Written in the Ashes

by K. Hollan Van Zandt

  Hannah smiled and nodded, stroking her bare throat. “I thought I was strong enough to confront them. I was wrong. Alaya could have been killed. I have no idea what possessed me. I, I—”

  Gideon pressed his finger to her lips to shush her. “Hannah, if I wanted a wife as strong as a centurion, I would marry a man,” he said. Then he kissed her, and she melted into him. His bones became her fortress, his breath her house of God.

  “Thank you for protecting us,” she whispered, tears springing free of her eyes. “And for my freedom.”

  Gideon smiled and kissed the top of Alaya’s head. “No one deserves it more. Now you should both go inside and change your khitons.”

  A little while later, Hannah glided down from her room holding Alaya in one arm and her lyre in the other. Alaya was still whimpering, and did not want to let go of her mother’s hand. She set Alaya down beside a large column at the edge of the garden.

  “Alaya,” Hannah whispered, gently sitting on her ankles to avoid brushing the ground with the beaded hem of her fine garment. “I am going to sing for Hypatia’s lecture and I want you to wait for me in the garden with Sofia.”

  Alaya scowled. “I want to come.”

  Hannah placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and leaned forward to kiss her forehead gently. “Not tonight, Kukla. I promise you I will see you in one hour. Play with Sofia.”

  Sofia approached them, her breasts and belly swollen with her first child. Hannah whispered something to her and kissed her cheeks.

  Reluctantly, Alaya took Sofia’s hand and watched over her shoulder as her mother vanished into the Great Hall of the library.

  Sofia smiled. “Shall we visit the butterflies?”

  Alaya looked up at Sofia then back to the door her mother had slipped through. “I want to see Mama and Papo,” she whined.

  “Afterward,” said Sofia, stroking the top of Alaya’s head.

  The Caesarium garden was lit by tall torches set at intervals around the pond, creating warm pools of golden light all along the path. The evening was hot without any promise of a breeze. Sofia and Alaya walked together around the rim of the garden, visiting the sleeping butterflies and making up songs as they went. Alaya was still young enough that she recovered quickly from the hours that came before. The present moment washed her mind of what had been, but surely her dreams would conjure the images over the years to help her face and understand them.

  “I want to see the turtles,” said Alaya, tugging Sofia’s hand.

  Sofia yawned. “All right,” she said.

  Alaya let go and ran along the path to the little footbridge over the stream. “I do not see them,” she called back.

  “Maybe they are sleeping,” offered Sofia.

  Alaya ran across the bridge and over to the edge of the pond.

  No turtles.

  She looked back at Sofia, who had sat down on a little bench to rest. “I am going to look for them!” she called out. A kingfisher swept up to a palm from his perch beside the reflecting pool, squawking his irritation at the child’s disturbance.

  Sofia smiled. “Just stay where I can see you,” she said.

  Alaya turned back to the pond and got down on her hands and knees and began to search under the bushes and along the banks for where the turtles might be hiding. The torchlight created beautiful designs in the path that made Alaya think of tiger stripes, and so she decided to pretend she was a mother tiger in search of her cubs.

  Sofia watched the rustling bushes and yawned. The evening was deliriously warm and she had not slept well the night before. She brought her hands to her belly to feel the baby, and, without meaning to, she let her head rock forward and dozed off.

  Alaya hummed happily to herself as she wandered through the bushes. On a smooth stone platform beside a palm, three turtles were resting. She rushed over to them only to discover that they were just stones set beside the water, but on the other side of the reflecting pool beneath the papyrus she saw two round shapes that she was certain had to be turtles.

  Alaya turned, ran back to the path and circled the pool, following the light of the torches. She ran as fast as she could to the place where she thought the turtles would be, but the path circled and she ended up at the steps leading into the Museion. Recognizing her mistake, Alaya turned back toward the pond and ran headlong into a tall pair of legs.

  Alaya staggered and looked up to see a man dressed in long black robes, his waist bound in a red and white sash. His eyes shone like the stories she had heard of the Emerald Tablet.

  “Hello, little one,” said the man, laughing, bending low. His appearance was altogether elegant: his long black hair was swept back from his face and bound at the nape of his neck. His soft, calm voice lent him such nobility that Alaya thought he might be a pharaoh.

  Alaya stepped back. “I am looking for the turtles,” she said.

  “I saw three back along the path,” said the man, “beside the pool.”

  Alaya rolled her eyes. “I know, that is where I was looking, but they were just rocks.”

  The man bent down on one knee and looked into Alaya’s eyes with concern. “Where is your mother?” he asked.

  “Inside. I am with Sofia.”

  The stranger smiled, his eyes gleaming. He liked this little girl and wanted to see to her safety. “Will you allow me to accompany you?” he asked.

  Alaya looked up at him and batted her lashes flirtatiously. “All right,” she said.

  “What is your name?” asked the man.

  “It is a secret,” she said.

  “A secret? I like secrets.”

  Alaya nodded and scurried down the path. Then from behind a bush she growled at the stranger. “I am a mother tiger.”

  “Ah, a tigress,” said the man. “There are plenty of tigers in India.”

  “India!” Alaya squealed coming out from behind the bushes. “My Abba is in India.”

  The man looked at Alaya quizzically.

  “Alaya!” Sofia’s urgent call swept across the reflecting pool. “Alaya!”

  The stranger’s eyes glowed magically, then dimmed. He looked down at the little girl beside him. “Your name is Alaya?” he asked her, his voice tinged with deeper interest.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And where is your mother?” asked the elegant stranger.

  Alaya began to run down the path. “Singing with Hypatia!” she called out as she followed the sound of Sofia’s voice.

  The stranger lifted himself to his full height and listened. Above the raga of insects pulsing in the sultry heat he could just make out the sound of a beautiful and familiar voice.

  Intrigued, the yogi soundlessly swept down the path and paused outside the Great Hall of the library. There, framed by the window, was Hannah, her fingers dancing over the strings of a lyre, the rich garnet beads along her himation scintillating like captured fireflies above her bosom, her full lips parting for the sweet notes of the melody, a dew of perspiration across her brow.

  The stranger inhaled sharply and turned his back to the window.

  Could it be?

  He looked through the window once more, confirming his vision, and then he quickened his steps back to the gardens to find the little girl.

  As he approached, he saw the child walking down the path holding hands with her ward. He wanted to speak to her, but at the same time he did not wish to be seen. Before he could decide what to do, Alaya looked back over her shoulder and said, “See, there he is.”

  His decision made for him, the stranger stepped forward and apologized to Sofia, who wore a look of surprise and intrigue.

  “Please,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Junkar.”

  Sofia smiled, knowing who he was immediately. “A pleasure, Master Junkar,” she whispered, bowing her head in reverence.

 
; “Junkar,” Alaya repeated the stranger’s name to him.

  “Yes,” he said tenderly. “And your name is Alaya.” He bent down on one knee.

  “How old are you, Alaya?” he asked.

  Alaya held up two fingers. “Three.”

  Junkar closed his eyes and counted in his mind. “Come closer to me,” he said.

  Sofia nodded, and Alaya let go of her hand and went to him fearlessly.

  He looked at her carefully and lifted one hand as though to touch her cheek, and then withdrew it. “You are every bit as beautiful as your mother,” he said, not wanting to frighten her. Then he reached over his neck and pulled from under his robe a long string of polished sandalwood beads with a little red tassel at the end. “I want to give these to you, Alaya. May I?”

  Alaya eyed the beads suspiciously and poked them with one finger.

  “They are from India,” he said as he lifted them over his head and placed them around her neck.

  Hearing the magic word, Alaya’s lips spread into a smile. “India? For me?” she asked sweetly, fingering the beads.

  “India. For you,” said Junkar, his dark hair slipping free from the tie at the nape of his neck as he leaned forward to kiss her hand. In that moment, not blood, but love flowed through his veins.

  Alaya nodded, clutching the beads.

  The stranger rose to his feet. “Remember my name; I am Master Junkar,” he said, his heart heavy. “And if you ever need me, I want you to call for me.” He waited for a moment, to see that she understood. Then, overcome by unfamiliar emotion, he nodded to Sofia, turned, and swiftly left the garden.

  Sofia bent down and picked Alaya up in her arms and held her against her hip.

  Alaya squinted at her and tugged at the beads around her neck. “Smell them,” she said.

  Sofia leaned forward and let her nose brush the beads, inhaling the sweet aroma of the pungent sandalwood.

  They circled the garden and sang songs until Hannah called. The moon, like a wedge of melon, rocked in the western sky. Hannah took Alaya in her arms and thanked Sofia for looking after her, then began to chatter about the audience and the energy in the hall and how one of the strings of her lyre had snapped right in the middle of the most important song, and how happy Jemir had been to see Hypatia.

  Sofia’s lips parted, about to speak, but then Hannah noticed the beads around her daughter’s neck. “Alaya, where did you get these?” she inquired.

  “India,” announced Alaya, kicking against her mother’s legs to be set down.

  Hannah let Alaya slide from her arms and looked to Sofia. “What does she mean?”

  Sofia paused and inhaled deeply. She wanted to choose her words carefully.

  But before Sofia could speak, Hannah’s eyes flicked around the garden as if sensing something. She took in the emptiness and the magical glow of the torches as a feeling of warm knowing spread through her bones. Then she looked back into Sofia’s eyes. “Master Junkar was here?”

  Sofia nodded. “He was.”

  “Is he gone?” Hannah asked in a faint whisper.

  Again, Sofia nodded.

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “Briefly.”

  “And Alaya?”

  “He found her in the garden when I was sitting by the pond, Hannah. I—” Sofia’s voice faltered. “I am so sorry. I fell asleep.”

  Hannah did not even hear her. Was she really to believe that Julian had returned from India and found his daughter in the garden? But if the Kolossofia were such yogis, then surely he already knew of her. “What did he say?” Hannah reached forward to take Alaya’s hand.

  Sofia recounted his words and how he had given Alaya the beads.

  Hannah’s heart fluttered, awakened from an ancient sleep. But why had he not come to see her? She let her eyes scan the garden again, but it was empty.

  “Mama, I am sleepy,” said Alaya as she yawned, leaning against her mother’s leg.

  Hannah gathered her daughter into her arms, the door to her heart drawing shut. If she allowed herself to hope, even for an instant, the dark sorrows of longing and disappointment that she had worked so hard over years to free herself from would resurface, and she had no desire to put Alaya through the pain of losing a father she had never even known, a man that had abandoned them both. And what of Gideon? Gideon, who had been so steadfast, devoted and loyal. No, she must not think on it again. It was better for all of them.

  “Come Alaya, it is time for bed,” Hannah said abruptly. Then she thanked Sofia and turned away. This was all too much for one day. Hannah wanted only to sleep knowing her daughter was safe, and she had her freedom at last.

  Alaya waved to Sofia from over her mother’s shoulder with one hand, the other still clutching the stranger’s sandalwood beads.

  35

  A gentle knock fell on the door of Hypatia’s study. She let out an irritated sigh, set down her stylus, lifted the parchment from her desk and blew on it. The latest innovation in ink of lampblack gum and water seemed to take an eternity to dry.

  “My lady?” The voice of the servant girl called softly from behind the door.

  “Yes, come in,” said Hypatia, her attention still focused on her work.

  The girl entered with a tray that held a bowl of unspiced barley and a pot of tea. Hypatia did not look up. “Set it there.”

  The girl hesitated. The table already held four trays of empty teapots beside bowls of untouched food that she had brought over the past few days. There was no more room for another tray. She looked back to Hypatia, her eyes asking what she should do.

  “Clear them,” said Hypatia, more curt than she intended. “And please send for a messenger.”

  The girl nodded and began to stack the trays.

  Hypatia bent her head and went back to her writing. She worked steadily for several more minutes until another knock came at the door. She answered without looking up. “Come.” When the person she presumed to be the messenger entered she began giving orders. “I want this manuscript delivered promptly to the Church of St. Alexander. It is to be seen by no one but the bishop, do you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” said the figure, chuckling.

  Hypatia looked up in surprise. “Good heavens, Orestes, what are you doing here? I thought you were the messenger I sent for.”

  “Perhaps I am,” he said, taking a seat on the chair in front of Hypatia’s desk and setting his cane beside him, a heavy codex cradled in his lap.

  “Here, let me help you,” said Hypatia, rushing to his side, but he shook her off.

  “I am not dead yet.”

  She apologized and sat before him, attentive, as her favorite student had never come to visit her study, even in the years before he was attacked. The manuscript on his lap looked intriguing, but she would wait for him to offer more about it.

  He looked around, seeing that the rumors were true. The entire room was in disarray. Pages of geometric equations once tacked to the wall had been blown down by the wind that rushed in from the open window and were laying about the floor, fluttering like so many dying fish. Hypatia’s desk was overflowing with scrolls containing astronomical data, parchments that documented the library’s annual accounting, and numerous smaller codices that held Hypatia’s lecture notes that had been transcribed for her over the years. If there was any order to the chaotic mess, it was completely unapparent.

  Hypatia brushed a wisp of hair back from her forehead with her ink-stained fingers, leaving a black smudge over one eyebrow. She looked exhausted. Her cheeks were sunken from loss of appetite, making her eyes appear even larger, but her skin had a glow of health that was derived perhaps more from meditation than her abstemious diet. Orestes, unlike most of Hypatia’s staff, was unconcerned. He knew that when inspiration comes, it is best to flow with it, for the suffering that the body endures in the presence
of that holy gift cannot equal the excruciating inner turmoil of a creative mind abandoned by the muse.

  “You have finished it then?”

  Hypatia shoved the manuscript across the desk in his direction. “See for yourself.”

  Orestes leaned forward and took the pages in his hands. The title on the first page read: Mary, Mother of God. He scanned through the stack, letting his eyes glance over the pages. It was a small treatise, perhaps fifty pages altogether, unlike most of Hypatia’s work, which tended to be extremely long-winded. “Will you sign it?” he asked.

  Hypatia shook her head. “I am not decided.”

  “But it bears the seal of the library,” Orestes protested. “Cyril will certainly guess who sent it.”

  “Perhaps,” Hypatia said. “I only seek to open him to the possibility that the Christians and our Great Library are not an incompatible alliance. And besides, I am waiting for Alizar’s pardon. I am certain it will come now that you are well and can influence the votes.”

  Orestes raised one eyebrow and set the manuscript back on the desk, impressed. “I must admit it is worth a try. Here, I have something for you, actually. It is by our old friend Augustine of Hippo.” He reached out to hand her the heavy codex bound in dark vellum.

  She turned the codex in her hands. “Augustine? Have you seen him?” Orestes nodded. “The City of God: Against the Pagans. What is it?” she asked.

  “You know better than anyone how the pagans have felt after Rome fell.”

  “That the fall of Rome was a punishment for abandoning the Roman gods. What does this have to do with Augustine?”

  “Augustine has left the teachings of Plotinus for Christianity. His treatise is powerful, Hypatia.”

  “He has always been imbued with the spirit. I am not surprised he found Christ.”

  “Augustine writes that the City of God will ultimately triumph, even after all our wonders crumble, and we ourselves.”

  “His eyes are fixed on heaven then?”

  Orestes nodded. “Yes.”

  “I will read it at once.” Hypatia set the manuscript down and regarded Orestes. She had not forgiven the bishop for what the Parabolani had done to her friend. Though his stuttering had improved over the years, Orestes was still half-blind. It had been a cruel way to gain the favor of the populace, and sadly, it had worked. The people began to view Orestes as weak. The emperor had even appointed a new praetorian prefect, though he allowed Orestes to retain his title of governor. Orestes, however, seemed quite at ease with his losses. The injury had slowed his mind and his speech, but this annoyed his friends far more than it bothered him. For the first time in his life he felt at peace, studying philosophy and taking long walks on the beach. His grief over Phoebe’s death was behind him, but he had chosen never to remarry.