’t believe I’m going to see my favourite gladiator in the flesh.

  A huge man swaggers, sword and shield in the air, into the arena and stops in front of the Prefect’s balcony. He must be Saracen. From up here the gladiators and beasts look tiny, but I know Saracen’s shape from the toys in the Emporium. He’s not as tall as Dera, not as black either, but he’s wider. And his legs are bigger.

  Dera don’t like the games – Alexandrians are a mob in the stadium, he’d nag. I think the games are the best thing ever.

  ‘SaraceEEEEN.’ My voice is lost in the wild cheers of the crowd. Hands above my head, I clap in time. The stadium vibrates with the thump of feet on marble. It’s like my little cheer is a small part of a huge pounding marble beast with a roar of a voice.

  Round, flat pieces of bone are being exchanged for money on all sides of me.

  ‘Saracen. Never lost a match yet. Double or nothing,’ shouts the bet-maker next to me when the rush for roundels slows down.

  Dad warned me against gambling: only hard graft brings a man wealth.

  But I’ve got Serapis with me. I root around in my bag and pull out the little statue and clench it in my palm. Kiya said it’s powerful. ‘Double my money, Serapis.’

  ‘Last bets,’ shouts the bookie.

  ‘Five silver silikas’ worth, please.’

  Saracen swings his sword around his body. The crowd’s cheer sounds like a roll of thunder.

  I tug at the bookie’s tunic, hold up Dad’s old leather purse and shake it so the coins chink.

  He gives me the once over. ‘Show me your money.’

  The silver coins wink pink in the sun streaming through the huge arches of the stadium as I empty them into my palm. The bookie’s eyebrows rise and his brow wrinkles like one of the fat elephants parading around the circle below.

  ‘Only five? Saracen’s never lost!’

  A sweat breaks out on my top lip. He’s never lost… and I’ve got Serapis.

  ‘Well, what’s it to be?’

  Make some magic happen, Serapis.

  ‘Nine. Nine silver silikas.’

  I drop them in his big open palm. He passes me a large bone disk and laughs. It’s got an X on one side and some letters on the reverse. I remember what Dad said they say: I promise to pay.

  ‘You’ll be a rich young man before the sun sets.’


  I clench Serapis in one hand and the roundel tight in the other. Eighteen silikas, I’ll win. And I’ll spend them all on writing lessons, I promise, Dad.

  The Prefect nods to signal the start of the fight.

  Saracen’s muscle-bound opponent runs across the arena – exotically white, with hair almost as pale as his skin – mouth wide open towards him. They circle each other like animals. I chant with the crowd. The gladiators look like they’re shouting at each other, but it’s too noisy to hear them.

  Saracen throws himself at his opponent.

  The audience holds its breath.

  He knocks the white man down.

  We all gasp.

  They’re on their feet.

  We sigh, a huge, loud sigh.

  Again and again they plunge at each other – charging, circling, striking, then falling apart. The audience breathes in time with their moves. It looks like a dance from up here, a violent mime. The crowd’s reaction is the only sound.

  They throw themselves together again. This time they don’t pull back from each other. Saracen’s opponent throws him down. The white man holds the black man face-down to the sand, one knee into his back.

  ‘Saraceeenn. Get up. Saraceeeenn,’ we cry.

  Like he hears us, he throws his opponent off. But the white man’s too quick, slicing his sword at Saracen’s ankles. Down Saracen goes. Sand sprays up with the impact.

  He’s up again, with a cheer. He has a loyal following. Every time Saracen throws him off, his opponent throws him again. He’s fast and fights in a strange way, less with the sword, more with the body, like he’s wrestling. Sometimes Saracen fights from the ground, writhing around like a river crocodile, swinging his sword like the scaly creatures throw their tails. These are not men. They’re ferocious like animals, strong as gods. Perhaps they are gods.

  Saracen loses his footing again. Are his ankles cut? He’s unstable on his feet, lurching like a drunk. I’m too far away to see the damage.

  I clench Serapis.

  ‘Boooo!’ The crowd is losing patience with their favourite. Not me. I’m behind you, Saracen.

  The white man’s lost his sword. His right arm’s limp, hanging like a dead chicken. Saracen’s on his knees, sword still in hand, he sways in the dust. Lifting a leg, he slumps, elbow on knee, head hung over.