Selene of Alexandria (20 page)

Another burst of drunken laughter interrupted his musings. He put thoughts of Rebecca aside as he ordered another drink. This one he did not spill.

The story of Cyril's dream flashed through the collection of clergy like wildfire. Many took it as a sure sign of his fitness. Others labeled the dream "convenient" and his vow to fast until his uncle's interment "an extravagant show of grief." And so the debate continued, picking over minute details of past behavior, ignoring the big question: who could unite the church and lead it to the power it should have in this city?

Cyril paced his uncle's office at the end of the second exhausting day of deliberations. Seven paces forward, seven paces back. He ignored the hunger in his belly, but thirst began to torment him; his voice harsh from overuse as well as lack of water. He had given a brilliant and stirring argument for his election that day. Timothy, more concerned with day-to-day administration in the church, could not match the biblical scholarship Cyril had gained in five years of study with the Nitrian monks, nor his fiery delivery.

Cyril stopped in front of the window and gazed into the dark, deserted courtyard. He silently prayed for the strength to carry out his uncle's mission. He felt a quickening; a centering that always followed his personal correspondence with his Maker. God gave strength to the righteous. Cyril would win this challenge because he was chosen.

"Cyril?" Hierex asked from the doorway.

"What news?" Cyril turned from the window. "Is our careful planting bearing fruit?"

"I delivered your gifts to the designated council members. The monks of Nitria preach in the streets on your behalf, your uncle's bodyguard talk in the taverns against Timothy, and the Mariners await your orders. When you are elected by the clergy, the populace will acclaim you without reservation." Hierex' smile faded. "We have one major obstacle."

"Orestes?"

"No. He is still fast approaching from his tour of the province, but in his absence, Abundantius declared for Timothy."

Cyril rubbed his bearded jaw. "The Egyptian dux is capable of sending in troops to enforce his wishes, but it would take a day to mobilize at Nicopolis. It is time to bring this wrangling to an end, before Abundantius can move. We must show the clergy some small portion of our power."

"Everyone is in place and awaits your word, Master."

"Do it."

Chapter 15

On the third day of the conclave, Selene sensed a shift in the mood of the city from anticipation to frustration. She and Nicaeus had left before Phillip arose, to attend her anatomy class, but now Selene regretted her dedication. Threatening gray clouds and occasional showers kept many off the streets. Those who braved the elements met a more frightening storm of human passion. Hordes of desert monks thronged the streets, clamoring in favor of Cyril.

Selene and Nicaeus tried to navigate the agora. Her brother peered between the stoa columns into the central city forum. Selene took little hops, trying to see over his shoulder. She finally gave up. "What's happening? Can we get through?"

Nicaeus shook his head. "It looks like a riot ready to happen. We'll have to go around, toward the docks."

A sudden roar from the crowd drowned Nicaeus' next words. Selene saw the shifting bodies as a dull mosaic of browns, blacks and grays. The roar resolved into a deep rhythmic chant: "Cyr-ril! Cyr-ril! Cyr-ril!" The booming noise rattled through her chest and pushed at her ears. She pulled her dark wool cloak over her head to muffle the sound.

They skirted the crowd, staying close to building facades. Selene had a flash of fear as part of the mob surged, pushing them against a wall. She looked at Nicaeus in near panic. In the cool morning air, sweat stood on his forehead. His eyes narrowed as his gaze swept the mob. Nicaeus grabbed her hand and shouted in her face, "This way!"

He pulled her toward a tall door at the end of the colonnade. It flashed bronze even in the dull light. The Merchant's Hall. They struggled toward it, Selene trying to hold on to her bag of waxed tablets and texts. Nicaeus tried the handle. Locked. He pounded on the ungiving metal, shouting, "Open! Open, for heaven's sake!" Selene added her fists to the efforts, but the door didn't budge.

"The Hall is closed!" she screamed to her brother. They looked around in desperation.

A horn sounded. The crowd suddenly stilled. Selene watched a wild dark figure in desert robes ascend a podium and raise his arms to lead a chant. The throng roared, "Cyr-ril! A true ascetic! Beloved of God. Give us Cyr-ril!" The crowd swarmed toward the podium, leaving a small corridor to their right.

"There!" Selene grabbed her brother's hand. They raced down the temporary opening. Selene stumbled on the hem of her long robes, falling to one knee. Nicaeus took her book bag and helped her to her feet. She gathered handfuls of damp cloth, hitched her garments above her ankles, and ran. They ducked down a narrow alley between buildings and came out on a large boulevard heading north, toward the harbor.

They traveled but half a block when a wave of men flowed onto the street and headed their way shouting. Most wore the short sun-faded tunics of seafarers and waved the hooks and staves of dockworkers as they poured through the broad avenue. Small knots of men broke off at corners and dispersed through out the city, crying, "Cyr-ril. Give us Cyr-ril. We'll have no other Patriarch!"

They could hear the crowd roaring closer. The chants dissolved into riotous shouts with no rhythm, just the fearful pressure of a noisy mob. Nicaeus backed Selene against the wall, sheltering her with his body and outstretched arm. She saw the backs of the men's heads as they streamed past. She held her breath, trying to blend in with the shadows.

When the last of them straggled past, Selene wiped her brow. She looked up at Nicaeus; his face pale under his normal tan. "Thank you, brother." She leaned into his shoulder. "I'm glad I didn't have to face that alone."

"It's a good thing Father insisted on a chaperone. I don't think it's safe for you to be on the streets until the bishopric is decided."

"I agree." She sighed. "Let's go home."

They headed north, then west, dodging small groups of shouting mariners. Near their father's house, they came upon Phillip and Rebecca. Phillip wore neatly mended robes of the lower class and smelled of beer. Nicaeus gaped. "Why're you dressed like that?"

"I didn't want to seem out of place, escorting Rebecca to and from the market. Lucky thing, too, the market filled with monks chanting for Cyril and the guards shut it down."

Rebecca pointed to her sparsely filled basket. "I fear we'll be eating dried and preserved food for the next day or two, unless I can get beyond the walls to the vegetable merchants."

"Don't worry, Rebecca. We'll send some male servants after greens and fruits tomorrow." Phillip flashed white teeth. "Now, both of you, to shelter. I don't want to see either of you out until this trouble is over."

"How soon will that be?" Selene asked.

"I don't know." Phillip shrugged. "I wish Orestes were here. Cyril's supporters are taking advantage of the Prefect's absence to foment this disorder. I doubt Orestes would have stood for it."

The mention of Orestes sent a thrill down Selene's spine. During his three months' absence, she had studiously avoided thinking about him. Her body's reaction at the mere mention of his name annoyed her. That, and the prospect of being confined to the house, put Selene in a foul mood.

Later that evening, Hypatia studied a letter from Synesius, Bishop of Ptolemais. Beloved Synesius, one of her brightest students and the leader of a band of young men who dedicated their lives to her – until marriage, parents' deaths, or church service took them away.

Hypatia found it ironic that so many congregations chose her bright young men as bishops. Her training prepared her students well for lives of service and contemplation. Scattered across the Empire, her protégés showed their brilliance but were no longer young. Dear Synesius still wrote often to gossip about their wide-flung friends, ask her advice on his writings or implore her to help some young country noble with her influence.

This letter worried Hypatia. Synesius sounded ill and unhappy. The last of his three boys died recently and he grieved excessively. He complained of growing old alone and reminisced about the "golden years" of his studies in Alexandria, almost twenty years earlier. It made Hypatia feel ancient, that her students aged. Her pen wasn't as steady as in the past. There were spots on the back of her hand. When had they appeared? It seemed such a short time ago...

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Hypatia, may I attend you?"

Her initial annoyance at being interrupted dissipated as she recognized the voice. "Orestes, you're back!"

The Prefect opened the door, carrying a tray of spiced wine and sesame honey cakes. "I made the best time I could when I heard the news of Theophilus' decline." He set the tray on a low table. "I intercepted your servant." Orestes indicated the honey cakes. "I never suspected you favored such sweet treats."

Hypatia laughed and patted the couch next to her. "It's my one and only vice. I've purged my life of excess, but when I am troubled I crave sweets." She shrugged. "It gives me something to live for – correcting this last imperfection." She looked sharply at Orestes. He seemed worn and troubled, his clothes dusty from the journey. "You didn't come to hear an old woman prattle about honey cakes. From your appearance, you came here directly. Do you bring news?"

"Cyril is now Bishop of the See of Mark and Patriarch of Alexandria."

Hypatia folded her hands in her lap and sat still. "That means difficult times for you."

"Possibly." Orestes poured wine into two goblets and raised his own, drinking deeply. "Cyril is young for his post, but youth can be molded."

"Youth can be most passionate, stiff-necked and jealous of its prerogatives, as well." She glanced at the letter in her hands. "I've had many years of experience with the young men who attend me."

Orestes chewed a honey cake absently. "What do you know of Cyril?"

"He never studied with me. His followers call for consolidating the Christians and ridding the city of its pagans and Jews. Cyril is in a precarious position, coming from such a contested election. He needs to heed his supporters and reward their loyalty. We will miss Theophilus."

"I'm puzzled by your regard for Theophilus. He was harsh and autocratic. I've heard him referred to as 'The Pharaoh of the Alexandrine Church.' He fomented riots, closed the pagan temples, and drove the pagan priests from the city. How could you stand aside and let that happen?"

"Theophilus brought peace after decades of troubles." Hypatia sipped her wine. "You've attended my lectures. I don't teach religion. I teach philosophy – a way of life, not a way of worship. I believe in one god, not the multitudinous personalities worshipped by the ancient Greeks, Romans or Egyptians. I believe in the need to strive personally to know God, the same as the Christian church. After all, 'I am the Word' – God as Logos – is a Greek concept.

"Theophilus and I had many discussions on this point. We came from the same philosophical rootstock, but branched in different directions. I believe only a chosen few have the strength of character and intellectual capacity to know God. He believed all could know God through Christ's redemption, baptism and faith. We respected each other's opinions. The priests of Serapis were dogmatists in their own right, refusing to acknowledge others' beliefs. Their polytheism and cultic practices were more inimical to my way of thinking than any Christian sect."

Orestes shook his head. "Does Cyril respect you and your choices? If he is intolerant, this city could erupt in violence. You might be in danger."

"Cyril is not his uncle. Some say he seeks power not for God's sake, but his own. He might even complicate my life. However, I am a part of this city. I have wielded influence since before Cyril was born. Do not fear for me, my dear friend. Rather let us wait. The new Patriarch may yet prove amiable."

They lifted their goblets in a spontaneous toast. "To a better tomorrow!" Orestes proclaimed.

Hypatia smiled. Orestes had his own rigidities, but a hidden pool of passion lurked beneath his cool exterior and a sharp intelligence informed his conversation. She gloried in his company. There were still a few bright young men in the city, and in her life.

In the chapel at the Bishop's quarters, Cyril knelt in simple white robes to receive the sacrament that would make him priest, bishop and Patriarch. It was fitting that the first food to pass his lips since his uncle's death was the body of Christ; the first drink, the blood of Christ.

The Archpresbyter intoned, "These are the things thou must hold and teach, for this is the Faith of the Catholic and Apostolic Church, to which all Orthodox Bishops throughout the West and East adhere. We believe in One God the Father Almighty, Maker of all things both visible and invisible; and in One Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Only-Begotten, begot of the Father, that is of the Essence of the Father, God of God, Light of Light, Very God of Very God, Begotten not made, consubstantial with the Father, through Whom all things were made, both that are in heaven and that are on earth, Who for us men and for our salvation came down and was made flesh and made man, suffered and rose on the third day, went up into the Heavens, cometh to judge quick and dead; and in the Holy Ghost."