Selene of Alexandria (45 page)

Selene heard Didyme shuffle down the corridor, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She sat on the floor and bowed her head onto her knees. The room seemed even smaller, crushing the breath from her. She started up and took a swift stride, bumping her forehead on the wall. The pain focused her. She paced off the cell, three strides from front to back, two from side to side.

Mother Nut had probably breathed her last in a cell just like this. Selene sniffed for any lingering traces of garlic, but the waste pot in a corner overwhelmed any other smell.

No fresh air. No light. No one to talk to.

Selene felt as helpless as when Honoria had died in her arms. But then she had taken action. Now her fate rested in other's hands.

Unless…Selene slumped against the wall…she did as the Patriarch asked.

"I never thought Cyril would go so far!"

Orestes had never seen Hypatia so agitated. Two spots of color danced on her cheeks as she paced her office, flinging her arms in dramatic arcs. Anger blazed from her eyes, crackled in her voice.

Orestes, with the distance of hours since his confrontation with Cyril, more calmly assessed the situation. "He has been very clever turning this unfortunate incident to his advantage. I can do nothing officially except protest. The Imperial laws give him every right to suppress heretical Christian sects, and deal with sorcerers and witches as he chooses."

A strand of smooth dark hair escaped from Hypatia's chignon. She impatiently tucked it behind her ear, eyes lighting on her desk. She strode to it, seating herself. "The Patriarch is young and not a favorite among his peers. I'll write to every one of my former students and clients installed in Bishoprics throughout the Empire, urging them to rein in Cyril's excesses." She muttered, "And they are legion," as she started a letter.

"Write to Aurelian, as well. I don't know the new Praetorian Prefect, but he was your student. I'll also send an official protest to court." Orestes rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. "Unfortunately, I don't think our efforts will bear fruit in time to save Selene. Cyril moves more rapidly than the post."

"Surely Cyril would not harm her?" Hypatia put down her pen. "The church has forbidden torture. Memories of their own martyrs are too fresh."

"She is but a means to an end for the Patriarch." Orestes shook his head. "He has already condemned her for witchcraft. If Selene, through some pressure or trickery, implicates you, he eliminates your public influence. Cyril effectively severs us. You might even be in physical danger."

"Clever man." Hypatia rose and paced, hands clasped behind her back. "If Selene doesn't confess, she stays imprisoned. At the worst, Cyril gains Ision's considerable financial support and throws the fear of God into any of the curial class who oppose him."

Her face settled into lines of pain. Orestes sorrowed to see Hypatia look every one of her almost sixty years.

"Write your letters, Hypatia. Officially, we continue our efforts to persuade Cyril to reverse his judgment." Orestes rose to his full commanding height. "Unofficially, I have a considerable network of agents at my disposal."

"You can get Selene out of the Patriarch's basilica?"

"I must." Orestes said grimly. "For our sakes, as well as hers."

Hierex came to fetch her on the forth day, some hours after the single daily meal of one hard biscuit and a crumb of sharp cheese. Selene had tried to keep herself presentable by combing out her hair with her fingers and braiding it down her back after each meal. She had lost the ability to smell herself but still spared a few precious drops of water to scrub her face. At the sound of the key, Selene brushed at her filthy, rush-covered garments, adjusting her few pieces of jewelry.

As she emerged, Hierex wrinkled his nose. "I hope you have employed yourself usefully. The Patriarch wishes to meet with you."

"I would not offend the Patriarch with my presence. Could you provide me with a bath, clothes and servant to help make me more presentable?"

"That is just a woman's vanity." Hierex' mouth quirked at one corner. "The Patriarch understands the body is just the temporary repository of the soul – an envelope of clay to be sloughed off when we move to the next world."

They passed the stick-like, young woman who alternated with Didyme in caring for the "guests" of the Patriarch. She was either mute or had taken a vow of silence. Selene suspected few other women shared her imprisonment. No one had answered her determined whispers when the torches went out, except Didyme, who threatened to decrease her already meager water ration.

When Selene stepped into the outer hall, light from a dozen oil lamps struck her eyes stinging them to tears. She put out a hand to steady herself against the wall and wiped the moisture from her face with her other sleeve. She was surprised she had any tears. Her body felt as desiccated as leather, as in the throes of the plague.

The thought of becoming sick in this place sent a chill down her spine. Only Mother Nut's medical skills and her own youthful constitution had saved her before. Now, weak from hunger and thirst, she had no reserves to fight off illness, no tender care from family or friends. She straightened, but refused Hierex' proffered arm. Through blurry eyes she made out his scowl.

He grabbed her wrist. "This way."

She stumbled then regained her feet. It felt good to move. She gained confidence as her muscles limbered, and matched Hierex' quick strides. By the time they reached the Patriarch's quarters she quite enjoyed this respite from her dark cell.

Hierex led her to an austere room beyond the formal offices. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through windows looking onto a garden. The Patriarch sat at a table laden with his dinner. Selene smelled spiced duck, saw crisp greens. Her stomach clenched and she felt vaguely nauseated.

Cyril turned at her entrance and presented her with a cut glass goblet filled with a blood red wine. "My child, would you have some refreshment?"

She drank thirstily. The wine exploded in her stomach like Greek fire. Her senses spun. She looked at the Patriarch with suspicion. Would God's appointed shepherd poison one of his flock?

"Patriarch, could I have some water? The wine seems not to agree with me."

Cyril nodded in sympathy, but made no move to provide water. "Yes, it does affect some that way when they have been fasting."

Selene swayed slightly, but he offered no chair. How would the Patriarch react if she fainted? Probably have her dragged back to her cell.

Selene needed to keep her wits about her, but she was so thirsty! She sipped at the wine and felt her stomach settle, but her head grew fuzzier.

"Thank you." She held out the half full goblet to Cyril. "I've had enough."

He took the glass and smiled gently at her. "So, my daughter, are you ready to cast out the demons that torment your soul? Confess to us who initiated you in pagan rites."

Selene lowered her head and said, in a clear, steady voice, "My soul is stained with imperfections, my life fraught with human frailties, but I have always strove to be a dutiful daughter to my father and my church. I am innocent of the charge of witchcraft. I have never engaged in sorcery, just sound medical practices."

Cyril looked sorrowful. "I see the devil still has his claws in your soul." He sighed. "I have unhappy news for you, my dear. Your father has been taken gravely ill. He is a most worthy man. I had hoped you would repent and be restored to him in these, his final hours."

The blood drained from Selene's face.

Cyril flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. "Hierex, take her back. We will give her more time to meditate on her condition."

Hierex escorted her back through the warren. As they approached the dark corridor he said. "If at any time you wish to speak to me, let the matron know. I will come day or night to take your confession."

Selene stumbled into her cell, numbed by the wine and the news. First Mother Nut, and now her father.

She didn't know if Cyril lied to pressure her or if her father had indeed relapsed. She didn't know if Phillip had survived his fever. Orestes had failed to save her.

Selene had never felt so bereft.

She threw herself on the filthy rushes and cried tears she could ill afford to spare.

Chapter 36

Crying cleansed Selene's soul and exhausted her body, loosening the knot of grief in her chest. Quiet sobs eventually turned to peals of laughter. She clasped her hands over her mouth at the raucous sound.

Was she drunk or mad?

Since childhood she had raced through life, meeting every challenge without thinking about the consequences. God made her this way. Was she to blame?

A stubborn core of anger strengthened her spirit. Selene had no regrets; would have done nothing different. The good that came of her actions always outweighed the bad.

Maybe that was God's lesson in this muddle – to look for the greater good. If so, it was a hard one. She would live with the consequences – this non-life, awaiting the Patriarch's punishment for being herself.

Was her soul forfeit in defying the Patriarch? The Church taught that communion administered by a corrupt presbyter did not negate the relationship between worshiper and God. Presbyters, bishops and patriarchs were but men. Cyril may claim to know God's will, but Selene had lost faith in his sincerity.

She had been taught the Patriarch was the father of the church, a holy man doing God's work. Selene didn't believe God wanted her to falsely confess to witchcraft or cravenly betray her teacher. She had only to hold to that one certainty through whatever trials came her way.

She giggled, having made a peace of sorts between herself and God.

Selene stared at the thin shaft of light coming through the tiny window; diverted by the dust motes. She had found it harder and harder to concentrate as the days wore on. She had heard that fasting purged the body and clarified the mind, but it only seemed to make her weak and distracted.

The light disappeared with a suddenness that made Selene catch her breath. She sighed, lay back on the moldering rushes and tried to sleep. Memories of the Patriarch's laden table tortured her thoughts. The mute woman brought no food or water.

Selene slipped into dreams of God as a spouting fountain in which she danced naked. The cool water rinsed the filth from her skin and the worries from her mind.

The slight click of a key in the lock awakened Selene. Torchlight flickered through a gradually widening crack as her door opened. She sat up and blinked. The mute woman motioned for Selene to follow. When Selene started to speak, the woman put a finger to her lips warning silence.

Selene scrambled out of the cell. The woman handed over a torch and keys and mimed ascending the stairs; running away. Selene hesitated, wanting to believe, but suspecting a trap. What if Cyril provided this opportunity only to prove her deceit?

Plots and hidden motives. Trusting no one. Selene shook her head. That way was madness.

She mouthed to the mute, "What about you?"

The woman gave her some strips torn from the hem of her robe. Selene tied the woman's hands tightly behind her back. She hoped it wasn't too uncomfortable.

At the top of the stairs, Selene unlocked the door and looked out. Silence smothered the corridor. Thinking she would fare better in darkness, Selene doused the torch in a bucket of sand by the opening.

She took a dozen steps before bumping into a solid body. A large, soft hand covered Selene's mouth stifling her cry. An arm crushed her against coarse robes draping a stringy chest and sagging belly, while a voice hissed in her ear. "A friend sent me. I'm going to remove my hand. Stay quiet."

The man dropped his hand from her mouth, grasped her wrist and led her into the dim light of another corridor. Selene's savior was one of the ubiquitous lay clerks the Bishopric required to keep up with paperwork. Short, with ink-stained fingers common to his profession and red nose common to those with an excessive love of wine, Selene believed him the most beautiful man on earth.

He thrust a voluminous robe at her. She pulled it over her head to effectively hide her filthy clothes. She draped a fold over her hair to shadow her face. They moved down the hall through several levels, passing only a male servant tending the lamps and a woman carrying a tray.

The woman looked at them curiously. "The latrines are this way, Brother Samuel," the clerk said in low but distinct tones as they passed her. "I hope your trip back to Cyrene tomorrow is a pleasant one."

They turned a corner and passed out of the building into a moonlit garden surrounded by a stone wall. The clerk inspected the garden for late night visitors then hurried her to a low door shadowed by vines. "Someone will meet you on the other side."

Selene grabbed his hands. "I don't know how to thank you. I don't even know your name!"

"It's better you not know, Mistress, and no need to thank me." He patted a small purse hanging from his belt. "I've been thanked already."

They walked abreast for several blocks. At the corners, she stood in shadows, while he looked down the cross streets. Selene, alert to any sound, started when she heard voices. At the next corner a patrol of parabolans caroused past them. They seemed drunk. Her escort flattened Selene against the wall with an outstretched arm. Her heart rose to her throat as one of the men broke off from the pack and headed in their direction.