Minkah the Egyptian
If Theon turns my spleen, Theophilus cracks my bones.
This day I planned to surprise Hypatia with the completion of her wondrous device. As yet unnamed by either of us, it allows its user to view life to a certain depth in the sea without need of getting wet or holding one’s breath. I am as proud of it as if it were entirely mine. To test our device, Hypatia has taught me to sail her small boat with its single mast, but the Irisi does not love me as much as does Ia’eh. There is an instinct to it, an understanding of hull and sail and wave and wind, and the patterns thereof, that Hypatia possesses and I do not. But as I have yet to run her aground or tack into a grain barge or sail over a rock, I am trusted to sail alone in the Royal Harbor. All morning, I had hung over the bow of the Irisi, rocking in the wake of large boats and small, peering down at fish and shells and sea plants and a wealth of miraculous creatures I had no name for, never dreaming such a world dared exist, all the while exclaiming over what I saw though none could hear my voice but me.
I come home to a waiting monk. A mallet, a ladle, one of his bishop’s relics, anything to thump him with: but I am called and I must go.
Fortunately, Synesius has wheedled Hypatia into reading some paper of his and if I know Synesius he will not leave until they are both exhausted. It is good to know Synesius, as well as Hypatia, is home with Lais.
A foot through the door of the house of Theophilus, and I am instantly alert. Here sits or stands my “brothers,” but only the fiercest. Some quietly talk each to each, some sit alone and are silent, one lies flat out on a pink marble bench, snoring. As big as the warrior Ajax though twice as brainless, if he should sleep throughout the proceedings—whatever they might be—then he will sleep. There are those who would regret waking Felix Zoilus—if they survived their error.
Looking round, I am pricked by distaste. I say I do what I do for the money. Why else join such as these? But I have lied. I am Parabalanoi for the shame.
As a witless youth, it remains true I was enraged by abuse and outraged by want, but deeper than either, burned a red core of shame. To stand taller, I longed to rend and to tear, even to kill. I was easy to find. We are everywhere. Approached by the Parabalanoi, chosen and trained, what triumph! Through violence, directed and shared, what cunnus of a mother dared throw me away, what merda in a marketplace dared beat me? It was I who could throw away, I who could beat a back. To provoke fear, to cause others horror or shame, by the jaw of Petbe, god of vengeance, what a wild and willing joy this was! But to cut down, to see blood rush from veins, life fade from eyes, this brought a pleasure so fierce a shout would rise in my throat and I would cry out, elated. In time, even my own kind feared me. Some here now would draw back at my approach. Not Felix, of course. But there is none as Felix.
And yet I read books. But only in secret. I once thought them a weakness.
That was the Minkah then. Who is Minkah now? In this house, I am Parabalanoi, a “soldier” for Theophilus. To be blunt, I am a murderous bully with a taste for tales of heroes and sacrifice.
And when I am not here? An interesting question.
Athanasius of Alexandria, who was bishop before the bishop before Theophilus, or perhaps the bishop before that—who counts their ruinous living and dying?—may have created us, and he may not have. Whichever, through us he indulged in a terrible orgy of blood for the love of his god. No fool, he paid his thugs well. Bishop Theophilus is also no fool. Though I have caused no terror nor killed to order for months, and even with the expense of Theon and Olinda, I have hidden away a tidy sum. Now and again, land occurs to me, fine clothes, my own horse to match Ia’eh and Desher. Women too, cross my mind, and women I have had from time to time. But as for love, I love none but Hypatia, and Hypatia would scorn such love. I could not bear to see that scorn, so do all I must to ensure I do not. I am Minkah the Egyptian. I tend to her father. I watch over Lais. I listen as if interested to Jone and Ife who both now speak as one, and that one sounds as a voice from the only book they read. I am Minkah the Egyptian who is there to protect Hypatia when she goes farther than a foot from her door. I am reminded of Felix Zoilus who snores louder than ever. Tricky business the day I stopped Felix from snapping Augustine’s neck on the Heptastadion. And then to snap Hypatia’s. Asking Augustine to move away for a moment, I quietly explained to my “brothers” that should they harm either, they would answer to Theophilus. Even Felix stepped back.
Who is Minkah? He has no idea.
Nearby swaggers a man who once entered a house with me. In that house, by order of Theophilus, we killed all we could find, two brothers, the wife of one, and her children: a girl of three and a girl of five. My companion then wrung the neck of a small spotted dog he found whining near the dead children.
All the good I can say of Minkah the Egyptian is that he did not kill a spotted dog, nor did he kill a child or a woman.
In his own good time, our host arrives. Behind him walks Cyril, the privileged nephew, and behind Cyril, walks Isidore, the favored priest from a favored home in Pergamon. I have seen enough of Isidore, so attend to Cyril. How old is this ugly pup? Fifteen, sixteen? However young or old, however fat, he acts the prince. But then, when it comes to princes—I think in particular of Arcadius and Honorius, the feeble spawn of our tremendous emperor, Theodosius—a man need not be much.
Theophilus arrives quoting. “If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. Therefore, if the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!” He pauses. He stares about him. Felix snores on. The rest have come to their feet. This includes me. “The apostle Matthew said this, and if he were here now, he would say it again: How great is that darkness! Has there been any greater!”
Who other than me knows what our great paymaster is maundering on about? By their faces, none. He means that Eugenius has been officially, and with great pomp, crowned Emperor of the West. For Theophilus and his church, what could this mean but disaster? Priests of the old religions are everywhere flocking back to their western temples, the people flocking back to their pagan priests.
To express other than righteous horror would mean fighting my way out of this house, and even I would get no farther than the original Caesar on the Ides of March.
No doubt Theophilus and Isidore were up half the night examining their “book.” Though we would do as we are ordered to do, they would cause us to do it with a religious passion.
Theophilus, noting all the blank looks, tells us what he wants and why he wants it. We are to bring terror and woe to certain men of influence, those that Alexandria still heeds. There will be no killing or burning or raping or pillage. We will begin with acts meant only to warn, to tell them that what occurs in the Kingdom of the West will not occur in the Kingdom of the East. If this does not work—we will do more, a great deal more.
The brotherhood growls as one. They curse as they shake their fists. No matter if the cause is just or unjust, they will do as their master wills because those who will not—and who will not?—will find terror and woe turned back on themselves and those they care for, assuming they care for anyone. The woman and child killer has a wife and children of his own. His children have dogs.
We are to begin our work for God immediately. Ordered to line up before Isidore for orders, I mutter over and over: only Theon, I will kill only Theon. But when my turn comes, I am told by Cyril to step aside. In an instant I could snap his spine. He knows it. I know he knows it. We both know I resist the urge. Besides, Theophilus will see me privately.
In a far corner where no one can hear, I salute him as a Roman soldier of the rank and file would salute Caesar. “Sir!”
Theophilus is not amused. “You are well known to me, Minkah the Egyptian. I have followed your exploits closely.” Not good news. Which exploits? “And know therefore you reside in the House of Theon, the mathematician.”
He and I have already ackn
owledged this, and have come to a tacit understanding that I remain in the House of Theon, mathematician. But I will play his game. “I do.”
“If Theon is terrorized, the meetings in his house will stop. I would not have them stop.”
I see the flaw here. Shall I point it out? If Theon is not terrorized, his terrorized fellows might conclude he is guilty of complicity to save his own hide. I would certainly think this. Already he’s shown how weak his spine. There is another flaw. If Theon’s fellows are persecuted, they might stop meeting from fear alone. I open my mouth to speak, but am silenced by Cyril. One moment he is not there, the next moment he is. A sneaky boy, and quiet for his heft. I could not have done better myself.
“My uncle would not have you speak.”
In that case, I will not. Theophilus can spot his difficulties for himself. As for Cyril, I would remove his head on the spot, but as I prize my own head above his, again I resist…though I do stare until it is he who must lower his bulging impudent eyes.
Theophilus continues as if Cyril were not here at all. Cyril, who is very much here, might be thought by his face to be as calm as a dozing cat, but he is not. The tips of both ears are as red as a pomegranate.
“Therefore, no one will be sent to see Theon.”
Not glancing at Cyril—after all, he is not here—I say, “And his daughter, the one who teaches?”
“I gave her my word. She keeps hers. No one will touch Hypatia nor cause her to cease her lectures.”
Cyril is furious. But whether at his uncle for being shamed before me, or for sparing Theon and Hypatia, I could not say. I understand now who is the more dangerous: not Theophilus, but his nephew Cyril. Fortunately for all, he is yet a boy and has no power here.
“If neither Theon nor Hypatia are included, what then would you have of me?”
“I have work meant for you alone as you alone of the brotherhood are unsuspected. As soon as all is arranged, I will send for—”
“Cyril!”
The room comes to a halt, all turning as one towards the source of this unnerving shriek. Theophania, whom all fear, arrives triumphant. The mother of Cyril is beautiful in a way that Lais is not. If her hair is red or yellow or brown or black, who could say? It is ever one or the other of these. Her nose is as finely made as a hunting dog’s, her neck like a white ibis, her eye paint as striking as ancient paintings on tombs, her form as curved as an amphorae. How she birthed such as Cyril has long been a source of inspired, though thoroughly brutish, talk. She is enveloped in so fine a linen the hard nipples of her breasts can be clearly seen, as can her pubis: black, not red or yellow or brown. And this is the sister of a bishop? Every man here lowers his eyes, not so they would not see, but so they would not be caught looking. I do not lower my eyes. If she would display, I would admire. Not for nothing do I relish my reputation.
Straight through a pack of the wolfish brotherhood, she rushes towards Cyril, and once there, pinches his fat arm with her slender fingers.
“Ouch!”
“You have been through my things! I know it was you. You will come, and you will come now to give me back what you stole from me.”
All wait to hear what the boy stole, but all wait in vain for Cyril is gone from here before Theophania can pinch him again, or say more to his mortal shame.
Left on her own, his mother pretends to suddenly note where she is. How prettily she blushes, how charmingly she spins on her slippered heel, how gracefully she floats away. And how murderously furious the face of Theophilus, her brother.
I am entirely amused. Especially as he has forgotten to tell me what it is he plans I do since I am “unsuspected.”
~
Jone, youngest daughter of Theon of Alexandria
“Daughter! Attend!”
Mortifying! Father now calls on me, the one he scarce thinks of from one year to the next. I am Jone. I am she who killed the mother. I am nothing in this house, until I am…and only because Minkah is gone, faithful Minkah.
I hate Father. I do. I hate him. He does not call for Lais, oh no! How can poor helpless Lais be expected to fetch him this and fetch him that? Lais is so terribly ill. And if she were not so ill, she should still not be intruded upon for Lais has her poems which I am not allowed to see and her trances which I do see and think them nothing but a sickness caused by that which grew in her stomach. As for Hypatia, never! Hypatia works with him, not for him. Hypatia is much too grand to bring him fruit or wine or to find a brush or a seal or some other thing he has dropped and cannot get out of his own bed to find. Besides, she has a student in her workroom, one who pays. He could send for the Jewess, the one who scribbles for Hypatia, but does he? Not once. Is she not paid? Of course! A servant! Hypatia should hire another servant. Ife can’t do everything. And I will not. I have my own work to do, important work. I have texts to read and to comment on for school.
What does he call for now? God, give me patience. You ask me to honor my father and my mother. I have no mother. And what father I have does not honor me. But I will obey. I will obey the command of the Father who is in Heaven by tending to the man who is called my father on earth.
For the fifth time this day, I open Father’s door. “What?”
Father is in bed. What a surprise. He peers at me. Is he trying to remember my name? “See here?” He’s waving a large sheet of paper covered with his messes. From what I can see, it’s a triangle in a circle in a triangle in some other shape he has a name for, although I do not. “I want you to fetch the twine off the shelf…I think Minkah keeps it on a shelf. Then I would like you to stand over there, as far from me as you can.” Oh, I can do that. “Wait. First you take one end of the twine.” I take one end of the twine. “Then walk there, no, no, not there, there.”
I move from one place to the other, and no place I choose will do. There is twine looped around the back of a chair, strung up between one image of some pagan idol and another pagan idol. We are making what seems a spider’s web. I will scream. I will scream down this house. Help me Father, for I have sinned.
“For the sake of Thoth, girl, will you stand still!”
“Thoth!” I scream so hard I hurt my throat. “Thoth! I do nothing for the sake of demons.” And with that I am away from his room which smells like sour wine and sweat and sick and bad teeth and something male I cannot even imagine. He calls, “Stop!” but I do not stop. He calls again, “Come back, you! Come back!”
I will not come back. Not once this day has he called me by name.
~
Minkah the Egyptian
For three days, my “master” has trembled under his covers. The attacks against the houses of the pagan poet Palladas, of the pagan priest Helladius, of the astronomer Pappas, of the occultist Paulus—if Paulus is a spy, this is wise on the part of Theophilus—of Meletus the Jew, terrify him. Even the Christian Didymus the Blind is “warned.” Having come to his senses through no effort of mine, Theophilus attacks as well the House of Theon. The dung thrown against our walls could feed a field.
What Theophilus would have his spy, Minkah, do, isn’t much. I need not dirty my hands with dung. I am to report on what is said and done by these men in response. Emboldened by the rise of the Emperor Eugenius, yet strongly discouraged by the Parabalanoi, will Alexandria’s “pagans” attempt a return to the old ways? I could tell Theophilus without spying: some will, but most will not. My “brothers” do what they do well…and should a man have the stones to stand up, few remain standing against harm done to their child or a child of their child.
Compared with much I have done, this is nothing. How is it, then, that violence towards a man means less to me than deceit? Overt violence takes a kind of courage. Spying on the unsuspecting requires nothing more than low cunning. For how long now have I been anything other than deceitful? Who here knows I am in the pay of Theophilus? I pretend to care for Theon when I do not. I act the humble Egyptian when I am not.
Grooming Ia’eh, my nerves sing. That I had som
eone to speak to, but by only a single word—Parabalanoi—I should be driven from the company of Hypatia, of Lais, of learning, all I have learned to love.
Ears pricked forward, Ia’eh nibbles my shoulder. Each morning, after I have exercised Ia’eh and groomed her, she expects a date. I rest my head on her neck, inhale her warm scent, a joy beyond price.
“In time,” I croon to the white mare of Lais, “you will run again with beauty on your back. But for now, you must content yourself with me.”
As I say this, I make my decision. By what comes of it, I will learn who Minkah is.
Lais is alone. She who has endured so much does not lie in her bed as does Theon who had managed to endure little by his avoidance of whatever he might avoid. Lais sits on a couch by her window and on her knees is her writing tablet.
Turning her face, I am yet again stunned by her beauty. I have read the Greeks. They say that beauty never palls, never ceases to have its effect. There is something in man that reacts to beauty as it reacts to nothing else.
If I had not spent my life learning control of my senses, I should fall on my knees before her. Not as I would humble myself before Hypatia, but as I would revere an unworldly thing: a Dryad found in the forest, an Oread from the mountains, Oceanids in waters of salt or Naiads in sweet. There is a scent of magic to Lais.
“Minkah! What a pleasure to see you. Sit. Visit with me. My friends are afraid to come, fearing I will be weakened. But they are wrong. I would be strengthened.”
Lais has lifted her pen from her paper, has set aside her tablet. I wish it would not, but my heart sinks to know she means to do nothing more than hear me. She knows I have come to speak with her. What else does she know? I am here now and I will follow the destiny my decision has driven me to.