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?
He holds out his hand. A soft hand, one that has known no toil. In it, he holds a small codex. “I ask that you become my mystical sister, my soror mystica. No more than a loving companionship. I would never touch you.”
Augustine, on his way to Hippo, is owed at least honesty. “There is touching and there is touching. The touch you speak of, sir, scalds me.”
He does not smile nor does he scowl. “I was once as you are now. Please, I beg you, accept this gift. It is only the beginnings of a book I might write, mere notes, but if you would read them?”
I take his slender codex as I step into the sunlight. Minkah, who has been impatiently looking, sees me do this. He sees Augustine who follows. My sweet irritant moves quickly, his hand on the hilt of a knife.
Augustine, who has wit enough not to follow, calls after: “You allow me no time to persuade you?”
“You must be in Hippo, Augustine. Have you eternity to spare?”
~
In no hurry, I guide my two grays away from the Royal Quarter. By the sun and the sea and the peaceable streets, who would know the darkness that spreads its wings more widely each day?
Wrapping the reins around my right arm as would a racing charioteer, I turn my head so that Minkah will hear me above the clatter of our iron shod wheels. “Do you make a trip tonight?” I mean more books to the caves.
“Yes. And you?” He means will Father and I work on our maps.
“All goes well indeed.”
“This is good to know. Although…”
Nothing could prick my curiosity more deeply than hesitation. “Although?”
“Two nights back, I caught sight of one who watched us leave.”
“But could they know what you do or where you go?”
“Probably not. But she puzzled me.”
“She?”
“Jone.”
I laugh, knowing what I know about my little sister and her interest in Minkah. “Jone! Jone has done so little with her life, I am pleased she bothers to watch what others do.”
My laughter dies in my mouth. By this rising street and that, I have left behind the storefronts and workshops and come on the site of the Serapeum. It is not there. All that remains is the sphinx to its right and the sphinx to its left and the great pillar of Diocletian on its rock between. Though there is yet the great flat stone of its foundation, this is as swept clean of dirt and debris as Alexandria has been swept clean of its magnificent temple. Oh Seshat, sister of Thoth, what have they done?
Minkah and I ride home in silence as dark as the cave of Plato.
~
I find Father where I expect to find him—in bed. I expect to tell him of my day and then to return to a book I now read, the Deipnosophistoe of Athenaeus, which speaks of women mathematicians that even I, who search for such names, have never heard of. But I do not expect what follows. So soon as he sees me, he sits straight up, shoving away the books and papers and tablets and pens and ink stands and cushions that litter his bedding. He waves his arms. He raises his voice. Who in our house cannot hear him? Who in the house next door cannot hear him? “Daughter! Where have you been? Do you know who awaits you? I could not deny him entrance, but I could, and I did, banish him to our shabbiest chamber.”
Men are forever demanding to see me. Did I not just meet another? What should cause Father to shout of this one? Content that he has said enough, he says nothing further, instead allowing his chin to sink to his chest, so I must finally ask, “Who is this man?”
“Who?”
“The man you banished to our shabbiest chamber.”
“Ah! Him, that’s who! The destroyer! ‘What an ugly beast the ape, and how like us.’ Who said that?”
“Marcus Tullius Cicero said that.”
“And of all men, who should know better how beastly than Cicero, knowing well the beastly Caesar, Brutus, Pompey, Mark Anthony, Octavian.” Father rolls his reddened eyes at me. “And what shall I do without my Hypatia who is my greatest solace? And what shall the beast do with her?”
“What on earth are you talking about? Why do you say you must do without me?”
“The thing who demands to see you is a Christian. It has come to destroy you.”
A Christian? Mother Goddess Hathor! Two in one day? But destroy me? “And you did not throw him out!”
“How could I? He would not go.”
Lately, there are times when Father becomes unbearable. This is one of those times. “My destroyer’s name, please.”
“Theophilus, the Patriarch of Alexandria.”
And now I become, not frightened or outraged, but suffused with curiosity. Theophilus! Aside from the secular prefect Lucius Marius, eyes and ears of the Emperor Theodosius, Theophilus is the most powerful man in Alexandria. For the six years of his rule, I have heard he is ruthless. I have heard he is greedy. I have heard he is cruel. I have seen his terrible deeds, so what is said I do not doubt. But I have also heard he is learned and quick. Of course, I will see him. How often do I speak with one who might challenge me?
I am off and running for my room so that I might remove my philosopher’s robe, when I run directly into Jone. And now, instead of Synesius of Cyrene or Augustine passing through to the city of Hippo, or Father in his bed, I am detained by her.
“Do you know who awaits you?”
“Yes.”
“Might I come too?”
I am not as surprised as I might be. Jone has begun to stir herself. She has begun, as I have only just said to Minkah, to exhibit curiosity. It is my contention that true intelligence is not Aristotle and his gathering of facts and compiling of lists. Such things are the stuff of mental mechanics meaning ultimately nothing. Intelligence requires first the gift of curiosity. Without curiosity, who would ask questions? Second, intelligence is the ability to synthesize. Facts alone signify little. Neither are they to be trusted. Intelligence is the subtle arrangement of that which might or might not be true, the intuitive selection and the weaving of such selections into a pleasing whole that makes for meaning. Third, intelligence has need of laughter. Without laughter so much that is bitter and dark is allowed into being. That which is bitter and dark may be clever, it may even be cunning, but it is never intellige
nt. As for wisdom, wisdom is simple. The wise are able to recognize, and to accept, that not only is one never intelligent enough, but that when all is said and done, one knows exactly nothing.
Jone is not stupid. She grows curious. Now if only she might learn laughter.
Already in flight, I flee faster. “I…oh…why not? But be quick, Jone, and be quiet. I would see this one.”
Hypatia
For the first time in months, I am made proud by Father. By “shabbiest chamber,” he means a storage room off the pillared atrium.
Father’s “beast” looks like any other man. Or rather, like any other rich and powerful man. As the daughter of Theon, never rich but still powerful for being Alexandria’s leading mathematician, I have met many such. My life is full of the rich and the powerful. If I know few who have wisdom, I know many who have cunning. This one is cunning. But there is more. There is a cool appraising humor in the shape of his mouth, in the slant of his eye. His skin is bad. Though he is far from old, his face is creased and worn and cratered by pox. Even so, he is a presentable man and smells of cardamom and myrrh.
With Jone walking behind me (such a solemn little thing, so unknowable), and a silent unseen Minkah just beyond the door (unbidden but irrepressible), I have made my entrance. Green is the color of joy and confidence. I wear a long linen chiton dyed as green as malachite. I go without sandals. Philosophers are known by at least two things: their beards and their eccentricities. I can grow no beard nor do I live in a large jar or roll around naked, fornicating in public places. I have yet to fall down a well while staring up at the stars. Because of this, I am granted my naked feet.
I wear no rings for rings would call attention to the ink, but I do wear a cameo of bloodstone on which is worked the Holy Tetrakys of Pythagoras. My guests will make of this what they will.
Theophilus does not come clothed in his office, but wears what an ordinary person of wealth would wear—save for the necklace of heavy gold and a turquoise ring on his finger. The stone is enormous, its owner larger still. His lack of robe or hat or staff does not diminish him; he fills the small room Father has sent him to.
Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria Page 6
