I have never learned where Theophilus was born, nor do I know the name by which he entered the world (Theophilus is Latin for “god lover,” which I suspect he gave himself), but I know the two who have come here with him. The first is named Isidore of Pergamon. Come from a family of wealth to study in Alexandria, he has found favor with Theophilus, enough that he is named archpriest. Not yet thirty, Archpriest Isidore attends my lectures, struggling with geometry, with certain philosophers, but excelling at history and at oratory. Is Father right—am I in danger? Does Isidore attend to serve as the eyes of Theophilus and is he here now to provide witness against me?
I am ashamed to tell it, but as it is true, I must: I am attracted to this one. His face lacks symmetry; even so, it somehow falls into place and is all the more interesting for it. There is an intensity in the eyes and the mouth that compels me to wonder: who is this Isidore? What irony if it should be he who betrays me.
The youth is another matter altogether. He is rounder than Jone and stands even shorter. His flushed face is wider, his full lips as red as liver, his eyes seem slits in leather. Never in one so young have I seen the mark of arrogance so deeply engraved on so unfortunate a face—or the sick containment of fury. He is outraged to be confined to a storeroom, made further rabid by the sight of me. Is this because I am female? Or “pagan”? Or that I teach, and am more often sought out by those who visit this city than his uncle? Each would suffice. Or is it merely because, as he believes himself a superior being, the rest of us sicken him? I think it a mix of all. If not constrained by his uncle, and the constraint is obvious, I believe we would hear a choice and wondrous flow of language. Longer than he can stare at me, I stare at this one whose name is Cyril and is the son of Theophania, the sister of Theophilus, notorious for her cruelty and the helplessness of those chosen to receive it.
As Minkah would say: buttfuck them all. I have not trained in the art of oratory to be taken down so easily by a religious tyrant, an insolent pup, and a spy. I have not fended off each and every advance not to know the rules of defense. Attack first. And quickly.
“My father tells me you mean to destroy me. Is this so?”
Theophilus’ mouth opens twice before it makes sound. “Destroy you?”
He recovers rapidly, but I am as rapidly thinking. How did Cleopatra greet Octavian Augustus after the death of Anthony? Was she coy or was she brazen? One thing she was not, even if her inner parts quaked, was less than queenly. I shall act the queen. “You have destroyed so much of mine, it seems only wise to destroy me. Does your faith not wish to remove evidence of all that came before it, especially as all that came before, you now claim as yours? You have stolen dates and names and places and tales of the gods to give them all to your god as if they had never been used before. But you cannot steal me. I will not be silenced. Therefore, God Lover, what shall you do with Hypatia?”
“By God’s testes!” exclaims he, looking round for a chair to throw himself in. There is much here, and most of it cast off busts of relatives come before, but chair there is none. “Isidore!”
“Father?”
The priest Isidore, no son of Theophilus, steps forward on the instant. He calls the man “father” for their faith knows no mother. Like dross: mothers, daughters, sisters, lovers, wives, are cast aside, while revering a sleeping maiden named Mary for being entered by “God.” Do they forget Zeus? Zeus coupled with any comely maid who caught his eye, willing or unwilling. Yet Christians laugh at Zeus while praising their own seducer. A strange blindness indeed.
“I was not told I should meet an Amazon.”
Isidore of Pergamon, the priest who troubles my thoughts, replies, “I knew you would see for yourself.”
How disappointing. I am to be flattered before I am felled. If so, I should have hoped for at least wit.
“Embarrass yourselves no further. Why are you here?”
Behind me, I hear Jone give out her second small squeak. Twice now, she is shocked. Once for the word “testes” coupled with the word “God,” and now by me. What else would I do? Hold out my own hands for the binding thereof?
Theophilus, who desires to sit or better recline, but cannot, shifts from foot to foot. His arms bother him. Do they go inside his toga? Outside? Ignoble or no, I take much comfort in this…as does the rude round youth. Does he not love his uncle? Theophilus decides to hold out his hands, his innocent palms revealed. “But you are wrong, daughter of Theon. I hold you in the highest esteem. Neither man nor woman, but something apart. Why else would I suffer your father’s ill-will? Why else would I wait on you rather than summon you to come to me? Why do I show my hand in bringing Isidore, your pupil, so you might know his connection—and why bring family?”
Theophilus has spat out his last word. It appears Theophilus has as little feeling for Cyril as Cyril has for him. Jone has sunk into a corner in this windowless room where shines only one lamp, but I stand in the center, forcing Isidore and his “father” and his father’s nephew to take lesser places surrounded by staring stone heads, cast by shadows into hideous shapes. “Work awaits me. You suffer the House of Theon for some reason. If you mean to tell me it, do so.”
Theophilus now smiles, a more tender smile than any I saw on the face of Augustine, who must by now, be halfway to Hippo—or so I hope. “I did not summon you for I would not have others know we spoke. I suffered your father because if I had not I should have been asked to leave. I brought Cyril as he expressed an interest in coming.” I glance at the interested Cyril, who for the first time has the good grace to lower his impudent eyes. “I brought Isidore to prove he is no spy. He is also, whether you believe it or not, an ardent pupil and much devoted.”
I slide my eyes towards this ardent pupil of mine. He makes no face. He does not try to support the words of his father. His lack of trying is subtly done and goes some way towards soothing the shame I feel for my private thoughts. I have said I was virginal and I meant what I said. But as life is as capricious as Paniwi the cat, any state can change.
And now, at last, Theophilus would come to the point. But first he nods at Jone. “She can be trusted?”
“She is my sister.”
“Then I must tell you there are plans to have you killed.”
Another squeak from Jone, but I am not surprised. Minkah, who hears what is said in the streets as we do not, has warned me of this. Already good with a knife, he goes now to take lessons in the sword and shield and the pilum, a throwing spear, from a Roman soldier he trusts. Minkah urges me to wear leather beneath my tunic but I will not. I am, I confess, slightly afraid, but I will not act as if I am.
“I assumed that was your plan.”
“Your assumption is wrong. Your death would not serve. Rather, it would bring shame on my office. It would bring shame on my beliefs. As you say, and say rightly, I lust for what is yours. God would have your temples. These He has. That which funds your temples will become my funds. I…we, have won. It has taken many long years, but we have gained the souls of men and all your philosophy and all your numbers and all your sacred shapes and your mysteries which are not shared with them, marvelous though you see them, will not win them back. Men suffer and men are afraid. We offer them faith that their suffering will cease. Not on earth, of course. That will never happen. But in the afterlife, there they shall know comfort and peace. What do you offer? Difficult concepts, lofty idealism, secret doctrines, initiations they cannot understand, questions and more questions. We have answered all their questions. All they need do is accept our answers. And if the battle has been bloody, what battle has not? As to battles, which war among men has been more worthy? We fight for the soul. But I would not shed your blood, young woman. Those who think to do so are fools. By the death of Hypatia, whom the people take pride in for her writings and her teachings and her fame, we would lose much of what we have gained.”
“I imagine those who think to do so disagree with you?”
“They do. I have listened to much passion
ate persuasion. I am not persuaded.”
“And now?”
“And now I must shed the blood of those who would shed yours. A great pity, but there you are.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
Strangely, I have again made him uncomfortable. Not as before, but in some new way, a way I often see in the eyes of men.
His answer comes. “Because I would have you know you are protected. I would have you know I am not some idiot barbarian, a Goth or a Visigoth or a Manichean. I say, who would kill such as you? You are a gift from God. There are Christians who call you Wise. Not one has reported that you seek to dissuade them from their faith. Not one has complained you subvert the Church. All praise your tolerance.”
I do not glance at Isidore. It is true I do not attempt to dissuade any from their faith, but I do try by the use of what I hope is sufficient reason to ease them into something more, something greater. Isidore has not told him this? I ask, “Why then would any among you want me dead?”
Theophilus closes his innocent hands. “No matter which side you take, even God’s, there are those who are blind as well as base. We have our share.”
“There is more. You are not telling me all.”
“That is true. There is more. I allow you to live and to teach because by so doing I appear to be wise and tolerant.”
“You want something in return.”
“Also true. You will continue to appear wise and tolerant. Your pagans will be calmed. Calm pagans make for, if not calm, calmer Christians. I shall no longer incite my own for I have gained what it was I sought. Your temple is destroyed, your Museum closed, your books are lost. In time, Alexandria will be entirely Christian and this shall be by my doing. I may not be tolerant. I may not even be wise. But I am patient. The bloodshed will cease. There will be built, eventually, a Church of the Blessed Theophilus.”
I see that Cyril would laugh. That he does not shows wise restraint. “You require only that I continue teaching just as I have been? But surely by this, you ask nothing of me.”
“I am pleased you think so. Your salary and your hall which was mine to give, remains yours.”
And with that, the Bishop of Alexandria turns with admirable grace, shooing along his graceless nephew, intent on leaving our house. As for me, I know now to whom Didymus spoke. I should have guessed. No one else but the Roman Prefect held such power; Theophilus holds more.
No doubt sent by Father to see if I still live, my sister Lais enters this shabby room. Behind her follows on Minkah, who knows I still live else he would have entered long since to ensure it.
The sight of Lais produces upon Isidore and on Theophilus, even on Cyril, precisely the effect it produces on all who see her. Awe.
As they leave, I doubt Lais notices either their going or their awe. But I notice Jone’s little face. Her round eyes are rounder still and fixed on Isidore.
When all three are gone from our house and Jone is back to her books—or perhaps she now dreams new dreams, those that slow the mind but quicken the body, my poor poor Jone—Lais turns anxious eyes on mine. It is not the male who troubles Lais. I can think of no male who has ever troubled Lais. Yet rare concern turns her brown eyes black. “Was it the books, Hypatia? Have they found the books, or suspect them? Does rumor reach them?”
I bless these moments when Lais is as human as I. Returning concern with concern, I take her hand. “No, Lais. They do not threaten the books. They threaten me.”
Lais does not find this laughable. Her eyes grow blacker.
~
I return to find Father dozing over his papers. I stare long at his face. Asleep, it is the face of a great man.
Leaning to kiss his forehead, behind which lives a great mind, I see he has made a mistake working alone on a problem suggested by the great Diophantus. He will never arrive at the correct answer if he continues like this. If Father were awake, I would not correct him for that would cause him shame. As he is asleep, I erase his error and the two that naturally but unfortunately follow, replacing them with the right notations.
He who was once Theon of Alexandria will never know.
And now I am sought by Jone who comes to tell me I have one more visitor before I might work on my portion of the maps. With boundless irritation, I follow her.
By the hock of Apis, it is Isidore.
I shoo away Jone who would witness yet another visitation. I cared not if she stared at Theophilus, but I care a great deal that she does not stare at Isidore.
Jone has not banished Isidore to a small storage room, but left him in the atrium where now he stands, near to the pool open to the sky where Lais keeps fish: Chromis shaped as a vulva, Abdju as silver as rain, and around which are the four sides to this section of our house.
He is first to speak. His speech is rushed. “I am come seeking a moment alone.”
“Yes?”
“I would say that though I love Theophilus who has done much for me, I am not Theophilus.” His intention is not entirely clear. Does he mean he is no bully as is his “father”? Does he mean he disagrees with what is done in the name of his faith? I am confused. “I mean, that I would not have you or your family harmed.”
“And Theophilus would?”
“He is like Athanasius of Alexandria; he would do what he felt he need do to protect the Church.”
Athanasius?” This one is telling me that Bishop Theophilus is as a bishop who came before, dead now for as long as I have lived? Oh, Bes, protector of families, save the world from such as Athanasius of Alexandria! Though revered by hundreds, thousands shudder at his name. Athanasius tortured all who disagreed with him, killed in great numbers Christians as well as “heretics,” wrote heroic tales of himself that were lies from beginning to end. It is said that Athanasius founded the dread Parabalanoi. “Do you say that Theophilus would hurt my family?”
“I say he would not. Not now. Perhaps not ever. But it might not always be in his interest to choose to stand between you and those who love you not.”
I spread my hands in honest surprise. “I am merely a woman, a teacher. I cannot harm your faith nor stop it from creeping like vines ever deeper into the heart and mind of man. I haven’t the power. But did I have such power, I would censure no man’s beliefs.”
Isidore would reach for my hand, but restrains himself. “You are Hypatia of Alexandria. Hypatia is spoken of in the court of the Emperor Theodosius. He has become interested in you. It is too late to curb that interest.”
“What are you telling me, Isidore?”
“That you must speak as if anyone listened, anyone at all.”
I think of Cyril, who envies his uncle. I think of Cyril’s mother Theophania who is said to keep virgins, both male and female, in order to watch them deflowered in the most unspeakable ways. I think of the men robed in black who gather each day behind those who come to my lessons, unmoving, unspeaking, hearing only their own dark thoughts. “By anyone,” I ask, “does this also mean you?”
But he is gone without answer.
Looking up through the opening in the roof of our atrium, there is the small wanderer, Venus, who is also Inanna of the Sumerians. At sight of Inanna, I shiver. The Goddess of Love was stripped of her garments one by one as she passed through the seven gates into the lower world of the kingdom of Kigal, so that when she stood before the Great Lady under the Earth, her own sister Erishkigal, Inanna was naked.
Immediately, Erishkigal, who hated her, had her killed and hung on a hook—and when she died, the world above died with her. Yet she rose in three days and the world was born again.
There is more, and like unto tales told of Jesus, but I have had enough of this day. As for this night, I choose not to see it, so retire to my room and my maps. Instead I find Augustine’s notes for his intended book on my table. I had forgotten Augustine. I read the first page and the second. I am fascinated. He confesses to much that is base yet aspires to that which is sublime. That he hopes to find this sublimity in what is now
a chaotic, divisive, and violent “faith” intensifies my interest. I read until I am forced to sleep.
If thought of Isidore intrudes, each thought is shut in a store room and sealed with the rosette of Inanna, Goddess of fertility.
Fertility of body is not my path. My path is fertility of the mind.
~
I dream this night of caves. I have had this dream many times, although it is never the same dream. In some the caves are vast, in others so small I would need curl into a ball to fit. All are dark and cold and distorted into shapes I could not draw and can barely comprehend.
I wander through my dreaming caves searching. I think I am looking for Lais who cries. I think I am looking for Jone who cries. I look for a child who cries.
No matter how many caves I find, there is always another cave. No matter how many tunnels I climb, there is always another, higher, cave. No matter how deep I go, there is always a lower, deeper, cave. And no one is ever here and I sob in my dream.
This night, I dream I find not Lais or Jone but Minkah. By looks alone he seems not to be, but I know it is he. He stands before a wall of dark green rock. The rock is smooth and unblemished and he would write on it. But no words form under his brush, instead comes forth strange inky insects which flap strange inky wings as they seek to gain height, but instead must crawl. By their numerous feet, these leave behind slight black tracks over the green of the wall, and each track makes some sort of ultimate sense, but I cannot understand the sense they make.
Minkah the Egyptian writes and writes and writes until the cave is filled with tracks and the whir of wings.
Winter, 391
Hypatia
For months Augustine has sent letters, at least one a day, often two—including, in its entirety: On Free Choice of the Will—and each a closely reasoned, densely worded, discourse on what concerns him most: evil. Not merely the idea of evil, but its manifestation. Therefore why choose to read this day’s letter before all others? Because it is suspiciously short. No letter from Augustine is ever short. Moments later I run for Lais.
Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria Page 7
