Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria (8 page)

He holds out his hand.
 
A soft hand, one that has known no toil.
 
In it, he holds a small codex.
 
“I ask that you become my mystical sister, my
soror mystica
.
 
No more than a loving companionship.
 
I would never touch you.”

Augustine, on his way to Hippo, is owed at least honesty.
 
“There is touching and there is touching.
 
The touch you speak of, sir, scalds me.”

He does not smile nor does he scowl.
 
“I was once as you are now.
 
Please, I beg you, accept this gift.
 
It is only the beginnings of a book I might write, mere notes, but if you would read them?”

I take his slender codex as I step into the sunlight.
 
Minkah, who has been impatiently looking, sees me do this.
 
He sees Augustine who follows.
 
My sweet irritant moves quickly, his hand on the hilt of a knife.

Augustine, who has wit enough not to follow, calls after: “You allow me no time to persuade you?”

“You must be in Hippo, Augustine.
 
Have you eternity to spare?”

~

In no hurry, I guide my two grays away from the Royal Quarter.
 
By the sun and the sea and the peaceable streets, who would know the darkness that spreads its wings more widely each day?

Wrapping the reins around my right arm as would a racing charioteer, I turn my head so that Minkah will hear me above the clatter of our iron shod wheels.
 
“Do you make a trip tonight?”
 
I mean more books to the caves.

“Yes.
 
And you?”
 
He means will Father and I work on our maps.

“All goes well indeed.”

“This is good to know.
 
Although…”

Nothing could prick my curiosity more deeply than hesitation.
 
“Although?”

“Two nights back, I caught sight of one who watched us leave.”

“But could they know what you do or where you go?”

“Probably not.
 
But she puzzled me.”

“She?”

“Jone.”

I laugh, knowing what I know about my little sister and her interest in Minkah.
 
“Jone!
 
Jone has done so little with her life, I am pleased she bothers to watch what others do.”

My laughter dies in my mouth.
 
By this rising street and that, I have left behind the storefronts and workshops and come on the site of the Serapeum.
 
It is not there.
 
All that remains is the sphinx to its right and the sphinx to its left and the great pillar of Diocletian on its rock between.
 
Though there is yet the great flat stone of its foundation, this is as swept clean of dirt and debris as Alexandria has been swept clean of its magnificent temple.
 
Oh Seshat, sister of Thoth, what have they done?

Minkah and I ride home in silence as dark as the cave of Plato.

~

I find Father where I expect to find him—in bed.
 
I expect to tell him of my day and then to return to a book I now read, the
Deipnosophistoe
of Athenaeus, which speaks of women mathematicians that even I, who search for such names, have never heard of.
 
But I do not expect what follows.
 
So soon as he sees me, he sits straight up, shoving away the books and papers and tablets and pens and ink stands and cushions that litter his bedding.
 
He waves his arms.
 
He raises his voice.
 
Who in our house cannot hear him?
 
Who in the house next door cannot hear him?
 
“Daughter!
 
Where have you been?
 
Do you know who awaits you?
 
I could not deny him entrance, but I could, and I
did
, banish him to our shabbiest chamber.”

Men are forever demanding to see me.
 
Did I not just meet another?
 
What should cause Father to shout of this one?
 
Content that he has said enough, he says nothing further, instead allowing his chin to sink to his chest, so I must finally ask, “Who is this man?”

“Who?”

“The man you banished to our shabbiest chamber.”

“Ah!
 
Him
, that’s who!
 
The destroyer!
 
‘What an ugly beast the ape, and how like us.’
 
Who said that?”

“Marcus Tullius Cicero said that.”

“And of all men, who should know better how beastly than Cicero, knowing well the beastly Caesar, Brutus, Pompey, Mark Anthony, Octavian.”
 
Father rolls his reddened eyes at me.
 
“And what shall I do without my Hypatia who is my greatest solace?
 
And what shall the beast do with
her
?”

“What on earth are you talking about?
 
Why do you say you must do without me?”

“The thing who demands to see you is a Christian.
 
It has come to destroy you.”

A Christian?
 
Mother Goddess Hathor!
 
Two in one day?
 
But destroy me?
 
“And you did not throw him out!”

“How could I?
 
He would not go.”

Lately, there are times when Father becomes unbearable.
 
This is one of those times.
 
“My destroyer’s name, please.”

“Theophilus, the Patriarch of Alexandria.”

And now I become, not frightened or outraged, but suffused with curiosity.
 
Theophilus!
 
Aside from the secular prefect Lucius Marius, eyes and ears of the Emperor Theodosius, Theophilus is the most powerful man in Alexandria.
 
For the six years of his rule, I have heard he is ruthless.
 
I have heard he is greedy.
 
I have heard he is cruel.
 
I have seen his terrible deeds, so what is said I do not doubt.
 
But I have also heard he is learned and quick.
 
Of course, I will see him.
 
How often do I speak with one who might challenge me?

I am off and running for my room so that I might remove my philosopher’s robe, when I run directly into Jone.
 
And now, instead of Synesius of Cyrene or Augustine passing through to the city of Hippo, or Father in his bed, I am detained by her.

“Do you know who awaits you?”

“Yes.”

“Might I come too?”

I am not as surprised as I might be.
 
Jone has begun to stir herself.
 
She has begun, as I have only just said to Minkah, to exhibit curiosity.
 
It is my contention that true intelligence is not Aristotle and his gathering of facts and compiling of lists.
 
Such things are the stuff of mental mechanics meaning ultimately nothing.
 
Intelligence requires first the gift of curiosity.
 
Without curiosity, who would ask questions?
 
Second, intelligence is the ability to synthesize.
 
Facts alone signify little.
 
Neither are they to be trusted.
 
Intelligence is the subtle arrangement of that which might or might not be true, the intuitive selection and the weaving of such selections into a pleasing whole that makes for meaning.
 
Third, intelligence has need of laughter.
 
Without laughter so much that is bitter and dark is allowed into being.
 
That which is bitter and dark may be clever, it may even be cunning, but it is never intelligent.
 
As for wisdom, wisdom is simple.
 
The wise are able to recognize, and to accept, that not only is one never intelligent enough, but that when all is said and done, one knows exactly nothing.

Jone is not stupid.
 
She grows curious.
 
Now if only she might learn laughter.

Already in flight, I flee faster.
 
“I…oh…why not?
 
But be quick, Jone, and be quiet.
 
I would see this one.”

Hypatia

For the first time in months, I am made proud by Father.
 
By “shabbiest chamber,” he means a storage room off the pillared atrium.

Father’s “beast” looks like any other man.
 
Or rather, like any other rich and powerful man.
 
As the daughter of Theon, never rich but still powerful for being Alexandria’s leading mathematician, I have met many such.
 
My life is full of the rich and the powerful.
 
If I know few who have wisdom, I know many who have cunning.
 
This one is cunning.
 
But there is more.
 
There is a cool appraising humor in the shape of his mouth, in the slant of his eye.
 
His skin is bad.
 
Though he is far from old, his face is creased and worn and cratered by pox.
 
Even so, he is a presentable man and smells of cardamom and myrrh.

With Jone walking behind me (such a solemn little thing, so unknowable), and a silent unseen Minkah just beyond the door (unbidden but irrepressible), I have made my entrance.
 
Green is the color of joy and confidence.
 
I wear a long linen chiton dyed as green as malachite.
 
I go without sandals.
 
Philosophers are known by at least two things: their beards and their eccentricities.
 
I can grow no beard nor do I live in a large jar or roll around naked, fornicating in public places.
 
I have yet to fall down a well while staring up at the stars.
 
Because of this, I am granted my naked feet.

I wear no rings for rings would call attention to the ink, but I do wear a cameo of bloodstone on which is worked the Holy Tetrakys of Pythagoras.
 
My guests will make of this what they will.

Theophilus does not come clothed in his office, but wears what an ordinary person of wealth would wear—save for the necklace of heavy gold and a turquoise ring on his finger.
 
The stone is enormous, its owner larger still.
 
His lack of robe or hat or staff does not diminish him; he fills the small room Father has sent him to.

I have never learned where Theophilus was born, nor do I know the name by which he entered the world (Theophilus is Latin for “god lover,” which I suspect he gave himself), but I know the two who have come here with him.
 
The first is named Isidore of Pergamon.
 
Come from a family of wealth to study in Alexandria, he has found favor with Theophilus, enough that he is named archpriest.
 
Not yet thirty, Archpriest Isidore attends my lectures, struggling with geometry, with certain philosophers, but excelling at history and at oratory.
 
Is Father right—am I in danger?
 
Does Isidore attend to serve as the eyes of Theophilus and is he here now to provide witness against me?

I am ashamed to tell it, but as it is true, I must: I am attracted to this one.
 
His face lacks symmetry; even so, it somehow falls into place and is all the more interesting for it.
 
There is an intensity in the eyes and the mouth that compels me to wonder: who is this Isidore?
 
What irony if it should be he who betrays me.

The youth is another matter altogether.
 
He is rounder than Jone and stands even shorter.
 
His flushed face is wider, his full lips as red as liver, his eyes seem slits in leather.
 
Never in one so young have I seen the mark of arrogance so deeply engraved on so unfortunate a face—or the sick containment of fury.
 
He is outraged to be confined to a storeroom, made further rabid by the sight of me.
 
Is this because I am female?
 
Or “pagan”?
 
Or that I teach, and am more often sought out by those who visit this city than his uncle?
 
Each would suffice.
 
Or is it merely because, as he believes himself a superior being, the rest of us sicken him?
 
I think it a mix of all.
 
If not constrained by his uncle, and the constraint is obvious, I believe we would hear a choice and wondrous flow of language.
 
Longer than he can stare at me, I stare at this one whose name is Cyril and is the son of Theophania, the sister of Theophilus, notorious for her cruelty and the helplessness of those chosen to receive it.

As Minkah would say: buttfuck them all.
 
I have not trained in the art of oratory to be taken down so easily by a religious tyrant, an insolent pup, and a spy.
 
I have not fended off each and every advance not to know the rules of defense.
 
Attack first.
 
And quickly.

“My father tells me you mean to destroy me.
 
Is this so?”

Theophilus’ mouth opens twice before it makes sound.
 
“Destroy you?”

He recovers rapidly, but I am as rapidly thinking.
 
How did Cleopatra greet Octavian Augustus after the death of Anthony?
 
Was she coy or was she brazen?
 
One thing she was not, even if her inner parts quaked, was less than queenly.
 
I shall act the queen.
 
“You have destroyed so much of mine, it seems only wise to destroy me.
 
Does your faith not wish to remove evidence of all that came before it, especially as all that came before, you now claim as yours?
 
You have stolen dates and names and places and tales of the gods to give them all to your god as if they had never been used before.
 
But you cannot steal me.
 
I will not be silenced.
 
Therefore, God Lover, what shall you do with Hypatia?”

“By God’s testes!” exclaims he, looking round for a chair to throw himself in.
 
There is much here, and most of it cast off busts of relatives come before, but chair there is none.
 
“Isidore!”

“Father?”

The priest Isidore, no son of Theophilus, steps forward on the instant.
 
He calls the man “father” for their faith knows no mother.
 
Like dross: mothers, daughters, sisters, lovers, wives, are cast aside, while revering a sleeping maiden named Mary for being entered by “God.”
 
Do they forget
 
Zeus?
 
Zeus coupled with any comely maid who caught his eye, willing or unwilling.
 
Yet Christians laugh at Zeus while praising their own seducer.
 
A strange blindness indeed.

“I was not told I should meet an Amazon.”

Isidore of Pergamon, the priest who troubles my thoughts, replies, “I knew you would see for yourself.”

How disappointing.
 
I am to be flattered before I am felled.
 
If so, I should have hoped for at least wit.

“Embarrass yourselves no further.
 
Why are you here?”

Behind me, I hear Jone give out her second small squeak.
 
Twice now, she is shocked.
 
Once for the word “testes” coupled with the word “God,” and now by me.
 
What else would I do?
 
Hold out my own hands for the binding thereof?

Theophilus, who desires to sit or better recline, but cannot, shifts from foot to foot.
 
His arms bother him.
 
Do they go inside his toga?
 
Outside?
 
Ignoble or no, I take much comfort in this…as does the rude round youth.
 
Does he not love his uncle?
 
Theophilus decides to hold out his hands, his innocent palms revealed.
 
“But you are wrong, daughter of Theon.
 
I hold you in the highest esteem.
 
Neither man nor woman, but something apart.
 
Why else would I suffer your father’s ill-will?
 
Why else would I wait on
you
rather than summon you to come to
me
?
 
Why do I show my hand in bringing Isidore, your pupil, so you might know his connection—and why bring family?”

Theophilus has spat out his last word.
 
It appears Theophilus has as little feeling for Cyril as Cyril has for him.
 
Jone has sunk into a corner in this windowless room where shines only one lamp, but I stand in the center, forcing Isidore and his “father” and his father’s nephew to take lesser places surrounded by staring stone heads, cast by shadows into hideous shapes.
 
“Work awaits me.
 
You suffer the House of Theon for some reason.
 
If you mean to tell me it, do so.”

Theophilus now smiles, a more tender smile than any I saw on the face of Augustine, who must by now, be halfway to Hippo—or so I hope.
 
“I did not summon you for I would not have others know we spoke.
 
I suffered your father because if I had not I should have been asked to leave.
 
I brought Cyril as he expressed an interest in coming.”
 
I glance at the interested Cyril, who for the first time has the good grace to lower his impudent eyes.
 
“I brought Isidore to prove he is no spy.
 
He is also, whether you believe it or not, an ardent pupil and much devoted.”

I slide my eyes towards this ardent pupil of mine.
 
He makes no face.
 
He does not try to support the words of his father.
 
His lack of trying is subtly done and goes some way towards soothing the shame I feel for my private thoughts.
 
I have said I was virginal and I meant what I said.
 
But as life is as capricious as Paniwi the cat, any state can change.

And now, at last, Theophilus would come to the point.
 
But first he nods at Jone.
 
“She can be trusted?”

“She is my sister.”

“Then I must tell you there are plans to have you killed.”

Another squeak from Jone, but I am not surprised.
 
Minkah, who hears what is said in the streets as we do not, has warned me of this.
 
Already good with a knife, he goes now to take lessons in the sword and shield and the
pilum
, a throwing spear, from a Roman soldier he trusts.
 
Minkah urges me to wear leather beneath my tunic but I will not.
 
I am, I confess, slightly afraid, but I will not act as if I am.

“I assumed that was
your
plan.”

“Your assumption is wrong.
 
Your death would not serve.
 
Rather, it would bring shame on my office.
 
It would bring shame on my beliefs.
 
As you say, and say rightly, I lust for what is yours.
 
God would have your temples.
 
These He has.
 
That which funds your temples will become my funds.
 
I…we, have won.
 
It has taken many long years, but we have gained the souls of men and all your philosophy and all your numbers and all your sacred shapes and your mysteries which are not shared with them, marvelous though you see them, will not win them back.
 
Men suffer and men are afraid.
 
We offer them faith that their suffering will cease.
 
Not on earth, of course.
 
That will never happen.
 
But in the afterlife, there they shall know comfort and peace.
 
What do you offer?
 
Difficult concepts, lofty idealism, secret doctrines, initiations they cannot understand, questions and more questions.
 
We have answered all their questions.
 
All they need do is accept our answers.
 
And if the battle has been bloody, what battle has not?
 
As to battles, which war among men has been more worthy?
 
We fight for the soul.
 
But I would not shed your blood, young woman.
 
Those who think to do so are fools.
 
By the death of Hypatia, whom the people take pride in for her writings and her teachings and her fame, we would lose much of what we have gained.”