Free Flow Down Like Silver: Hypatia of Alexandria by Ki Longfellow Page B

you is a Christian.   It has come to destroy you.”
    A Christian?   Mother Goddess Hathor!   Two in one day?   But destroy me?   “And you did not throw him out!”
    “How could I?   He would not go.”
    Lately, there are times when Father becomes unbearable.   This is one of those times.   “My destroyer’s name, please.”
    “Theophilus, the Patriarch of Alexandria.”
    And now I become, not frightened or outraged, but suffused with curiosity.   Theophilus!   Aside from the secular prefect Lucius Marius, eyes and ears of the Emperor Theodosius, Theophilus is the most powerful man in Alexandria.   For the six years of his rule, I have heard he is ruthless.   I have heard he is greedy.   I have heard he is cruel.   I have seen his terrible deeds, so what is said I do not doubt.   But I have also heard he is learned and quick.   Of course, I will see him.   How often do I speak with one who might challenge me?
    I am off and running for my room so that I might remove my philosopher’s robe, when I run directly into Jone.   And now, instead of Synesius of Cyrene or Augustine passing through to the city of Hippo, or Father in his bed, I am detained by her.
    “Do you know who awaits you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Might I come too?”
    I am not as surprised as I might be.   Jone has begun to stir herself.   She has begun, as I have only just said to Minkah, to exhibit curiosity.   It is my contention that true intelligence is not Aristotle and his gathering of facts and compiling of lists.   Such things are the stuff of mental mechanics meaning ultimately nothing.   Intelligence requires first the gift of curiosity.   Without curiosity, who would ask questions?   Second, intelligence is the ability to synthesize.   Facts alone signify little.   Neither are they to be trusted.   Intelligence is the subtle arrangement of that which might or might not be true, the intuitive selection and the weaving of such selections into a pleasing whole that makes for meaning.   Third, intelligence has need of laughter.   Without laughter so much that is bitter and dark is allowed into being.   That which is bitter and dark may be clever, it may even be cunning, but it is never intelligent.   As for wisdom, wisdom is simple.   The wise are able to recognize, and to accept, that not only is one never intelligent enough, but that when all is said and done, one knows exactly nothing.
    Jone is not stupid.   She grows curious.   Now if only she might learn laughter.
    Already in flight, I flee faster.   “I…oh…why not?   But be quick, Jone, and be quiet.   I would see this one.”

Hypatia

    For the first time in months, I am made proud by Father.   By “shabbiest chamber,” he means a storage room off the pillared atrium.
    Father’s “beast” looks like any other man.   Or rather, like any other rich and powerful man.   As the daughter of Theon, never rich but still powerful for being Alexandria’s leading mathematician, I have met many such.   My life is full of the rich and the powerful.   If I know few who have wisdom, I know many who have cunning.   This one is cunning.   But there is more.   There is a cool appraising humor in the shape of his mouth, in the slant of his eye.   His skin is bad.   Though he is far from old, his face is creased and worn and cratered by pox.   Even so, he is a presentable man and smells of cardamom and myrrh.
    With Jone walking behind me (such a solemn little thing, so unknowable), and a silent unseen Minkah just beyond the door (unbidden but irrepressible), I have made my entrance.   Green is the color of joy and confidence.   I wear a long linen chiton dyed as green as malachite.   I go without sandals.   Philosophers are known by at least two things: their beards and their eccentricities.   I can grow no beard nor do I live in a large jar or roll around naked, fornicating in public places.   I have yet to fall down a well while staring up at the