Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria (6 page)

Theon groans at this.
 
They all groan.

The man Pappas stands forth, his voice as a bell.
 
“The greatest minds have lived in this city.
 
The greatest talents have added word upon word, thought upon thought, to its store of knowledge.
 
And all of it,
all
of it, was lately available to any who sought it.
 
How can we bear to lose this?
 
How can any bear to lose it?”

“Surely, it has not come to that?”
 
This is said by the occultist Paulus of Alexandria.
 
His own home lost to fire, yet his goods were removed the day before to the house of his Christian mother-in-law.
 
Paulus interests me.
 
Is he gifted with sight…or a spy?
 
If spy, then for whom?
 
Not for Theophilus or I should know it.
 
“Theodosius shows charity.
 
He declares we are allowed our beliefs.”

“Are you a fool?” snaps Pappas, who I begin to admire.
 
“If we are allowed our beliefs, where are our temples?”

And now, from a chair far from all these talkers, rises up Hypatia.
 
All throughout, as I have stood listening to this one and that, and to all at once, so too has she.
 
At sight of her as at speech from me, once again the silence is immediate.
 
She is stared at.
 
To run through fire for books, to stride naked, her nose in the air, past men maddened with blood…this is one to be feared.

“You talk of a new library,” says the daughter of Theon, “you say the new library will not be as the old, it will be secret.
 
But how secret can it be?
 
Scholars will seek it, will speak of it.
 
How then can it be hidden?
 
No more than one foolish mouth, and it will be gone before the waning moon.”
 
All is now a rustle of togas, a scratching of beards.
 
As an Egyptian, I grow no beard, but if I did, I would scratch it.
 
Beard scratching is a way to avoid other than beard scratching.
 
“Shall we give them a new library to sack and to burn?”
 
Heads are shaking, nooooo.
 
“Nor can we trust them to one man’s house, no matter how large the house or worthy the man.”

“What, then,” asks a now sober Helladius, “shall we do?”

“We will do as the Jews once did.”
 
By name a Greek, Meletus is the one Jew here, and head of the Jewish Schul of Alexandria.
 
Though all other stares are blank, the stare of Meletus threatens.
 
But as Meletus is older than Palladas, older even than Didymus, and has not a single hair on his head but hair enough for a cleaning broom over both eyes, Hypatia pays him no heed.
 
“When Rome threatened the books of the Jews, what did they do?
 
They gathered them from everywhere, took them out into their deserts of arid heat, sealed them in great jars, and hid them in caves.
 
The books exist, though three hundred years have come and gone.
 
This is true, is it not Meletus?”

Clearly, Meletus does not want to answer, but must.
 
“Yes, it is true.”

The others stare at the bald Jew as they stared at Hypatia.

“Is this not Egypt?” says this woman of a girl, “and are we not surrounded by deserts, greater than any in Judea?
 
And do we not have caves, and are they not dry and hot?”
 
Yes, they all nod, yes, there are caves in the desert and they are hot.

Pappas holds up a hand.
 
“But what of grave robbers, more numerous than lice?”

“Robbers seek gold, not books, and what they seek is near the Nile, not here.”
 
Pappas concedes her point: Alexandria has no pyramids, no valleys of kings and queens.
 
“We will gather the books, each from where it is hidden.
 
We will find the right and proper caves.
 
When these are discovered, there will be drawn three maps that if found or stolen will make no sense to its finder.
 
Each map will be seemingly different yet in meaning the same, and three men will hold in trust these differing maps.
 
You must decide who these three men are.
 
As for the devising of symbol, who better than my father: Alexandria’s most fiendish geometer?”
 
Even Theon listens with open mouth.
 
Yes, yes, yes
.
 
I see them begin to calculate, already wondering which of them would be map-holders.

Pappas has paid close attention, so now asks the obvious question.
 
“And where shall we keep the books before they are hidden in desert caves?”

The answer to this is as ready on Hypatia’s tongue as all else she has said.
 
“They will be taken to the one place no Christian would think to look.”

“And that is?”

“Only those in this room will know, swear on it.”

They all swear, even me, and of them, I hope none betrays what they swear to; this while looking at Paulus and thinking of myself.

“The place is obvious.
 
Where else than in the Didascalia, the confusing, complex, and enormous Christian school of Didymus the Blind?”

Ahhhh, they all sigh.
 
Bold.
 
Ingenious.
 
Risky.
 
For the space of a breath, they pause, then fall to discussing which of them should be the three to hold the maps.
 
Only I am left to gaze upon Theon’s second daughter.
 
Not one man here questions her judgment.
 
Yet no man gapes in wonder at wisdom standing before them.
 
I am in danger here; my heart is threatened as well as my loins.
 
I scold myself.
 
Step lightly, Egyptian, speak with care.
 
No sword has proved more dangerous than this.

I banish the woman with thoughts of the man.
 
Bishop Theophilus is my true master.
 
What I hear in this house, should I not tell him?

No doubt.
 
But not now.
 
Yet if not now, when?
 
The answer is simple.
 
When it suits me.

~

Hypatia’s plan to remove the books from private hands and to hide them in a Christian school began that day.
 
I watched them moved through the streets in bullock carts, in bundles on backs as if they were kindling or laundry, even secreted one by one under mantles.
 
My own I carried openly.
 
What Christian would take offense at, or even notice, the work of Theophilus, for each of my books was disguised as one of his.

It was good to see Lais laugh at my joke, irritating to wonder if Hypatia even noticed.

Danger traveled with every book.
 
What if someone tripped and fell and Aristotle be exposed in the street? What if thieves, believing they had found treasure, found Livy instead? What if something should startle an ass, and it go braying off on its own scattering Homer’s Margites, what if, what if?—but there was also exhilaration.

It took a month or more, but in the end the books are hidden with Didymus.
 
I enjoyed myself immensely.

As for who would keep a map once it was drawn, my “Master” Theon was chosen first of the three.
 
Meletus, second.
 
I thought neither choice surprising.
 
As it can be done in bed, Theon will devise the maps.
 
Meletus has knowledge of such things, yet has not shared his knowledge—what better recommendation?
 
I should have wagered on Pappas as third choice.
 
Instead they chose Didymus.
 
This means the Great Library is in the hands of a craven mathematician, a reluctant Jew, and a Christian.
 
If any die before the library is restored, their copy will follow on down a list carefully determined.
 
Theon’s will go to Hypatia.

I too have a task.
 
Not Theon, but Hypatia, assigns it.
 
I do not ask why she chooses me, who does not know me, but the answer must reside with Theon who trusts me.
 
I, who have never ridden, who have been no closer to a horse than to be trampled when in the way, or sharing a courtyard, am to ride out into the desert where few ever think to venture, and with me rides Hypatia.
 
Whenever she does not lecture to the rich and ambitious, we are to search for a place that no one can find.

I am given a day to learn the art of riding.
 
This is my doing for I have said I learn easily, and when it comes to things of the body, easier still.
 
Hypatia takes me at my word.
 
She and I alone have come out into the desert where I cannot hurt myself or the horse, and here I must prove myself.
 
My beauty rides a fine red mare named Desher.
 
I ride a creature as splendid as Lais.
 
Ia’eh is as Desher, a hot-blooded horse of the high cold deserts, faraway and strange to imagine.
 
Where Desher is the color of blood, Ia’eh is as white as a harbor gull with an eye as black as kohl.
 
Astride her, I must know her, anticipate her, follow her as if I was part of her.
 
Three or more times, I would fall, but I will not.
 
Hypatia watches, a mere girl who can do more than I, who knows more than I, is a high-born Greek watching a low-born Egyptian, and I will not fall.
 
I will ride Ia’eh as I would Hypatia.
 
Not that I shall ever ride Hypatia, but men live by dreaming and I am a dreamer.

When we return, I am handed Xenophon’s Hippike and the work of Simonides.
 
“Read these,” says my haughty darling, “So you may know the horse in all its ways.”
 
And with that she leaves me, who ache in all my parts.
 
It is not only Ia’eh who causes this.

Use and knowledge of the horse elevates my status.
 
My mind is elevated by chance.
 
As I tend to him, Theon chatters away.
 
And because I know what Hypatia does not know—her safety rests on the will of Bishop Theophilus—I accompany Hypatia to her lectures and I listen.
 
From time to time, I wonder: if it should be Minkah who is ordered to endanger that safety, what then?
 
Piss on it.
 
Worry never pays.
 
But by Horus, I have fallen into a vat of honey.

When I ride with Hypatia, we do not go south.
 
Due south lies Lake Mareotis and beyond the lake rise the mountains of Nitria where live the maddest of mad Christian monks.
 
These are harmless solitaries, chilled in caves or exposed on high rocks or starving in ruins, each alone and each dying to meet their god.
 
But there too live those in black robes, gathering like flocks of crows—these are not alone and they are not harmless.
 
They grind their teeth with fanatical “love” of what they call God and hate beyond reason all they consider not God.

We ride as Libyans.
 
No Egyptian fellahin would be seen so far from the chMra where lie their farms, and never on horseback, especially not on the backs of such fine horses as ours.
 
And because even Libyans, should they be seen wandering such remote and trackless places, might be questioned by Roman soldiers or bands of thieves or by the thugs of Theophilus—being myself a thug of Theophilus, I know exactly how such questioning will go—we will say we are traders intent on finding new and better routes to markets.
 
As “questioning” often comes in the form of a swift and silent knife, we ourselves carry knives.
 
I am skilled with knives.
 
Once more Hypatia surprises me.
 
Skillfully sinking a blade deep into a post, she tells me it is wonderful what one can learn from a sailing tutor.

We begin our search in silence, I because I am merely a servant, and she because I am merely a servant.
 
So far we have seen nothing alive other than a distant cheetah standing perfectly still on the top of a ridge and three quick vipers slithering over the sand.
 
This day we go farther, but still avoid the Nitria where the vast bulk of those who delight in suffering lurk.
 
Ia’eh, Lais’ filly, is mine as long as I have need of her.
 
Lais herself, though I am told she once rode and rode well, is now more often found in her room writing her poems.
 
Hypatia rides the spirited Desher.
 
As Ia’eh means moon, Desher means no more than her color: red as Ra when he sang the world into existence.
 
We have come many miles southwest of the city and still find our search hot and fruitless as one by one each grouping of caves is rejected for this or that reason.

In this lonely place Hypatia turns in her saddle.
 
“Have you no home, Minkah?
 
Does no one miss you or need you?”