Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria

by Ki Longfellow

  Because we are both Parabalanoi, I am given a curt nod of recognition as the angry priest strides past, though his robes of high office are whisked away in case I defile them.

  “Minkah!”

  Theophilus is recovered. Certainly he seems not to mind that his “favorite” strides from his house. When I come near, he grasps my arm, turning it over to expose the scar that runs from shoulder to elbow.

  “I do not forget this was done in defense of me.” I demur. It is true, of course. I did save his life when a maddened priest of the Goddess Isis would take it. But best not to preen. Preening is the privilege of power. “Enter. Sit down. Wine? Water? Whatever you’d like. You!” He yells at an Egyptian slave who brings me both water and wine. “It’s been too long. Tell me what have you been doing?”

  “If anyone, you know what I’ve been doing.”

  I make him laugh. He snaps his fingers. “The spies I have now. A miserable bunch.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Tell me of the house of Theon. All goes well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “The old man grows young again, too young. I hear if he grows any younger, he shall need swaddling and a cradle.”

  I merely nod at this.

  “And Hypatia? She is surely healed of her sister?”

  “She will never heal.”

  “Women. Too weak for this world. And yet this one is not precisely a woman, is she?”

  Though he may not intend me to see what he has revealed, I do see. He means she is so much more than he, he can scarcely comprehend the leap from where he sits to where she stands.

  “She is a woman.”

  “Only a woman?”

  Does he ask if she is subversive? I must be careful. “Only a woman.”

  He pretends to think about this. He crooks a finger, heavy with gold, so that his waiting slave pours him wine. “Yet on this day, she is given Alexandria’s chair of philosophy and mathematics. Aside from fanatics and fools who wear at me as stone is worn by water, there is none to doubt that in all the world Hypatia of Alexandria is a queen of mathematics, of astronomy, of philosophy, even of theology. There is a celebration. I am surprised we cannot hear its wretched beginnings from where we both sit.” He pauses. There is nothing to hear but the breath through his nose. He sounds as a winded horse. “Tonight I attend her banquet though some advise me to make my excuses, saying mathematics is no more than divination and divination the handiwork of a tireless demon. Mark my words, bishops from Jerusalem to Dijon to Thebes to Nisibis will ruin this church we build, though it takes them years.” Listening, I can only hope he is right. “Especially that vacillating fool now installed as the Bishop of Constantinople. You have heard of him, called John of Antioch?” At the name, Theophilus stands abruptly, knocking a vase from a table which his slave rushes forward to rescue. “I am the Bishop of Alexandria. It is my right to choose the new bishop of Constantinople—my right! Was I allowed this right? No! My choice was ignored.” His choice for bishop of Constantinople, the archdeacon Isidore, has just left the room, as ignored in going as Theophilus was in his choosing. “The devil himself dug up the old turnip, virtually dragged him by his string of a beard from Antioch to Constantinople. In the dead of night, this was done. In the dead of night so the faithful of Antioch would not know they had lost him. Why should they care! But they do care! And this sanctioned by the Emperor Arcadius! How dare he! How dare even a son of Theodosius, may God grant him eternal peace, slight my office!”

  “I have heard of John,” I say, neglecting to mention I know as well of his ‘devil,’ the eunuch Eutropius. Before getting himself killed by hubris, Eutropius controlled both the feeble Arcadius and his empress, the ferocious Eudoxia. Eutropius had spies as numerous as the spies of Theophilus…in other words as many as maggots on a carcass. To gain John, his own choice of bishop, Eutropius threatened to expose the avarice of Theophilus. But for this, Isidore the pretty priest from Pergamon would even now be seated as bishop in the city of Constantinople.

  Back to lolling about on a couch of fat pillows, Alexandria’s Patriarch has spilled wine on the red silk of his pallium, but does not notice. “They say John of Antioch speaks so well he sings, that for this he is called John Chrysostom. Eudoxia adores him.” As if biting into a fetid fig, he spits on the carpet, inhales more wine, and dismisses the subject of singing bishops. ”What kind of woman is she?”

  I do not pretend I believe he means the cunning Eudoxia, Arcadius’ lowborn barbarian wife. I know he means the brilliant though naïve Hypatia. “A woman so far beyond the pettiness of politics, she can mean nothing to those who are not.”

  Only the slight widening of his eyes tells me that Theophilus feels insult. But he is much too clever to worry over trifles. I have answered the question he has asked me: is Hypatia a threat or is she not by her rise to even higher prominence and influence? I have told him she is not. Years ago, by careful wording, I placed in his mind the thought that she was harmless. Years have passed and my words become like daubs on walls. I cannot pretend Hypatia weak or witless or over-rated. But I am as yet free to call her harmless by intent.

  Theophilus calls for more wine. I content myself with water. A clear head with this man is more than wise, it is imperative. “Do you know why you are not called to serve me these many years?”

  He knows I know. We play some tedious game. “So that I might be your eyes and ears in the house of Theon.”

  “And you will remain in that house. By you, I know who visits there. I know what is talked of. By you, I know I might know more when and if I need to.” Here, he leans forward, expressing by look all the power that is his. “Minkah, if not for your use in another’s house, you would have found a high place in mine.”

  He is sincere. It’s chilling. If I had not found a place in the house of Hypatia, for it is her house—the spies of Theophilus who also spy on me describe well the state of the father—would I have allowed myself a place in the house of Theophilus?

  To put it more clearly: how low would I sink for money? I regret that I cannot answer, not if the amount would buy me ease from shame. How much would I do to save myself?

  Our hope of a return to the old ways died six years ago. Theodosius, father of two idiots: Arcadius, now Emperor of the East and Honorius, now Emperor of the West, marched his army of Visigoths and Syrians out from Constantinople and on through the Julian Alps as far as the Frigidus River, there to meet with Arbogast and his army of Franks and Gauls. Without hesitation, Theodosius launched his men at the defenders of the pagan usurper and secretary, Eugenius, Emperor of the West.

  In one day, Arbogast crushed him. Kneeling in blood, even Theodosius believed he had lost his attempt to wrest back the Empire of the West from heretics and demons.

  That night, before the decisive battle none thought he could win, Theodosius spoke privately with his Christian god. “Father!” he must have cried, “save my Empire for if I lose, you lose.”

  At first light, Theodosius rallied what few troops were left him and attacked again. And lo! a great gale came up and blew in the face of his enemy, and the wind blew so hard it reversed the course of their arrows and blinded their eyes with dirt. By this, the lines of Arbogast broke, fleeing in fear, leaving the field to what all described as an astonished Theodosius.

  An hour later the captured Emperor of the West was kneeling before the Emperor of the East, when, suddenly, a soldier leapt forward to strike the horrified head of Eugenius from his horrified body.

  Or so Alexandria was told by its bishop. This much was certainly so: Theodosius once again ruled both East and West. Truth is, the steep valley in which all this took place was well chosen. The sudden strong winds that blew up to blind the army of Eugenius were common, and came always from the same direction. Theodosius would know this. His only mistake was to meet up with Arbogast before the winds. But how easy to bedazzle the ignorant with his praying and his “miracle.”

  Theophilus is, for the moment, quiet
. Maybe I will discover why I am summoned. And maybe not. A bishop is as forgetful as the next man. I wait, thinking: the god of Emperor Theodosius gave with one hand, but took back with the other. He took the wife of Theodosius. He took her child. In the city of Milan, four months after his victory over the foes of his faith, he took Theodosius himself by disease.

  And yet though Theodosius is dead and his sons are weak, Christians rise again. Raids on the lives and property of Alexandrian Jews and pagans, still confined to the poor, will escalate. Alexandria has more temples to burn, more heresy to stamp out, more false doctrine to quell, more lives need ending.

  How far would I go? I might be persuaded to harm Theon of Alexandria. I might even be persuaded by oath and by threat to go so far as to kill the old boil, even do away with a few of his friends. Lucky so many have fled Alexandria.

  Would I tell of the books? Would I reveal the maps?

  Here my absorbing thoughts—the vile deeds of my fellow man, who I am no better than, never fail to amuse and disgust me—are interrupted by my employer, reanimated. I recline on a couch in the “borrowed” house of the Bishop of Alexandria and I would be wise not to drift off again. He leans too close, saying, “Have you seen, Minkah, have you heard? I build a church on the site of the Serapeum.”

  “Indeed?”

  Again, I have made this man laugh. “So dry, so Egyptian. But then, what do Egyptians, whose gods are animals and endless in number, know of faith?”

  “As much as you, I imagine. Without men, there are no gods.”

  I tempt his quick temper. This fake Pharaoh—increasingly obvious as the costumes of bishops become increasingly ridiculous and freighted with stolen symbol—mistakes the deities of Egypt as separate and simple, never noting they are all One, the elegant play of each aspect of the “dazzling darkness” from which they emanate. And if I myself could not express my beliefs, Hypatia would do so, just as Hypatia helped phrase these thoughts I now think.

  Men like Theophilus prey on the weakness of fear. In this moment I could kill him as easily as I would Theon—no more than the quick slash of a blade. But to what gain? I do not fear him; I fear his power. There is a difference. He might die, but his power will not. There will come another to seize it. And after that, another.

  Theophilus humors me. “I admire you, Minkah. I admire the risks you take. As for my church, I intend it to honor John the Baptist.”

  “Good choice. Bound to be popular. But without the head, will there be bones enough to cherish and to grow rich from?”

  My fine bishop, rising, stiffens from his toes to his smile. “As said, I admire you—but then, I’ve admired many who are now dead. You will keep to your place and when I have need of you, you will come.”

  He has made himself clear. So too have I. Neither fools the other.

  “You, of course, know Isidore.”

  Finally. We come to the reason I am here. “Yes.”

  “I would know where he goes, what he does, who he speaks to. He will not steal from me again.” Isidore, a thief? I am not surprised. But to steal from his benefactor? “I have need of the money he claims he holds back for the poor. You will keep me informed of Isidore.”

  “Naturally.”

  Sent on my way, I smile: things have come to that, have they?

  I walk straight into Peter the Reader—proving, if nothing else, a dark cloud hovers over this day.

  Here is the man who first saw who I was. Without work, without shelter, without prospects, caught reading a history of Troy—not one that compares to a thing Hypatia might read but certainly one Jone once devoured—it was Peter with a mouth as twisted as his mind who offered me up to the Parabalanoi.

  Before that day, I was already a thief. Ever since, I am much less. Peter saw I was nothing, that I would never be other than nothing. Buying me drink, he spoke of the good works I would do, the prestige I would garner, the money I would earn. The man knew a perfect dunce when he saw one. He knew rage. He knew how useful the rash and ignorant young. I was pointed as deftly as an arrow at a target for none are so easily goaded to unthinking action as tormented powerless males. And so I swore my oath, like many come before, only later to learn, like many come before, what it was I was sworn to. By this, I learned also the truth of myself. I did not leave when I knew the truth. Instead I discovered how much I would do for pay. Later, I learned even the pleasure of it.

  Peter the Reader, dressed head to foot in black, his white misshapen face made whiter by the black of his cowl, is a fanatic of the worst sort. He does what he does not for money or for a pleasure born of revenge, but for what he calls god. If I know his god, and I do not, but if I did, I can’t imagine he wishes anything from someone like Peter but distance.

  He does not let me pass. “You gladden my heart. How long has it been?”

  With Theophilus, a man of ironic humor, I might slip close to truth. Peter is not ironic. As for humor, it would crack his jaw to smile. I must be as deceitful as he. “I am kept busy, Peter. We each have our part to play.”

  “I know your part. You play it well.”

  “Thank you.” And with this, I would be away, but he has more to say.

  “Better than most, old friend, you must know a time comes when that woman’s tongue will stop wagging.”

  Yet again, Hypatia is threatened. I take a step towards Peter, who takes an awkward step back—I see my reputation holds—when another voice stops me, one that turns my head faster than the crack of a chariot whip.

  “Minkah! That I should find you here! I never once thought—”

  Piss! Like lion eating hyena eating genet eating rat, there is something each man fears. I hold out my hand. “My dear Jone.”

  Jone would hold out her own hand, but pulls back with unfeigned modesty. “You’ve been with the bishop? I have an audience. I’ve tried for so long to see his eminence, and now, he calls me—so here I am, baffled but eager.”

  “Indeed.”

  And I make my escape. But not before noticing that Jone has grown less, by which I mean she has shed fat. With the loss of width in her face, I see a hint of Hypatia there, a hint of Lais. But in the eyes lives neither.

  ~

  Jone, youngest daughter of Theon of Alexandria

  He calls me Jone. He calls me “my dear Jone”!

  When I was only a child, I felt myself in love with a priest called Isidore. But what does a child know of love? I am no longer a child.

  But that Minkah has the acquaintance of our beloved bishop and that he, so exalted, knows Minkah! That he also knows Peter is a lesser pleasure, yet still a pleasure. I do not like Peter. I know no one who does. But neither I nor anyone else questions his faith.

  When did I first pray that Minkah would find God? I have not missed a day since. At night in my bed I imagine him a priest and I his diakonos. I would so gladly act his servant! I imagine he becomes a saint and I his patroness. I do not imagine him as husband, yet there are dreams that come…oh, but of those, I cannot speak, not even to myself.

  But what am I thinking? Without meaning to, I find my chin has risen, that my eyes widen as if I might brazenly stare around me, that an upward curve threatens my mouth. I rid myself of such posturing. The Patriarch awaits me.

  As is right, I am offered no chair. As is right, the bishop does not stand in my presence. I am a woman. He is a man. Is there anything else to say? As is right, a second woman of faith is present for decency, standing near the door with her hands folded and her eyes lowered, and as is right, both she and I are silent. Bishop Theophilus will speak when he is moved to speak. As is right, whatever it is he says, I shall agree to.

  He has his back to me. In the bright light of the window, he shines as our Lord must have shone in sun or shade. He speaks before he turns. “As you came in, Jone of The House of Women, did you see a young man, an Egyptian?”

  “I did, father.”

  “You know him, do you not?”

  “For many years, father.”

&
nbsp; “What do you think of him?”

  “He is a good man. He honors my father, he protects my sister. I have heard nothing ill of him.”

  The bishop turns. Would it be blasphemous to say his face causes me fear? I remind myself that many are called to the Lord. Who am I to question who is called and who is not, or that their faces are filled with the marks of pox, that their jowls sag like the jowls of caged apes, that their noses are purple and smell of vats in vineyards?

  “Do you see him often?”

  “No father.”

  “Why not?”

  “I live now with Christian women. I have so much to do each day: distributing alms to the poor, tending the ill, finding ways into the homes of pagans so I might speak to a woman there who is said to be seeking us—”

  “All, of course, worthy. But I wish something more of you.”

  “Yes, father?”

  “You will visit your home again. Once a week will do. You will carefully watch the young man you saw leaving my home. And once a week you will return here and tell me what you have heard and what you have seen.”

  I do not ask why. It is not my place to ask why. But I think I know. Minkah is being tested for something. Could it be as priest!

  “I shall do as you wish, father.”

  “Of course you will.”

  Early Autumn, 401

  Hypatia of Alexandria

  Jone visits the house again…how slender she is, and taller!

  My serious little sister finds her room as it was. As I keep an altar to Psyche, Goddess of the soul, Jone keeps an altar to a man hung from a tau cross as Osirus was hung from a tree. Jone’s Christ is not made of silver but of wood and seems no more than all other godmen, save for this one thing: he spoke of love for all. There is little of this to be found in the church formed in his name, yet…it interests me.