Written in the Ashes

by K. Hollan Van Zandt

Before she could think, Hannah’s hand flew up. “Stop! You must stop. She is only a child. What kind of sorcery could she possibly know?”

  The girl sat up in the dust and looked at Hannah, her dark eyes lit with hope.

  The four Parabolans turned their gaze to Hannah, and immediately she felt the gravity of her folly.

  “Seize her!”

  Hannah turned at once, and fled.

  As Tarek dashed out after Hannah, he heard the barley merchant muttering how this new bishop was going to put him out of business.

  Hannah ran swiftly around the corner and down to the end of the next street, pushing through hoards of hawkers and camels, fishermen and donkey caravans. Peter and two other Parabolans were gaining on her, and they had signaled to fellows who were joining in the chase; Hannah could not count how many. It was a sea of black robes.

  Peter shoved a man with his box of chickens out of the way, the flustered birds breaking free of their cages, the man falling to his rump in the street.

  Tarek grabbed Hannah’s hand and pulled her along. At the next corner he opened a small wooden door and shoved Hannah through and then stepped in behind her, the narrow dip between his collarbones quickly rising and falling with breath. Hannah made such a panicked sound when she exhaled that Tarek clamped his hand over her lips and watched through the slats in the door as the Parabolans passed by. The door they had hidden behind appeared to have led them into a small kitchen. Tarek turned around as an old woman came out of the next room and began screaming at them in Egyptian, brandishing a broom.

  “She thinks we are thieves. We must go,” said Tarek, and the door closed behind them with a bang. The old woman was still yelling obscenities at them and shaking her broom as they vanished into a narrow passage strewn with lines of limp laundry hung between blue doors that led to small homes stacked three high in a poorer quarter of the city.

  At the alley’s end, Tarek peered out from between the houses. Five meters ahead, two Parabolans spotted him and shouted.

  Tarek quickly spun back in the opposite direction and knocked into Hannah, who tripped on an uneven cobblestone and stumbled, falling crookedly on the side of her foot. She cried out. Tarek did not give her an instant to waver. He jerked her up and she began to run, limping behind him as he pushed through the lines of wet clothes, the Parabolans now so close Hannah could hear them breathing.

  As Hannah and Tarek came out of the lines of laundry, Hannah felt a strong hand grasp her hair. It was Peter. She shrieked repeatedly and with such terror that a line of hounds tied to a post nearby began braying enthusiastically, and one snapped the line with a twist of his head, dragging the others along behind. As the hound bit Peter’s thigh, Hannah twisted free, a clump of her hair left in his hands.

  The other freed dogs barked and snarled mere paces from Hannah’s heels. She yanked her khiton free from the mouth of one as Tarek found a grate in the street and pried it open with a staff left out for pulling clothes down from the line. “Get in,” he commanded.

  Hannah swung her feet into the dark pit below the grate and Tarek took her hands as she lowered herself so that she was hanging onto him and dangling at a great height. “Let go!” he yelled, but Hannah clung to him, shrieking, for she was suspended twenty feet over the river of the catacombs, holding to Tarek’s arm for her life.

  “Tarek!” she cried out. “Tarek, do not let go!”

  A dog lunged for Tarek’s knee and bit straight through his skin to the bone and he cried out. Two Parabolans nearby were having similar struggles with the dogs that pulled on their robes and growled as they bit the flesh of hands and buttocks. Tarek shook his arm free of Hannah’s hands and she screamed as her fingers slipped and she splashed into the dark, putrid water below. Tarek clocked the dog once on the ear, giving the beast a good disorienting blow, and he plunged in after her, shutting the grate as he went.

  When he came up for a breath he looked around and called out into the dark tunnel.

  “Here,” she sputtered, clinging to a pocket in the slick wall where a brick was missing, her whole body trembling.

  Tarek paddled over to her and said, “By Poseidon’s trident I do not know whether to save you or let you drown.”

  Hannah sputtered a mouthful of water and coughed. Tarek brought his arm under her. “The current is swift here. Wrap your arms over my shoulders. I know this place like my mother’s pockets. Trust me. I will get us home.”

  In the vaporous light from the grate, Tarek could see Hannah nodding, her eyes wide in terror. He pried her hands from the wall and put them around his neck.

  Hannah stared into the blackness that darkened as they drifted, convinced this was the end of her life. Her breathing turned to short gasps as she dug her nails into Tarek’s shoulder, pulling him under. He yelled at her to calm down before she drowned them both.

  Overhead, another grate appeared, light streaming in from the street. Above them, Hannah could hear the voices of the Parabolani and the timid weeping of a girl. Shadows shifted across the grate.

  There was the swish of a blade being drawn and then a gurgling scream.

  A body was thrown down and the light was gone.

  Then silence.

  Water dripped from the roof of the tunnel onto Hannah’s head as they floated past. She clung to Tarek’s bony shoulders with numb fingers, terrified.

  She heard Peter’s voice above them, saying, “…and rid us of the evil pestilence of witches such as these…”. His voice trailed off.

  A few minutes later they floated through another patch of light and Hannah began to shriek, splashing in the water.

  “Hannah, stop. Stop!” Tarek turned around and saw her face and gasped. She was looking at her hands, red with blood. She touched her face again and screamed, for it too was covered in blood.

  He tried to hold her still, grabbing her by the wrists so she would not sink.

  “The girl! Her blood!” she cried. “What hell have I come to! Curse you. Curse this city that steals lives!” She screamed and struggled against Tarek, who fought to hold her head up out of the unctuous water.

  “Hannah, you have to try to help me.” Tarek pulled up on her lower ribs to help her to the surface. “We are not far from Alizar’s landing.”

  Hannah sputtered, her face blanched with panic as she went under. Tarek dove after her and pulled her up, but she was heavy as a stone and went under again, swallowing more water as she sank.

  Tarek kicked off his sandals and peeled off his clothing in the current, then dove and caught Hannah’s hand. He pulled her up and fought to get her khiton over her head as she coughed and gasped, but she resisted, fighting him with her fists. “Hannah, the cloth is pulling us under. Do you want to die here?” She shook her head. “Then help me take it off.”

  Naked in the putrid water, the struggle eased a little and Tarek began to feel his way along one of the walls for the next turn in the anfractuous tunnels with Hannah’s arms around his neck. Her grip weakened with each breath. Tarek thought of nothing other than Alizar’s house, and focused the full strength of his will that they would reach it—that they would not die in the catacombs.

  So.

  It was hours before they saw the torches of Alizar’s landing and the familiar footbridge. Tarek pushed Hannah out of the water and she collapsed on the stones in exhaustion, her hair strewn around her body like kelp on the beach. Tarek pulled himself onto the stones and struggled up the stairs, his knee trailing blood on each step.

  Jemir came at once when he heard Tarek’s call. Hannah was barely conscious when they tried to rouse her.

  “Hermes, Zeus and Apollo, what have you done to her?” asked Jemir.

  Tarek shot Jemir a nasty look and spit water on the ground. “What have I done? This little cunny challenged the Parabolani in the market. She nearly got us killed.”

  Jemir’s eyes went wide as a l
emur’s. “If they saw you, they will come here next,” he whispered as his hands trembled. “We will all be questioned.” But it was not the being questioned he feared; it was the ruthless methods of questioning.

  Jemir lifted Hannah up in his arms and she coughed, and then her head fell back. Leitah appeared on the stairs. “Call Philemon,” Jemir said to her. “Go at once.”

  For days following the incident in the marketplace Hannah did not leave Alizar’s house and slept most of the day and night. Her ankle was black with bruises and throbbed in pain, her spirit even more so. Leitah rubbed a cool mint salve into the joint and bound it with a splint and a strong length of thick linen. The doctor had said the healing would be slow. He was a wise man, though Jemir noticed he counted his coins with a certain glee that seemed inappropriate to his profession. This was one doctor who would undoubtedly be immune to the inflation in the market due to the drought.

  Hannah could not push the death of the young Jewish girl from her mind. She was full of sickening regret. When the tears stopped, she simply stared at the wall, absently watching the light change as the sun drew down the sky.

  For a week, no one in Alizar’s house slept as they waited in terror for the Parabolani to appear. But they did not come. Hannah lay in bed sipping Jemir’s willow tea, her leg throbbing with pain. She occasionally limped over to the balcony to look out on the street below. A cot had been placed in Naomi’s room for Hannah to rest while she recovered. Sometimes she sat beside Naomi and stroked the tiny hairs on her forearms and lifted a flagon of water to her lips. To be near Naomi was the closest thing she had ever known to having a mother. Hannah found comfort in those hours. Beloved Naomi.

  And so Hannah rested and played merles and talked to Naomi. More weeks passed that way until one morning, something unusual occurred. A golden butterfly with dramatic black edging around its wings floated across the balcony and through the doors. It lilted around the room aimlessly for several minutes then settled on Naomi’s throat, opening and closing its delicate wings.

  And Naomi sighed.

  Hannah sat up. Then Naomi sighed again, and her breath wavered on the exhalation, almost as though she were attempting to form words.

  “You know it is there,” Hannah whispered.

  Naomi’s lips quivered.

  Hannah crept to the bed. “Please wake,” she said. “Please, for me.” As she watched the butterfly pumping its wings, she slipped her fingers into Naomi’s hand and squeezed.

  A little breeze crossed the room and Naomi’s eyelids fluttered and opened. The butterfly did not stir. Hannah found herself looking at eyes as green as summer grass. Naomi’s lips tipped slightly upward and she squeezed Hannah’s hand ever so gently in return. So gently. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then her eyes closed as the resting butterfly lifted from her chest and vanished through the open window.

  Hannah threw open the door and called to everyone to come quickly. Tarek was out, but Jemir and Leitah came at once. As Hannah told them what had happened, Jemir brought his hands to his heart. “It must be an omen,” he said. “She will be well again, Cardea willing. We must pray.” And so they each bowed their heads and prayed in a circle around the bed where Naomi lay. Hannah hoped Jemir was right, that the butterfly was an omen. She felt that if Naomi recovered it meant that everything else would be well also, that her father was alive and that they would be reunited, and the Parabolani would forget the incident in the market.

  Later that day a visitor came to the house. When the bell rang, everyone stopped breathing. The servants of Alizar’s house flinched at every odd sound in the walls, dreading the coming of the Parabolani. Jemir was the brave one who went to the door to see who it was.

  “Hannah, there is a visitor for you.” Jemir stood in the doorway of Naomi’s bedroom leaning against a pillar, holding a tray of sweet cakes. His heart was heavy for the girl, poor desert child sold into slavery, and now this. She had not spoken a word of what happened that day in the market. Sorrow had tipped the ballast of her heart, and she was sinking. He fussed over her, baking his concern into special cakes to revive her happiness, to no avail. There was no music left in her for Alizar’s house.

  “I am coming.” Hannah gathered the blanket around her body, picked up her cane and found her way downstairs to the atrium. There in the hall, a tall gentleman in a long, wine-red robe stood serenely. Even with his back to the entrance, Hannah knew who it was at once.

  “Synesius.” Hannah’s lips faltered upward toward a smile. His constant stoic expression that always seemed so cold, in that moment, warmed her like the desert sun. She was glad to see him.

  Tarek had just come in from the stable and heard voices, so he hid behind a pillar in the hall, watching Hannah. As Tarek saw her face come to life at the sight of her tutor, he stiffened. With a clenched jaw, he curled his fingers into his palms.

  Synesius tilted his head, regarding Hannah’s bandaged ankle. “What has happened to you?”

  Hannah took a step backward. “We can go into the courtyard to speak. Please.”

  They stepped into the bright sun of noonday and followed a stone path that led down a slight slope to a lion’s head fountain set in a low wall that poured a cool stream of water into a catch basin filled with blue lotus blossoms. Alizar’s horses grazed in a pen just beyond it.

  Hannah sat on the edge of the wall beside the pond. “Sy, I am sorry I missed my lessons.”

  Synesius glanced at her leg.

  Hannah bit her lower lip and looked down at the bandage. “It was in the market. I slipped.”

  He studied Hannah’s face. “And who were you running from?”

  Hannah looked up and met his discerning eyes. Perhaps he already knew. “The Parabolani.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “We were in the market and they dragged this young girl out in front of everyone and made horrible accusations. Then they…well, they killed her.” Hannah teared up. “I was so foolish, taken over by my anger. I actually thought I could stop them.”

  The flicker in Synesius’s eyes showed that her tutor was familiar with the Parabolani and their tactics. “Alexandria contains the greatest extremes, Hannah. This city, like Alexander her patron king, knows only the pendulum’s swing. Her center stands for an instant, then shifts. Such is life.”

  “Do you mean we should ignore what the Parabolani are doing?” Hannah narrowed her eyes.

  “We have no choice.”

  “No choice?”

  “The battle is over our heads.”

  “But surely something can be done.”

  Synesius sighed and took a seat on the low wall. “Hannah, do you know who Theodosius the Second is?”

  “The emperor.”

  “Yes, the emperor, a boy of eight years old.”

  “A child?”

  “Yes. Most of the rumors we hear from court say his elder sister, Pulcheria, holds the influence of the Eastern Empire, as she is in charge of his education and interests. Emperor Honorius, the western emperor, remains as interested in Alexandria as a baby in a bowl of asparagus. It was their father, Emperor Arcadius, and his father before him, Theodosius, who insured the Christian empire would uphold the edict forbidding pagan practice.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “That those who are not Christian, like the followers of Mithras and Osiris, Zoroaster, the Druids, the Romans, and even the ancient hierophant of Eleusis may not worship their gods. There has been some tolerance for the Jews, but even that is waning. They are all deemed pagans.” Synesius shook his head. “For all I know, Alexandria may be the last place in the Mediterranean the pagans dare to pray. Elsewhere they have all gone into hiding or embraced Christ to save themselves from persecution.”

  “Is that why you became a Christian?”

  Synesius clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. “I am a gnostic Chri
stian, not an orthodox Christian. I have particular interest in Christ and his disciples, especially Mary Magdalene. I am translating her writing and the gospel of Thomas now with a team of other Coptic scribes. The practices of the Parabolani are atrocious, true. Our bishop may be a self-righteous man, but Christ himself was and is a worthy teacher, as are his disciples. Christ’s emphasis was always on inner knowing, and on love.”

  “But this girl they killed was practically a child. How can you willingly connect yourself to that?” Hannah squinted up at Synesius where he paused with his head before the sun, an aureole of light illuminating his shoulders as a bee swept past his chin and dove into a purple blossom on the pond.

  “As a gnostic Christian, I do not. The teachings of Christ and the church founded in his absence by Paul are not the same. Jesus himself did not create a church, he merely asked his followers to bless others and spread the teachings. Unfortunately, this split among the Christians has sent those of us who believe differently than the orthodox into hiding. Cyril would be killing the gnostics along with the pagans if there were any left to kill. Most students of Valentinus, the teacher of my lineage, were silenced before I was born. I know how to walk in orthodox circles without arousing suspicion, as my life is a work of subtle influence.”

  Hannah plucked a flower and twirled it between her fingers, her lips pressed together in thought.

  “I disappoint you?” Synesius said.

  Hannah shrugged. “Perhaps you care more for those scrolls than you do a young girl’s life. I do not understand.”

  Synesius nodded, empathizing with her sentiment. “The Great Library of Alexandria is devoted to uncovering and preserving truth, not resolving human suffering, though the two are certainly intertwined. We study the heavens, the seas, works of all ages, cultures and centuries, and the contributions of great minds that have come and gone and shared their wisdom with us, even those that have made us question our treasured beliefs. The truth is humanity’s greatest inheritance, Hannah. And you are right, I would protect it over all else.”