Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria (10 page)

Those who have cowered and watched move away from me, and away from my talkative friend.
 
The path is clear now.
 
The drawbridge down, the ship on its way to the sea, and the woman with her babe flees across towards the docks of Alexandria.
 
If I had a babe in arms, I should be running with her.
 
But I do not have a babe and my friend neither moves nor speaks, but stands where he stands, facing these “angels.”
 
If Augustine does not leave, I cannot leave.
 
But what it is I
can
do, I have yet to determine, save pushing him off the causeway into the harbor in the hopes though he does not ride, he swims.
 
This is a good idea, a fine idea.
 
I am a strong swimmer.
 
We could be gone on the instant.
 
And as the three start towards me, I start towards Augustine with a mind to shoving as hard as I can.

“Felix Zoilus!” shouts he who has asked in a kind of furious wonder if I teach men, “Stop her!”

But the bear called Felix Zoilus will not stop me.
 
Father’s tutors have done their work.
 
If I must, I can be as an acrobat, tumbling towards Augustine, and if I must, kick him into the sea, following on as a maid from Minos using the horns of a charging bull to somersault over its back.
 
I prepare my leap, up on my toes, my thighs tensed, my balance perfect—but I am suddenly grabbed by the edge of my tunic and pulled…and this is not done by Felix Zoilus or by any of the three who have begun to move towards me.
 
A voice sounds in my ear.
 
“Run, Hypatia.
 
Follow the woman and run.”

Minkah!

“But Augustine…?”

“Trust me, beloved.
 
Augustine is safe.
 
Now, run!”

And instead of my shoving Augustine, I am shoved by Minkah, and I run as I am told, but as I run I look back to see Minkah standing before the three as well as before the bear of a man and none seem inclined to harm him.
 
He has taken Augustine’s arm, is pulling him away, and Augustine allows this.

Great Ammut!
 
How brave our Egyptian.
 
Where once I saved Minkah, now he saves me.

Knowing Minkah will guide my friend to his lodging, I race home on bare and flying feet.

But he has called me “beloved.”
 
In such times, any can make a mistake.
 
He must have been thinking of Lais.

~

I do not tell Lais of my day on the causeway.
 
I do not tell Father.
 
Augustine, packing to return by ship to Hippo, does not mention it.
 
As for Minkah, we say not a word to each other.
 
It is as if it never happened…even the stable lad I sent to see if the man lived, and to help him if so, found no one there.

~

Accepting water from the jug held by a servant, Lais turns her face to me, a face I judge all beauty by.
 
“From this place, Miw, I see all that gives my heart its greatest joy.
 
To have you with me completes the world.”

“Sister!
 
I love none better than you.
 
If it would please you, we shall sit here forever.”

Lais laughs.
 
Her laughter never stings or shrinks my heart but is as the music of the lute lifting my spirit.

We recline, my sister and I, on divans in a garden we grow on our roof and from this garden the blue harbors deepen before us and beyond Pharos glimmers the green and shifting sea.
 
Behind us the gold of the city shivers in the sun.

We have done exactly nothing for an hour save speak now and again of horses and books.
 
Because of this, what Lais says next unsettles me.

“What do you make of Minkah?”

“Our Egyptian?”

“The very one.”

“What should I make of him?
 
He is Father’s man.
 
That he serves Father is all I require.”

“Is it?”

“Indeed!
 
What else?”

“Nothing else.
 
I suppose.”

“Lais!
 
What do you mean by this?
 
Minkah is a servant.”

“Is he?”

“Do I discourse with Socrates?
 
A question for every question?”

“Socrates was, of all men, wisest.”

“And you are, of all women, wise as well.
 
Was he also cunning?”

“Who?”

“Socrates!”

“I am not cunning.”

“Exactly what I would have said a moment ago.”

Lais shifts on her divan, reaching for a fig.
 
Full of grace, yet I note her hesitate, though it is gone in an instant.
 
Even so, I wait to see it again for anything that troubles Lais, troubles me.
 
But it is gone.
 
It was nothing.
 
Lais pops her fig in her mouth.
 
“Do you not think Minkah an interesting man?”

“That he can fashion what I design, this I find interesting.
 
That he follows me wherever I go, this I find interesting.
 
I have asked him why and he answers: to protect me.
 
I tell him I need no protection.
 
I say I have walked these streets alone as a child.
 
I drive them now alone as an adult.
 
I have never needed a watchdog before.
 
I need none now.
 
Lais!
 
Why on earth do you speak of Minkah?”

“I find him an interesting man.”

“You find all of interest.”

“Yes, to a degree.
 
But some I find more interesting than others.”
 
And here her sloe-eyes are so full of impish humor I can do nothing but flush and turn away.

We are silent again.
 
Lais has sunk her barb.
 
I think of Minkah.
 
An interesting man?
 
An Egyptian, a servant, a creature of the streets, a lover of tall tales and epic adventure.
 
One who called me beloved…but could not have meant me.
 
Could I speak to Minkah as I speak to Augustine?
 
To Father?
 
Even to Synesius?
 
Of course not.
 
I now reach for my own fig but miss my aim, knocking Lais’ cup to the tiles.
 
Before I can retrieve it, she has already bent over to do so.
 
Comes a hiss of pain through her teeth.

“Lais!
 
What ails you?”

The one I love most in all the world retrieves her spilled cup, sets it back on the table.
 
“Nothing that will not pass, Miw.
 
Hopping down from Ia’eh, I twisted a muscle in my hip.”

“You rode without me?”

“Who has time to ride whenever she pleases and who does not?
 
All that is mine I owe to you.”

“I would give you all seven times over.”

“I know.
 
But tell me true, is there not something else you see in our Egyptian?”

“Lais!
 
Stop!”

BOOK TWO

“O my Mother Nut, Stretch your wings over me; let me become like the imperishable stars, like the indefatigable stars.
 
O Great Being who is in the world of the dead, At whose feet is Eternity, In whose hand is the Always, Come to me.
 
O great divine beloved Soul, Who is in the mysterious Abyss Come to me.”
—Egyptian inscription

One year later
Winter, 392

Minkah the Egyptian

I, Minkah, am become Theon’s right hand, his left hand, his two skinny legs, and often his sodden head.
 
I empty the pot he pisses in.
 
I sponge his backside.
 
I bring his meals and his drink so I might all the more empty his pot and wash his ass.

I know now the meaning of Theon’s name: “to rush.”
 
Being alone when I learned this, I barked with laughter.

In any case, I do all I do for the sake of Lais and for the sake of Hypatia.
 
I also do this because now that I have insinuated myself into their home, it is understood that I shall remain here.
 
Theophilus has at long last learned of the meetings in Theon’s bedroom.
 
It was inevitable that he would.

Today as many as a dozen crowd round my “masters” bed, all eager to hear the news from Rome.
 
I doubt Theon remembers Rome, much less has news of it.
 
But the more I hear, the more I understand why these men are so interesting to Theophilus.

Pappas stands before Theon, his back to the room, so that only Theon and I might see his face.
 
Pappas is silently urging his old friend to speak out, even to sit up, for sitting would be at least something.
 
The rest still hope the old rag will act the pivot around which all circles.
 
Pappas catches my eye and I his.
 
We say each to each: Theon is not what he was nor will he be.
 
Daily he retreats farther into his bed as a snail into its shell.
 
By eye alone, I promise Pappas I will do all I can to hide this.
 
By eye alone, he thanks me.

Turning back, Pappas speaks as if it were Theon speaking.
 
“Valentinian is dead in Vienne!”

“Ah!” say all with varying degrees of delight.

“Made co-regent at seventeen by Theodosius, now that he is twenty, he hangs himself…or has been hung.
 
Whichever, Valentinian is no more.”

Helladius, as much a stump as ever, fingers a curl of cheese left in Theon’s bowl.
 
Has he the nerve to eat it?
 
“Either way,” he yells, deciding against the theft of cheese, “how exciting for Rome!
 
Romans are lovers of blood, the more blood the better.
 
If it were to rain blood on Rome, full half would fill the streets holding buckets to catch it.”

“Well said,” laughs Pappas, “and what will you say when I tell you more?
 
Fierce Arbogast, Valentinian’s Frankish general, has—without consulting Emperor Theodosius—elevated Valentinian’s secretary, one Eugenius, to the Purple?”

Helladius is too astonished to say anything.
 
As for the rest, they gawk.

As if delivering a lecture, Pappas now strolls about the room.
 
“You can imagine the poor soul is terrified, having been only a secretary the day before.
 
But Arbogast reminds him that he, Arbogast, commands the whole of the Western army.”
 
Clever Pappas turns himself into a fatherly Arbogast babying the frightened scribbler.
 
“Calm yourself, little Eugenius.
 
Good Arbogast is here while the bad Theodosius is many hard miles away in Constantinople and confused.
 
Will he accept what is done and hope for the best?
 
Will he march on Rome?
 
The distance is hard and it is long and the men who defend you are well-fed and seasoned.
 
Better yet, they march nowhere but rest right here.”
 
Pappas drops his Frankish voice.
 
“Friends, I save the best for last.”

One turns to the other who turns to another.
 
There is better news than this?
 
What is it?
 
What can it be?

“Eugenius the Terrified has reopened the temples for pagan worship.”

Theon has raised his head.
 
Even his eyes focus.
 
“Why?”

Pappas whirls round at the sound of his voice.
 
“Because Eugenius, the new Emperor of the West, who claimed as do thousands to be Christian so they keep their skin, is at heart a pagan.”

Those gathered round the bed of Theon rub their hands, or thump each other’s back.

“Eugenius relights the eternal fire in the Roman Forum, reforms the Vestal Virgins, and has ordered the Altar of Victory, stolen by Octavian Augustus from the Greeks, put back in the Curia of the Senate.”

Now all in Theon’s room hug each other, weeping.

Pappas holds up a hand and when all finally notice, each snivels to a stop.
 
“This news will spread faster than fire throughout Egypt, mother and father of Life itself.
 
But never forget that for now we are governed by Theodosius in Constantinople and not by Eugenius in Rome.”

Helladius sneers.
 
“But Arbogast is the stronger.
 
Theodosius the Tyrant: emperor, destroyer, slanderer, heart-breaker, is weakened, as are all who take their power from him.”

“That may well be, Helladius, but until all this is settled, we must take care.
 
Who can say what the gods will wish on us?”

The face of my dear friend, the Bishop of Alexandria, rises before me.
 
He knows no more than these what any god wishes, even his own.
 
So just in case, the fucker of goats bars his door and sets his guards.
 
I think of the Christians who everywhere surround us, of the black monks gathered in the deserts, of the “thugs” who do the bidding of this bishop.
 
I look from dreaming face to dreaming face.
 
What they dream of is as likely as Jews admitting they had never set foot in Egypt, never been slaves, never fled through a Yahweh-parted sea.
 
It is as likely as Egypt once again ruled by Egyptians.
 
How many emperors have come and gone, each dying by the hand of another who would be emperor?
 
How many have been emperor in one place while another claimed the title in some other place, so setting their soldiers and their gods each against each?
 
How many barbarians will ride out from their unimaginable wastelands to uphold this emperor or that emperor so they too might cloak themselves in the Purple?
 
How long before all the Purple is barbaric?

I have a task of my own this day so I shoo them out.
 
“Come again,” I say, “Anytime.”
 
By now, all I say is taken as my master’s wishes.
 
They are gone in minutes.

Where do I look first?
 
A man like Theon, easily broken, a father who does not support his family, cannot defend the books.
 
Those who surround him seem not to see this, but I do.
 
If not for me, the father would expect Lais, made of air, to wait on his every need.
 
If not for me, Jone, made of wood, would see, buried in his own interests, her father forgets she lives.
 
As for my darling, who I guard by stealth now as I did last week and last month and last year, by her labors she carries her father as if she were a cup and he precious water in the dry times.
 
In truth, Hypatia carries us all.
 
Because of this, I do what I intend no one to notice.
 
I pay for what Theon most whines for: pens, ink, paper, books, the salary of a scribe who is here only when Hypatia lectures.
 
She will never know her father not only fattens on her, he fattens on me…odd choice of words, these, as Theon does not fatten at all, but shrinks by the day.
 
I move his legs daily so that if he must, he might still have use of them.
 
Humming as he sums, he pays me no mind.
 
Nor to Hypatia, other than her use in his work.
 
I resist twisting his toes.
 
I resist many things.

I will never abandon this house, even should he take against me.
 
But when I must leave for an hour or a day, called by the oath of Brotherhood, I pretend I take lessons in defense.
 
I need no lessons.
 
By might of arms, I am able to defend them all.
 
There are other ways as well to be gone from the house, less ostentatious ways, for just as Theophilus keeps watch over Theon, I keep watch over Theophilus.

I have two problems.
 
The first I can solve.
 
The second I cannot.
 
The first is that Theon holds one of three maps.
 
Meletus holds another.
 
Didymus another.
 
If Meletus or Didymus were to be discovered, either would die before surrendering their copy.
 
Would Theon?
 
The answer is a simple no.
 
Therefore he cannot hold a map.

The second is Lais.
 
Though she would have no one know, Lais is ill.

~

Hypatia

Five years before my birth, a monstrous wave rose up like the Sea Goddess Scylla, swallowing all that was finest of Alexandria.

The Emperor Theodosius is as Scylla.

This day, Pappas informs us that Theodosius has forbidden, on pain of death, all worship but Christian worship in what empire remains to him.

Alexandria, my beloved city, remains to him.

I sit alone on royal walls, broken by earthquake and wave, these last few tumbles of stone all that is left of the great Palace of the Ptolemies.
 
Behind me the Bruchion district once stretched out under its shadow, before me the two harbors still carry ships both great and small, and Pharos with its eye of fire still stands.

Gazing up at an eternity of wheeling light, at mystery beyond mystery beyond all mysteries, I know myself to be as mortal as Cleopatra, as easily swept away as her palace, as small as Pharos placed next to the sun.
 
My world is slowly dying as an alien world is born all around me, one that comes as Jone came, in pain and blood and the death of the mother.
 
And yet, the stars fill me with something akin to the rapture of Lais, pure in itself, containing no part that longs for some other, for here time itself stops, space knows no end, and death is a thing so inconsequential that to fear it seems more than foolish, it seems wasteful of life.

Is this what inhabits my sister who need not look at the stars?
 
If so, even with starry awe, my heart is yet troubled.
 
My city bleeds, Father fails—and I am as doubtful of self as ever, even as my lectures attract scholars come from everywhere.

I have written of all this to Augustine.
 
He writes back, asking: and what shall complaint accomplish?
 
I am chastened.

The dream of the caves in which I wander comes nightly now.
 
Minkah has never again appeared.
 
But each night I find myself lost there and each night I search for a child.
 
So odd, so terribly odd as I know I will never give life to another.
 
Will Jone?
 
Will Lais?
 
Lais does not live as a woman, nor yet does she live as a man.
 
Lais is Lais.

Unless Jone should marry, three daughters are the last of the line of Theon of Alexandria, a father who poured into an unworthy daughter all he would have given a much more suitable son.

It is cold and I shiver as I ride Desher home.
 
I have work to do, letters to answer, a book lies open on my table that I would read.
 
But my thoughts turn to Minkah.
 
I find my thoughts turn often to Minkah.
 
He has become my father’s son, but how should I complain of that?
 
Without our Egyptian and his teaching thereof, Father might all the sooner have faded away.
 
No one did more to save the books than he.
 
No one concerns themselves more with my safety.
 
For all this and more, Lais and Jone and I would welcome him at table.
 
But if Father will not come, and he does not, Minkah refuses.
 
I am sorry for this.
 
Minkah has the wit to make us laugh.
 
Once we all laughed.
 
Laughter is our greatest loss.