I read the first of the scrolls transcribed by a Seth of Damascus: “It comes at last, to this—I am changed from water to wine. I who was dead now live. I know my own name. I AM. These then are the thoughts of Mariamne, daughter of Josephus of the tribe of Benjamin. In the waning of my earthly days, I recount the life of the Daughter of Wisdom, who came in time to be known as the Magdalene.”
And then I read the work of the poet Valentinus.
Once, long ago, Jone sat struggling with two problems Father had given her, both matters of Euclidian geometry. Though Christians revile mathematics, and none was taught at the school of Didymus—who himself was a fair geometer—Father said he would take her from her place at the Didascalia if she did not learn geometry. This meant she must learn at home and from Father. The first problem required her to divide a given geometrical figure into two or more equal parts. The second asked her to create parts in given ratios.
Jone made marks on her waxen tablet, smoothed them away, made more marks, smoothed those. Then she made no mark at all, but sat staring at her hands. They were limp, her fingers like dead things, plump and white and still. Suddenly, with one violent sweep of her arm, her tablet flew into a wall as spittle flew from her lips. “Hypatia! What do they mean, these numbers! How do these shapes fit my world!”
“Mathematics is a magic box, Panya, a thing of rare and scented wood. It has no lid, no drawer, no latch to unlock. At first glance there seems no opening. Yet if you should turn it this way and that way, if you would curve a line or straighten a curve, or wander in mind where logic seldom goes but instinct never sleeps, the beautiful box will open itself.”
“But what is in the box?”
“Shells that curl and curve towards the infinite, stars that will burn for eternity, waves flowing over the skin of the sea in patterns of cunning madness. You will find the gods in your geometrical box of magic.”
“Gods? I have found God through Jesus. All the rest means nothing.”
I grieved for Jone.
But now I myself have opened a magic box, a thing of rare and scented wood, and out of it has sprung curled and curving ideas!
The doubt that has plagued me falls away. Not because I understand, but because I have purpose. I shall no longer teach the philosophy of others, but shall formulate anew what it is I know and see and feel. By my efforts, I hope to embrace everything, weave all together, external and internal, into one lucid piece.
I set about my work immediately. Such a task will take the rest of my life.
Late summer, 403
Hypatia of Alexandria
Miw is two years older but more than two years bigger. If she grows any larger, it will prove she has lion in her. She is more than lion in her soul.
All through the morning she watched me prepare a paper I present to those called Companions. In her two years of growing, my poor patient Companions have spent the same two years following along as I work my way towards the regaining of Gnosis—personal knowledge of personal divinity.
“To unlearn is harder than learning, Miw. To put away the tools I have mastered to take up those I have not mastered—what a struggle!”
Miw samples the closest papyrus. Too hot to be inside, my yellow cat and I have walked the short distance to the cool canal that flows by the House of Theophilus. Should he look out from an upper window, he might see us…but so? Are we not free cat and free mistress?
“You might think me alone, Miw—but I have consummate guidance. Of all the papers now mine, I value highest those of Seth of Damascus and those of Valentinus of Alexandria. To think that Seth transcribed the words of the Magdalene, beloved of Christ, and that Valentinus, who knew the secret teachings of Paul, was nearly Bishop of Rome. If either had been ‘heard,’ how changed the message of Christ would be.”
Nildjat Miw is asleep. I must haul her home over my shoulder.
This evening, my chosen few gather to hear my still halting synthesis of All That Is. If any sense I err, it will be questioned. If any suspect I stray from my path, I will be guided back. If I cannot be understood, I will be told…and I will try again to be clear, precise, complete.
I am called their “divine guide.” I call them my “saints.”
With the help of my saints, I struggle towards spiritual vision, not as a single experience but as a steady state of being. In the utter confusion that appears “reality,” I am convinced each piece fits the whole, and that the whole is expressed in each piece.
In short, these two years have been both exhausting and exhilarating. I could not speak for my Companions.
~
I would not have missed the wedding of Synesius of Cyrene for the complete works of Aristotle. My first and most faithful Companion, rich as well as Christian, married the daughter of a humble country historian. Not only does her father immerse himself in the vanished Etruscans, he is not a Christian. Nor is his daughter Catherine. In fact, the entire family is a happy nest of philosophers, writers, teachers and pagans.
Synesius married to avoid serving the church. And I, as an honored wedding guest, was let loose in a private library locked away from all but the most trusted friends. Miles from Alexandria, somewhere on the eastern shore of Lake Mareotis, I devoured it.
Four months later, Catherine, wife to Synesius, birthed a boy child.
Still abed, I scratch Nildjat Miw under her chin. “Synesius named the babe Hypatios. What do you think of that, Miw? More interesting still, what do you think Catherine makes of that?”
Miw stretches her neck in ecstasy.
“Indeed. And now another child roots itself in her womb. Synesius is a busy man. But then, Catherine is an interesting woman. She says little but I have never seen such listening. I would know more of her. And what do you think of Minkah as Companion?”
My yellow cat twitches an ear. I think she approves. Who can truly know with a creature so charged with mystery as a cat?
“I think it splendid. And none grumble. Not even to complain he is Egyptian or that he is poor. But oh! how they complain of Isidore! This one tells me his mind is not swift. That one whispers his understanding far from complete. Another tells me his tongue is tangled. As if I did not know! I would reverse my decision if not for his gift! How do I repay his gift?”
Throwing back a linen sheet, I pad barefoot towards the baths. The Companions will soon be here and I would be ready for them. Behind me, Miw is off to the kitchens seeking her breakfast.
Rubbing warm oil on my legs, scraping it off with a strigil, I struggle with indecision—should Isidore remain a Companion? I know what all the others would say, but Didymus, what would he have done?
Two faces remain in my mind as clear as when I last saw them: my sister’s and the face of Didymus the Blind. The death of my mother Damara shattered the child I once was. The death of Lais took from me the foolishness of youth. Didymus’ death by old age diminished me. It further diminished Father, who had suffered the loss of his wife, the loss of his profession, the loss of his prestige, and the loss of his eldest daughter. Never spoken of, lost too was the hope of a son, exchanged for one more female, that one who took his wife. For me, the absence of this sweetest friend is as great as the continuing loss of the ancient disciplines other than Christian theology—which if truth be known, is our theology, rewritten—for the voice of Didymus was a true voice and it melded with ours, tempering ours, as ours, I fondly believe, tempered his. Without him, few Christians of stature remain who would not raise his hand against Father and me. Save Augustine. Augustine is a true friend. But Augustine is many miles from here.
Close by Damara, Lais lies in the west. Each year Jone and Minkah and I visit their tomb in the City of the Dead. Didymus lies in the east. Each year Jone and Minkah and I walk to his chapel of pink stone near the Garden of Nemesis. Jone wails every step of the way to Didymus. Father, pleading an excess of grief, visits none.
~
Jone, youngest daughter of Theon of Alexandria
“Come,
sister, come listen if you like.”
Hypatia invites me to another of her gatherings where all call themselves Companions. Which usually means that unless that wisp of a thing that has married Synesius is present, I am the only female among males, and I have listened and I have listened and I have watched my sister draw lines and circles and shapes on an overlarge tablet, and I have heard her speak, but if she were speaking in Persian her words could not mean less to me. I do not understand. My father understands, or he used to. Who knows what he understands now? Or, for that matter, cares? Even Lais, who had no interest in such things, understood better than I. As for Hypatia! I would stamp my feet in frenzy. I would shout out from the sheer torture of Hypatia as sister. Who could blame me? All these adore her unto idolatry. They call her holy. Who could bear to be as nothing, as less than nothing, compared? And who would not leave, as I have, as soon as they found a place in the world where one could breathe and one could be seen and one could be valued? Anyone would. All the women say so. This too they say: it is not right for a woman to stand over a man. It is not right that a woman’s voice be heard before his. And this they say also: that my sister dares such things is proof there are demons involved.
There she is, Hypatia! I must be quick to hide myself before I am seen.
In my father’s house, the best place to hide is near the first large door leading from the courtyard off the Street of the Gardens into the atrium. There is a small room nearby, one meant for a guard though my sister keeps no guard. But if there were a guard, he could look out through a narrow slit in the wall and from it espy the whole of the courtyard without being seen himself. From the door leading into this small room, he could peek out also at the atrium and, if careful, not be seen, But as there is no guard, I can sit for hours and see who comes and who goes and for how long they stay and whether they bring something of interest or whether they bring only themselves. All this I remember—did not my teacher, the blessed Didymus the Blind, praise my memory, often and often!—no need to write the names or the days or the times.
Today Hypatia teaches yet again a class she thinks secret. That there is a class has never been secret. Nor are the names of those who attend. Or if a secret, it is not so from me. Of twelve, there are ten I have named to Bishop Theophilus. Synesius of Cyrene, and one of Synesius’ dearest friends, Auxentius of Cyrene. Herculianus, a dearer friend. I do know they sit as close as wife to husband. Olympius, a wealthy Syrian landowner who talks of horses and hunting. Hesychius, who sits often with Olympius. Ision, who I admit tells stories of every sort wonderfully well. When Ision speaks, I try not to miss a word. Syrus, spoken of by Synesius as only “our friend” and Alexander, the uncle of Syrus. There is the “most sympathetic” Gaius and Theotecnus whom they call “father.” If this means he is a priest, I could not say. What is a secret is what it is these companions are taught. Try as I might, and I do try for my bishop would know, I cannot penetrate this larger secret. It is not that I have not heard the teaching, and often. But I have stopped attending. First: because I learn nothing. Second: if demons are involved, by the Holy Spirit, is it right that I risk my own soul? All this I have explained to our Holy Bishop Theophilus and he has forgiven me. All he asks now is that I hide in the little guard room I have told him of, and that I remember who comes and who goes.
Through me, Bishop Theophilus knows who visits my sister. He knows who visits my father, the same old gaggle of soothsayers and astrologists and fools. Bishop Theophilus knows that those who once came for Father, now come more for Hypatia, and that no man of importance who visits or even passes through Alexandria does not call on my sister. He knows she locks herself in her work room and studies something I have yet to discover, though I have promised him I will. And I will—I swear on the Blessed Virgin Mary. All I know, he knows—except this. I have not mentioned the name Isidore nor have I mentioned the name Minkah.
I hope this is not a sin, but I imagine my hope is in vain. No matter how I squirm, I cannot forget he asked me clearly to watch and report on Minkah.
I must be still now. My sister’s companions arrive.
~
Minkah the Egyptian
Jone’s reason to visit the House of Hypatia is clear as water to me—one spy can spot another. By the coils of Apep, what good company I keep. Two betrayers in one house: the first a sad unwanted child, the second as determined as a robber of graves. We are as mirrors, Jone and I. It is perfection.
What does Jone tell Theophilus? Who attends our meetings? No name would surprise him, not even the name of Isidore, who turns out as much a failure as a Companion as he does a Parabalanoi. He cannot be fully either for lack of spine and lack of mind. As for the listing of my name, where else should I be but here…as I too am a spy?
Walking past Jone who thinks herself unseen in her guard’s room, Synesius and I share a sigh of indulgence. Jone is ever a source of amusement. In truth, if I could, I would save her from such things.
But as she is already “saved,” I would fail before I began.
~
Hypatia of Alexandria
I pace, waiting for the Companions to seat themselves in the atrium wherever they will, for Synesius to gather pillows for his full-bellied Catherine, who holds a sleeping Hypatios. I wait for Minkah who must tend to some demand of Father’s. We all wait as Isidore, late as ever, settles. Nildjat Miw sits on the rim of the pool, talking to fish. Any who understand, hide.
“Tonight,” I say when all is still, “I will tell you a story of Sophia. Sophia’s tale is ancient, told before the people of India and the people of the Land of Silk, before the Egyptians, before even the Sumerians who are old indeed, and her name is as varied as the people who spoke of her. Like all ‘true’ stories, Sophia’s asks eternal questions which are the questions I ask of you. Who are we? Why are we here? What is here? Why do we suffer? What is death?”
My “saints” make faces, each face wondering if he or she is meant to answer these questions. Before any try, I speak on.
“Before the Beginning of the World there was no thing. The Egyptians called this no thing the Dazzling Darkness. They called it Absolute Mystery. The greatest of all Gnostic teachers and poets, Valentinus, called it Bythos , the Deep, teaching that Bythos was pure unmanifest Consciousness. But what would a conscious No Thing which is No Where in No Time be conscious of? Plato had already taught that the first principle—stemming from this Consciousness—is intellect whose only function can be to think, and the only possible object of thought must be itself. And then, at some unknowable point of no time, Consciousness contemplated itself into a First Idea: it knew itself by becoming both that which is known and that which knows, experience and witness. And from this sprang the Many, meaning the World and all it contains. Valentinus devised the Idea of the Godhead who, by thought alone, manifested itself as both male and female in the form of the Son. From the Son came forth the Aeons, gendered pairs which are the divine powers or natures. Together these made up the Pleroma, or the Fullness of Consciousness, and each pair played a role in the emerging world. The last of these pairs was Sophia, which is Greek for Wisdom, and Christ, which is Greek for Savior.”
Already Isidore would speak, or otherwise make himself known. But I allow him no room.
“But, said Valentinus, by being sent forth, the Aeons forgot their creator, yet longed to remember, sensing themselves incomplete. On behalf of them all, Sophia carried this burden of longing, setting out on a quest to know God. Believing herself alone, she strayed farther and farther from Pleroma, growing fearful and full of anguish. Wandering in sorrow through a world spun of her own pain and her own longing for Source, Sophia lost herself in illusion. And there, her suffering grew so great she cried out, God take me home! And in that moment, her paired Aeon, the Christ, woke her from her suffering dream so that once again she knew her true eternal divinity in Consciousness.”
Isidore is now as a child who longs to leave a table. He would speak. He would not speak. He would l
eave. He would stay. Though the other Companions would not have me see, I cannot miss the rolling of eyes, the sucking of teeth, the shifting in place. Even Minkah, ever composed, loses patience with Isidore.
I open my arms. I smile. “Isidore, what torments you?”
“All this is…I couldn’t say. What you say, it is all well and good—but Valentinus? Valentinus is a heretic.”
“Is he? Have they made him one now? He was not when he lived. When he lived he was friend to Origen.”
Isidore, for a single moment, is speechless. We see he did not know this. But he finds his voice, a voice I increasingly despair of. “I find this talk of Sophia incomprehensible. It makes no sense. A thing which is no thing imagines other things? There must be a reasoning Creator! How could something come from nothing?”
“It did not.”
“But you said…”
“Valentinus did not teach the tale of Sophia as true. By it, he wove truths.”
“What truths? I have heard nothing true.”
“Then do not hear this. All who teach a beginning are wrong. The world had no beginning. And what has no beginning is as a circle and can have no end, therefore all who wait for End Times will wait forever. Plato and Plotinus were wrong. There is no first principle. There is no time, no space, no self, no matter. The world was not thought into being from nothing. It always was and always will be, constantly imagined by All That Is and All That Is is precisely that: All. Sophia is the self we imagine we are, believing ourselves doomed to wander alone and lost through the world of sorrowing matter. She is soul creating the perception of reality. Christ is Sophia’s double and equal, what we sense as duality.”
Isidore’s breath comes faster and faster as I speak until it is labored. “A female is equal to Christ?”