Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria Read online

  “I am not what I seem.”

  “I know.”

  “I am Parabalanoi.”

  “I know.”

  “But I did not enter your house sent by the brotherhood.”

  “I know.”

  Her answers, not immediately heard by me, locked as I am in the words I have been saying, come through. “You know?”

  “Yes, Minkah. I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  And now she laughs. Her laughter is not meant to hurt or to threaten, but comes from her delight in what we say and how we say it. “Oh, Minkah, I know because I have watched you. I know because you tell me in so many ways. No poor Egyptian would act as you have acted in this house. I know also because my poems tell me.”

  I cannot respond to this last. I do not understand it. “Does Hypatia know?”

  “I think not.”

  “Will you tell her?”

  “It is not for me to do so. If she would learn, it must be by your telling her as you tell me.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “I think not. In this house, what you pretend to be you are. What you are in this house, you become outside this house. But you have come to speak with me. What would you say?”

  I am dumbstruck. She speaks to the center of things. “It is not the house, Lais. It is you, it is Hypatia, who have changed me.”

  “Ah, but it is the house for a house is those who live within it. Father has changed you as well. Though you love him not, Theon loves you.”

  She knows this too. I am seen by Lais. I squirm in my skin. It is terrifying to be seen. I clench my fists until I am pained. “Yet I remain Parabalanoi. I remain sworn to an oath.”

  “Yes.”

  “Theophilus orders me to report on the friends of your father who do not know what you know.”

  “Oh, my friend! What shall you do?”

  “I don’t know. Knowing nowhere else, I come for your advice.”

  “What are you moved to do?”

  “If I do not spy, I will be killed.”

  “And if you do?”

  “I will be shamed.”

  “Which hurts more?”

  “Deceit.”

  Lais’ laughter causes my laughter. Laughing, I say, “Yet deceit seems the only answer. But if I deceive, it shall be Minkah the Egyptian who chooses who to deceive.”

  “And who shall you choose?”

  “Theophilus.”

  Lais laughs again. I will dream of her laughter. I will remember it when most needed. She holds out her writing tablet. “Would you honor me by reading what I write this day?”

  I tremble as I take the tablet she offers. With no word crossed out, no sign of hesitation, I read what is written.

  I ask for nothing.

  In return I give All.

  There is no earning my Love.

  No work needed, no effort

  Save to listen to what is already heard,

  To see what is already seen.

  To know what is already known.

  Do I seem to ask too little?

  Would you give although I ask not?

  Then this you can give me and I will accept.

  I will take your heart.

  You will find it waiting for you

  When you return.

  Autumn, 393

  Hypatia

  Lais floats through our rooms again. She sits in the sun of our gardens. Her incision heals. Flesh softens her bones. She swears she feels no pain. All praise Olinda.

  Even Jone knows pleasure. Because we show interest in her reading—at the moment The True Word by Celsus—making no criticism of a Christian teacher, a glimmer of joy lightens our little sister’s serious face. Our reward is this: we are informed that from now on she will read nothing “pagan.” This means she will not be reading anything her own family writes. But as she never has, what loss is this?

  Minkah goes about singing some song of the Egyptian streets. I would beg him to stop if I were not so near song myself. Paniwi drops huge rats at the feet of Lais. Both rat and Paniwi look much the worse for wear, though Paniwi is clearly the winner.

  I lecture and so many come, so many travel great distances, so many pay. If any truly hear me, I could not say. I teach that Mind creates the illusion of matter. I teach that matter does not “exist,” not as we think it does. The Galileans swear that matter is made of lesser stuff into which we have fallen. Flawed by our fall, we are trapped in a world of opposing principals—good and evil, life and death, love and hate, light and dark, liars and truth-tellers, flesh and the spirit—until we are saved. But this is Persian dualism as taught by Zarathushtra “revealed” to him by his Wise Lord, Ahura Mazda.

  The faithful are not told that once another thing was taught of their Christ, a teaching I myself have found only remnants of. The books of those who knew him, or who understood him, claim his life was lived as a spiritual myth, that by it he sought to show the divinity of all. I have searched for these books in vain. If not destroyed, the new teaching has hidden the old teaching as well as the Library is hid.

  And yet times soften. It seems as it was before the loss of our temples although ours are not regained for this is Alexandria and Theodosius remains Emperor of the East and so rules Egypt. But Eugenius is Emperor of the West. Pagans there: of Italy, of Gaul, of Spain, of Britain, of North Africa once more openly show themselves. Mystery traditions accept initiates and those who would join number in the thousands.

  Before this too passes, I work all the hours I can to make use of it.

  New thoughts furnish my head. As if servants had tossed out all that is old, and brought in all that is new, I keep Rinat busy enough for a room of her own in which she might sleep. There is so much to say. I cannot reach the heavens—what do I know of the stars? The number of primes is infinite—is there a pattern? And if there is a pattern, has it meaning? I cannot answer. This is all I am sure of: I know that I AM, for I cannot truly assert that I AM NOT.

  Perhaps Rinat works to capture unworthy thoughts. But they are my thoughts, and I am filled to bursting with them.

  Hope, found in Siwa, is like a hungry lion. It rises to its feet.

  ~

  Lais and I recline in our bath. Rose petals and sponges float on the oiled water. Paniwi, not one for steam, follows even into the bathhouse, though she must sit on a high tiled ledge where she constantly cleans her fur. As for me, I lie back basking in my sister’s life. I revel in the scent of her, the fine fair hair on her slender arms, the elegant line of her forehead as it flows down to the elegant line of her nose, the small scar on her chin where once she fell from the back of Ia’eh. As for the scar on her belly, even this I find beautiful. Made by Olinda, it has saved my sister’s life.

  She has heard of my trip to Siwa, all but that which occurred under the palms. That Isidore was there, she knows, but asks me nothing. I am nothing like as discreet. I probe. When she was not with us, where did she go? During the time her belly was open, what did she feel? Now that she has returned to this world, does it please her?

  I make my sister laugh. “Hypatia, Hypatia. No one asks so many questions, and none so quickly so that the person asked cannot keep up, and yet more come. In my bath, I will answer only one. Which shall it be?”

  “The first one.”

  “Of course, the most difficult—but as I have promised, I reply. I left the cave of my body, sister. I left what I thought home. I left Egypt. And while gone, I had no idea of time or loss. All was bliss.”

  “What do you mean by ‘I’?”

  “I mean that within me which perceives. I saw, I heard, I had thoughts and emotions. But of body or bodily sensation, there was none.”

  “What do you mean by bliss?”

  “What would you mean by bliss?”

  “I have no idea. I have never known bliss. But where did this I of yours go?”

  “‘Where’ means nothing. Where is a thing of this world. The I of me, which perceives without nee
d of body, was not in this world.”

  “Then some other world?”

  “If it was, it was not made as this world is made.”

  “Were there gods?”

  “Gods? If by gods, you mean others without body or concern for the world left behind, then yes, there were ‘gods.’”

  “Were you happy?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “You were happier there?”

  “I would have been, if not for your being here.”

  “You play with me.”

  Lais takes up my hand. She kisses my wet and oily palm. “What else is there but play, beloved?”

  ~

  If I thought Father might rise, I am mistaken. He no longer lives in bed because he despairs; he lives in bed because it suits him. He is warm and he is comfortable. He is coddled and he is safe. Or so it must seem to him. All he might desire is brought him. All those he might wish to speak with, visit. If he has, even once, considered what his choice might mean to me, he does not show it, nor does he seem in the slightest abashed that his daughter earns what is needed to assure him he has a bed, not to mention a room to wall it with and a roof to cover it over. In truth, our father has gone from despair to a kind of childlike contentment.

  The way here has been difficult, often it angered me, but I have come finally to accept what must be borne. Has he not raised three females without a wife? Did he not climb to the height of such fame as comes to mathematicians? If there were no Emperor Constantine, no Emperor Theodosius, no Bishop Theophilus, Theon of Alexandria would be teaching still. There is also this: if all had not happened as it did, what should I be? I have been restless, curious, an irritant to those who wish peace and quiet. These “qualities” have found a home in teaching.

  There is one thing only that rankles. The younger my father becomes, the older must I become.

  He has finished his work on the bleating of sheep and the croaking of ravens and whatever else. Today, we begin work on his commentary on the Mathematical Treatise of Claudius Ptolemy. To this end, I have spent hours in the garden on our roof creating an Astronomical Canon…for though Ptolemy’s catalog of stars is impressive, still, Claudius Ptolemy the synthesizer, was wrong in a great number of his conclusions which I must somehow prove to Alexandria’s leading mathematician—though his reputation fades. Minkah is forbidden to tell Father what is said of him outside our house; with all he endures, to hear himself replaced—by me!—might further unbalance what is already tilted.

  This evening I arrive filled with hope that Father will agree the sun lies at the center of our system, not the earth.

  “First,” admonishes Father, “Aristotle does not agree.”

  “True, but—”

  “And second, Archimedes does not agree.”

  “True, but—”

  “And third, Theon of Alexandria does not agree.”

  “Father. Christians once again teach that the world is flat and the universe shaped like a tabernacle.”

  Father snorts down his nose which causes the hairs that grow there to quiver. “Even a simpleton, when shown, can see a ship sail away over a horizon, disappearing little by little. And when the ship returns, it appears little by little.”

  “Yet—flat we remain to many.”

  Father is still quick. He knows what I would say. “I await the day you personally disprove Aristotle. Until then, Claudius Ptolemy is correct.”

  “But the pure unfounded invention of what he calls “epicycles,” so tortuous and so unnecessary if one would merely accept the obvious—”

  “Claudius Ptolemy wrote the Tetrabiblos. Has anyone been clearer on the subject of astrology? His astronomy is equally clear.”

  “It is, demonstrably, a mess.”

  “Do I smell boiled milk? I am starving.”

  I leave Father to his hot milk, and the intolerable Aristotle to his self-serving argument that the “female is the male deformed,” and that “semen is the seat of the soul.” It was while reading Aristotle that I first knew anger towards the male. Did he not whine whenever his superior masculine eyes caught sight of women at market? How terrible it is to be woman…but only because of men.

  ~

  Winter, 393

  Minkah the Egyptian

  Lais begs Hypatia to take her to the races. Hypatia begs me.

  I shake my head. “What if she becomes over-excited? What if she is yet too weak?”

  Hypatia argues for Lais. “But Minkah, Alexios is arrived back from his triumphs in Constantinople. He races this day. There is no charioteer my sister dotes on more than Alexios. He will leave again. What if he does not return?”

  I pretend to weaken. “Perhaps if we asked Olinda?”

  “Olinda visits a patient in Pelusium. And Lais has been so long at home. Her cheeks glow with health, her body is plump, her stomach flat. She would not walk, Minkah, I would never have her walk. Nor will she ride Ia’eh. I will hire a curtained litter, the most expensive, one with heaped pillows and the strongest bearers. Nor, as we did as children, will she remain all day, not even half the day. We shall see only the race of her hero. Surely there is no harm? At the first sign she tires, she shall come home.”

  I hold up my hand for silence. “If Lais would go, then she will go.”

  “Thank you!”

  If Hypatia cannot see what has just happened, I can. Theon was not asked. Hypatia is mistress here. She need ask no one. Yet I was asked. If Minkah the Egyptian had said no, Lais would not attend the races this day.

  When all is arranged, we go east from the Royal Quarter along the Canopic Way, four times wider than any street in the city, extending from its western walls to its eastern walls. Sharing sweet dates and wine, we pass the Jewish quarter, the countless hostels that cater to travelers, then out through the tremendous Sun Gate of the once Emperor Antonius Pius—that improbable thing, a good king—and there, before us, rises up the great Hippodrome.

  From the gates to the private boxes, all move aside for Lais and Hypatia. Rome’s Prefect, Lucius Marius, whose wife bulges with child, sits two boxes away. Both nod in greeting. Alexandria’s magistrates, its generals and ambassadors, the wealthiest of its merchants, smile. There recline or pose or leap from level to level Hypatia’s students, among them Synesius. Each of these calls out. Below us carouse a gaggle of philosophers who, upon sight of Hypatia, bow, and upon sight of Lais, bask.

  And there is Theophilus and there the priest he loves: elusive Isidore—forbidden Hypatia, thank the gods. And there, Cyril, piglet to Theophilus’ boar, his hunger for power hidden in a hunger for food. And there sprawls the darkest of the Parabalanoi, Peter the Reader, his mouth twisted down and to the side. I pretend I know them not as they pretend they do not know me.

  Hypatia has brought along the fur of an animal to wrap around Lais, pillows for her comfort, a shawl of silk to cover her head. As Hypatia fusses over Lais, I jump to my feet. Below the chariots appear, throwing up dust and color, and how we all roar! Four horses each to a chariot, each horse so similar they might be the same horse: matched blacks, grays, reds, whites, blood bays, browns. My money is on the blood bays. The bays are driven by Nabil, an Egyptian.

  Alexios drives the team of blacks. As lowborn as I, he is twenty and six and richer than Cicero. Planted in his chariot with the reins of all four of his horses wrapped round his muscled arm, his muscled back straining to hold them, his muscled legs perfectly balanced, he ignores the crowd which does not ignore him. “Alexios! Alexios! Alexios!”

  Fucking catamite…and if he is not, I’ll eat my sandal.

  Below us, men ready the staggered spring-loaded gates at the angled end of the oval track. Drivers steady their horses, all of whom would race away on the instant if allowed.

  Lais leans towards Hypatia, and I half turn to hear her; if she is faint or in pain, I would know this. Though she whispers, her words are clear. “There is none I love better than you…always remember.”

  Hypatia kisses her sister’s palm. “And
none I love better than you.”

  Suddenly, up from the track comes the shouting of those who maneuver the gates, the shouting of those who hold the chariots, the shouting of those who will drive them. Hypatia and I are drawn away by the muttering of horses deep in their throats, the calls of the charioteers, each goading each, the creak of leather stretched to breaking, the turning of the wheels and the complaining of the wooden gates.

  Lucius Marius drops a cloth to signal the start. Alexios and his blacks are first away—and as Hypatia thrusts herself up, so too do I. The chariots rub wheels, throwing sparks high in the air, the hooves of the horses strike the ground as metalworkers strike anvils, over and over, and five times round the spina each charioteer does his utter best, or utter worst, to tip his opponents, tangle their traces, send them crashing into the walls…any trick they might play to win the day. Coming fast, the bays crowd the blacks.

  “Smash him, Nabil! Show him your ass!”

  The whites careen off a wall as all disappear yet again behind the spina with its lengthy top a clutter of marble gods and bronze dolphins obstructing the view only to reappear a moment later in their rush back. Before they do, the crowd holds its breath. The crashes come at the turns round the two ends of the spina, the deaths occur. But there is no crash, no death. There is only Alexios, and his blacks. Piss and shit! Though blood flows from the nostrils of one, though another has a long slash on a pastern, he whips them home to such a shout from the crowd as would deafen, if I were not also shouting as Hypatia is shouting. She cries, “Alexios wins, Lais! He wins!”

  But Lais does not look at the track nor does she look at the horses, nor does she look at the triumphant Alexios. Her chin is slumped into the curve of her chest and her arms hang straight from her shoulders so that her hands rest on their backs on the stone and her fingers curl up like the fingers of the dead. Hypatia’s shawl has fallen over her face.

  ~

  Hypatia

  My sister, my heart, died this day. The Sun God returns as she leaves us.

  In the skies over Alexandria, a great white star has appeared suddenly in the constellation of the Scorpion, brighter than the red star Antares. I, an astronomer, cannot be bothered to look. Emperor Theodosius has ordered, for the first time in a thousand years, an end to the “pagan” games of Olympia. I, called pagan, cannot summon concern. In Hippo, where Augustine struggles with evil, the Galileans have declared which of their many “gospels” is true to the number of four, and have rejected all others, which number in the hundreds. What means this to me, Hypatia, who knows no truth?