Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria (17 page)

“I will not see him.
 
Nor will he see me.”

This time his smile exposes itself on his face.
 
His smile seizes at my stomach, squeezes it like a rag.
 
Once again, I speak to Desher, and am gone.
 
Unlike my mistake with Isidore, I do not look back.
 
I do not know if Theophilus watches me go, or if he does not.
 
Desher and I do not stop until we have galloped a mile on the sand at the edge of the sea.
 
And
then
I look back.
 
If Theophilus remains where he was, I cannot see him.

Minkah the Egyptian

If Theon turns my spleen, Theophilus cracks my bones.

This day I planned to surprise Hypatia with the completion of her wondrous device.
 
As yet unnamed by either of us, it allows its user to view life to a certain depth in the sea without need of getting wet or holding one’s breath.
 
I am as proud of it as if it were entirely mine.
 
To test our device, Hypatia has taught me to sail her small boat with its single mast, but the
Irisi
does not love me as much as does Ia’eh.
 
There is an instinct to it, an understanding of hull and sail and wave and wind, and the patterns thereof, that Hypatia possesses and I do not.
 
But as I have yet to run her aground or tack into a grain barge or sail over a rock, I am trusted to sail alone in the Royal Harbor.
 
All morning, I had hung over the bow of the
Irisi
, rocking in the wake of large boats and small, peering down at fish and shells and sea plants and a wealth of miraculous creatures I had no name for, never dreaming such a world dared exist, all the while exclaiming over what I saw though none could hear my voice but me.

I come home to a waiting monk.
 
A mallet, a ladle, one of his bishop’s relics, anything to thump him with: but I am called and I must go.

Fortunately, Synesius has wheedled Hypatia into reading some paper of his and if I know Synesius he will not leave until they are both exhausted.
 
It is good to know Synesius, as well as Hypatia, is home with Lais.

A foot through the door of the house of Theophilus, and I am instantly alert.
 
Here sits or stands my “brothers,” but only the fiercest.
 
Some quietly talk each to each, some sit alone and are silent, one lies flat out on a pink marble bench, snoring.
 
As big as the warrior Ajax though twice as brainless, if he should sleep throughout the proceedings—whatever they might be—then he will sleep.
 
There are those who would regret waking Felix Zoilus—if they survived their error.

Looking round, I am pricked by distaste.
 
I say I do what I do for the money.
 
Why else join such as these?
 
But I have lied.
 
I am
Parabalanoi
for the shame.

As a witless youth, it remains true I was enraged by abuse and outraged by want, but deeper than either, burned a red core of shame.
 
To stand taller, I longed to rend and to tear, even to kill.
 
I was easy to find.
 
We are everywhere.
 
Approached by the
Parabalanoi
, chosen and trained, what triumph!
 
Through violence, directed and shared, what
cunnus
of a mother dared throw me away, what
merda
in a marketplace dared beat me?
 
It was I who could throw away, I who could beat a back.
 
To provoke fear, to cause others horror or shame, by the jaw of Petbe, god of vengeance, what a wild and willing joy this was!
 
But to cut down, to see blood rush from veins, life fade from eyes, this brought a pleasure so fierce a shout would rise in my throat and I would cry out, elated.
 
In time, even my own kind feared me.
 
Some here now would draw back at my approach.
 
Not Felix, of course.
 
But there is none as Felix.

And yet I read books.
 
But only in secret.
 
I once thought them a weakness.

That was the Minkah then.
 
Who is Minkah now?
 
In this house, I am
Parabalanoi
, a “soldier” for Theophilus.
 
To be blunt, I am a murderous bully with a taste for tales of heroes and sacrifice.

And when I am not here?
 
An interesting question.

Athanasius of Alexandria, who was bishop before the bishop before Theophilus, or perhaps the bishop before that—who counts their ruinous living and dying?—may have created us, and he may not have.
 
Whichever, through us he indulged in a terrible orgy of blood for the love of his god.
 
No fool, he paid his thugs well.
 
Bishop Theophilus is also no fool.
 
Though I have caused no terror nor killed to order for months, and even with the expense of Theon and Olinda, I have hidden away a tidy sum.
 
Now and again, land occurs to me, fine clothes, my own horse to match Ia’eh and Desher.
 
Women too, cross my mind, and women I have had from time to time.
 
But as for love, I love none but Hypatia, and Hypatia would scorn such love.
 
I could not bear to see that scorn, so do all I must to ensure I do not.
 
I am Minkah the Egyptian.
 
I tend to her father.
 
I watch over Lais.
 
I listen as if interested to Jone and Ife who both now speak as one, and that one sounds as a voice from the only book they read.
 
I am Minkah the Egyptian who is there to protect Hypatia when she goes farther than a foot from her door.
 
I am reminded of Felix Zoilus who snores louder than ever.
 
Tricky business the day I stopped Felix from snapping Augustine’s neck on the Heptastadion.
 
And then to snap Hypatia’s.
 
Asking Augustine to move away for a moment, I quietly explained to my “brothers” that should they harm either, they would answer to Theophilus.
 
Even Felix stepped back.

Who is Minkah?
 
He has no idea.

Nearby swaggers a man who once entered a house with me.
 
In that house, by order of Theophilus, we killed all we could find, two brothers, the wife of one, and her children: a girl of three and a girl of five.
 
My companion then wrung the neck of a small spotted dog he found whining near the dead children.

All the good I can say of Minkah the Egyptian is that he did not kill a spotted dog, nor did he kill a child or a woman.

In his own good time, our host arrives.
 
Behind him walks Cyril, the privileged nephew, and behind Cyril, walks Isidore, the favored priest from a favored home in Pergamon.
 
I have seen enough of Isidore, so attend to Cyril.
 
How old is this ugly pup?
 
Fifteen, sixteen?
 
However young or old, however fat, he acts the prince.
 
But then, when it comes to princes—I think in particular of Arcadius and Honorius, the feeble spawn of our tremendous emperor, Theodosius—a man need not be much.

Theophilus arrives quoting.
 
“If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light.
 
But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness.
 
Therefore, if the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!”
 
He pauses.
 
He stares about him.
 
Felix snores on.
 
The rest have come to their feet.
 
This includes me.
 
“The apostle Matthew said this, and if he were here now, he would say it again:
How great is that darkness
!
 
Has there been any greater!”

Who other than me knows what our great paymaster is maundering on about?
 
By their faces, none.
 
He means that Eugenius has been officially, and with great pomp, crowned Emperor of the West.
 
For Theophilus and his church, what could this mean but disaster?
 
Priests of the old religions are everywhere flocking back to their western temples, the people flocking back to their pagan priests.

To express other than righteous horror would mean fighting my way out of this house, and even I would get no farther than the original Caesar on the Ides of March.

No doubt Theophilus and Isidore were up half the night examining their “book.”
 
Though we would do as we are ordered to do, they would cause us to do it with a religious passion.

Theophilus, noting all the blank looks, tells us what he wants and why he wants it.
 
We are to bring terror and woe to certain men of influence, those that Alexandria still heeds.
 
There will be no killing or burning or raping or pillage.
 
We will begin with acts meant only to warn, to tell them that what occurs in the Kingdom of the West will not occur in the Kingdom of the East.
 
If this does not work—we will do more, a great deal more.

The brotherhood growls as one.
 
They curse as they shake their fists.
 
No matter if the cause is just or unjust, they will do as their master wills because those who will not—and who will not?—will find terror and woe turned back on themselves and those they care for, assuming they care for anyone.
 
The woman and child killer has a wife and children of his own.
 
His children have dogs.

We are to begin our work for God immediately.
 
Ordered to line up before Isidore for orders, I mutter over and over:
only Theon, I will kill only Theon
.
 
But when my turn comes, I am told by Cyril to step aside.
 
In an instant I could snap his spine.
 
He knows it.
 
I know he knows it.
 
We both know I resist the urge.
 
Besides, Theophilus will see me privately.

In a far corner where no one can hear, I salute him as a Roman soldier of the rank and file would salute Caesar.
 
“Sir!”

Theophilus is not amused.
 
“You are well known to me, Minkah the Egyptian.
 
I have followed your exploits closely.”
 
Not good news.
 
Which exploits?
 
“And know therefore you reside in the House of Theon, the mathematician.”

He and I have already acknowledged this, and have come to a tacit understanding that I remain in the House of Theon, mathematician.
 
But I will play his game.
 
“I do.”

“If Theon is terrorized, the meetings in his house will stop.
 
I would not have them stop.”

I see the flaw here.
 
Shall I point it out?
 
If Theon is
not
terrorized, his terrorized fellows might conclude he is guilty of complicity to save his own hide.
 
I
would certainly think this.
 
Already he’s shown how weak his spine.
 
There is another flaw.
 
If Theon’s fellows are persecuted, they might stop meeting from fear alone.
 
I open my mouth to speak, but am silenced by Cyril.
 
One moment he is not there, the next moment he is.
 
A sneaky boy, and quiet for his heft.
 
I could not have done better myself.

“My uncle would not have you speak.”

In that case, I will not.
 
Theophilus can spot his difficulties for himself.
 
As for Cyril, I would remove his head on the spot, but as I prize my own head above his, again I resist…though I do stare until it is he who must lower his bulging impudent eyes.

Theophilus continues as if Cyril were not here at all.
 
Cyril, who is very much here, might be thought by his face to be as calm as a dozing cat, but he is not.
 
The tips of both ears are as red as a pomegranate.

“Therefore, no one will be sent to see Theon.”

Not glancing at Cyril—after all, he is not here—I say, “And his daughter, the one who teaches?”

“I gave her my word.
 
She keeps hers.
 
No one will touch Hypatia nor cause her to cease her lectures.”

Cyril is furious.
 
But whether at his uncle for being shamed before me, or for sparing Theon and Hypatia, I could not say.
 
I understand now who is the more dangerous: not Theophilus, but his nephew Cyril.
 
Fortunately for all, he is yet a boy and has no power here.