Selene of Alexandria

by Justice, Faith L.

  Orestes stared over his cup at Phillip. "I know you had to be circumspect in your father's house, but how goes your 'business' in the city?"

  "It's troubling." Phillip frowned. "Have you heard of a monk called Ammonius? He hired ruffians to intimidate people during the three days before Cyril's election. I don't know if he's working alone or at someone's instigation."

  "Others have brought me reports of Ammonius of Nitria. Let us hope he goes home, now that his objective is accomplished." Orestes rubbed his tired eyes. "These reports of gifts and intimidation trouble me. Cyril is willing to use less than honorable means to attain his ends."

  "It is not uncommon among the church elders to scheme for power." Phillip laughed. "Many look forward to an election as a time of great generosity."

  "It is not that much different at court. I and my patron passed out a few purses to get this appointment for me, but I did not have anyone beaten nor did I threaten riot." Orestes frowned. "I had pinned my hopes on Timothy, a most amiable fellow. The church usurped many civic prerogatives during my predecessor's tenure which I intend to get back. I fear Cyril will jealously guard what his uncle won."

  Phillip shook his head. "If Cyril takes too strong a stand, he will alienate all who might have more moderate opinions. And they are many."

  "In his youth and inexperience he might overestimate his strength." Orestes gazed into the flickering coals speaking in a troubled voice. "He might even look to me as an elder. I have some hope we can work together."

  Phillip smiled and clasped his friend's forearm. "You will succeed, Orestes. You have many allies in this city, and Cyril has many enemies. He needs time to consolidate his position. During that time you can make Alexandria yours."

  Orestes, recognizing the truth of his friend's words, returned the embrace.

  Cyril and Hierex met in the Patriarch's sitting room, a comfortable place, carpeted with thick rugs and warmed with braziers. Cyril sipped spiced wine, while musing on his plans.

  "You gave a brilliant funeral oration, Patriarch," Hierex said.

  "There's no need for titles in private, my friend. I need your honest advice and counsel, not flattery." Cyril smiled to take any sting out the words. "The crowd did seem enthusiastic, even in the rain. Our, or should I say your, hard work succeeded."

  "The people have accepted you fully. Now is the time to complete your uncle's vision and purge this city of the last of the pagans and Jews."

  "Not yet, Hierex."

  The little man's face fell.

  "We must first knit up the rents in our own garment. There are still unorthodox churches and false presbyters about the city. We must bring them back to our fold before we can look outside." Cyril rested his forehead in his free hand. "Even within the Orthodox Church we must make changes. I've prepared a list of the presbyters who supported me. They will retain their parishes. Those that did not will be replaced. I will also review the Bishops throughout Egypt. Those who do not hew to the orthodox doctrine will be dismissed. I might take a page from our Prefect and make a procession through the land."

  "It would be better to have the Bishops come to you."

  "Excellent idea." Cyril sighed. "I have too much work to do here. Perhaps when the church is whole again, I can visit the rest of my kingdom." He narrowed his eyes and twirled his glass between thumb and finger. "What do you think of our Prefect? Will he support our efforts?"

  "Ah, Orestes." Hierex stroked his beard. "He is an imperfect Christian; for all that he claims he was baptized in Constantinople. He attends lectures by that pagan woman philosopher and does not acknowledge that the rule of Caesar must give way to God's."

  Cyril's face grew troubled. "Hypatia is indeed a powerful force. She might unduly influence Orestes, as she has others. I traveled by her home just the other day, and saw rich and powerful men crowding her door. They fall away from Christian teaching and cleave to hers." Cyril laughed bitterly. "Those same men claim I am too young for the high post of Patriarch. They oppose the expansion of the church into city affairs because it threatens their hereditary power."

  "The ordinary people of Alexandria will support you. Nobles' squabbles and Hypatia's philosophy mean nothing to them. The Lady Philosopher and her rich friends are distant, removed from common lives. The Church provides for the poor and friendless. They remember."

  "Your words lighten my heart, Hierex, and give me hope. We have much work to do, but God is on our side, so we will prevail." Cyril rose. "Let us take a well-deserved rest. We'll meet in the morning to make further plans."

  Chapter 17

  The city settled into an uneasy peace during the week following Cyril's elevation to Patriarch. People kept to their houses as autumnal storms blew themselves out and soldiers herded desert monks outside the city walls. The Museum cancelled classes and lectures.

  Selene took the opportunity to coddle her father making sure he wore his warmest garments and spicing his favorite dishes with herbs to strengthen the blood. They had gotten in the habit of reading aloud to each other before the main meal. This afternoon Calistus requested Homer. He enjoyed the stories of clever Odysseus and his cursed journey home from Troy. Selene thrilled to the adventure, but felt faithful Penelope had the harder task of ruling a kingdom and raising a son while her husband fought monsters and sorceresses in far away lands.

  She sighed as she closed the book and looked out on the sodden courtyard. A weak ray of sunshine wavered through the clouds, making the sky seem grayer by contrast. The flickering light of oil lamps inside their sitting room made the Nile River wall mural seem eerie rather than cheerful.

  "Do you grow weary of entertaining your old father?"

  "Of course not." Selene looked up, startled out of her reverie. She smiled and saw the answering warmth in his eyes. "I grow weary of these walls, of reading about other's adventures."

  A worried look came over her father's face. Selene rose, crossed the wool carpet, knelt by his chair, and placed her head in his lap. "The weather oppresses me. I am anxious to resume my studies, to have something occupy my mind other than household tasks and menus for meals."

  Calistus stroked her short hair. "I too grow weary of rain. It's unusual to have so much so early in the season. I hope the estates are less drenched. Floods will delay the second planting and rot the current harvest."

  Selene felt him shiver and rose to settle a woolen wrap about his shoulders. He chuckled and patted her hand. "It's good to have you here, daughter, but don't worry about me. The damp just settles in my bones. When the sun comes out, I'll be my old self."

  Calistus was as good as his word, gaining color and strength with the return of sunny days. Selene resumed her studies with Nicaeus, and occasionally Antonius, as an escort. Throughout the fall, Phillip seemed little about the house. He would show up suddenly, dirty and hungry, sometimes after several days. Selene suspected her father of keeping Phillip as busy as the Prefect did. Calistus wanted first hand reports on his country estates.

  One day in January, Selene and Nicaeus returned from a natural history lecture by Hypatia. For once, Nicaeus had been more interested than Selene. Hypatia demonstrated how to build and use an astrolabe to navigate. Nicaeus, scheduled to leave for Constantinople and his army assignment in less than a month, showed an intense interest in all things having to do with his journey. He studied maps, read accounts by ancient travelers, talked to traders and sailors. Selene had never seen him so intent or happy.

  They chatted easily about the best route to take to Constantinople as they entered a small square in front of a parish church. The name chiseled over the door marked it as Novatian. A vigorous young man stood on the steps, facing down an older man with stooped shoulders. A small crowd listened to the arguments, but didn't seem to take sides. Smoke rose from a bonfire in the middle of the square.

  "Let's hear what they have to say." Selene tugged Nicaeus to the edge of the crowd. They were soon hemmed in as more people joined the throng.

  The older man
waved a piece of parchment. "In the name of Patriarch Cyril, I close this hotbed of Novatian heresy and confiscate the contents of this building. It will be rededicated to the True Orthodox Church under my leadership."

  "I do not recognize Cyril's authority." The young Novatian priest stood his ground. "Only Bishop Theopemptus can command me." He folded his arms across his chest and sneered at the stoop-shouldered man. "Your church is tainted with those who renounced their faith in the face of adversity. It harbors the worldly and unworthy, and therefore your sacraments are not valid. Only the most holy and elect – we followers of Novatian – will attain heaven."

  "You dare to impugn my faith?" The challenger's face turned bright red. "Come prove your superior holiness." He pointed to the bonfire, dying down to red glowing coals in the center of the square. "Let us both walk in the fire and see whose faith will protect them."

  The crowd started to mutter and surge toward the Novatian. The young man's face paled as he held out his hands as if to stem the tide. "I have no need to prove my faith again. That was done during my baptism and initiation."

  Two burly men in monks' robes grabbed the young priest and pinioned his arms to his sides. He made a valiant effort to free himself, kicking and twisting, but the mob demanded his trial by fire and his captors deposited him in front of the glowing coals. Fire licked most intensely in the middle, where the coals heaped the highest.

  "They are going to burn the Novatian!" Selene exclaimed in horror.

  "Let us leave, Selene," Nicaeus hissed in her ear. "He will take no hurt if he walks quickly and keeps his robes from the coals."

  "How so?" Selene looked at her brother in surprise.

  "I don't know the way of it." He shrugged his shoulders. "Anyone can move their hand through a flame without harm. The fire burns only when the hand stops over the flame or a man stays in one place on the coals."

  She nodded and they slipped from the restless crowd.

  At the very edge, Selene put a restraining hand on her brother's arm. "I want to linger a few moments and see the presbyter walk the fire. If the Novatian is burned, perhaps I can help."

  "What can you do? You're not even an apprentice physician yet."

  "I don't know, but I feel I should stay."

  Nicaeus surveyed the throng then conceded. "It seems safe enough, here on the fringe. If the crowd becomes rowdy, we can escape down the street."

  The stoop-shouldered man stepped toward the fire, shed his sandals and long over-tunic. He raised his hands. The people quieted.

  "I will prove my faith, by walking in the fire. God will protect me from all harm." He closed his eyes briefly, opened them, then stepped onto the coals with bare feet. The crowd gasped. He calmly walked across the bonfire, declaiming, "It matters not the holiness of he who administers the sacrament. A most vile murderer could put on the robes of a priest and, if the one receiving the Eucharist is pure of heart, he will be saved." He pointed to the captive Novatian. "That misguided man would have your ascendance to heaven depend on the purity of your presbyter, not the holiness of your own deeds or heart. Let him prove the worthiness of his beliefs in the fire."

  The stoop-shouldered-man stepped off the coals. Those nearest him examined his feet and clothes. "It's true, he bears no harm. God protected him. Throw the other priest on the fire. See if his faith is as strong!"

  The two burly captors picked up the Novatian priest and tossed him on the fire face first. Coals scattered. The wind whipped the flames briefly higher. The young man scrambled to his knees, screaming. Coals caught in his hair and the folds of his tunic started to smolder. He jumped to his feet, beating at the incipient flames with his hands. Ash blackened his face except for his two round staring eyes. He hopped from foot to foot, looking for a break in the wall of people surrounding the fire. He made a dash, but the crowd caught him and threw him back onto the coals. Flames started licking up his tunic.

  Selene took a deep breath and, in a voice that would have made Hypatia proud, cried out, "In the name of the merciful Jesus Christ, let that man go. Do not do murder in God's name."

  The mob muttered angrily and turned in her direction. Nicaeus grabbed her arm preparing to flee. That brief distraction allowed the young priest to jump off the fire. He threw himself to the ground and rolled out the flames. The rabble roared and converged on the singed priest to throw him back onto the fire, but the stoop-shouldered man intervened.

  "Enough! His faith has proved worthless. Let him go."

  The Novatian fled down the street, trailing smoke. A large part of the crowd followed, shouting taunts and pelting the priest with whatever was handy – vegetables, rocks, dung.

  The stoop-shouldered man and the two burly men marched up to the church door followed by the remainder of the crowd. They wrenched the door open and poured in.

  Nicaeus said, mouth agape, "You saved that man's life."

  "But will he thank me for it? He lost his church, his home, perhaps even his faith. He might have preferred to be consumed by the fire."

  "He made his choice when he fled." Nicaeus laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You gave him the opportunity to make that choice. The outcome is on his head, not yours."

  Selene couldn't shake the look of horror on the young priest's face. Was it fear of the crowd, or the realization he didn't have the faith to be a martyr for his beliefs?

  Cyril listened to the litigants' arguments from his carved Bishop's chair. Several scribes wrote down his words and documented his decisions. Arbitrating disputes in the Christian community was one of his favorite new responsibilities. Some Bishops loathed the petty disputes between families and neighbors – arguments over inheritances, property encroachment, broken promises, unpaid loans. They claimed the duties previously done by city magistrates took time away from prayer, studies and good works. Cyril delighted in seeing the moral path through the dangerous swamps of human perfidy. He gloried in the power of judgment. It made him feel closer to God, the Final Judge.

  This case had the added complication of demonic intervention. A couple who had been married for seven years wished to separate and argued over property held jointly since their marriage. There were no children, and the man claimed a curse had been put on his wife. He wished to set her aside and take another.

  Cyril would normally urge them to stay together in a chaste marriage. But he had examined both parties separately and found the man's testimony compelling. The wife, a sweet-tempered girl, had become a different person upon the marriage – complaining of her husband's absences, dismissing his favorite servant girl. The wife had even refused to allow her husband in her bed, pleading women's troubles. When he claimed his marriage rights, the wife consulted a sorceress. Obviously the husband acted in good faith against supernatural forces.

  "I have reached a decision."

  The litigants came forward; their families standing back a few steps. The man crossed thick arms over a barrel chest. The woman's pretty face marred by a lumpy nose and the look of fear as she flinched away from her husband.

  "This marriage is ended. The husband may take the house, the leather shop, all its goods and such money as he has accumulated during the seven years of marriage. The couple must post a notice of their intention to divorce and pay all debtors from the joint property. The husband is free to seek another wife."

  The barrel-chested man broke into a broad grin and bowed low to the Patriarch. Cyril nodded his acknowledgement and continued. "The wife may take her dowry portion and no more. She is forbidden to take another husband until such time as her presbyter pronounces her free of demonic influence."

  The wife trembled. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her father came forward, taking her arm and whispering in her ear. Cyril heard her reply, in a low voice, "No, it is enough that I am away from him." They both bowed and the parties withdrew.

  The next case concerned one of the presbyters who had supported Timothy for the Bishopric. Along with three others, he had been replaced shortly after Cyril's investi
ture. Cyril frowned over the notes handed to him. These were serious charges. What he was about to do would be perceived by his enemies as persecution, but he had no choice.

  "Arius, come forward."

  A heavyset man with gray-tinged curls made his way through the crowd. He wore the simple robes of a presbyter.

  Cyril leaned forward and said, sorrowfully, "I am told your son engages in lewd behavior on the Sabbath, consults magical books and conducts auguries. These are sorcerous practices."

  Arius stood straight, but sweat stood out on his forehead. "Those are false charges, Patriarch. My son is a student and mathematician. He has occasionally attended the theater or prepared astrological charts for friends, but he conducts no magic, casts no spells."

  "Theater going and the practice of astrology are forbidden to those in the church. You have failed to control your son and therefore have put him in danger." Cyril leaned back in his chair. "You must hand him over to me for judgment."

  "But conviction of sorcery means death!" Arius paled. "I can not turn over my son for execution."

  "If what you say is true, he is in no danger." Cyril's voice grew hard. "The laws are clear. Until you produce your son, you are banned from all participation in the church. You cannot attend services, partake of the sacraments, or minister as a presbyter. You are cut off from the body of Christ and his holy community."

  Arius clenched his jaws till the ample flesh trembled from the tension. He narrowed his eyes and ground out between his teeth, "As the Patriarch wills."

  The scribes noted the outcome and prepared copies for all the deacons. Arius would not be able to enter any church until the Patriarch absolved him. Cyril turned back to his list of supplicants secure in his judgment.

  Orestes watched Cyril judge his last two cases – one a breach of contract between two merchants and the other determining a guardian for an orphan boy with a rich inheritance. Orestes felt the Patriarch rendered fair decisions based on the facts as presented. The previous Prefect had agreed to the church taking on magisterial duties as a way of reducing state costs and, consequently, making those funds available for his personal enjoyment. Orestes had to admit it reduced congestion in the courts, but he resented the easy assumption of power. The people, used to bringing their tales of woe to the church, increasingly accepted arbitration from the Bishops.