Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria (3 page)

I am ravished by the secret art.
 
There is an alchemy of the material which fascinates in its turning of one physical thing into another.
 
And there is a truer alchemy that is not material at all but a transformation of the spirit, the reunion of the self with the Absolute by seeking states of consciousness that transcends the material.
 
In the Great Work, all is symbol.
 
The seven planetary metals are the seven gates one must open to transmute the body into spirit.
 
More than three thousand years ago words were written on a Sumerian tablet: “The first gate he passed her out of, he restored to her the covering cloak of her body.
 
At the second gate, he restored to her the bracelets of her hands and feet.
 
At the third, he restored to her the binding girdle of her waist.
 
At the fourth, he restored to her the ornaments of her breast.
 
At the fifth, he restored to her the necklace of her neck.
 
At the sixth, he restored to her the earrings of her ears.
 
And at the seventh gate he passed her out of, he restored to her the great crown of her head.”

Each gate is a threshold, each a test.
 
And each gate passed through awakens the soul.

As a daughter of Hermes, Thrice Great, he who produced the books of the
Hermetica,
alchemy absorbs me, its meaning is inexhaustible.
 
I am not entirely a fool.
 
I know Lais is as I am, a construction of flesh and of blood, of sinew and bone, that there are parts to her not perfect.
 
But her slightest flaw is as perfection in someone else.
 
She is a manifestation of the purest spirit, a “great miracle.”
 
Lais and the work of Hermes Trismegistus have of late been all to me.
 
I have hoped to undergo the fourfold way of the
Emerald Tablet
: become
Materia Prima
, know formless chaos and a time of darkness, dying to myself so that I might be reborn…not as Lais, for Lais is Lais—but as Hypatia, transformed.
 
Thus, my long alchemical nights.
 
Until, that is, the attack on the Serapeum.
 
All that I labored over before the riot is precisely as it was when I left it, my bone ash vessel, my heating element.
 
Yet nothing is as it was when I left it.

I cannot work.
 
I cannot think.
 
I have bathed, but without notice.
 
I have dressed, but without care.
 
I have eaten, but without pleasure.
 
I have made a place for my rescued books, but without order.
 
The wet of the city’s heat is still weeks away, yet my skin is slick with sweat as I pace from desk to bed to door to desk.

Already three have made their way to our house in the Royal District.
 
The first was a student of Father’s sent by his fellows, all wishing to know when and where he shall teach them next.
 
Noting that books from the Serapeum are strewn on the floor and that his great teacher hides under his bedding, this one will return to his friends without answer.
 
Next was a local scribe who took refuge in the kitchen, sending out the bravest of our kitchen servants to announce that he wished to collect on his bill, no doubt expecting to be first in a long line.
 
And last was Didymus the Blind come to see how Father fares in his woe.

I too would see Father, so walk with Didymus who walks as ever with a student assigned to guide him through his day.

Didymus, in his eighth decade, senses immediately that he fares much better than Father in his sixth.
 
Though blind, he misses nothing, not that Father lies abed while his friends and fellows continue to risk their lives for the temple or that he covers most of his head.
 
Nor does he miss the presence of someone new at Father’s side.
 
When last I saw him, Minkah the burnt Egyptian to whom I am savior, sat on a stool in the courtyard, a plaster of aloe slathered on his head.
 
Now, I am surprised to learn, he is allowed a room near our stables.
 
Somehow, this one has charmed my father.

Didymus would send for a physician but by exposing an arm, Father waves that away.
 
Didymus would send a musician.
 
At that, Father groans.
 
“The son of the woman Sosipatra, diviner of magical secrets, foretold the fall of the Temple.
 
We are doomed, old friend.”

“Even so, we must act.”

“Act?
 
And how shall I act?
 
I gave my life to my students.
 
I gave my life to those I would study and write commentary on.
 
The only true home I have ever known is gone, its beauty defiled, its wisdom carried away by flames, its sanctity defiled by vilest ignorance.
 
I was head of the greatest library on earth.
 
And now?
 
There is no library.
 
And who am I if no one reads me or hears me?
 
No, Didymus.
 
I cannot act.
 
All I can do is hold to this bed and these walls.
 
Will they take these too?”

“In that case,” says Didymus, “I will send an astrologer.’

This makes Father lift his head.

Didymus, having sent for one called Beato of Sais, does not wait for him.
 
The pagan Egyptian astrologer, like the pagan Greek mathematician, is friend to Didymus the Blind, but Didymus is a Christian, and a wise Christian in the city of Theophilus.
 
It would not be wise to be discovered in the same house as an astrologer.

At word an astrologer comes, Jone sneaks by me, half hiding behind a tapestry, gift to our father from his friends.
 
There she sits and pretends to read Euhemerus’
Sacred History
.
 
Trailed by Paniwi, Lais is also attracted by an astrologer.
 
Paniwi is Lais’ cat, a wild brown thing with darker brown ears and tail.
 
Paniwi bites and growls and brings dead offerings to Lais, scarcely bothering with anything as trivial as a mouse.
 
Paniwi captures rats.
 
She waylays snakes.
 
She leaps, her long thin body twisting in air, for birds.
 
Twice Lais found a huge red spiky lizard lovingly arranged on her pillow.
 
Once she discovered a half-grown vulture.
 
All this is why the cat is named Paniwi, “the bringer.”

Minkah, his head and ear bandaged, pale green stalks of aloe poking out either side, stands behind Father.
 
He looks ridiculous.
 
But as Lais smiles on him, and Father keeps him near, I say nothing.

I cannot sit, nor can I simply stand, but must do as I have done since waking: pace—and with me paces Paniwi.

“Sit down,” says Father.
 
I sit.
 
Paniwi jumps into the lap of Lais.

Beato of Sais is even more ancient than Didymus.
 
He arrives with a Gothic slave, one strong enough to carry a large wooden box, and before anyone can speak, holds up one tremulous hand.
 
“In the city of Sais, under the Temple of Naith, there are secret halls and in these halls are kept records of Egypt nine thousand years old.
 
I have seen these things and so know my art to be older than Egypt.
 
Older, even, than those who built the temples of Anatolia before Jericho knew its first stone.”
 
As he speaks, he has crept closer to Father who has lowered his bedding.
 
Father’s nose is smeared with soot.
 
As for his eyes, they are as big as the eyes of Paniwi hunting in the dark.
 
“You!”
 
Father and the half-hidden Jone jump, but Beato is addressing his slave.
 
“Lay out what is needed.”
 
The slave, one of those northern creatures covered in hair as an ape is covered in hair, immediately opens the box.
 
I slowly stand, slowly sidle closer to them, the better to see for myself the tools of a true astrologer.
 
As an astronomer, astrology is well known to me, but I have never practiced the art…though I mean to.
 
Father loves divination.
 
He has written a book on Hermes Trismegistus and I have memorized every word of it.

Beato stares at Father as Father stares at him.
 
Beato is tapping a curved yellow nail on a curved yellow tooth.
 
Lais strokes Paniwi who purrs loud enough to wake one of the many things she has killed.
 
I struggle to resist rummaging through Beato’s wooden box.
 
Especially as in the box is a second box already opened and in this second box resides a mechanism I have only read of.
 
A thing of shining brass gears and pointers and cogs and wheels and balls that describe the movements of the golden sun and the silver moon and the five wanderers and in this way locates their zodiacal positions at any given time.
 
Described by Archimedes, first devised by Poseidonius of Rhodes, now in rare variations possessed only by the rich—Beato of Sais must be a very successful astrologer.

Beato is saying something to Father, no doubt asking him questions so that he might adjust his machine and construct a view of the heavens on the day and time of Father’s birth in the year 335, when suddenly I hear my name.
 
I look up to find that while I have been studying Beato’s machine, Beato has been studying me.

I move away from his wonderful machine, prepared to assist if I can.

His white beard, crusted with spittle, is orange around his mouth.
 
To me, not to Father, he says, “I have no need of a date for you.”

“But…you have come for my father, not me.”

“Theon’s course is set and he knows it as well as I do.
 
I waste my time here.
 
But you!
 
By the star that fell from the sky at your birth, you have life yet to choose.”

I glance at Father, who shrugs, saying, “But such a small star and only one, not a night-sun, or a javelin of evil omen, or a horned star, or a torch or a horse star or one that threw off sparks…”

Beato cuts across father as a comet across the sky.
 
“No fire that falls from heaven is small.
 
None that comes alone is less than sacred.
 
And this one came with a sound of singing.
 
A great destiny awaits her, a great destiny.
 
It is hers, yet it is not hers, for she as Hypatia shall not see it.
 
All she will know is blood and fire.
 
But before this, she will be greater than any man.”

I must be making a face as he speaks, as who would not make a face hearing such words, for he quickly turns back to me, adding, “You need not accept your destiny.
 
The stars hint, they do not command.
 
As one called ‘sage’ what say you?”

What say I?
 
I have no idea.
 
In this moment, I notice Jone.
 
What do I see in her strange little eyes?
 
A feeling: sorrow or a slight or perhaps nothing more than some small digestive pain.
 
In her own way, Jone is as much a mystery to me as is Lais.
 
But where there is a joy to Lais I cannot attain, there is a sorrow to Jone I cannot fathom.
 
I say, “I am no sage.
 
I do not claim such wisdom nor would I want to foretell the future.
 
What great destiny?”

“One that will engrave your name on the pillars that hold up the sky, that will write it over and over in the patterns made by waves, one that will encode it in the veins of those to come for a thousand years, even more.
 
But the cost will be high.
 
How much would you pay for such a destiny?”

Now I find something to say, a thing I truly mean.
 
“I would pay nothing, for I have no desire to know my name will live in this way.”

“You!”
 
Beato of Sais again shouts at his slave.
 
“Close the box.
 
I am done here.”

And Beato is gone, but not before a glance at Jone, a second glance at the Egyptian, and a third at Lais.
 
At sight of Jone he frowns, at sight of Minkah he seems puzzled, but at the sight of Lais, he sighs.
 
“Child, I offer my pity.”
 
There is one more glance for me and a sigh deeper than his sigh for Lais.
 
And then we are alone, my sisters and my father and I—along with the scorched lover of fanciful tales, the youth who has not only followed me home, but seems intent on staying.

Suddenly Father cries out.
 
There are no words, only the one cry.

“Father!” says Lais, immediately on her feet.
 
“What is it?”

Waving his arms so that his bedding falls away, he wails, “What have I done?
 
What have I said?
 
What fate awaits my children as it waited for their mother?
 
Damara, poor Damara!”
 
And with that he has snatched once more at his bedding, this time throwing it not only over his face but over his head.