Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria (7 page)

“I have a home and there are those who need me.”

I see she is shocked.
 
“For weeks now you live with us, yet abandon your own?”

“Your family needs me.
 
Your father tells me your home is my home.”

“Does he now?
 
And your family?”

“Who are they?
 
I have never known.”

“But where have you lived?
 
Who has cared for you?”

“I lived in the Temple and the Temple is gone.
 
As for who cared for me, I cared for me.”

“But, as only a babe—”

“There was a woman.
 
She took me by night to a garbage pit.
 
There I would live or I would die, that was up to the gods.
 
There was a man who came to the pits, as many do, to take away abandoned children for slaves.
 
Imagine his surprise to find me a male, for most so abandoned are female.
 
In any case, those who come choose only the strongest, so I did not die, but was seized by Jabari the Brave, a worker in wood and metal who had need of an apprentice he need not pay.”

“You are a craftsman!”

“I was.
 
Until I ran away to the Temple to escape Jabari, who was not so much brave as brutal.
 
I made myself useful there.
 
I shelved and I sorted and I learned to read.”

There comes a strange light in her eye.
 
I do not trust strange lights.
 
“You can devise mechanisms from plans?”

“I can.”

“Even if they be complex?”

“Certainly.”

Hypatia says nothing more for an hour.
 
I say nothing more for an hour.
 
Banishing mothers and Jabari from my mind, I am remembering what I once read.
 
Long ago, came to this desert a great king and all his men.
 
But up rose a sandstorm as thick as the cough of Set in which all became lost and were never found again.
 
I find I am telling Hypatia this with great enthusiasm.
 
“…and since this is so, I wonder we have not seen their bones.”

By the look on her face, I see she has not heard a word.
 
By her speech, she admits it.
 
“Your skill has caused me to think of a device I mean to make, a much improved astrolabe—Father’s treatise on these has given me many ideas—as well as a thing that has long plagued my thoughts.
 
As yet, I have no name for it, but when it is made it will allow one to see clearly what lies below water.
 
Bones?
 
What of bones?”

By now I have learned the mind of this one is a strange mind and a surprising mind.
 
And it wanders.
 
I am glad it is not my mind.
 
How burdensome to live so much in the head.
 
I live in my body and feed its desires.
 
I glance at Hypatia, glance away.
 
It seems a fine life to me, and one that gets better by the hour.
 
I think of the sisters.
 
Hypatia is all mind, Lais all spirit, Jone all bodily emotion.
 
“Since the time of Augustus, Romans have banished men to this desert.
 
Earlier, when the Persians conquered Egypt, King Cambyses II and his army of fifty thousand men vanished in a sandstorm and were never seen again.
 
There must be bones everywhere.”

“I have heard of this, Minkah.
 
But men are banished to the oasis of Siwa, not here.
 
And King Cambyses was supposedly looking for precisely that oasis in order to destroy the Temple of Ammon by traversing the Great Sand Desert.
 
But surely, that is legend.”

“Surely, it is not!”

“It is.”

“It is not.”

From this point on, she searches for bones as I search for caves.
 
Sandstorms also occupy my thoughts.
 
If one were to suddenly spring up, our bones would mingle with the bones of outcasts and Persians.

“Hypatia!
 
Look!”
 
Ia’eh has suddenly stopped as if she too knew what we look for.
 
I am pointing at an outcrop of dark rock shimmering in the distance.
 
“See how high that place is.
 
When the rains come and flood the desert, the water would never reach here.
 
And see how low it is.
 
What solitary would find it alluring?
 
And how far from any path it is!
 
Should a wanderer lose himself here, he would not seek a way out through this place, but would turn and retrace his steps.”

All is heat.
 
It simmers in every direction.
 
It causes the eye to create illusion of palace and temple and great ships of many masts.
 
Hypatia asks, squinting, “It seems perfect.
 
There is no oasis, no water.
 
Are there caves?”

Standing in my stirrups, I shield my eyes with my hand.
 
“Dozens of them.”

“We must explore them all.”

Glancing at the sun, I frown.
 
“Already it will be dark before we return to the city.
 
We have no time.”

“The books cannot stay with Didymus.
 
Neither he nor they are safe.
 
You will search one cave and I another.
 
We shall do this until it is dark.
 
And then we shall sleep here, and begin again at first light.”

I know what is so in the house of Theon.
 
Hypatia has a class to teach on the morrow.
 
If the daughter does not teach, the father cannot peaceably lie in his bed.
 
If the father does not lie in his bed, how shall I be of use?
 
“And your students?”

Hypatia shrugs.
 
“They will come.
 
I will not be there.
 
They will wait.
 
I will not appear.
 
They will go home.
 
The following day I will apologize, talk longer, and all will be forgiven.”

As used to her wandering mind, I am as used to her fine and easy arrogance.
 
I nod.
 
We will spend the night.
 
Seeing this, she whispers into Desher’s ear, and we are away.
 
I follow on Ia’eh, who seems like Pegasus, feathered in white.

I am
Parabalanoi
.
 
I have done harder things than innocently sleep near a woman like this woman far out in the reaches of a wilderness with no man near.
 
But not many.

~

Three times now, well laden camels have gone out into the night.
 
And each trip I make, those who come with me are at a certain point blindfolded, and each trip I make is taken with different men, most poor, most Egyptians—none are fellow
Parabalanoi.
 
The caves I first sighted are many.
 
Some reach so far back into the crest of rock, searching them, I could go no farther for loss of light.
 
Some have caves within caves, only reached by crawling through tunnels jagged with sharp and twisted shapes.
 
And some would end in darker holes into which I have peered and these would drop down and down into a deep that if not the Underworld, would certainly do.

If all goes well, and I do not die from the effort, the whole of Alexandria’s great library, sealed in jars, will rest in the caves by the birthday of the Persian godman Mithras, though now given as birthday to the Christian godman Jesus.
 
My new “family” grows used to these sorrows.
 
Listening to Lais, I hear whichever godman claims it as his date of birth, it is still the return of the Great God Sun.
 
What matter the new name they give him as he is the same godman?
 
I had never thought of this.
 
The same godman?
 
Of course!

And so it goes.
 
Alexandria believes it has lost its library and grieves.
 
Christians, also believing, rejoice.
 
We few both grieve and rejoice.
 
The library lives, but as both Lais and Hypatia ask: at what cost?

And I, Minkah of the
Parabalanoi
, know the precise location of each cave, each jar, each book.
 
A delicious irony.

Autumn, 391

Hypatia

Seated on a raised chair in a lecture hall granted me in the Caesarium in full view of all, I speak…and as I speak all listen as if I were the sage so many call me.

I lecture on death.
 
I ask them: is it truly possible to steal a life, if, as is written in the Katha Upanishad, the Self is eternal and cannot die?
 
Should this be so, then one who “murders” does no more than transgress against the will of another, whose choice it is to live.
 
At bottom, a murderer offends not against the body, but against the spirit.

Before me, a sea of uplifted faces stretching far to the back of the great hall begun for Mark Anthony by Cleopatra but finished by Octavian Augustus to honor himself, all seeking to hear as I am raised high in my philosopher’s cloak before them.
 
Not all are as mesmerized as is a young man from the city of Cyrene, Synesius by name.
 
Not all are pleased.
 
This would include the brother of Synesius, Euoptius who even now scowls at me from the first row of curved benches.
 
There could be no brothers who look less alike.
 
Or who act less alike.
 
Synesius listens as if I were Socrates, Euoptius as if I were Jezebel.

And far from all understand.
 
But no face is a woman’s face for females are not welcome here.
 
All assume a female cannot learn, cannot reason.
 
She is useful, but only in service to men.
 
She causes lust, therefore is lustful.
 
She is weak so must be protected, even from herself.
 
Yet here they sit, scribbling in wax, forming groups to discuss what I have taught that day, following me wherever I go.
 
They preen before me.
 
They strut.
 
Some fall to their knees, expose their breast so that they might expose their heart.

None were born blind; they see I have grown the breasts and belly of a woman.
 
None were born deaf: they hear my woman’s voice.
 
So I must wonder: what do they think I am?
 
Do they think me a monster, a chimera, a freak of nature?

There are those, I believe, who do.

I endure it all.
 
They have paid to hear me, and paid me well.
 
Most may lack curiosity and discipline, may never master a thing in this life save drink and dice and the begetting of children on women—even on me if I would allow them—and most are surely fools, but all share one important trait: ambition.
 
None can become prefects or politicians or rise in the new religion without the distinction of a degree.
 
And to receive such a degree from the increasingly famous Hypatia of Alexandria, ah!
 
As for rising in the new religion, many seek a place because as members of the clergy, they are exempt from taxes.
 
How else do the rich stay rich?

But who has hired me to speak; who allows me these past four months to lecture in this huge hall remains the secret of Didymus the Blind.
 
I do not press him for answer.

Musing thus, I have paused so long in my speaking, I must be poked to resume.
 
Who pokes me?
 
Minkah, my gadfly, my irritant, he who sobers me when I grow drunk on myself.
 
He seems also to guard me, but from other than unwelcome suitors, what need?
 
Who am I?

Father’s “man” has begun to please me.
 
He pleases all in my family for one or another of his qualities.
 
Minkah is skilled and if he has yet to master a skill, he learns it quickly.
 
He can speak and when he speaks he makes sense.
 
How many can this be said of?
 
Not always of Father or myself, for scholars often do or say such truly foolish things.
 
Even Lais has from time to time uttered nonsense.
 
But what has convinced me is this: both Desher and Ia’eh greet him as quickly as they greet me who have loved them all their lives.
 
Father cannot do without.
 
Ife simpers.
 
Lais seeks his advice.
 
Jone pretends disinterest, but her interest is plain to all.
 
And if I am honest, I am more than pleased.
 
But to say more is to understand more, and I do not understand what it is I feel.
 
This I
do
know.
 
He is Egyptian.
 
As I am a Greek, he can never do more than please me.

In my ear Minkah whispers, “Murder, mistress.
 
You were saying…”

I shake my head to push his away.
 
I do not need to hear what I was saying.
 
I merely lost myself for a moment, and now I am found.

I finish this day’s lecture on the nature of Divine Consciousness expressed within the self—which has so far been greeted by nothing more than the soft murmur of interest and the scrapings of stick on wax—by stating with great flourish that the most important concept ever put forth was that matter,
all
matter, with no exceptions from stone to star to starfish to student to sovereign, is as divine as all else in the cosmos, for all flows from Consciousness, the Word that came before the World—and all, in time, will flow back.

And oh! finally—an uproar.
 
Euoptius of Cyrene has turned to face his fellows so he might address as many as possible in loud outrage.
 
His brother, Synesius, makes no noise but stares up in mute dismay.
 
I smile down at him, not sure he hears me say through the din that all this was spoken of by Hindu metaphysicians a thousand years ago.
 
It would not help if he had heard.
 
Many I teach are Christians and to Christians such thoughts are heretical.
 
They tolerate the Greeks, admire the Romans, puzzle over the Persians…but Indians!
 
Outrageous!

Oh foolish Hypatia!
 
Does this clamor mean I shall be contradicted?
 
Does it mean I have gone too far?
 
There have been teachers banished, even stoned, for less.
 
These are the sons of the rich.
 
Without the rich, where should my family be now that I am their sole support?

No matter how they shout or scowl or smash their slates on the floor of the Caesarium, I hold to my seat.
 
This is Alexandria.
 
Freedom of thought and of expression
is
Alexandria.
 
And I am Hypatia of Alexandria.

Behind me, unseen, Minkah has taken hold of my
tribon
.
 
He will pull me back if he has to, force me to safety.
 
But the uproar fades; the shouting is replaced by chatter.
 
They are discussing the idea!
 
Though none will accept it.
 
My Christians think only their Christ divine.
 
My “pagans” think divinity is gained by the few through pain and suffering.
 
My pessimists think nothing is divine but do not say so for that is the most heretical idea of all.

Still, they give it thought.
 
To think wrongly is better than not to think at all…although I may be wrong about this.

Leaving, I am delayed by that one who seems to see me as goddess, little good it does either of us.
 
Synesius of Cyrene, an artless soul, is pushed this way and that by Euoptius, a brother who would have him a bishop.
 
All Synesius desires of life are his horses, his dogs, the hunt, and, I suspect, me.
 
Synesius lacks spine, poor youth; therefore, a bishop he may one day be.

He asks so many questions and so quickly, I hold up my hand for silence.
 
“Synesius!
 
You wear me out.
 
If you wrote me a commentary, one I could read at my leisure?”

It is as if I have kissed him.
 
His large eyes gleam.
 
His small nose quivers.
 
“Write?
 
Of course!
 
I will write you immediately.”
 
He is gone on the instant.

Kept so long, I must walk alone by a series of corridors leading away from the Caesarium and out into the stables behind.
 
Minkah has gone on to ensure I am not troubled in the courtyard as I mount my chariot.

Ahead, just before the exit into sunlight, lies the deepest shadows, and from them steps a man in grey.
 
Though I would push by him, I cannot.
 
This one puts his hands on me.
 
Is he an agent of the church and would he, as Minkah hints, wish me harm?
 
His face, hidden by his grey cowl, is unreadable.
 
The voice, when it comes, is also unreadable.
 
“Will you be teaching more of this—”

I know his kind.
 
I finish his question.
 
“Blasphemy?”

But this one surprises me.
 
“Philosophy?”

I have slipped out of his grip, would continue on my way.
 
“I am a teacher.
 
Knowing nothing for sure and thus open to anything, I teach what pleases me.”

He has taken hold of me again, this time by the arm.
 
“Is this true?
 
You would listen to any thought?”

“Indeed.
 
So long as it was well expressed.”

“Then hear me,” he says, shaking the cowl from his head, “I pass through this city on my way to Hippo.
 
But I stopped for the renowned Hypatia.
 
So young!
 
Yet she spoke with words that shone like coins.”
 
I should thank him; instead once again I shake loose.
 
He follows me.
 
“I devoured the six sacred books of Mani.
 
I believed what he taught.
 
That there is no omnipotent good power.
 
That all is a battle between good and evil and we are the battleground.
 
Like you, I was a very pagan in my—”

Here, I stop not only myself, but him.
 
“Call me no names.
 
As a mathematician, an astronomer, a philosopher, nothing battles within but me with myself.”

He smiles.
 
For the first time I see his face.
 
He is a man reaching his middle years, one with a certain way about him.
 
There is power here.
 
And intelligence.
 
“And to think some now imagine astronomer the same as sorceress…gentle Hypatia—”

“Sir, mistake me not.
 
Gentle describes my sister.
 
It might even describe my father.
 
But it does not describe me.”

He smiles again.
 
“In Hippo, though I go to become a priest for Christ, I dream only of the day when gentle will describe me.”

“A given name would be more comforting.”

“Forgive me!
 
My name is Augustine and I have known women and loved them, but I have never known such a one as you.
 
Barely grown and yet a great mathematician and an influential philosopher and a convincing orator!
 
By you, I know God has once more spoken my name.
 
See me, Hypatia.
 
I, who once reveled in life, am now a man alone: my blessed mother, my beloved son, my lovers, my friends, all gone.
 
That I could persuade you to join me in Hippo!
 
There I could prove Socrates wrong.
 
The height of wisdom is not that one knows nothing, but that one knows what the Savior would have you know.
 
I beg for time to speak with you.”

I stop for only a moment for Augustine deserves a moment.
 
He reeks of need and of repression.
 
He longs for what he forbids himself.
 
And yet, he is sincere and intelligent.
 
His proposal, if such it is, does not tempt me.
 
As for his longing, virginal I am and virginal I mean to remain—or at least until I know my own longings—but that which lies back of his eyes repels and upsets me.
 
He seeks assurance.
 
He believes he believes, but his belief is not absolute.
 
He asks for certainty.
 
What is certain?