Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria (25 page)

When I look up, Isidore says, “Theophilus would burn these before he would read them.”
 
Do I hear less than love in his mouthing the name Theophilus?
 
“And if not Theophilus, a host of others.
 
Whoever placed them here, kept them safe.
 
They are not safe now.
 
This is to become a place of pilgrimage.”
 
I am not mistaken, I do hear it.
 
Something has caused a change in Isidore’s love for Alexandria’s bishop.
 
“When the temple was destroyed, water began seeping in from the great cistern.
 
Already mold begins to grow and whole sections are lost.
 
I cannot keep them and I will not destroy them.
 
You must take them away.”

He holds open the satchel he carries, a satchel whose meaning is now clear to me.
 
I do not hesitate.
 
As if it were the day of the Serapeum, once again I gather up books to take them away.
 
But this time I celebrate.
 
They are safe and they are mine.

~

Minkah the Egyptian

I do not follow Hypatia home.
 
Holding close her papery prize, she rides Desher, hides her knife…safe in a city where more love her than do not love her.
 
I follow the priest, who does not turn north to the stolen house of Theophilus where he has lived in rooms of his own these past ten years, nor towards some other place his faith provides its priests, but turns instead south on narrow streets towards the narrow-necked Port of Lake Mareotis.

As a shadow among shadows behind the purposeful
Parabalanoi
, I know what few know, but all would discover if such things mattered to other than those involved: though once Theophilus loved Isidore as Isidore loved Theophilus, no love flows now.
 
Five years have passed since the Bishop of Alexandria would have made Isidore the Bishop of Constantinople, dragging him up to the height he himself has attained.
 
One year since Theophilus expressed his first doubt about Origen.
 
Ever the politician, the moment the Christian philosopher became officially condemned by the church, Theophilus abandoned him.
 
But Isidore did not abandon his beloved Origen of Alexandria, Egyptian and philosopher.
 
Love between priest and bishop has turned to loathing.
 
If there is one thing Christians cannot abide of each other, it is to disagree over doctrine.

Isidore does not stop at the docks of laden and unladen boats come from over the lake.
 
He does not stop at a shuttered inn or pass through a darkened door, but takes a rutted path at the end of a modest street leading him out to the reeds, thick as bundled straw, tall as a camel’s hump.
 
They seem impenetrable, but are not.
 
Growing along the edge of the lake for many miles west and more miles east, as well as in a rank of rustling green two hundred cubits wide from north to south, many a path winds through them, entering a perilous world harboring brigands of many kinds…just as the island of Pharos has long harbored brigands of only one kind: pirates.

I am careful here.
 
Among these reeds are clearings and in the clearings reeded huts and in the huts, men and women one would be wise to avoid by day as well as by night.

The priest knows his way.
 
The path he follows branches here and there, but he ever chooses the one that leads to the left.
 
He walks and I follow behind until he comes on a clearing not large enough for a hut, and here waits a man robed in black from head to foot.
 
I know the robe as well as I know the man.
 
This is not merely a single Origen-loving monk from the Mountains of Nitria who rebels against the Bishop of Alexandria.
 
This is Peter the Reader.

When last I saw him, he stood in the house of Theophilus.
 
He will never do so again.
 
Theophilus, suddenly an enemy of Origen, called a synod to condemn for heresy Peter and his monks for none would deny Origen.
 
He allowed no one a defense.
 
All so condemned live now in caves high in the mountains of the southern desert rather than walk the streets Theophilus walks, or where his
Parabalanoi
walk.
 
Peter once led the brotherhood.
 
But for Peter, my life would be different.
 
I would not have it different.
 
Praise accursed Peter whose monks are men of fierce heart, stout will, and of bloody mindedness unto murder in the name of their god.
 
Of discernment, reason, learning: virtually none are possessed of any.
 
Yet all love Origen.
 
Or not.
 
He is difficult to follow.
 
They believe anyway.
 
Hypatia teaches her Companions that to believe without understanding is common among men of any faith…what is “faith” but belief without proof?

It astounds me.
 
I believe nothing.
 
I do what I do so I might live.
 
Peter does what he does in the belief that none deserve life who deny his faith.
 
Does Isidore hold now with such madness?
 
Has his rift with Theophilus driven him to this?
 
If so, proud Isidore has fallen far.

He and Peter the Reader push their way towards the lake, and when they are swallowed by the night-black reeds, I follow.
 
Waiting at the edge of the lake is a boat of reeds and in this boat Isidore and his Nitrian friend paddle out across the water—to where, I neither know nor care.
 
But this I do know.
 
Theophilus, who once loved Isidore, now loves a priest called Timothy.
 
Timothy is not
Parabalanoi
though he will soon be what Isidore was, Archdeacon of Alexandria.

I have seen all I need for the moment.
 
When I wish it, I will learn more.

~

Hypatia of Alexandria

My body begs for sleep, but my mind runs as Desher runs—tirelessly.
 
When dawn comes, I have not slept for even an hour.

Isidore calls these books, gifts.
 
I call them miracles.
 
It is as if Lais has walked through my door, as if she holds Paniwi in her arms, as if she sits down beside me to say, “I am here, Miw.
 
What would you have of me?”

Under my hand, given me by the surprising grace of a man with whom I have known both trust and terrible doubt, are copies of Egyptian books I have heard of but never before seen:
The Gospel of Thomas
, the
Gospel of Philip
,
of the Egyptians
,
of Truth
, The
Apocryphon of James
, the
Tripartite Tractate
, a handful of letters from Saul of Tarsus, a few from the poet Valentinus, and more and more.
 
And in them I see how desperate the need for release from the stifling Law of the Jews.
 
And in them I find a turning away from what is called the Dominion of Evil which is the Suffering World and a putting away of the impoverished heart seeking an End Time where the righteous will live and the heretic die.
 
I cannot find the battle between this bishop and that to impose his unquestioned faith on all.
 
What is here is a heroic attempt through myth to proclaim the divine nature in All.

I read the first of the scrolls transcribed by a Seth of Damascus: “
It comes at last, to this—I am changed from water to wine.
 
I who was dead now live.
 
I know my own name.
 
I AM.
 
These then are the thoughts of Mariamne, daughter of Josephus of the tribe of Benjamin.
 
In the waning of my earthly days, I recount the life of the Daughter of Wisdom, who came in time to be known as the Magdalene.
”

And then I read the work of the poet Valentinus.

Once, long ago, Jone sat struggling with two problems Father had given her, both matters of Euclidian geometry.
 
Though Christians revile mathematics, and none was taught at the school of Didymus—who himself was a fair geometer—Father said he would take her from her place at the Didascalia if she did not learn geometry.
 
This meant she must learn at home and from Father.
 
The first problem required her to divide a given geometrical figure into two or more equal parts.
 
The second asked her to create parts in given ratios.

Jone made marks on her waxen tablet, smoothed them away, made more marks, smoothed those.
 
Then she made no mark at all, but sat staring at her hands.
 
They were limp, her fingers like dead things, plump and white and still.
 
Suddenly, with one violent sweep of her arm, her tablet flew into a wall as spittle flew from her lips.
 
“Hypatia!
 
What do they mean, these numbers!
 
How do these shapes fit my world!”

 
“Mathematics is a magic box, Panya, a thing of rare and scented wood.
 
It has no lid, no drawer, no latch to unlock.
 
At first glance there seems no opening.
 
Yet if you should turn it this way and that way, if you would curve a line or straighten a curve, or wander in mind where logic seldom goes but instinct never sleeps, the beautiful box will open itself.”

 
“But what is
in
the box?”

 
“Shells that curl and curve towards the infinite, stars that will burn for eternity, waves flowing over the skin of the sea in patterns of cunning madness.
 
You will find the gods in your geometrical box of magic.”

“Gods?
 
I have found God through Jesus.
 
All the rest means
nothing
.”

I grieved for Jone.

But now I myself have opened a magic box, a thing of rare and scented wood, and out of it has sprung curled and curving ideas!

The doubt that has plagued me falls away.
 
Not because I understand, but because I have purpose.
 
I shall no longer teach the philosophy of others, but shall formulate anew what it is I know and see and feel.
 
By my efforts, I hope to embrace everything, weave all together, external and internal, into one lucid piece.

I set about my work immediately.
 
Such a task will take the rest of my life.

Late summer, 403

Hypatia of Alexandria

Miw is two years older but more than two years bigger.
 
If she grows any larger, it will prove she has lion in her.
 
She is more than lion in her soul.

All through the morning she watched me prepare a paper I present to those called Companions.
 
In her two years of growing, my poor patient Companions have spent the same two years following along as I work my way towards the regaining of Gnosis—personal knowledge of personal divinity.

“To unlearn is harder than learning, Miw.
 
To put away the tools I have mastered to take up those I have not mastered—what a struggle!”

Miw samples the closest papyrus.
 
Too hot to be inside, my yellow cat and I have walked the short distance to the cool canal that flows by the House of Theophilus.
 
Should he look out from an upper window, he might see us…but so?
 
Are we not free cat and free mistress?

“You might think me alone, Miw—but I have consummate guidance.
 
Of all the papers now mine, I value highest those of Seth of Damascus and those of Valentinus of Alexandria.
 
To think that Seth transcribed the words of the Magdalene, beloved of Christ, and that Valentinus, who knew the secret teachings of Paul, was nearly Bishop of Rome.
 
If either had been ‘heard,’ how changed the message of Christ would be.”

Nildjat Miw is asleep.
 
I must haul her home over my shoulder.

This evening, my chosen few gather to hear my still halting synthesis of All That Is.
 
If any sense I err, it will be questioned.
 
If any suspect I stray from my path, I will be guided back.
 
If I cannot be understood, I will be told…and I will try again to be clear, precise, complete.

I am called their “divine guide.”
 
I call them my “saints.”

With the help of my saints, I struggle towards spiritual vision, not as a single experience but as a steady state of being.
 
In the utter confusion that appears “reality,” I am convinced each piece fits the whole, and that the whole is expressed in each piece.

In short, these two years have been both exhausting and exhilarating.
 
I could not speak for my Companions.

~

I would not have missed the wedding of Synesius of Cyrene for the complete works of Aristotle.
 
My first and most faithful Companion, rich as well as Christian, married the daughter of a humble country historian.
 
Not only does her father immerse himself in the vanished Etruscans, he is not a Christian.
 
Nor is his daughter Catherine.
 
In fact, the entire family is a happy nest of philosophers, writers, teachers and pagans.

Synesius married to avoid serving the church.
 
And I, as an honored wedding guest, was let loose in a private library locked away from all but the most trusted friends.
 
Miles from Alexandria, somewhere on the eastern shore of Lake Mareotis, I devoured it.

Four months later, Catherine, wife to Synesius, birthed a boy child.

Still abed, I scratch Nildjat Miw under her chin.
 
“Synesius named the babe Hypatios.
 
What do you think of that, Miw?
 
More interesting still, what do you think Catherine makes of that?”

Miw stretches her neck in ecstasy.

“Indeed.
 
And now another child roots itself in her womb.
 
Synesius is a busy man.
 
But then, Catherine is an interesting woman.
 
She says little but I have never seen such listening.
 
I would know more of her.
 
And what do you think of Minkah as Companion?”

My yellow cat twitches an ear.
 
I think she approves.
 
Who can truly know with a creature so charged with mystery as a cat?

“I think it splendid.
 
And none grumble.
 
Not even to complain he is Egyptian or that he is poor.
 
But oh! how they complain of Isidore!
 
This one tells me his mind is not swift.
 
That one whispers his understanding far from complete.
 
Another tells me his tongue is tangled.
 
As if I did not know!
 
I would reverse my decision if not for his gift!
 
How do I repay his gift?”

Throwing back a linen sheet, I pad barefoot towards the baths.
 
The Companions will soon be here and I would be ready for them.
 
Behind me, Miw is off to the kitchens seeking her breakfast.

Rubbing warm oil on my legs, scraping it off with a
strigil
, I struggle with indecision—should Isidore remain a Companion?
 
I know what all the others would say, but Didymus, what would he have done?

Two faces remain in my mind as clear as when I last saw them: my sister’s and the face of Didymus the Blind.
 
The death of my mother Damara shattered the child I once was.
 
The death of Lais took from me the foolishness of youth.
 
Didymus’ death by old age diminished me.
 
It further diminished Father, who had suffered the loss of his wife, the loss of his profession, the loss of his prestige, and the loss of his eldest daughter.
 
Never spoken of, lost too was the hope of a son, exchanged for one more female, that one who took his wife.
 
For me, the absence of this sweetest friend is as great as the continuing loss of the ancient disciplines other than Christian theology—which if truth be known, is our theology, rewritten—for the voice of Didymus was a true voice and it melded with ours, tempering ours, as ours, I fondly believe, tempered his.
 
Without him, few Christians of stature remain who would not raise his hand against Father and me.
 
Save Augustine.
 
Augustine is a true friend.
 
But Augustine is many miles from here.

Close by Damara, Lais lies in the west.
 
Each year Jone and Minkah and I visit their tomb in the City of the Dead.
 
Didymus lies in the east.
 
Each year Jone and Minkah and I walk to his chapel of pink stone near the Garden of Nemesis.
 
Jone wails every step of the way to Didymus.
 
Father, pleading an excess of grief, visits none.

~

Jone, youngest daughter of Theon of Alexandria

“Come, sister, come listen if you like.”

Hypatia invites me to another of her gatherings where all call themselves Companions.
 
Which usually means that unless that wisp of a thing that has married Synesius is present, I am the only female among males, and I
have
listened and I
have
listened and I have watched my sister draw lines and circles and shapes on an overlarge tablet, and I have heard her speak, but if she were speaking in Persian her words could not mean less to me.
 
I do not understand.
 
My father understands, or he used to.
 
Who knows what he understands now?
 
Or, for that matter, cares?
  
Even Lais, who had no interest in such things, understood better than I.
 
As for Hypatia!
 
I would stamp my feet in frenzy.
 
I would shout out from the sheer torture of Hypatia as sister.
 
Who could blame me?
 
All these adore her unto idolatry.
 
They call her
holy
.
 
Who could bear to be as nothing, as less than nothing, compared?
 
And who would not leave, as I have, as soon as they found a place in the world where one could breathe and one could be seen and one could be valued?
 
Anyone would.
 
All the women say so.
 
This too they say: it is not right for a woman to stand over a man.
 
It is not right that a woman’s voice be heard before his.
 
And this they say also: that my sister dares such things is proof there are demons involved.

There she is, Hypatia!
 
I must be quick to hide myself before I am seen.

In my father’s house, the best place to hide is near the first large door leading from the courtyard off the Street of the Gardens into the atrium.
 
There is a small room nearby, one meant for a guard though my sister keeps no guard.
 
But if there were a guard, he could look out through a narrow slit in the wall and from it espy the whole of the courtyard without being seen himself.
 
From the door leading into this small room, he could peek out also at the atrium and, if careful, not be seen,
 
But as there is no guard, I can sit for hours and see who comes and who goes and for how long they stay and whether they bring something of interest or whether they bring only themselves.
 
All this I remember—did not my teacher, the blessed Didymus the Blind, praise my memory, often and often!—no need to write the names or the days or the times.

Today Hypatia teaches yet again a class she thinks secret.
 
That there is a class has never been secret.
 
Nor are the names of those who attend.
 
Or if a secret, it is not so from me.
 
Of twelve, there are ten I have named to Bishop Theophilus.
 
Synesius of Cyrene, and one of Synesius’ dearest friends, Auxentius of Cyrene.
 
Herculianus, a dearer friend.
 
I do know they sit as close as wife to husband.
 
Olympius, a wealthy Syrian landowner who talks of horses and hunting.
 
Hesychius, who sits often with Olympius.
 
Ision, who I admit tells stories of every sort wonderfully well.
 
When Ision speaks, I try not to miss a word.
 
Syrus, spoken of by Synesius as only “our friend” and Alexander, the uncle of Syrus.
 
There is the “most sympathetic” Gaius and Theotecnus whom they call “father.”
 
If this means he is a priest, I could not say.
 
What is a secret is what it is these companions are taught.
 
Try as I might, and I
do
try for my bishop would know, I cannot penetrate this larger secret.
 
It is not that I have not heard the teaching, and often.
 
But I have stopped attending.
 
First: because I learn nothing.
 
Second: if demons are involved, by the Holy Spirit, is it right that I risk my own soul?
 
All this I have explained to our Holy Bishop Theophilus and he has forgiven me.
 
All he asks now is that I hide in the little guard room I have told him of, and that I remember who comes and who goes.

Through me, Bishop Theophilus knows who visits my sister.
 
He knows who visits my father, the same old gaggle of soothsayers and astrologists and fools.
 
Bishop Theophilus knows that those who once came for Father, now come more for Hypatia, and that no man of importance who visits or even passes through Alexandria does not call on my sister.
 
He knows she locks herself in her work room and studies something I have yet to discover, though I have promised him I will.
 
And I
will
—I swear on the Blessed Virgin Mary.
 
All I know, he knows—except this.
 
I have not mentioned the name Isidore nor have I mentioned the name Minkah.

I hope this is not a sin, but I imagine my hope is in vain.
 
No matter how I squirm, I cannot forget he asked me clearly to watch and report on Minkah.

I must be still now.
 
My sister’s companions arrive.

~

Minkah the Egyptian

Jone’s reason to visit the House of Hypatia is clear as water to me—one spy can spot another.
 
By the coils of Apep, what good company I keep.
 
Two betrayers in one house: the first a sad unwanted child, the second as determined as a robber of graves.
 
We are as mirrors, Jone and I.
 
It is perfection.