Rufius Read online

  His opponent stretches for his sword.

  Their movements are slow and heavy.

  Saracen collapses onto his hip and elbow.

  The roundel is sweaty in my fist, nails pinch it into my palm.

  Eighteen silikas. Come on, Saracen. Get up.

  ‘Saracen. Saracen. Saracen,’ I chant. My whole body wills him off his elbow and up onto his feet.

  Saracen stumbles, but makes it to standing, takes slow swaying steps towards his opponent. The other gladiator desperately reaches for his sword again.

  He gets hold of the hilt and sends his sword flying towards Saracen.

  The crowd gives out an ‘ARHHH.’

  My stomach clenches. My nails dig deeper into my palm around the roundel.

  Saracen sways, but keeps his footing. He draws back his arm to plunge his sword. My thighs, calves and toes grip as he sways around, disorientating his wounded opponent. My body mimes his movements. I swing each blow with him. I feel the strength of the Saracen’s arms and legs. His huge back is mine. This is how it feels to be strong. My bulrush arms are solid muscle. My body obeys my will. And when Saracen thrusts the fatal stroke, we slay our opponent together.

  The relief of survival roars from my lungs. ‘Saracen. Saracen,’ I chant with the crowd.

  Panting, I sit back down on the cool, marble step, grin and look up at the bookie beside me.

  He grins back.

  I take a second look, although I know it’s not the man who I gave my money to.

  Where is he?

  I scan the crowd. He must be here somewhere.

  Maybe he’s gone to piss. He’ll be back.

  I wait.

  The crowd starts to spill out of the archways leaving stadium seats empty.

  Gone! But he can’t have gone!

  The puky feeling’s back, along with a strange dizziness, like all that wasn’t real. I’m not really in the stadium. Didn’t really lose my money, did I?

  I crouch down to look along the row of steps, past the crowds. Maybe he’s sitting down.

  ‘Get up you drunk.’ A sandalled foot kicks my arse.

  I stand back against the marble columns to avoid the scrum shuffling and elbowing for the exit. My heart pounds. When the crowds are gone, and only a few men and women sit settling bets, I search the rows, running up and down, desperate to find the bookie.

  My gut tells me the bookie’s shafted me, but I check the exits again to make sure.

  Pink light sinks below the arches and I slump on the steps near the arena and sob. I’m broke! Cleaners sweep and pick up rubbish around my feet.

  ‘Stadium shuts soon, lad.’ A short Egyptian man looks down at me from the row behind. ‘You don’t want to be locked in. They say dead gladiators stalk the steps at night looking for their killers.’

  Forehead on knees, I stare at my dusty big toes hanging out of my sandals.

  ‘Alright, I’m going.’

  I walk down to the front row. Arena’s stained with huge patches of blood. Six cleaners drag away the last of the lions by his mane. What had he made of the stadium? His back’s singed black, flesh raw and hanging loose, his yellow mane soaked in black oil.

  ‘Why… didn’t you… train me up… on the bricks… Dad?’ I shout between sobs.

  Stupid chunk of wood. ‘I hate you Serapis. I don’t believe in you.’

  I chuck Serapis as hard as I can into the arena. The tiny statue disappears in the huge circle below – too light even to spray sand. Dad would say throwing Serapis is shameful. I slump down on the step and spew. Chicken splats my toes, still smelling like sweet-chicken, not puke.

  If the gods exist, they don’t give a shit about humans. Greedy gods. You’ve taken my dad. We’re just like that lion to you.

  I turn my back on the quiet, bloodstained arena. Still holding the bone roundel, I walk to the exit swaying like I’ve been mortally wounded.

  The sweet smell of honeyed chicken hangs in the air. Got to spit to get rid of the taste on my breath.

  Outside the stadium walls I stare into the faces of the stragglers milling around. Give it up. You idiot, Aeson. The only people left are slaves and labourers who pull on ropes to bring down the huge canopy that shielded the stadium from the Sun. The bookie’s well gone.

  ‌5

  Aeson

  ‘Oi you! Lazy good-fer-nufink! Get your skinny arse up that rope and make yourself useful.’ A big man, whip slung across his broad chest, leers at me.

  ‘Me?’ I look around. A dozen or more boys, some men judging by their strong shoulders, pull themselves up the ropes that hang over the stadium wall. A few carry torches in their mouths like dogs with sticks. Nobody behind me. All the stallholders have packed up and gone. He’s talking to me.

  The rope he’s pointing at is the only one without a boy on it. Frayed, it swings in the breeze that creeps off the desert at dusk, the tail end of the Khamaseen. He thinks I’m one of his workers.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Don’t you give me no buts. Do you want to feel this?’ He points at the whip coiled round his chest. ‘You’re lucky to have a job, you lazy good-fer-nufink Greek.’

  People always think I’m Greek. It’s the colour of my eyes. Most Egyptians want to be Greek.

  ‘Me? I’m Alexandrian.’

  ‘Don’t give me no cheek. Up you go or your arse will be so sore you won’t sit down for a week.’

  Who’s sniggering? Snorts and titters come from above. Think I’m funny, do they? Twats!

  ‘You won’t climb it by looking at it. Scoot. Up you go. I got dinner waiting for me.’

  A boy with a mass of hair messy as a bird’s nest swings near the bottom of the wall. He’s got a hiccup of a giggle that makes me want to laugh too. He grabs the free rope next to him and shakes it. ‘Come on, man. Pretend it takes you to Olympus.’

  So hiccup-boy thinks I’m scared, does he?

  Climb me, the rope’s saying. But I promised Dad. Don’t climb, you monkey, that’s what he said. Promised him, I did.

  ‘You asked fer it.’ The boss grabs his whip and lunges towards me. By Serapis, he’s going to whip me!

  Sorry, Dad! Here I come, rope… and jump. The burn of the dry, course fibre feels good on my palms.

  My feet push against the wall: lean back at an angle and bounce myself up, one hand over the other. That’s how it’s done. I’m practically running up the stadium wall. This is top – the easy buzz of being good at something. Saracen must feel like this when he swings his sword. My lightness makes me want to laugh like the boy. Where’s he gone? Still half-way down the wall. He’s not confident on the rope.

  Boss’s mouth is moving, but I’m too high to hear him. Now I’ve found my rhythm, the workers have stopped laughing – I’ll reach the top before all of them and they know it.

  The wall juts out here, where the arches are. It’s harder to climb as the rope don’t hang flush against the wall. Let’s wind the rope round my leg, make a temporary tension to pull myself up. That’s it. Now arms pull one after another against the rough jute fibres.

  Made it. The wall’s so thick I can’t dangle a leg either side. If I stand up I’ll still have loads of room both sides of me. It’s like a circular road. I slowly stand. My gut and arse tighten for balance. I raise my arms over my head like Saracen did when he won and punch the sky. Bet Dad never had a vision I’d stand on top of the stadium wall and look out over Alexandria. Surprises are better than prophecies.

  The sky’s blue-black except for the pink fuzz that hangs over the sea by the Western Necropolis. Hope Dad can’t see me now. Sorry I didn’t keep my promise, Dad, but I’ve got to make difficult choices now I’m a man. The last of the pink sinks into the ocean, and the Necropolis disappears except for the lines of torches on the seawall and down the main street that passes under Moon Gate connecting the City of the Living with the City of the Dead.

  Some boys look nervous perched on top of the massive white marble wall, check their footing and peer down.
Never rely on my eyes; I trust my body to adjust itself to keep my balance.

  A couple of men with long stretched muscles from climbing ropes pour oil from vials hung round their necks onto the Stadium torches, and light them with the small torches carried between their teeth. The metal supports are spaced close together, so the stadium looks like a hovering gold halo at night. Their hair’s been shaved like temple slaves. Maybe it’s been singed off. Others pull at the knots securing the canopy: that must be my job.

  Torch-lighters and canopy-knotters work alone. On site brickies worked as a team. The torch-lighters have the easier job; they don’t have to leave their ropes and risk losing their balance on the wall. From this height a fall is certain death. Canopy-knotters struggle; they fear pulling too hard and falling backwards when the knots loosen. I’ve seen it on site: men so scared of falling they can’t work. Teamwork’s what we need up here.

  Hiccup boy next to me is really screwed, giggles long gone. His eyes are tight shut, his body rigid… maybe it’s the torchlight, but his skin looks scaly.

  I swing to get close enough to jump on his rope. Dad’s voice nags inside me, don’t climb like a monkey. Reach, and jump.

  His rope jerks with the extra weight.

  ‘Fucking nutter! Man, what you doing? You’ll kill us both.’ Voice a panicked squeak, eyes wide with terror he looks down at me.

  What filthy feet he’s got.

  ‘Two’s better than one. Hold tight. I’ll climb up next to you.’

  ‘Steady, man.’ His voice trembles and he clings to the rope. I’ll have to manoeuvre up and around him.

  ‘Put your right arm round my neck.’ He’s shaking. ‘That’s it, hold on to me.’

  We’re face to face now. His skin’s scaly like a desert lizard, rosy for an Egyptian. His smell’s musty like street sleepers. Big dark trusting eyes, lips full, mouth wide. I want to kiss him, tell him he’s safe. My legs wrap around his and pull close to his hips. He clings tighter round my neck. It makes me feel strong.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got you.’ My voice is low, cock hard against his hip.

  He blinks, like he’s seen me for the first time.

  ‘Breathe.’

  He gulps and pulls in closer to me.

  A wolf-whistle from one of the boys makes us laugh.

  ‘Let’s get this knot undone. I’ll hold the rope still while you untie the canopy.’ Now twist the rope taut round my legs to steady myself so I can get a strong grip round his waist.

  ‘That’s got it.’ He wipes the sweat from his palms on ragged trousers. Only barbarians and slitty-eyed traders from the East wear trousers. His chest’s bare and hair sprouts where mine’s still smooth. He’s no older than me though. Serapis, give me chest-hair soon. No point asking Serapis. Left me skint, he has.

  ‘I’m Aeson. Why you wearing trousers?’ I hang backwards, hands free, arch my back, and grin up at him. I’m showing–off.

  ‘Careful, man.’ The brickies used to give me that look when I did somersaults.

  When we’re all back on the ground the group of women who’ve been waiting for the canopy sections get busy folding. The boss swaggers over clapping. Look at that stubble. He’s a real man. I need a razor. My wispy down makes me look younger, not older.

  ‘In a line, you monkeys.’

  We arrange ourselves in a knotty queue of different heights and ages. The usual colourful mix of faces: hybrid city boys like me.

  Boss-man clicks his fingers and points me and hiccup boy to the back. ‘You two last.’

  We shuffle forward and the boss slaps a coin in each boy’s hand.

  ‘Well, well, our Greek monkey.’

  ‘Alexandrian born and bred, I am.’

  ‘I stand corrected!’ His mock bow makes the boys laugh as he presses two coppers in the palm of my hand.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Share those between yer both, seeing as you’re joined at the hip.’

  ‘But Boss, that ain’t right. I never asked him to help me.’ Scaly-skin’s pissed-off.

  ‘Don’t be late tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t call me monkey.’

  ‘I’ll have you lighting torches tomorrow, you cocky kid.’ He touches his whip. ‘Scoot.’

  How many of these coppers make a silver silica? I must have lost a lot of money. Bet Dad never knew there was a job for rope-jumpers. But I’ll not let him down… learn to write somehow, I will.

  ‘Oi, deffo. Give me that or I’ll fight you for it.’ Scaly nudges me.

  ‘Here, catch.’

  I flick him a coin.

  He bites it. Happy it’s real, he puts his hand inside his trousers. Something flops out. A purse… it must be tied inside. A narrow line of dark hair between his belt and his bellybutton makes my cock throb. Scaly strokes his flat stomach and shoves the purse back inside. He likes me watching him.

  ‘You an acrobat or what?’

  ‘Used to be a brickie.’

  ‘Man, what you doing odd jobs for then, if you got a trade?’

  ‘Never got trained.’

  He’s looking at me like he’s deciding if I’m worth talking to or not.

  ‘You got a place to sleep?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Join us?’ I follow the nod of his head to the group of youths and boys standing under an old fig tree. Normally I wouldn’t talk to street kids. Dad said they’d steal your food from your mouth if you chewed with it open. But if this copper won’t buy me a sweet-chicken stick, it won’t get me a room for the night.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  When he laughs he drops his head back so far and opens his mouth so wide, I can see the dangly thing at the back of his throat through the gap in his two front teeth.

  ‘Croc is my name.’ He snatches hold of my wrist to introduce himself. I thought only warriors and gladiators greeted each other like this. His grip’s strong – there’s something solid about him, now his feet are back on the ground.

  ‘What sort of name’s that?’

  ‘Some name’s are given. I earned mine.’

  Did he earn it because he’s got crocodile skin, or because he wrestles like a croc? Better not ask.

  He slaps me on the back and heads over to the fig tree, picks a fig, gives it one chew and swallows.

  ‘Patch, where’s Turk?’

  A boy with a patch over one eye shouts back, ‘Venus Street. You coming?’

  We head off. The gang arrange themselves in twos and threes, joking and throwing bits of junk around in a game without rules. We’re running parallel with Serapis Street towards the docks. Eye-patch boy throws me a hunk of bread. It’s stolen, but it feels like a game.

  Four boys who disappeared down a side street run back shouting, ‘SCARPERRR!’ Angry voices shout after them.

  We leg it.

  ‘Come on, Aeson. Sounds like Roman soldiers.’ Is that their feet pounding, or ours?

  Croc shoves his hand in mine and cuts down a narrow alley. He knows the roads. We dart down this one, then the next, kicking up dust as we skid fast round corners. At each one I catch a whiff of the sea. My heart races faster than my legs. Never been in trouble before, I ain’t.

  Croc skids to a stop on the corner of a street I don’t know. There’s an arch at the entrance to it.

  ‘Phew, that was a close one. Soldiers don’t know their elbows from their armpits, eh, man?’ He nudges me, breathing heavily.

  A grubby-faced lad about sixteen struts over in a bright yellow toga. It’s folded all wrong. ‘Catch!’ He chucks an apple in my direction.

  Curse it, I was too slow. The apple rolls into the gutter.

  ‘So here’s the pretty boy everyone’s talking about.’

  ‘Turk, this is Aeson. He’s good on the ropes. Got nowhere to sleep tonight.’

  They all have made up names like gladiators.

  ‘Ain’t it a shame, Lanky.’ Turk calls to a tall, skinny boy – more man; he must be at least sixteen – I hadn’t noticed slumped under the ar
chway. He looks up and down the street, then at me, plucks a streetlamp from its bracket, walks over and holds the torch to my face. His lips don’t cover his brown teeth. Even when he closes his mouth they’re bare. He looks like a skeleton, like there’s not enough skin stretched over his long, bony body. I avoid his eyes: they’re scary.

  His bony fingers grab my jaw.

  ‘Greek.’ His spittle makes me flinch.

  I pull away. ‘Alexandrian, I am.’

  ‘Don’t mind Lanky.’ Turk takes the torch from him. ‘Let me see. Um, blue eyes, eh. My new client will love you.’

  ‘Pretty’s more a cinaedus than that fat Roman.’ Lanky’s still hovering over me.

  ‘Don’t you call me a cinaedus.’

  Croc hiccups, trying not to laugh. What did Lanky have to go and call me a cinaedus for? Anything but that.

  ‘Lanky, I beg to differ. A little on the skinny side, but get those arms pumping iron and fattened on chicken… Pretty has potential, eh?’

  ‘My name’s Aeson.’ I don’t like the way Lanky’s looking at me.

  ‘Aeson, of course. Now, you two hand over the rent.’

  ‘But man, he only gave us a copper each tonight.’

  ‘No rent, no room.’

  That made me shudder. It’s the second time someone said that to me today. Can’t believe it was just this morning the landlord chucked me out.

  Croc flops his purse out of his trousers. I dig in the bag still strapped across my body for mine.

  ‘Come on, you know the rules.’

  Our coins chink in Turk’s dirty palm. Didn’t keep my first wage for long, did I?

  ‘Follow me, Pretty.’

  ‘Aeson. My name’s Aeson.’

  Lanky scowls and pokes my shoulder to hurry me down the street: a hotchpotch of cheap facades trying to look grand. Oil lamps shine on painted walls and statues of Aphrodite – Venus, the Romans call her – welcome men into taverns. I know what street this is. Alexandrians call it Venus Street.

  ‌6

  Aeson

  If Venus Street ever had an official name, nobody knows it anymore… maybe the Greeks called it Aphrodite Street before the Romans arrived? Latticed shutters open wide where women sit, boobs out, heckling after no one in particular: