The small room was without ornament. A small straw bed in the corner was positioned beside an altar of beeswax candles that were arranged on the floor beneath the one window; a teapot perched on a stand with several earthenware cups stacked beside it, and a brazier glowed in the corner. Hannah sat on the cushion and folded her hands in her lap.
Mother Hathora looked her up and down, then she slid the sleeves of her robe up to her elbows. “So it seems you are a popular girl in Alexandria.”
“Pardon?”
“I received two letters about your admittance here. Both of them hailed your talent.”
“Two letters? Both for me? Are you certain?” Hannah thought only Alizar had written the temple.
Mother Hathora gazed into Hannah’s eyes, unsure if the girl was unworldly or simply naive. Another priestess in her place, slave or no, would have already boasted of her position in the high society of Alexandria. She reached beneath her cushion and withdrew the folded letters and set them before Hannah. “I received one from your master, Alizar, and another from Hypatia in the Great Library. Both letters spoke highly of your ability in music and indicated your education should continue in this vein. Is that what you wish?
Hannah thought how kind it was of Hypatia to write on her behalf. “It is.”
“Very well.” Mother Hathora said, her voice without any warmth of welcoming. “But I want you to know these letters will not grant you any special privileges here. We are all equal in this temple and in the eyes of the Goddess, do you understand?”
Hannah nodded.
Mother Hathora then listed Hannah’s duties in the temple, describing the schedule and her classes. “You seem like a bright girl. I think you will do well here.” Then she scryed into Hannah’s face, her fierce eyes slanted as if she faced the wind. “But you are angry,” she said.
Hannah flushed. “Angry? I am grieving the death of my father. What you must sense in me is sorrow.”
Mother Hathora looked into her eyes more deeply. “No. Not sorrow. Anger.” Mother Hathora glanced at the bronze collar around Hannah’s neck inscribed with Alizar’s address.
Hannah held her breath, looking into the wizened face of the High Priestess, now feeling slightly indignant. She came to the island to flee her past, not be questioned about it.
Mother Hathora simply nodded. “I believe you will find a way to forgive,” she said, and then brought one hand to the top of Hannah’s head in blessing.
A shiver rippled through Hannah’s entire body, and then she was still as a portrait.
Mother Hathora nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “I want you to remember only this,” she said. “That hatred is a poison. You cannot drink it and expect another to die.”
Hannah was about to respond, but then the High Priestess said, “Thank you, Hannah. That is all for now.” Mother Hathora lifted one arm ceremoniously, indicating the door.
Hannah quickly made her way back to the Garden House feeling both reassured and a little unsettled by her time with the High Priestess. The other priestesses were gathered in the common room, some chatting together by the glowing brazier, others playing merles by candlelight or painting henna designs on their ankles. They spoke in hushed voices so as not to wake the younger children.
“Hannah,” Mira waved. She was seated beside two girls who did not look up from their conversation. One had hair the color of autumn’s richest red, and Hannah thought of Synesius’s maps and the people he had described from Britannia and wondered how this girl had come to be so far from home. Seagulls seemed unlikely.
Several of the women wanted to know about Hannah’s life outside the temple, how she became a slave, and what languages she spoke, while the rest seemed content to ignore her presence, secretly sneaking glances at her when they thought she was unaware.
Hannah crawled into bed that night beneath a shaft of moonlight that spilled through the little rectangular window high in the wall, spreading a cool glow over the bedcovers. The day had gone as well as could be expected, and yet she felt even more imprisoned. The cold bronze collar at her throat choked her tears. This beautiful place with its kind women would never really be her home. How could it?
Home was a field without a roof, and the sound of goat bells tinkling in the afternoon as the black-faced sheep and sprightly lambs trotted across the rugged slopes, her father calling to her across the meadow. Home was a thousand stars trailing through the sky in late summer above the humped shoulders of Mount Sinai as the locusts whirred in the night.
Home was far away, and never, never again.
18
So.
A little while before the morning bell rang, Hannah awoke and pulled Hypatia’s lyre from behind the bed and crept out to the balcony. The sky was a deep phantom blue fluted by a magenta premonition of the day ahead. Three long clouds spanning the horizon slowly dissolved into one another as five seagulls soared over the rooftops to the harbor to solicit the fishermen for scraps. Hannah unwrapped Hypatia’s beautiful lyre and began to tune it, humming softly. She had not sung at all since her father’s death, her voice locked up in the vault of her heart. But this morning, she wondered if his spirit was near, and if he could hear her. And so she began to sing, quite softly, letting an old favorite song open a door within her that had been closed back in Alexandria. As she sang she thought of her childhood, and the fresh-smelling grass of early spring, and her father’s laugh. She sang softly to herself until the morning bell sounded.
The morning passed quickly with her new chores. Hannah joined the redhead named Ursula to feed the chickens and carry wood to stoke the fire in the kitchens that would heat the breakfast porridge for the children. As she worked she passed before the windows looking out on the garden.
The previous day, Hannah had not seen many of the elder priestesses, but this morning several stood bending over the flowerbeds, talking as they clipped the dead leaves from the plants.
One of them stood and walked past the window, smiling. She was a striking woman with gentle eyes and straight blonde hair that fell around her face and down her back. She had full, shapely lips that did not seal completely over her large front teeth, which made her look far too kissable for a woman devoted to a life of celibacy. Hannah watched her as she tossed grain to the chickens. She seemed perfectly poised and serene, at once of the world and beyond it. When the chickens were fed, the woman picked up a tall hydria, balanced it effortlessly on one shoulder and drifted to the other end of the yard to pour water on the herbs.
Mira appeared at Hannah’s side, her arms full of dirty bowls. “Could you help me carry these into the kitchen?”
Hannah nodded, still watching the woman with the pitcher as she leaned over the water trough, supple as a willow branch, and set the pitcher on the ground. “Who is she, Mira? I do not remember seeing her yesterday.”
Mira smiled. “Iris. She is the eldest among us. She lives in the temple loft, in the room above the bell.”
Mira took the dishes from Hannah’s arms, set them on the counter, and eagerly drew her into a back corner of the kitchen before she spoke again. “You must promise not to share with anyone what I am about to tell you,” she whispered. Hannah nodded. “We have it on the wind that Kolossofia Master Junkar has announced his death.”
“Announced his death? Who?” Hannah wrinkled her brow in confusion.
Mira pressed her finger to her lips. “It is still a secret,” she whispered. “Master Junkar is one of the Nuapar masters. No one knows for certain, but if it is true, the Kolossofia coronation will take place this Yule. The coronations of the High Priestess of Isis and the Kolossofia only happen once every hundred years. I have always dreamed I would be there. It is so grand!”
Hannah nodded, not fully understanding.
Mira pulled Hannah deeper into the corner, not wanting to risk her explanation being overheard. “The ritual is ancient and
has very specific meanings. We do not know for certain if the rumor is true, but Mother Hathora will announce it soon if it is. How I long to be the bride of the sacred rite!” Mira squealed and then quieted herself.
“A bride?” Hannah whispered. “I thought the monks take vows of celibacy.”
Mira smiled. “It is the highest honor a priestess can be given. Her name is remembered forever, written in the Great Book, the one Mother Hathora was reading from last night. The ceremony will be reversed when Mother Hathora passes into the next world. The monks will come to our temple and perform feats of strength for the new High Priestess so that one man might be chosen by her for the sacred marriage.”
Hannah stiffened at the thought. She knew the Christian punishment for the rites of the pagans. This did not bode well.
Then the meditation bell rang, and they performed the ritual gestures. Afterward, Mira took Hannah’s hand and gave it a yank, melting Hannah’s serious expression into a smile. It was time to go to the tholos.
As they wound their way down the trail, Hannah paused on the hilltop overlooking the sea. A husky voice several steps behind her said, “You must be Hannah.”
Hannah turned around and politely introduced herself to a beautiful, round-hipped Egyptian woman who was smiling cheerfully. A significant golden hoop shined from her nose, and bangles ran down the length of both arms. As she spoke, her breasts heaved up and down. “My name is Hepsut.” she said. “I teach Raks-sharqi, the temple dance.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” Hannah returned the smile, admiring Hepsut’s jewelry. Hannah had noticed that it was the tribal people in Alexandria, the Egyptians and Bedouins and other pagans, who were the most heavily pierced and adorned. Bodily decorations were less popular among the Greek-speaking citizens that chose simple, though valuable, rings and necklaces.
From down the path came the sound of a drum and then the shrill ululation of a female voice. All the priestesses responded by cupping a hand over their lips and joining their voices as the drum beat picked up the tempo.
The women gathered in the center of the tholos, putting on their finger cymbals beside a large trunk of colorful costumes and scarves of Turkish silk.
Hannah donned a costume with Mira’s help, one piece at a time. The cut of the blouse left her belly bare while the neckline scooped down between her breasts with ties that crisscrossed in the back. The entire costume was strung with beads that hung at specific positions for the emphasis of the dance. Hepsut set her chin in her thumb and forefinger, thoughtfully eyeing Hannah’s costume. “You need these,” she said, and then tied two gold tassels to her hips.
Hannah felt as foppish as a peacock, although she was by no means the most decorated of the women. Mira had spent two years beading her costume in the theme of the ocean with rows of little seashells and bright abalone chips strung to a belt that hung low on her hips. Many of the other girls had also embellished their costumes along a theme—fire, wind, ocean, and birds like swans and peacocks were the most popular.
The dance lesson proved to be just as challenging as Hannah expected, although she found a few of the steps to be less so, which she felt had a great deal to do with the costuming. With the heavy tassels at her hips she could feel which way to move them, although Hepsut had to keep reminding her to look up. “You cannot look at your hips, Hannah. You have to feel them.”
There was so much to concentrate on simultaneously that Hannah found the moment she got one movement correct she forgot everything else. When she remembered to move her eyes, she forgot to circle her ribcage, or circled too quickly. When she remembered her ribcage she forgot to bend her knees. Then her arms were just flung out at crooked angles as she tried to consider where she was stepping. Once she stepped on Hepsut’s foot by mistake. Hepsut just chuckled and pushed her back into the line of twirling priestesses.
After they paused for water, Hepsut asked Mira if she would mind demonstrating the sword dance. Mira looked honored, smiling with a little curtsey. Hannah learned from Ursula then that Mira had a special talent for balancing things on her head while she danced: swords, candles, bowls and anything else she could find. “Mira was born a dancer. You will see,” said Ursula.
The priestesses made a circle around Mira and the doumbek slowed to a heartbeat. Hepsut began to sing as a nearby priestess called Renenet played an Egyptian reed flute. Mira picked up a silver sword and set the blade on her head to find the exact point of balance before she let it go, and then she began to ripple her belly and slowly twirl her hands, using the bells on her ankles to bring emphasis to the beat, the sword floating in the air as Mira’s anguine body undulated beneath it. She had a light smile on her lips, and a way of flitting her eyes at precisely the perfect moment in the song to emphasize a word or a movement she was doing. She circled slowly, hypnotically swaying her hips from side to side, and then came down gently to her knees, shimmying her shoulders wildly as the sword remained perfectly still on her head to the delight of the other priestesses, who clapped and cheered. Then, with tremendous control, Mira dropped down to her elbows and began to roll all the way over from her belly to her back in a wide circle, again and again, without the sword so much as slipping. Hannah was spellbound, never imagining that such a thing was even possible. Then slowly, Mira made her way back up, one little movement at a time, until she was standing fully upright, snaking her body from side to side, her arms raised. Her amber eyes moved side to side like a cat’s, never revealing too much. Ursula would later tell Hannah that many of Mira’s movements were original. She was a highly innovative dancer, always practicing, always trying new ideas. “She is our inspiration,” the redhead whispered.
As Mira brought her hands to her heart the drumbeat stopped, and Hepsut lifted the sword from the top of her head. “Well done,” she said.
So.
Hannah met the rest of her teachers in the afternoon, all of who were priestesses at the House of Secrets. None treated her as a slave, but as an equal. Many of the subjects proved to be quite fascinating. From Daphne in a class on herbs and medicine, Hannah learned how to draw pain out of someone’s body with her hands, and how kava root tea relaxed the mind, and how raspberry leaves toned the uterus for childbirth. In astronomy, she learned the signs of the zodiac and their corresponding elements. The teacher, Renenet, helped her cast her own natal chart to determine where the planets were in the sky the summer she was born. There were a thousand things to take her mind from the pain of her father’s death, and she was grateful, even if none of them were effective.
After supper the following day, Mother Hathora called a special meeting in the temple for all the priestesses. Mira pressed her hands to her heart. “This is it,” she said. “I can feel it. Praise the Goddess!”
Hannah had no idea how to respond.
Mira went on in her rapture. “Oh, Hannah, I have prayed all my life to dance for the Kolossofia coronation. Each time I dance I imagine seated before me the Nuapar priest that will become the new master, his eyes shrouded in mystery, his slim body tanned from hours of sparring in the sunlight. I know I will be chosen as his bride and carried into the tower to be gently caressed on a bed of tiger skin. It is my destiny.”
Hannah looked around the temple, seeing that Mira was not the only one with such ideas; they were dancing in the eyes of every priestess in the temple.
“I find it difficult keeping secrets from you, especially as I train you to sharpen your intuition.” Mother Hathora laughed. She stood at the dais, the altar of beeswax candles behind her casting a halo of golden light about her shoulders. “It seems I am telling you this evening what you already know. Kolossofia Master Junkar has announced his death.”
Waves of gasps and sighs swept through the temple.
Mother Hathora called for silence. “The Coronation of the Kolossofia will come this Yule, the winter solstice. We have much to do. New robes must be sewn, music composed, and dances rehea
rsed. Elder priestesses, please take one of these young women under your wing as a younger sister. They will need your help in preparation as they will not have time to do everything themselves. We have only two turns of the moon.” Mother Hathora nodded and smiled, clearly delighted in the coming festivities. “That is all.”
Outside, walking back down the path to the Garden House, the women could not contain themselves. They squealed and hugged and twirled circles in the orchard.
Hannah fell behind the other priestesses, not knowing where her place was. She felt excluded, but not particularly disappointed. She hoped there would be a way to avoid participation in the ceremony, perhaps by offering to clean the temple that night. Or perhaps slaves were not permitted to participate. Hannah leaned her head against a pillar of the temple and watched the other women from a distance, her arms folded beneath her breasts.
“Hannah?” someone asked. Startled, Hannah unfolded her arms and looked around. There to her left stood Iris, the graceful woman Hannah had seen in the orchard that morning. “Yes,” said Hannah.
“I heard you singing this morning on the roof,” said Iris. “It was you, I think. The song was beautiful. You have a heavenly voice. My name is Iris.”
“Thank you.” Hannah looked up and met the eyes of the elder priestess.
“The ceremony is a great honor for us, you know.”
“Not for me,” Hannah said.
“You will change your mind, I can assure you,” Iris declared.
“But I have no talent in dance. And I am a slave.”
“I will help you with your dancing,” said Iris, her words falling like autumn leaves that spin as they catch the breeze. “And you are only a slave if you allow yourself to think it.”
Hannah remembered the way that Iris had glided through the garden like a swan. How much she wanted to be able to move like that. “Thank you. Your words are very kind.”
Iris smiled modestly. “I see something in you that you do not even know is there. And besides, I love to sing and you might teach me some of your songs.”
Written in the Ashes Page 20