Written in the Ashes

by K. Hollan Van Zandt

  Hannah shook her head. “I do not understand.” It was a philosopher’s speech that did nothing to reframe the events in the market for Hannah’s heart. Feeling neither more nor less consoled, she gazed down into the little pool at the star-shaped blooms of the blue lotus flowers, listening to the water trickling from the lion’s mouth on the wall.

  “Hannah,” Synesius stood up. “I have also come today to invite you to sing at a very important lecture this coming Saturn’s day. Alizar spoke quite highly of your talent before his departure, and our current musical accompaniment has taken ill. We would like you to take his place. Alizar arranged that it will pay you three siliquae.”

  “What kind of lecture?” Hannah sat up in surprise. Here then, was Alizar’s promise that she could earn her freedom; although three silver siliquae were a mere glint on the surface of one hundred gold solidi.

  “An unveiling of the most important contribution to science to come out of the Great Library in six hundred years.” Synesius’s calm voice, usually bereft of emotion, welled with excitement.

  Hannah tipped her head. “Go on.”

  Synesius lowered his voice to a whisper. “Centuries ago, Archimedes of Syracuse brought certain drawings to Alexandria of a mechanism he conceived that can discern the position of the entire cosmos, sun moon and planets. He was killed before he could construct it. The mathematicians of the Great Library have devoted their lives to its creation. Hypatia’s father, Theon, came the closest but failed, and now Hypatia herself has supposedly created a working model of Archimedes’ design. She plans to unveil it during her lecture. Magistrates, royalty, rhetors and prefects have sailed from across the Mediterranean to be there.”

  Hannah drew a sharp breath. How could she possibly perform before hundreds of people? The thought was paralyzing. “Synesius, it is a very generous offer, but—”

  “Hannah, you must. It is expected.”

  Hannah stood abruptly and hobbled over to the sprawling fig tree with its leaves like giant puzzle pieces twisting in the breeze. “Maybe bravery comes easy to you Synesius, living within the safe confines of the library walls. But that girl’s blood covered my face when she lived not moments before. My face!” She threw up her hands and several silver fish at the surface of the pool darted back into the murky shadows.

  “I know it is difficult.” Synesius rose and smiled gently. “Hypatia would appreciate meeting another woman of exceptional talent.”

  Hypatia. Hannah thought of Jemir’s description of her, “made of light.” In all her visits to the Great Library she had never seen the famous female philosopher. If Synesius had come to ask this favor of her, she knew it must be important. “I will be there,” she said.

  Synesius smiled and bowed to leave. “Good then. Get some rest.”

  8

  When he heard that Hannah would perform at such an important lecture, Jemir secretly shook several copper coins from the bottom of a bag of odds and ends and counted them. Then he left the house.

  On Saturn’s day eve Jemir knocked on the door of the stable with a fine dress of peacock blue silk in his arms, but Hannah did not respond. He called out to her, and Leitah appeared at the door.

  “Where is she?” Jemir asked.

  Leitah shrugged. She pointed from the dress to Jemir and mimed walking with her fingers.

  Jemir shook his head. “No, she did not come with me. I assumed she was here with you.”

  Suddenly Jemir and Leitah both knew what must have happened. Jemir set the dress on a chair and said, “You search the stable and the street. I will call Tarek.”

  They split up, and Tarek joined them moments later.

  But there was no need. Hannah entered the stable through the lower gate with a fistful of clover. She paused to stroke the grey stallion’s nose and feed him, leaning on the cane Jemir had found for her. When she saw Leitah and Jemir she hobbled up to the stable.

  Tarek stepped out from behind one of the walls. “So you thought you would run away again?” he said, his blood rising.

  “I went to feed the horses,” she said.

  “You lie,” Tarek said. “We know you tried to escape again.”

  “If I wanted to escape I would not be here now,” said Hannah. “I would be free of you forever.”

  Tarek pulled Hannah into the stable and threw her down on the straw. “I tire of your disobedience. You bring shame on my father’s house. I curse you to Hades.” Tarek spat on her face.

  Hannah felt a shaft of lightning web through her entire body. Curses were serious magic. “I was tending the horses, I swear. Please take it back.”

  “I paid too much for you,” said Tarek. He stood over her, grabbed her by the elbow and picked her up. She could smell the wine on his breath.

  “You are hurting me, Tarek.”

  “So be it,” he said, and he pulled her into him and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

  “Stop!” Hannah pushed him away with her other hand.

  He laughed and ripped her khiton so he could take hold of her breast. She bit him, and he struck her hard enough across the face that she fell to her knees.

  “You touch me and my father will kill you,” she snarled, blood trickling from her lips.

  “Your father is dead, and this is your life now.” Tarek stood over her. “I own you.”

  The words stung Hannah’s pride.

  The angel cringed.

  Just then the stableman appeared at the door with a saddle in his hands. Behind him were Leitah and Jemir.

  Hannah wiped her tears and pulled the torn cloth across her bare breast.

  Tarek stormed out.

  “Leitah,” said Jemir, concealing his concern. “Help Hannah look presentable for tonight.” Then he turned and went out.

  Leitah fetched water and a sponge to clean Hannah up. Jemir brought her a warm cup of red willow tea and then presented her with the himation he had purchased for her in the market that afternoon. It was the same color as her eyes.

  Hannah thanked Jemir and took it in her arms. She caressed the billowing sleeves that were elegantly slashed open from the shoulder to the wrist where they tied. There was even a gold braided sash that draped elegantly down along the neckline, swept beneath the breasts, and tied behind the back in the Hellenistic fashion. She had never even seen a fabric so fine.

  A chariot from the Great Library drawn by three sprightly white Arabian horses was sent to fetch Hannah. The horses murmured to each other and tossed their heads in the air at her approach. She got in and swiftly kissed Jemir’s cheek in thanks as he wrapped a white woolen shawl around her shoulders. She clutched it to her body as the chariot lurched forward.

  “Promise me when you return you will relay to me her every word?” Jemir called out from the street to Hannah, who was glowing like the sapphire flame of a glassblower’s torch.

  Hannah looked back and waved, “I promise it.”

  So.

  When Hannah arrived at the library her palms began to sweat. She had never played for any audience before, much less a large, important one. Her throat tightened and her breath came short. When the chariot lurched to a halt beneath the gates she noticed the inscription above them in stone: Knowledge is the Source of the Soul’s Freedom. She sighed. If only knowledge would buy her freedom.

  Fortunately, the resplendence of the Great Library soothed her agitated nerves. Oil lamps with wicks of Carpasian flax had been set around the perimeter on silver trays, illuminating the magnificent arches and the colorful murals and geometrical patterns the Egyptians fancied. Now and then, a peacock strutted peevishly into the hall from the garden, his bejeweled tail dragging centuries behind him. From the garden came the sounds of insects and frogs humming their spring ragas, mingling with the talk of the people as they found their seats. The Great Hall was already purring with conversation. Overhead, the gibbous moon gleamed t
hrough the glass cupola like the golden eye of the Cyclops.

  “Hannah, welcome.” Synesius broke from the crowd and stood before her. “Come with me.”

  Beside her tutor, Hannah felt herself carried into the swift current of conversation among elegant guests from all over the world. The pulse was unnerving, from the sounds of over a dozen languages in one room to the sheer mass of bodies. Yet standing in the Great Hall felt peaceful, as if the architecture had sprung from the mind of an intelligent deity. Perhaps the same god who authored the orchid and the moon’s distance from the earth.

  After an hour of formalities, a gong was sounded. Synesius gestured to the dais, and Hannah froze like a stone in winter. Synesius pulled her aside and whispered in her ear. She softened a little at his words. And so she took a deep breath, and let him lead her to the dais where a lyre waited, lent to her by a bard of the Museion. The crowd quieted and found their seats. Synesius guided her to a small stool with a lush crimson cushion, then whirled around to the audience, the sea of faces turned toward them expectantly. “My friends, fellows and visitors from far away lands…” Suddenly there was a thunderous round of applause. He waited for it to die, then spoke again. “Before I introduce Hypatia, it is my pleasure to bring you a new talent from our Great Library, one I know you will enjoy. I give you Hannah of Sinai.” Again, applause shook the building.

  Hannah’s throat went dry. She swallowed and wet her lips. It was time. The salve collar felt so cold around her neck, so constricting. She hoped she would be able to sing.

  She had selected an ancient Aramaic song about a woman praying for her husband as he rode into battle. She chose it for its pure and unpredictable melody and the way it made her feel beautiful whenever she sang it, and also because its complexity made it a most impressive selection.

  Early on her voice quavered, but soon she relaxed and the melody invited her into its landscape, where her voice found its natural footing. In the refrain, Hannah held the highest of possible notes until the song’s ecstasy washed over her. She sang on a voice that flowed from the sunlit mountain streams of Sinai, letting the song’s beauty and power touch the secret longings in the peoples’ hearts. As she stroked the lyre, Synesius smiled in pride at his student’s courage, and her power. Alizar had been right once again.

  When she had let the last note ring out, Hannah opened her eyes. The entire hall was spellbound. She could feel their hearts beating in the stillness, breath flowing in and out of warm bodies. Then slowly, one gentleman in the front row began to clap, and then everyone was clapping, standing, and shouting their appreciative applause.

  Synesius, his steps never lighter, returned for Hannah and led her down to a chair where she arranged her dress and then sat. She took a deep breath and touched her trembling fingertips together at her lips.

  “Had I known I would have to deliver my lecture after such a voice as that, I might have arranged to speak to you tomorrow.” Laughter bubbled up from the crowd as a strong and beautiful woman sprung upon the dais like a lioness to her prey.

  Hypatia.

  Hypatia, immaculate star of wisdom, rhetor of heavenly reason, the Virgin of Serapis so celebrated by the Alexandrian poets. Hannah immediately recognized her from her first day in Alexandria as the brave woman who had cursed the bishop at the gates to the library where the Parabolani had maimed and burned her servant. Of course. This was the Great Lady.

  As Hypatia spoke, Hannah regretted her weeks away from the library, since Hypatia delivered her entire lecture on astronomy in Greek. But understanding her seemed inconsequential to hearing her. The audience did not dare to breathe, cough or shift their feet, so enraptured were they by her presence. Hannah was, like them, entranced, lost in Hypatia’s power, completely suspended in a place time could not touch.

  Midway through the lecture, two men ceremoniously carried a tasseled crimson pillow with a circular brass instrument resting atop it to the dais. Whispers rippled through the crowd.

  “Some of you have only heard of it in legend,” declared Hypatia, her deep gaze as piercing as that of an owl navigating a darkened wood. “And now, may your doubts be put to rest. I present to you, behold, the Celestial Clock of Archimedes!” Hypatia lifted the heavy brass instrument and held it aloft.

  Silence. Shock. Then a wave of sighs and gasps. Then finally applause, but Hypatia raised her hand to quiet them. “I will demonstrate,” she said with a victorious smile. Slowly her hand wound the outer wheel to the current date, and then she clicked a small lever into place.

  Magically, the dials of the clock began to spin and rotate by themselves, until finally, the position of the planets, stars, sun and moon for that particular day were revealed on the clock face. The crowd gasped. “Truly automatic!” someone shouted. Hypatia summoned an astronomer who stood at hand to check the accuracy of the clock’s calculations. He bent over the instrument to examine it, and then nodded to the audience. “It is perfectly accurate,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Yes, perfectly accurate,” declared Hypatia. “In any century, past, present or future!”

  One by one the audience began to clap, and then they stood with awe etched on their faces. Hypatia had achieved the impossible. She had brought legend to life. The world would never be the same.

  As the crowd broke and rushed forward to examine the instrument and speak with Hypatia, Synesius turned to Hannah. “I apologize I could not translate during her lecture, Hannah. Thank you for your contribution. History has been made this night.”

  Hannah smiled. “I am inspired to work harder on my Greek so I will understand her the next time.”

  “Well said.”

  Hannah stood and found suddenly she was exhausted. Although she tried to stifle it, a yawn escaped her lips.

  Synesius noticed. “I will call for your chariot.” He excused himself with a curt little bow and then disappeared into the crowd.

  Hannah settled back down in her chair to wait and watch the people mingle. Here and there among the noblemen, Hannah recognized the librarians in the crowd by their long, wine-red robes, and the philosophers in their heavy grey tribons, and noticed again that there was not a woman among them.

  Several magistrates saw Hannah and smiled or bowed appreciatively. A few people even came to speak to her on their way to examine the legendary Celestial Clock of Archimedes. The chatter of Greek, Egyptian, Aramaic, Hebrew and Latin was everywhere. But no Arabic. It would be several centuries before the syllables of that tongue were as abundant in Egypt as grains of sand.

  “Hannah?”

  It was Hypatia who had broken away from her crowd of enthusiastic followers to thank Hannah in flawless Aramaic for coming.

  Hannah smiled feebly, feeling somewhat ashamed of her status as a slave before the renowned Great Lady. “It is I who must thank you, Hypatia,” Hannah stammered. Hypatia stood before her proud as Athena, clad for the battlefield, her eyes illuminated by the sun.

  “Then the thanks is mutual. Your music was a divine pleasure this evening, Hannah. Alizar has spoken highly to me of your talent. You come from Sinai?”

  “Yes.”

  “What an adventure. I have never been beyond the city’s walls myself. The knowledge here has been the only source of my travels.” Hypatia waved her hand overhead to indicate the stacks. She seemed not to take notice of Hannah’s slave collar.

  Then Synesius appeared. “I am most disappointed to have missed the pleasure of introducing the two most brilliant women in Alexandria.”

  “I was just thanking Hannah for her lovely music. Her considerable talent has been remarked upon all evening by my guests.” Then Hypatia turned to Synesius and spoke discretely so that Hannah could not hear.

  Synesius’s lips curled upward. “I think it is a marvelous idea,” he said.

  “Lovely then. Hannah, please join me for tea tomorrow in my study,” said Hypatia. It was
not a question. “Synesius can direct you.” Then another guest caught her attention and pulled her aside, leading her into the gardens.

  Hannah felt stunned. “Synesius? Why does she want to see me?”

  Synesius smiled. “I will leave that for her to say.”

  9

  The next afternoon, Hannah wound through the labyrinth of stacks to the worn marble passage that had been walked by Erostosthanes, Euripedes, and Archimedes in centuries before. Her ankle was mending well, though it was still fragile, so she took the steps one at a time. When she emerged it was on a wide circular rooftop observatory with views that stretched to the horizon in all directions. There was a long pole erected in the center of the platform with a rope hanging down. The entire turret was surrounded by a waist-high balustrade that bore mysterious vertical markings, probably measurements, all along its inner edge. Hypatia, kneeling in the west and holding a brass instrument to her eye, looked toward the sun then jotted notes on a scroll in her lap.

  “Hannah, how wonderful to see you. When I heard footsteps on the stairs I thought it was my assistant coming to summon me to the docks. It has been madness down there today with so many ships in the harbor arriving all at once.” Hypatia completed her observation and stood up, arching to stretch her back.

  “I hope I am not disturbing you,” Hannah began.

  Hypatia waved her hand, “Heavens no, if it were not for welcome interruptions I would be up here all hours of the day and night. My work is never finished. Please come have a look.”

  Hannah approached. At a closer glance, she noticed that each of the notches in the top of the wall had a Greek name of some kind. “What are these?” she asked.

  “The notches? They are named for each for the stars. The ancient Egyptians invented this clever system. You see, far over there is a notch on the east wall, made this morning when the sun rose,” Hypatia’s fingertip brushed a tiny notch no wider than an apple stem beside her in the wall. “And here is where it will set,” she indicated one notch a half meter to the south. “And here is where the sun will set on the solstice. We are nearly there. All the others are for the moon, the planets and the stars. This method of precise calculation is how the Egyptians knew when the Nile would flood, by tracking the movement of the stars with each season, especially the star Sirius, as its appearance usually indicates the flood.”