Selene of Alexandria

by Justice, Faith L.

  Cyril sat, tears streaming, holding his uncle's hand as the old man labored to breathe. Their gazes locked until Theophilus' eyes filmed and the old man gave a final gasp. Cyril thought his uncle's face looked more surprised than at peace. He gently closed the staring eyes.

  A useless physician approached, held a silver mirror close to the Patriarch's face. When no mist formed on the cool metal, he declared the bishop dead.

  Relief that his uncle's trial was over flooded Cyril's soul, while his stomach and throat twisted into hard, hurting knots of grief. He dashed the tears from his eyes. He must pull himself together, and quickly, if he were to put his plans in place. Cyril started a fervent prayer. The rest of the grieving men joined him.

  When done, he looked around the room and declared. "You heard the Patriarch's wishes. I will stand for the bishopric. I ask that you confirm me now."

  "That cannot be done, Reader Cyril." Paulinus smiled from the foot of the bed. "Your uncle's wishes are contrary to custom. Archdeacon Timothy is the logical successor."

  Cyril, seething from the chief steward's reminder of his lowly church status, opened his mouth to reply then shut it before he could utter harsh words. Taunts would do no good. He and his uncle had hoped the Patriarch's dying wish would carry the day, but planned for its failure. Cyril's back stiffened and eyes narrowed. His dream had warned of trials.

  Timothy hobbled forward on his withered leg. "I will also stand for the bishopric." He looked sorrowfully at the quiescent corpse. "But this is not the time or place for this discussion. Let us bury our friend and father, Theophilus, and take time to grieve. We can call the clergy together after the funeral to select our next Patriarch."

  "I cannot allow my uncle to be buried until the succession is settled. It was his wish I take his place and I will fight for that right." He and his uncle had discussed the need for speed if Cyril's first bid for power failed. The people, unaware of the split among the churchmen, expected Timothy to succeed. If Cyril hesitated, this expectation would set like Roman concrete. Making his uncle's corpse hostage to the proceedings carried some risk, but the body would be a strong physical symbol of the Patriarch's last words.

  Several men started talking at once, protesting and arguing.

  "Enough!" Cyril's imposing voice cut across the din. "It is my choice to make. Let us repair to the meeting rooms." He indicated several deacons, the traditional messengers of the Patriarch. "Send word to all the presbyters and deacons. We will have a conclave and put the choice to the people as soon as possible."

  To Cyril's annoyance, the deacons turned to Timothy for his approval. "He does have the right. Let the others know. Send messages to the Prefect and councilors as well. Post notices in the agora. We will convene at noon."

  Everyone trooped out, some smiling at Cyril, others muttering.

  "Master Cyril?" An old man who had served Theophilus for decades shuffled from the anteroom. Three other servants followed. "Would you like us to prepare the Patriarch for burial?"

  "No. I wish to do this last service for my uncle. Stay in the next room. When I am done, I want you to sit with the body."

  The servants bowed out. Alone, Cyril set about preparing his uncle's corpse. He lovingly washed the cooling flesh, anointing it with aromatic oil. He recalled more carefree days as he combed the old man's hair and beard, when his uncle allowed the child Cyril to climb onto his lap and cry over a bruise or cut. Finally he dressed the body in ceremonial robes and arranged the arms across the chest.

  Cyril surveyed his handiwork and sighed. His uncle's soul had truly left this mortal husk. The waxy skin seemed translucent, the nails and lips pale in death. Already the face sagged, robbed of its animating spirit. Cyril prayed for his uncle's soul one last time then left candles burning at the foot and head of the body.

  Cyril stood before a full-length window in his uncle's office, staring into the garden. It had been weeks since this room had seen sunlight. Now the golden rays chased each other across his face as clouds whipped across the sky. Rain would soon replace the sunshine. Mid-October weather varied wildly.

  "Cyril? You should eat something before the conclave."

  Cyril turned to see Teacher Hierex put a tray of cold mutton and bread on the table. Theophilus had arranged for them to meet several weeks before. Hierex, a nondescript little man of uncertain age had the uncanny ability to disappear in crowds, became one with the shadows. With his brown hair, brown eyes and common brown robes, he could be taken for a laborer except for one distinguishing feature – delicate hands. The long tapering fingers, nails pared short and buffed to a dull luster, were meant to hold precious things. Cyril visualized them wrapped around a crystal goblet, holding an orchid or stroking a silk robe. He gave himself extra penance for the feelings such thoughts aroused.

  Cyril indicated the platter. "Help yourself, if you wish."

  "I know you grieve for your uncle, but you must keep up your strength." The little man picked over the meat until, finding a slice to his liking; he rolled it around a piece of bread and nibbled at one end.

  "I will fast until my investiture." Cyril took a seat while Hierex ate. "I've been given a sign. I should neither eat nor drink until I sit in the Bishop's chair."

  Hierex stopped chewing. "What sign?"

  Cyril told him his dream.

  "Truly you are chosen and blessed by God." Hierex' eyes gleamed. "The people must know of this. The monks of Nitria are already preaching in the streets on your behalf."

  "Good. I've met with all the presbyters and deacons in the past weeks. Many are sympathetic with my plans for leadership. We need a dramatic show from the congregation on my behalf to sway the remainder."

  Hierex smiled. "All is in place. I will see to it."

  They both rose. Cyril clasped his friend's shoulder. "Thank you, Hierex. You've been a strength to me during this trying time."

  Phillip roared at the coarse joke one of his unkempt companions made at the serving girl's expense while surreptitiously spilling some of his beer into the sand covering the earth floor. Since the Patriarch's death the day before, he had frequented the taverns, assessing the mood of the people; looking for any likely sources of riot. With Orestes still touring the provinces, Phillip reported his suspicions directly to the captain of the guard.

  He enjoyed this game of cat and prey, stalking information while impersonating someone else, going places he normally wouldn't. In Constantinople he had frequented a disreputable inn favored by entertainers, laughed at their stories of riotous adventure and improbable sexual escapades, while feeling slightly envious. Now he was living his own adventures, all too aware of the danger. He shrugged off a momentary feeling of guilt that he should be taking on more responsibilities at home with the excuse that what he did was for the greater good.

  This company of ruffians was well and truly drunk. They flashed more coin than a casual inspection of their ragged clothes and broken sandals would have promised.

  "How does a good man come by some of that coin, John?" Phillip asked.

  "A good man don't!" John doubled over, laughing at his own wit.

  Waggling his eyebrows, Phillip leered. "Well, how does a bad man, then?"

  "I can give you a name. Do ya wish t'join our little band?"

  "If the pay is good." Phillip tossed back his remaining beer, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and shouted to the proprietor. "One more for my good friend John, here."

  John reached for the new flagon, gulped deeply, then belched. "Ah! Good pay and the chance for a little plunder if you're not too greedy. The monks don't want too much larceny; just throw a little scare in 'em."

  "In who?" Phillip sipped at his now empty cup.

  "What we find on the streets. They don't want anybody but their own out 'n' about."

  "The monks? Why would they want people to stay home?"

  John had trouble focusing his eyes. One kept wondering off to the side giving him the look of a desert lizard. "I don't know. I just takes thei
r orders and their money." He smiled, showing several gaps among his discolored teeth. "Do ya want the name or no?"

  "Sure." Phillip patted a flat purse. "I can always use a few more coins."

  "Ammonius. A crazy desert monk named Ammonius is giving out the coin. You can find him in the Serapis district in the morn."

  "Thanks, my friend." Phillip kept drinking from his empty cup.

  The man on John's other side seemed to become more morose than boisterous with the drink. He sat quietly, downing cup after cup, rattling something in his hand.

  John turned to him. "Gessius, what're ya hiding in your palm? Some gems from that old Jewish merchant?" He laughed and forced his friend's hand open. A small pile of hard black beans spilled to the table. "What in Christ's name are you doing with those?"

  Gessius looked up with red rimmed eyes. "They're my protection. Didn't you know throwing beans into the eyes of evil spirits drives away the demons?"

  John laughed at his friend. "The demons already got your soul." He turned back to Phillip. "The devil take us all, because God sure don't want our sorry asses!"

  Phillip shivered thinking of his family on the streets with these brigands. He would have to curb Selene's jaunts and arrange for male servants to take over Rebecca's shopping duties. Or he could accompany her himself. The thought warmed him, but he must be careful. He had fought long and hard to persuade his father to let Rebecca return to service. If Calistus suspected his sons' feelings for her, he might dismiss her again. A remarkable woman, Rebecca. She wasn't beautiful, but exuded a calmness and strength of spirit, like the eye of a storm in this chaotic time. She anchored him in a way he didn't understand.

  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!"

  Selene had never seen such a demonstration. Her breath quickened and heart pounded.

  Nicaeus, eyes wild and mouth twisted, yanked her sleeve. "Back to the alley!"

  They retreated to the narrow space between buildings and leaned against the wall to catch their breaths.

  "We can't go back to the agora," Selene cried.

  Nicaeus wiped sweat from his face. "The groups split off at main streets. They should pass us by."

  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.