Azazeel

by Ziedan, Youssef

  I noticed many eyes full of tears and many faces almost bursting with enthusiasm. All eyes were pinned on Bishop Cyril, who had full command of their emotions. His Greek phrases were powerful and eloquent, as though he spoke with the tongue of the apostles and with the heart of the early fathers. My mind wandered and I gazed into the far distance. Then he caught my attention again, saying, ‘As for those who call themselves the Tall Brothers, we will not review their case, which has been decided, and we will not engage in a new heretical dispute to examine the soundness of the beliefs of their master Origen, after Pope Theophilus, the bishop of this great city, condemned him, thirteen years before he proceeded to the higher kingdom. I will not repeat to them the resolutions of the Holy Synod of the church of Alexandria, which condemned Origen in the year 135 of the Martyrs, that is the year 399 of the incarnation of Christ. I will not repeat to you the resolutions of the subsequent synods which affirmed the condemnation, deposition and excommunication of Origen, for there were many synods held in Jerusalem, Cyprus and Rome. I will not repeat to you the resolutions passed by the eminent fathers at those synods, because they are well known and widely circulated. Those who are literate may read them, and those who do not read may go to the church library and ask one of the fathers to read them to you. But I say today that I will not allow any review of the beliefs of a philosopher who died a century and a half ago, a philosopher who worked on theology and went astray and committed heresy, a philosopher whose ordination as a priest was invalid. Let his followers, the Tall Brothers,8 hold their tongues and behave humbly, as Jesus Christ behaved humbly. They should cease touring the towns, tall and giddy with doubts, and cease stirring up trouble and heretical notions which threaten the true faith, the true faith which we have devoted our lives to defend, as righteous soldiers of Jesus Christ.’

  Suddenly one of the people standing shouted out, in a voice so raucous that he almost wrenched his throat from the shouting. ‘Blessed are you from heaven, Pope. Blessed are your words in the name of the living God!’ He began to repeat the same phrase, until the others behind him started repeating it too. The enthusiasm almost unhinged the minds of the congregation, and their chants to Bishop Cyril shook the walls of the church. The bishop made the sign of the cross in the air and raised his sceptre for the crowd twice, and their enthusiasm exploded insanely. Some of them fainted and fell among the throng, some of their bodies began to convulse with the chanting, and some of them closed their tearful eyes. The bishop, or pope as they call him in Alexandria, turned and disappeared behind the door to the pulpit amidst a group of senior priests holding crosses bigger than any I had ever seen.

  The days in the Church of St Mark passed monotonously, except for the noisy Sundays. Little by little I submitted to the will of God. Yoannes the priest took care of me from afar and always recommended that I avoid mixing with the Alexandrian monks, especially those who called themselves the Lovers of the Passion. There was among them a monk advanced in years whom they greatly feared and some months later I discovered why I stayed clear of his cruel gaze. The old monk was originally from Upper Egypt but none the less he did not like those who came to Alexandria from there. He came across me one day in the nave of the church, when I had been there about a year. He summoned me with a wave of the stick with which he supported his seventy years. When I approached him, he whispered, ‘Go back to your country quickly. Alexandria is not the place for you!’ His voice was most like the hissing of a viper and his tone was as sharp as a scorpion’s sting. I did not understand his intent and when I told Yoannes the priest about it, he advised me to stay away from the old monk. Some days later the servant in the guest wing, after looking around carefully, told me a hidden secret. ‘That old monk is a Lover of the Passion and one of the heroes of the church. In his youth he was part of the group which assassinated the bishop of Alexandria, George of Capadoccia, and cut him up with cleavers in the streets of the eastern quarter.’ The servant added in a whisper, after looking round again, ‘That was forty-eight years ago, in the year 77 of the Martyrs,’ meaning the year 361 of the Nativity.

  I asked him, ‘Why did they do that to the bishop of the city?’

  ‘Because he was imposed on us by Rome, and he was a renegade sympathetic to the views of the accursed Arius.’

  In the tedious years I spent in Alexandria I attended classes in medicine and theology regularly, and I was known among the people of the church as someone who prayed often and spoke little. They had a good opinion of my righteousness and piety. As the days and months passed I forgot what had happened to me in my first days in the city and no longer heard news of Hypatia or anyone else until those critical days in the year 415 of the Glorious Nativity when murmurs reached the men of the church that the dispute between Pope Cyril and Orestes, the governor of Alexandria, had flared up. Reports spread that a group of church people had blocked the path of Governor Orestes and thrown stones at him, although he was originally a Christian and in his youth had been baptized in Antioch by John Chrysostom, and although Christ at the start of his mission forbade the Jews from stoning the harlot, on the famous occasion when he said: ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’

  But at the time this dispute between the bishop and the governor did not interest me in the least, and I was distracted from it by my daily concerns, my prayers and my tedious studies. I had no desire to listen to rumours or follow the news, until the name Hypatia started to come up in most gatherings when people talked. I thought I had forgotten her completely but whenever I heard her name I found myself troubled, and my heart raced at the memory of her.

  I hankered to find out what was happening beyond the walls of the church, and I started to follow the stories and the latest developments. I started by asking Yoannes the priest, who rebuked me and told me to attend only to my purpose in coming to Alexandria. A few days later I repeated my question delicately and he advised me to stay away from the subject and to take an interest only in what I was in the church to achieve. I asked others and from them I did not obtain any news that was reassuring. But from the gossiping of the servants who came back and forth between the city and the church, I established that the bishop’s hatred for Hypatia had reached a peak. They said that Governor Orestes had thrown a Christian man out of his council, and the pope was angered. They said the governor opposed the pope’s desire to expel the Jews completely from Alexandria, after Bishop Theophilus had expelled them to the Jewish quarter on the eastern side of the city, beyond the walls. They said the governor was supposed to be an ally to the people of our faith, but the devil Hypatia was pushing him in the other direction. They said she operated by magic and made astronomical instruments for astrologers and charlatans. They said many things, none of them reassuring.

  The days that passed were charged with tension until that inauspicious Sunday came, inauspicious in every sense of the word. On the morning of that day, Pope Cyril went off to his pulpit to give his weekly sermon to the crowds, but his looks were downcast. He did not view his audience with his usual pleasure at seeing them. He bowed his head for a long while, then rested his golden sceptre on the balustrade of the pulpit and lifted his arms to heaven until his wide sleeves fell back and his thin arms were visible. His fingers were splayed in the air like the tines of a fork, and in a thunderous roar he started to read the prayer recorded in the Gospel according to St Matthew: ‘Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.’

  The bishop began to repeat the prayer and the people started sobbing as they repeated the prayer after him. Then his voice turned fiery. ‘Children of God, friends of the living Jesus. This city of yours is the city of the Almighty Lord. Mark the Apostle settled here, on its soil lived fathers of the church, the blood of martyrs flowed here and in it the foundations of our faith were built. We have purged it of the Jews, who have been expelled. God helped us to expel them and cleanse our city of them, but the remnants of
the filthy pagans are still raising strife in the land. They spread iniquity and heresy around us, and intrude insolently on the secrets of the church. They ridicule what they do not understand and talk in jest about serious matters, slandering your true faith. They want to rebuild the great house of idols which was brought down on top of them years ago. They want to revive their abandoned school, which used to instil darkness in the minds of men. They want to bring the Jews back to the quarter where they used to live, inside the walls of your city. But, soldiers of the Lord, the Lord will never consent to that. He will thwart their vile endeavours and ruin their sick dreams. He will raise the standing of this great city, through your hands. As long as you are right, soldiers of the Lord, as long as you are right, soldiers of the Truth, our Lord Jesus Christ spoke truly when he spoke with a tongue of fire, saying, “The truth will set you free.” So, children of the Lord, free your land from the defilement of the pagans, cut out the tongues of those who speak evil, throw them and their wickedness into the sea and wash away the mortal sins. Follow the words of the Saviour, the words of truth, the words of the Lord. Know that our Lord Jesus Christ spoke to us his children in all times when he said: “Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.”’

  The throngs shook with excitement, reaching fever pitch, and in his roar of enthusiasm, Cyril repeated the words of Jesus Christ: ‘Think not I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.’ The fervour of the crowd intensified, almost to the point of madness. People began to repeat the phrase after him and they did not stop until another voice rang out, interrupting the chant with a cry like thunder. It was that colossal man who usually brought an end to the fiery Sunday sermons, I mean Peter the gospel reader at the Caesarion church. He sprang from among the crowd, shouting, ‘With heaven’s help, we shall purge the land of the Lord of the servants of the devil.’ The bishop stopped speaking, and the congregation fell quiet except for Peter the reader. Then some of them began to repeat his phrase after him, and one of them added this frightening chant: ‘In the name of the living God, we will destroy the house of the idols and build a new house for the Lord. With heaven’s help we will purge the land of the Lord of the servants of Satan. In the name of the living God, we will destroy the house of the idols.’

  The bishop turned, took up his sceptre, raised it in the air to make the sign of the cross with it. The frenzy of the crowd swept the church and the raucous chants drowned each other out. Reason had no place and a sense of chaos prevailed, heralding some momentous event. Peter the reader was the first to move towards the door, then groups of people followed him out, chanting a new phrase: ‘With heaven’s help we will cleanse the land of the Lord.’

  The nave of the church was almost empty and the voices of those chanting after Peter the reader could be heard from outside the walls. The bishop, followed by priests, came in from his balcony and I did not know where to go. Should I go back to my room and shut the door on myself, as I always did? Or should I stay in the nave of the church, until it was clear what the Lord’s will would be? Or should I follow the crowds outside? Without any planning on my part, or any planning of which I was aware, I went out after the crowds timidly and joined them, but of course I did not repeat what they were saying.

  Peter, as leader of the throng, headed towards the big Canopian Way, with hundreds of people chanting behind him. The noonday sun was fierce and the high humidity made it hard to breathe. The houses shook from the marching and loud chanting of the believers. Some of them had their windows and doors closed up, while on the roofs of others the residents were standing waving crosses. They stirred up the dust along the street and the merciful angels fled the scene. My heart told me that something terrible was about to happen. I was walking along, pulled by what was happening around me as though I were in one of the visions in the Book of Habakkuk which warn that the world is ephemeral and transient.

  After roaming for some time from one district to another, the number of people chanting and cheering diminished as they dispersed into the side streets. Now they were in dozens, spread around between various streets, still chanting the same chants. At one moment I thought the purpose of this clamour was to show that the Christians were the most visible and strongest group in the city, in other words it was an implicit message to the governor, and an open warning to all the inhabitants. But then it changed into something beyond that, something more profound and more horrible.

  The rays of the midday sun blazed down, and the air was so stifling it was hard to breathe as I panted after the group of chanters still left behind Peter the reader. I was about to turn back towards the walls of the church, to my impregnable fortress, when I noticed this thin man with a long head, running from the end of the street and shouting to Peter and those with him, ‘The infidel woman has mounted her carriage, and she has no guards!’

  My heart pounded with sudden panic when I saw Peter shouting and running in the direction indicated by the man with the long head, with the others following him. I ran after them, but wished I had not. At the small church which is halfway along the broad street leading from the Great Theatre to the eastern harbour, Hypatia’s two-horse carriage came into view, the same carriage I had seen her mount when she drove away from me three years earlier. The carriage was as it was then, and the horses were the same two horses. Only I was not as I had been. Peter the reader, with his vast frame, rushed off to catch up with the carriage, shouting as he ran. His followers came on behind, shouting incomprehensible words. A few yards before he reached her, he suddenly stopped and turned. One of the group rushed to his side with a ghastly scream and pulled out from under his habit a long knife, a long rusty knife.

  I won’t write another word, no.

  Lord, still my hand. Take me unto You. Have mercy on me.

  I’ll tear up the parchments. I’ll wash them in water, I’ll...

  ‘Write, Hypa, write in the name of the truth, the truth preserved in you.’

  ‘Azazeel, I can’t.’

  ‘Write and don’t be a coward, for what you have seen with your eyes, no one but you will write down, and if you conceal it no one will know of it.’

  ‘I told Nestorius about it, in Jerusalem years ago.’

  ‘Hypa, that day you told a part of it. Today write it down in full, write it all now.’

  When Peter took the long rusty knife, the driver of Hypatia’s carriage saw him. He leapt like a rat and ran to hide between the walls of the houses. The driver could have driven his horses into the main street and no one would have been able to catch up with the carriage. But he ran away and no one tried to catch him. The two horses walked around confused until Peter stopped them with one arm as he brandished the knife. Hypatia leant her royal head out of the carriage window, her eyes terrified at what she saw around her. She scowled and was about to say something when Peter shouted at her, ‘We’ve come for you, you whore, you enemy of the Lord.’

  His hand grabbed at her and other hands grabbed too. It was as if she were floating on a cloud, held up on their hostile arms, and in broad daylight the horror began. The sea of hands attacked like weapons: some opened the carriage door, others pulled at the trail of her silk dress, others grabbed Hypatia by the arm and threw her to the ground. She had her long hair tied up like a crown on her head, but the hair fell loose. Peter dug his fingers into it and twisted the braids around his wrist. When she screamed, he said, ‘In the name of the Lord, we will purge the land of the Lord.’

  Peter pulled her by the hair to the middle of the street, surrounded by his followers, the jubilant soldiers of the Lord. Hypatia tried to stand up but one of them kicked her in the side and she crumpled. She did not have the strength to scream. Peter pushed her back flat on the ground with a violent tug which pulled out some of her hair. He threw her down and brushed her away from him, stuck the knife in the sash wrapped around his waist, then grabbed her hair with both fists and dragged her behind him. Behind him, too, the sold
iers of the Lord started to chant their exultant chant, as he pulled his victim along.

  At that moment I was standing transfixed on the pavement. When they came level with me, Peter looked in my direction with the face of an enormous hyena. Beaming with euphoria, he said, ‘Yes, holy monk, today we will purge the land of the Lord!’ As she writhed on the ground, Hypatia turned over and faced towards where I was standing. She looked at me thunder struck, her face inflamed with blood. She examined me for that moment and I knew she recognized me, even though I was wearing church clothes. She stretched her arm out towards me and cried out for my help. ‘Brother!’ she said. I took two paces to the middle of the street until my fingers almost touched her fingertips as she reached towards me. Peter the reader was panting in elation as he walked towards the sea dragging his prize. The others were gathering around their prey like wolves around a baby gazelle. Just as Hypatia’s fingers and mine were about to lock, a hand stretched out and grabbed the sleeve of her dress, and her hand was flung away from me. The dress ripped and the man who grabbed it raised a strip of it in the air and waved it around, shouting out Peter’s slogan: ‘In the name of the Lord, we will purge...’, the slogan that became that day the anthem of cheap glory. From the distance a woman approached, her head uncovered, shouting as she rushed towards us in terror. ‘Sister! Roman soldiers, save us, Serapis.’

  Her dress and her hair streamed behind her. We had moved further towards the sea and the woman started to run towards the crowd and then threw herself on Hypatia, in the belief that she could protect her. Then the unexpected happened. People thrust their hands and arms towards her, pulled her off Hypatia and threw her violently to the side of the street. Her head hit the pavement and her face was grazed, streaked with blood and dust. The woman tried to stand up but one of the crowd struck her on the head with a hefty piece of wood studded with nails. The woman staggered and suddenly fell on her back, right in front of me, with blood bursting from her nose and mouth and spattering her dress. When she fell at my feet, I screamed at the shock of the surprise. I knew her but she did not recognize me. She was shuddering as she breathed her last breaths. And so died Octavia on the day of terror, at my feet, without seeing me.