Aries Fire (2 page)

“I must write about those who loved her, instead,” she mumbled aloud and continued to scribble.

There is one Socrates Scholasticus, a prominent philosopher here in Egypt, who admired her.  Scholasticus was kind to forward notes of sympathies to my grandfather after her death.  I heard he said it this way: “For all men, on account of her extraordinary dignity and virtue, admired her the more.”

Hypatia’s disciples loved her. I called them ‘all of her children’.  They all looked to glean the tiniest of Hypatia’s logic, like babes feeding from her breast. Sometimes the men in her groups were obvious and ordinary.

The hundreds of students that dared to openly mourn my mother deserve much note.  They were as familiar to my childhood as any wooden toy that littered our salon. They came for her teachings and sat near her imaginary throne.

She was like a Queen.  In any other land or some other time she would have been.  I especially admired her on the days when she adorned herself in her black cape to speak the words of Plato.  All her “children” ignored me, or were perhaps just used to me.  I was a fixture on the heels of their Queen; like a fallen, dried leaf, held down and stuck by the weight of her train, I felt destined to sweep the floor under her feet.

Everybody knew my mother except perhaps me.  My father knew her too, I would think, better than I, whomever he may be. That doesn’t matter anymore. He would have surely come forward by now. I can no longer ask my mother and I’ve stopped asking my grandfather.  With hope, the deepening features of my face will trace my ancestors soon enough.

Though, in truth, there was once a rumor that Orestes, the Governor, was my father. He was my mother’s lover a long time ago. Something about the way he gazes at me makes me question.  Does he see a young semblance of his former lover’s face?  Although no one has remarked on any similarities between us. Might I grow to see him as my reflection?

Orestes’ visits slackened since my mother’s marriage to Isidorus, another philosopher who became an immovable and annoying presence in our salon. Orestes fought for her safety from the wicked Cyril. But Isidorus?  What were his attempts?  I think he is a coward concerned only with power and position.

Orestes’ masked grief matched only that of my grandfather, Theon, great philosopher and mathematician, and in truth, my mother’s best friend and perfector.

The sort of grief I intuited from Orestes is grief that remains unspoken but sags the eyes and dulls the voice. I share it, too.

Seira took a moment to clear her throat as if she were about to give a speech. She felt compelled to sit and write. There was nothing else to do except find a place to let fly her thoughts in hopes they would grow wings and find a home elsewhere.  Perhaps then she might find silence between the words.

This sadness.  It can only come from lost love.  I wonder, though, how far did her love with Orestes go?  Perhaps I will never know. For now I must be content to be where I am… in the dark.

It didn’t matter how well versed I was in Hypatia’s knowledge.  I wasn’t her. Funny, but no one could account for my presence in their logic.  My mother and I held one thing private. I was the exact complement to her logic—the intuitive balance.  I am a seer of things unseen. I am a seer of the stars’ direction in the human heart.  Make no mistake, Mother.  I will not be told how to think!

My mother tried in vain to bring my logic to the forefront. “Intuit to know it?  Without physical proof?  Give your reasons.”  She questioned me the day before my last birthday.  Her head slowly nodded to ponder my intuitive sense, but I do not know if she agreed with my insights. I cannot make reason of my visions yet, I admit, and I have little patience for rhetoric.  I must have suitable instruction for my talents. Then I will be as well respected a seer and astrologer as my mother was philosopher and scientist.

As it is, her students have no use for a bastard who has half-sighted visions of an uncertain future. Our schools are closing, save for the Christian ones, and the riots are breaking out like a plague, spreading through every house and threatening freedom of choice. The violence against knowledge is horrid.  The Christian religion forbids us to learn and practice the ancient teachings.  This is the way of it, I fear, until the cycle of wisdom prevails once again.

Even as the words come forth, a clearer picture of my life forms on the page. I think I was born to somehow follow in my mother’s footsteps, to clear a path of truth for people. Of that, there is little doubt in my heart.

It was here, in Alexandria, where I envisioned my profession: that of a priestess, a wise seer… and astrologer.  I cannot be weighed down with matters of reason and supposition like my mother.  My mind is always looking to the heavens for the answer.  Perhaps it is a knowing within me that I belong to the stars.  There is a persistent voice within, whispering that I have much to learn, though. And I suppose herein lies the reason I entered my mother’s extensive library.

Seira sat up straight as if she suddenly discovered the reason for being and needed to give the matter her full attention. Her pen scribbled even faster now.

So then, if I am truly to champion my mother’s love of truth, I will use this Aries fire in me to become who I am meant to be.  Once I put my abilities to the test, I will seek out and alight the face of the man who put her murderers to strike.  By the stars, I avow it. 

I only know the visions come more frequently and even mother could not help to quiet my headaches. No herbs or preparations could keep my head from pounding or keep the violent images from terrorizing me. There are no remedies for the blood that seeps from my mysterious wounds. No tonic for the blindness after my visions. My mother’s logic could not help me.  I hope to make sense of these strange images someday and to use them to help others, somehow.

“Reserve your right to think, for even to think wrongly is better than not to think at all,”  she once said to me in her most neutral voice. Guidance was all I asked and frustration and insults were her solution. To think wrongly? Why is it wrong to feel, to use intuition as a guide? I inherited a library of her words, all for me to decipher.  My fists are clenched with no one to strike. Damn her for leaving the answers for me to solve.  Damn her for leaving!  My anger rises again like a violent storm. What do I do with it, Mother?  Where is your logic for rage?

Seira slid her palms across the tabletop and fought off an attack of hysteria. She locked her jaw and imagined a thousand arrows shooting into the core of her feelings.  A deep, throaty breath saved her from screaming. Her shoulders relaxed. She stared at the candle flame and rubbed her face with her fingers before writing any more words. Ink smeared across her forehead.

Life, I am learning, is an equation to be mastered through prowess and the guessing games of the heart.

I write in hopes of stumbling upon my identity.  Perhaps that’s how it begins for some of us. As much as I know so far, I was born to witness the people’s adoration of my mother and to be my mother’s greatest challenge. Hypatia bore a daughter who uses passion and emotion as a guide instead of logic. This is the cosmic humor.  She tried so hard to teach me organization and enumeration of my thoughts. I don’t believe life is lived fully through a step-by-step plan. We must be free to explore. It’s more natural for me to react with impatience and spontaneity. I just cannot keep my thoughts together. 

My mother articulated Plato with such commitment and conviction, and all without emotion. Her logic was a precise, cutting tool that could shape a destiny with the right words.

I laugh with abandon, scream when frightened, and curse when angered.

A more unlikely mother and daughter pair wouldn’t be found in all of Egypt, to be sure.

I do know this. I was born in the year 398, on the 22 day of Pachons (March to the Christians), at the time of the Festival of Isis, with Aries ruling my disposition.  I’ve not yet left my only known home of Alexandria, but when I do, I will discover my destiny. Of this I am certain.

Seira suddenly sat erect and massaged her shoulders.   Calmness pervaded her and she relaxed with a maturity that comes only with acceptance of life’s own numinous reality.

She sat like an orthodox icon, innocent of self-awareness. Two fingers on her left hand searched for several strands of hair.  She brushed them aside repeatedly not sure if she found the tickling sources.  Replenished with a moment of peace, she continued her writing.

I have a field of wavering barley atop my head, knotted and wild, wanting a freer location, perhaps flying on the wind.

My eyes, I am told, are like the green oil from a pressed olive, glowing in the dark like a cat’s.

My fire for a man grows hotter each day. I want to know men, but I don’t want to marry.  I want to know how to please a man. I want to be adored and sought after. I thank Jupiter that my mother did not force me to wed. I am now seventeen and of legal age.  She shared my need for independence. Grandfather. Well, he’s another matter.

Strange that my mother and I should be so opposite in our desires and appearances, but so alike in stubbornness and will.  There will be no lessons of love from my mother now and my sorrow is too much to feel.

Those Nitrian monks dragged her through the streets and ripped her body apart with jagged shards.  I’m sick. Sick.

A drying reed pen scratched out the word, ‘sick’ and slid from the papyrus, barely legible. The thought of her mother’s shredded body brought her to the edge of madness. Seira paused a moment and held her breath then freed it from her mouth, slowly, with direct concentration.  Something her mother taught her to do when she was a child and exploding in tantrums each day.

Instead of fighting for her life, someone said they heard her recite her beliefs to the very end, without falter.

‘The soul is the beginning, the end, all else is transitory.’

All else?  All else was her life and I thought it was important.  Why didn’t she fight for her life?  Perhaps she couldn’t or didn’t know how. I’m alone now.

I must finish this entry and get to sleep. I haven’t slept in days. A nagging feeling tells me that there isn’t much time for thinking or playthings now, or even fantasies of finding my true father. Grandfather reminds me of these things, too.

His words mix with my mother’s and echo loudly, like tiles suddenly falling and shattering from a rooftop. “You’re not a child any longer,” he said after the funeral. “They’ve got a nose out for you, those Christian hounds, her murderers.  Never forget who you are, girl.  It will take you through the rest of your days.”

No, I won’t forget that I am Seira of Alexandria, bastard daughter of Hypatia.

My heart aches and I have no recourse but to follow my stellar path, but I know not where to go. In confession, I wish to be my mother’s greatest student. I’ll prove that I am her daughter, but in my own right. When I am trained and ready, I shall return to my proud Alexandria.  Then, I’ll fight for Hypatia’s name and expose the rat’s nest of villainy that plotted against her.  I’ll use my knowledge and power to bring her murderers to justice. But not before I am ready!

Wait.  Footsteps approach.  I’m almost half-hoped to be discovered by those monks to incite my own private riot.  As the Jewish fish monger says to me every week: ‘Mazel-tov. May the stars be in alignment for your dubious journey.’

“Seira,” a deep voice whispered. “Seirrra!” 

Again it spoke with impatience.  She dropped her reed and held her tongue. In her melodramatic state, Seira didn’t recognize her grandfather’s voice.

“Now, girl.  Answer me.  There isn’t time,” he said.

There was never a panic to Theon’s voice.  He commanded authority even in the center of chaos, but now he sounded almost desperate.

Seira stepped out of the dark vestibule. Her shadow grew against the tapestry and towered behind her aged grandfather. She hid her journal behind a bronze figurine of some dead, mathematical genius.

“Here I am,” she said, trying to remember the name of the mathematician.

Her grandfather stood, calm again, and inhaled his strength. Seira’s shadow grayed his face. Her heart wept for the man who lost his prize possession and who feared for his only living successor.

“I thought you lost to the hounds, child,” he said indifferently.

A large, muscular hand tossed several scrolls onto the table.

“What’s this?” she asked.

She walked over and sat on the cold marble bench before her and fingered the rolls of papyrus.  Theon rarely discussed plans with her.  He declared his decisions and then expected Seira to obey. 

“These are letters I have written, on your behalf, to the most Illustrious Proclus of Athens.”

“Why?  I’m not going to Athens,” she said.

“Hold your tongue,” he said calmly, looking over his shoulder.  “Lem will take you where I deem fit.  It’s for your safety, Seira.  Can you understand that these Nitrian monks will kill you?”

He glared at her with calm intensity.

She looked away knowing he did this thing for her, for her safety, but it was too soon to leave after her mother’s death. 

“But I haven’t even seen all of her works.  I…I don’t want to go, Theon,” she said politely, as if she were offered a honey treat.

Seira kept calm, not wanting to rouse the demon in him.

“I’ve booked passage for you on a merchant ship leaving for Ashkelon. It’s less conspicuous this way. A passenger vessel could attract unnecessary attention.  After the captain unloads his goods you’ll depart for Greece. These are treacherous times with so many Roman galley ships patrolling the seas.”

Ashkelon? She’d not thought of Palestine. Seira began to create another plan. Theon continued his talk and she kept quiet.

He’s not listening to me anyway, she thought. 

She often wanted to cry out to quiet him, but couldn’t. She’d let him make his ruling and do as she pleased, but now, Seira was suddenly moody and agitated and needed a battle to feel alive.  She baited him.

“Theon, Marina has already seen the guts of the…”