“You kill Christians by allowing Jews to kill Christians!” Peter struts about once he has said this, pleased at the sound of it, as are those who have heard it. As one, they shout, “Hah!”
Growling, Felix leaps into the chariot of Orestes, placing his great bulk between Peter and the Prefect. Ia’eh paws the ground as those behind us now move forward, and as they do, Orestes’ guards move back. Numbering only ten, most are unseasoned. The eyes in their heads dart here and there, hoping, if it comes to it, to save their own skin. I understand. For little in return, much is demanded.
From out of the mass one has stood forth, as young as I when first I was seduced by Peter, to say the following with perfect assurance: “The Prefect refused to clasp the book of Gospels. I am Ammonius who needs no more proof than this. He lies!” In his hand, the youth holds a stone the size of his fist. “Admit not Christ, but the devil lives within you!”
Orestes, no Cyril, hiding behind fat and mother and monks, stands all the taller. “I am no pagan, boy, and you are no Christian, for no follower of the true Christ would do as you do.”
Before another word is spoken, Ammonius throws his stone. The crack of rock meeting skull stuns all. A spray of bright blood covers half the face of the astonished Orestes and half that of the outraged Felix, as Orestes falls senseless, if not lifeless, to his knees. Roaring as a bear roars, Felix leaps from the chariot, plowing his way through suddenly frightened monks, running straight for Ammonius, no matter a hundred more stand near him. Confused, they do not advance, they do not retreat…and none dare Felix. As for me, drawing my short Roman sword, I wheel Ia’eh to face those hundred behind us, and in so doing I see Peter the Reader who sees me. As a cur, he bares his long yellow teeth and our guard disappears through doors along the street. By this, only Felix and I stand against all.
And here we will die, Orestes the Prefect of Alexandria and Minkah the Egyptian and Felix Zoilus the Great. Even my beloved Ia’eh will die.
We do not die.
All the while, though we could not see them through the mass of monks behind and in front, the people of Alexandria have been gathering, until they number many more than Peter’s monks. As most do not, these do not love Cyril. Wielding whatever they find: shovels, stakes, sticks, the canes of the old, they drive all away but Ammonius who cannot escape the headlock of Felix. The youth’s robes drip with blood, for Felix has bitten off his ear.
Many who save us are Christians.
Orestes lives through this day and he lives through the night. But Ammonius lives only long enough to endure a torment even I, once Parabalanoi, shudder to watch. The dunce of a boy dared attack a Roman Prefect. As Ammonius hangs in chains, Orestes might live or he might die, but whichever, the Empire’s retribution is most delicately done. Does not this boy’s faith say: thou shalt not kill? In the Egyptian Book of Coming Forth by Day it is written that to enter the afterlife one must be able to swear: “I have not murdered or given such an order.”
I, Minkah, who have murdered and ordered others to murder, will never pass into the afterlife—unless Hypatia is right. All live forever, all are divine. All only dream they live in body. But I say, living forever does not appeal. One short life is hard enough.
~
The thing that was Ammonius is dumped on Cyril’s doorstep from the back of a donkey cart. Cyril cries aloud and thumps his chest, ordering others to gather up the mess and to lay it out on a prominent slab in Alexandria’s largest church, a piteous martyr to his holy faith. Moments later, Christians are already filing past the gruesome display, weeping. Candles are already lit, chanting already heard. Cyril then writes not one, but a dozen letters to Constantinople.
One morning soon after, what was once an ardent youth, is gone from its slab. Who saw it go? No one I know.
The response could not be favorable. But what can Cyril expect? In the form of the Prefect, the Emperor himself is attacked.
As for the name of Ammonius the monk, it has vanished from Cyril’s lips.
Summer, 414
Hypatia of Alexandria
I was mistaken. The work I thought would take the rest of my life is done. All I believe to be worthy I have written down and all that I honor I place beside it. I have the women to thank for this. My salon has forced me to think in ways I have never thought before. Sharing with women the books of the Labyrinth, I am made to see them differently and it is this difference that changes me. All my life I have depended on logic, I have been entirely Greek. In my salon, I have become an Egyptian, a Sumerian, an Indian. To be all these at once is to use all that I am at once.
In the Book of Seth of Damascus, he writes that the Magdalene called what Lais knew “Glory.” Other names live on other tongues, but all mean what she meant: a direct experience of the Divine. How came she and Jesus to know Glory was long in the seeking and fire in the learning. It changed everything; it changed nothing. The woman was content to know. But Jesus was driven to succor the poor and solace the suffering, giving his life to teach that to awaken to Glory was the birthright of all.
I would be as Lais and the Magdalene: content merely to know. I would stand in a dark fire, burning with pain, to know Glory as Lais knew it, as the Magdalene knew it, as Jesus knew it.
I am only Hypatia. I have finished my book, that one that contains all I am. I preserve the papers found in the Labyrinth. Though my work is of no lasting importance, it was mine to do.
Once again, a library forms in Alexandria, housed in the Agora. It is Cyril’s library, the books within chosen by him. In it, no copies of my new work will ever be found. None will go to the libraries of the once great cities of Antioch or Ephesus or Athens.
Cyril speaks out against me. His black mantles call me witch as do certain highborn women. Yet Cyril, day after day, hides away on the highest benches in my lecture hall. Seth, who taught the Magdalene, said: “All men and all women are angels of light clothed in the cloth of self—but do not know it. Not knowing it is the Dark in the Center of the Soul.” Cyril does not know it—and I cannot show him.
All that is left in me, besides my love for Minkah, is the desire to be as Lais, as the Magdalene. As did they, I would know I am free. As did they, I would know. I do not miss the irony. I live through times when freedom as well as gnosis is fading as fast as the last light from a winter’s day.
Ia’eh nibbles my arm. Neither lame nor broken in spirit by age, she would have her date and she would have it now. Bia dozes in Desher’s stall. Nuri and Nomti, the greys that pull my chariot, stretch out their heads from the stalls across the aisle. Where are their dates? Alone with creatures whose beauty almost transcends this world of illusion, leaning my head against the flank of Ia’eh, I myself feel transcendent. Here, with these, whatever others think of my work, it is enough to have done it. What are the works of man compared to these? Outside my stables there is only confusion and a blind seeking for safety.
All are angels of light—but do not know it.
Minkah has appeared beside me. “Pulcheria is proclaimed Augusta.” He rubs first the nose of Nomti, then of Nuri.
“We knew it would happen.”
“At fifteen, she is now effectively regent of the East. All know her brother Theodosius a fool.”
“This too we knew.”
“Did we know that Pulcheria favors Cyril?”
Both Minkah and I talk as if we chat of nothing when in truth we speak of that which means everything. He has crossed to Bia and Ia’eh so he might rub their noses. “It is no surprise.”
“Pulcheria is now Empress of the East but as long as Anthemius lives…”
“We live?”
“Perhaps.”
And then we are quiet, my beloved and I, breathing in the breath of our horses. What Minkah says next is as a sudden flight of frightened doves. “Synesius is dead.”
My hand closes over the last date, pressing it into my flesh. “Of course he isn’t! Only this morning I read a letter…”
“Last night
. He died suddenly.”
I bury my head in the mane of Ia’eh to hide my shame. How long now has Synesius written and I not written back? How long has he complained that though he will ever love me, I have already forgotten him? But I have not forgotten. My work. My lectures. My salon. Sailing and riding and loving Minkah. Other letters to those with needs more pressing. Or—the truth!—less sniveling, more interesting. For all these reasons, and more, I have put off writing to my faithful Synesius, even when this morning’s letter, so full of longing and love, begged that I answer.
“How did he die?”
“A fall from his horse. His brother Euoptius will be made bishop in his place.”
Synesius! Companion. Forgive me! And yet, this I also think: ah, but now, freed from the mystery of life, my Companion knows more than I.
~
Autumn, 414
Jone, youngest daughter of Theon of Alexandria
As he has no one to talk to but Daniel of Gaza and me, though I am merely here to hold a bowl, Cyril addresses himself to his physician and his handmaid.
“You would think,” he is saying, “that the Archbishop of Alexandria would deserve God’s intimate attention. I myself think more of God than do all others; it seems only fair that God should think more of me.”
I assume he is making light of what he endures. I would smile to please him, but just in case he is serious, I remain serious. Seated in an enormous chair, one designed for him, his leg is stuck out so that his huge right foot is supported by a stack of pillows. His foot is bare. It is the big toe on this foot that Daniel of Gaza, the best physician in Alexandria, is inspecting. But not touching. If he were to touch the swollen red toe of Cyril, Cyril would scream. Apparently what ails Cyril is a thing called gout and causes excruciating pain. Daniel has long since discovered what happens when Cyril screams. If a poultice of honey and wine and barley flour is needed, it is Jone who will administer it. And Cyril will scream.
But I am used to hearing Cyril scream and he is used to screaming. Cyril, in pain, has often been known to return pain for pain, so I am as well used to smearing on the poultice as fast as fast, and then jumping back before I am slapped.
There seems no cure for Cyril’s gout; one day a thing of the past, the next day it is his entire present.
His mother knows no scruples at all. Sweeping into the room, Theophania glances at his toe, simpers at Daniel who is as usual deeply impressed, and sits herself down by the side of her son. “The Prefect of Alexandria has stopped attending church. And do you know why?”
Cyril sighs. “Of course Orestes does not show himself in a church. I know of two reasons and both are self-evident. First, he might be killed. I guide, but do not entirely control, my interesting followers. Second, if Jesus himself had baptized Orestes, he is still no Christian. He favors Jews. He did not grasp the Gospels. He killed a man of God. Really, mother. How obvious.”
Theophania adjusts the sheer orange linen of her dress so becomingly Daniel begins to sweat and I to seethe. “It’s because of that woman.”
“By woman, mother, you mean Hypatia the daughter of Theon?”
“I do. I tell everyone. Everyone tells me. By now, who does not know?” Theophania flings up an arm which displays the fine line of her painted and powdered shoulder. “The woman weaves magical spells that confuse and confound the poor man. That toe, I could have it cured in an instant. A certain sorceress I…”
“Mother! Must I call guards to throw you out of my room?”
“Oh, Cyril, my darling boy. You wouldn’t dare!”
“Daniel! Call my guards.”
Laughing, Theophania flees on golden shoes. Daniel of Gaza did not so much leave, as escape. Which leaves me and Cyril and his swollen toe.
“Jone, cover my foot.”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
“Then help me to my chest.”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
I know what we do now. Now Cyril will play with pure gold solidus, hundreds and hundreds of gleaming coin. How much does it weigh? More than he can lift. How much is it worth? More than he can spend. All this gold was gathered by Theophilus. But for now, to distinguish himself from his profligate uncle, Cyril cannot use it.
“I find solace in gold, Jone. God created it, then secreted it away in the earth for men to find. And once we found it, surely he meant its beauty to soothe us and to prove his love?”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
“But more than gold provides me solace. I think of the monks of the Nitria. Hundred and hundreds of them, and all to be relied upon—trust Peter the Reader for that. Trust even Isidore. Educated by no less than your sister, yet there he is, coated in the dust of the desert, huddled in hot black wool, for company the snarls of ignorant men, and for his belly, roasted vermin. A man who would go to such lengths for his faith—eleven years of vile discomfort to both body and mind!—will go to such lengths for his bishop. Add to this, the Parabalanoi, ever the hidden might of our church.”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
“God’s position is strong here. With these to back me, it will grow stronger still. What is gout? A small punishment for some small transgression? If so, I shall learn from it, and by learning, the pain shall leave me.”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
I have helped him dress and then helped him into his bed, a huge thing of many pillows. And as he lies there, thinking his holy thoughts, a thought comes to me. It is time. Somehow I know it is time.
“I have something to tell you.”
“Yes.”
“I have told no one else.”
“Yes?”
“I have kept it a secret.”
“Would you mind telling me?”
“My sister has papers.”
No matter the pain in his toe, Cyril sits up. I see he would hear of Hypatia. I am as used to this as his screaming.
“There remains in my sister’s house one whose ear I have. This one tells me Hypatia has finished a book long in the making.”
“Hypatia is forever writing books few can make heads or tails of. A sane man would have no interest.”
I allow myself a quick uplift of eye and a quicker unholy thought. If Cyril had used the word “slow” rather than “sane,” I would agree. I am only a cuckoo in the nest, yet that nest contained birds as far above the common man as an eagle above a sparrow. “This is not on mathematics or geology or astronomy or…”
“Enough of what it is not. What is it?”
“Philosophy, as well as what she terms history, based on the work of forbidden books, especially one that is claimed to be composed by one called Mary Magdalene.”
“She has such a book?”
“She has.”
“And she has written her own book concerning what is said in an obviously counterfeit book of this woman?”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
“I need these books.” With tremendous drama, Cyril points a finger fat as a cattail. “And you will get them for me. Immediately.”
I have long since decided Cyril need never know of the unlost library—with his bulk, the news could kill him—but once I’d decided to tell him of Hypatia’s work, I’d formulated a plan. “Of course, Holy Father.”
~
Hypatia of Alexandria
Alexandria dies before our eyes. It breaks our hearts and threatens our freedom, such as there is left of freedom.
Minkah calls my house the House of Hypatia. Here gather bankers and businessmen, members of consortiums who own land for miles around, ship owners, wine and grain merchants, lawyers, orators, the archontes: holders of public office, certain of my students who are one or more of these things, come to stand or to sit or to pace, all the while talking of Cyril. Some are Jews, some “pagans,” full half are Christian even so far as priests. One is Timothy himself, cheated of his bishopric by Cyril. All are resigned. Long accepted as one more belief in our city of many beliefs, we come finally to accept Christianity taking precedence over all
others by imperial decree. But to accept its demand that it enter our minds and there dictate our thoughts under penalty of banishment, even death! None, not even those of us Christian, find this tolerable. And to have it, through such as Cyril, govern not only a people’s search for meaning, but the way a man conducts every aspect of his life—impossible! Timothy, honored in my house, seems older each time he visits. “If Alexandria sickens and dies, so too my Church sickens and dies. Cyril is as a plague.”
From my place by our pool, I watch those who pace and speak. Nildjat Miw watches fish. If not for Miw, some would offer their sleek wet noses for stroking.
I have asked: why not meet in the house of Orestes or Timothy whose business this truly is? They reply: Cyril’s spies are everywhere. If so many are seen so often at the home of Timothy or Orestes? I have replied: if the spies of Cyril are everywhere, then they are also here. All smile and shake their heads. Hypatia of Alexandria is beyond reproach. Those who come could be attending lectures. They could be students. They could be anything. I concede. They could be anything. But I do not rejoice. And I do not miss the look on the face of Minkah. If I am witch, this can be borne. If I am traitor, this threatens our house.
~
Hours ago, my “guests” left in a great clatter of voice and horses. I lie awake, covered up to my chin for the night grows chill, Nildjat Miw curled round my head. She growls in her sleep. I neither growl nor sleep. I think of my work. Do I have it copied and sent to those I trust? Augustine, Flavius Anthemius, Olinda, Catherine the widow of Synesius, Galla, who has wed her barbarian king and now lives in Barcelona, old Companions who hold important posts at the courts of Theodosius II and Honorius, if court the latter still has—but could my gift endanger them? Do I keep hidden the one copy written by my own hand, having not yet decided what I do? If I hide my work and all that Isidore found in the labyrinth, where do I hide it? I think of my house. There are earthquakes. There are great waves. There are fires. Nothing is hidden from these. And can any escape from Cyril’s legion of spies?