Selene of Alexandria (52 page)

The crowd quieted as Peter shouted, "What we did today is blessed by God. Pray to Him to save your souls from such as the black sorceress. Ask for the strength to smite His enemies and destroy them in His name."

With a final prayer of deliverance, Peter tossed Hypatia's head into the flames. Others followed roaring each time a limb or unrecognizable lump of flesh crashed onto the pyre, sending sparks curling to the heavens. The fire burned higher, reeking of scorched meat.

Selene heard a horn close by, and the shouts of military orders. The crowd milled in confusion as a cohort of mounted guards sliced through them.

Antonius struggled and broke loose. One of his captors sprawled on the ground.

Her guards relaxed their grips, slightly. Desperate hope lent Selene new strength. She kicked one captor in the knee. His howls of pain lost in the shouts of the battle going on about her.

A horse charged the trio. Her captors released her arms to flee. Selene threw herself out of the path of the horse toward the fire, fleeing to the other side. Antonius followed closely, limping.

Two men moved toward them on the right, a third circled the fire on the left to cut them off from the canal. Selene could outrun the men to the water, but she wouldn't leave Antonius.

One lunged at him. They wrestled to the ground, Antonius astride his chest, hands about the man's throat, madness stamped on his face as he squeezed.

A spindly mariner lunged at Selene with a long knife. He feinted to her right. She dodged, letting him veer toward the fire.

A parabolan swung at her with a cudgel. She put up her left arm to block the blow from her head. Selene heard the sickening sound of bone splintering as pain scorched her body and numbed her mind. She stood rooted to the spot, her arm dangling useless at her side.

Antonius fell back against her. The knife stuck out of his gut, his hands clasped around the hilt. She staggered to the ground, cradling Antonius as best she could.

Horses snorted and soldiers shouted as they chased down the remnants of the mob. The mariner escaped beyond the fire.

Selene knelt at Antonius' side, ripping his tunic into bandages with her good hand and her teeth. Leaving the knife in place, Selene pressed the cloth around the wound, but the blood soaked through as fast as she could replace the bandages.

"I think so." Selene looked around. The fire burned low. She sat back on her heels, wiping her face with her good hand. "The guard is chasing the mob. No one's near us."

"Good." Antonius clasped her hand. "It's getting dark."

Selene, tears runnelling the soot and blood on her cheeks, looked at his pale face, felt his thready pulse and lied, "You'll be all right, Antonius."

He coughed again. "I don't think so." He looked up at her. "Selene, my love. It's enough you're alive and safe." He gasped for breath. "I couldn't bear the thought of this world without you."

"Don't talk, Antonius." She held his head in her lap. "Save your strength. You have to get better. You have a son to care for."

"My father can raise my son. I only wanted you." He lifted a bloody hand to her cheek. "For once my love has been a boon to you, not a burden." His wandering gaze focused on her for a moment, begging.

"I love you, Antonius," she whispered, knowing she could not save him.

He gripped her hand and smiled as the light fled from his eyes.

Selene bowed her head, letting her hair curtain the sight of her tears from any passersby. Antonius' many faces flashed across her mind. A red-faced boy, racing her across the beach. A youth, eyes alight and mouth passionate with a first kiss. A man, haggard with grief over her death, sowing the seeds of his destruction with wine.

Selene forgave Antonius his misplaced love as she cradled his still form.

At the sound of horses' hooves, Selene raised her head. Her arm throbbed at her side with an intensity that sent dark streaks across her vision. At least the ends of the bone had not broken the skin.

Horses stomped all around her. A dappled gray snorted at her hair.

Orestes dismounted, reached down and lifted her to her feet. "Thank the Good Lord you are still alive." His face showed no surprise, but the pallor under his tan and tight lines about his mouth betrayed his fear. His sharp gaze swept her body, taking in her injuries. "How badly are you hurt?"

She mutely indicated Antonius, swayed and collapsed against his chest sobbing. "He saved my life."

Orestes held her until her shudders subsided, then pulled a scarf from his neck and fashioned a sling for her injured arm. She winced as he tied it in place.

Orestes knelt to examine the body at her feet. "I'm sorry about young Antonius." He sighed. "Did you love him very much? Is that why you risked all? To let him know you were alive?"

She shook her head and hiccupped. "No. We met by accident. I don't know why he was in the agora. Maybe he was going to a tavern, or just didn't want to go home after my funeral. I was running to warn Hypatia and he recognized me."

"Hypatia? What about her?" Orestes gripped her shoulders. She gasped in pain. He dropped his hands.

"You didn't know? I thought that was why you were here."

"I heard the Patriarch's parabolans had captured a witch and rioted in the streets. Because you were abroad after the funeral, I feared you were their captive. What about Hypatia?"

Orestes trembled, from rage or grief, or both. He lifted his face to the roiling sky, neck corded, arms clenched at his side. He let out a barbarous howl; as if his heart ripped in two.

Selene backed away from the savagery etched on his face.

Chapter 42

Orestes stood before the open window looking at the quiet square. A soft spring breeze wafted the smell of rose blossoms through his offices. He breathed deeply savoring the sweet scent as a momentary lift in his bleak mood.

He watched as two soldiers stopped a man and questioned him about his presence in the square. The detained man expressed anger in his wide gestures and aggressive posture.

Orestes sighed. The populace grew restive after six weeks of martial law, as did he. His initial fury over Hypatia's death had moderated to a cold anger. The leading citizens dithered; neither condemning nor condoning the violent murder; waiting to see which way the wind blew from Constantinople. These people didn't deserve to have such a great lady as their champion for so many decades.

He turned back to his desk, piled high with petitions to lift martial law and requests for reparations due to lost business.

Demetrius entered with a letter marked with the imperial seal. "A packet arrived from Constantinople, Master." Demetrius handed the letter to Orestes. "Perhaps it contains news of your petition."

Orestes slit the wax with his thumbnail, quickly scanned the letter and crumbled it in white-knuckled rage.

"They're denying your petition, Master?"

"Yes." Orestes slumped into his chair. "The Augusta has consolidated her power and I have no patron left in the court. The new Praetorian Prefect Aurelian – with their majesties' approval – denied my petition to compel Cyril to turnover the murderous presbyter."

Orestes sat gloomily looking at the missive.

Demetrius said with uncharacteristic distress, "They will do nothing?"

"They have granted the council's request to reduce the number of parabolans to three hundred." Orestes snorted. "The bloody bastards are barred from gathering in public forums or invading council rooms and magistrates' courts. But nothing about Hypatia. That noble lady's death will go unpunished."

Orestes threw the crumpled sheet across the room. "Cyril's won. There's no more I can do."

Cyril smiled as he read the letter from his deacon in Constantinople.

Peter's unexpected violence had shocked Cyril with its savagery. He had feared imperial retaliation, but God was on his side. The death of a pagan philosopher received short shrift at court – as it should. Hypatia was dead and the tighter Orestes gripped the city, the more resistant it became to his cause.

Cyril said a silent prayer of thanksgiving. His vision had come true. Alexandria belonged to the Patriarch of the One True Church. The attack on Orestes and Hypatia's murder gave him profound insight into the power of his office. He needed to think carefully how to use that power to the Church's advantage.

Hierex entered the office and bowed. "It's time, Your Grace."

Cyril looked out the window. "So it is." Orestes could not forbid the Easter celebrations.

Cyril eschewed the gold-embroidered purple and white robes of the Patriarch to go among his flock in the rough garb of a penitent for this joyous celebration of the Resurrection. He and Hierex wended their way to the courtyard, where other church fathers joined them. Paulinus, his dour chief steward, stood with the official almsgivers, counting coins. He and Cyril had forged an adequate, if prickly, working relationship since Theophilus' death. Contributions to the church poured in daily, keeping Paulinus and his accountants busy.

Cyril's new Archdeacon greeted him with a kiss. "Your donkey is ready, Holy Father."

Cyril mounted the docile beast, feeling awkward as his legs dangled to the ground. Hierex led the donkey from the courtyard. Hundreds of monks and clerks emptied out of the buildings to follow in their wake, chanting, "Hosanna." Citizens lined the broad streets carrying palm branches, which they threw to the ground before Cyril passed. Spring rains had washed the blood from the streets and soot from the walls. Flowers and colorful banners festooned the buildings.

The procession made its stately way to the forum. A huge crowd cheered as Cyril entered and paraded around the square. Someone started a chant and others took it up, booming, "Cyril, blessed of God." On the second round the chant changed to, "Cyril, a true ascetic." On the third, it changed again to, "Cyril, the new Theophilus."

Tears blurred Cyril's eyes, as his heart swelled.

His people bowed in adoration of their Patriarch.

Demetrius watched his master observing the Easter procession. As the crowds cheered Cyril, Orestes' face hardened into a grim mask, a slight tick by his left eye the only movement.

After Hypatia's death, Demetrius had seen his master grow withdrawn and bitter. Lady Selene, having lost both her teacher and her friend, reached out to comfort Orestes, but he continually rebuffed her. Demetrius felt if they could share their grief, they might heal one another, but Orestes' bitterness and disappointment ran too deep.

As quickly as it flared, the anger left Orestes' eyes. His shoulders slumped. "I should beg your pardon, Demetrius. You've been an excellent servant and do not deserve my harsh words. Come, I have something for you."

Orestes turned his back on the street and strode to his desk. He rustled among the papers and pulled out a scroll embossed with the Prefect's seal. Orestes handed it to Demetrius with the first genuine smile he'd shown in weeks. "This is long overdue."

Demetrius took the scroll in trembling hands and read the flowery script – his manumission and a generous stipend to live on. He looked up at Orestes with moisture fogging his vision. "Thank you, Master."

"No longer 'Master,' Demetrius. It's a small enough reward for your faithful service." The smile disappeared from Orestes' face. "If I had listened more intently to your advice…"

Demetrius kept a discreet silence. He found no solace in "might have beens."

Orestes composed his face. "You are free to leave today if you wish. However, I hope you stay for a few weeks. I'm resigning as Prefect and value your assistance in concluding my affairs."

"Of course." Demetrius bowed low. "I've waited twenty-seven years for my date grove. I can wait a little longer."

Phillip laid out his father's memorial feast for the beggars in the cemetery. The wretched hoard snatched the good warm bread, fought over the roasted peahen, and swilled the beer, but Phillip smiled. The Church frowned on these feasts for this very reason – they celebrated the body and not the spirit.

Phillip's smile turned bitter. If he could snub the Church, he would. He saw no reason to believe in a Church that dismembered great scholars, hounded his sister into exile, and murdered Rebecca's people.

The thought of his gentle love – her modesty, loyalty and tenderness – spread warmth through his chest. His eyes sparkled and breath quickened. He knew Rebecca would not approve of his bitterness – it poisoned his life. She showed more Christian charity than many who professed to be Christian.