Alexandria 31°12'48.6"N, 29°55'39.58"E

Wednesday, the 3rd of March, two hours after sunrise. It was the 62nd day of the year 415 anno Domini, 10 days before the full moon. Scorpius had reached its zenith. Saturn, Uranus, and Jupiter hid behind the horizon. The small sickle of the moon had just then given way to a view of Aldebaran in the constellation of Taurus. Sirius advanced over the southern firmament, as they lay in wait for her in northeastern Alexandria, at the edge of the Musaeum.

Now she was very close to Him — the One, beyond being, beyond the spirit, and beyond thought. She knew what was to come. Her body was not important; it never had been. She had breathed in the light, and it had cleansed her. She had called gods by their real names. The sovereigns of the cosmos appeared before her — the angels and the good demons. Eros and dynamis were in her, and she could see and understand in ways beyond the ordinary.

The Christians saw the pagan theurgy as idolatry, yet it was her faith and must be free, as the Edict of Milan of 313 had promised. Her father Theon had taught her to think — he, the last scholar of the Library of Alexandria, knower, editor of Euclid’s Elements, guardian of the parchments. Later she saw the library burning, saw the ashes of the parchment rolls strewn across the Musaeum like snow. She saw Zeus fall from the top of the Pharos, the highest imaginable structure, which was so close to the stars. Along with Zeus the other gods fell one after the other, as Rome had decided there would be only one god — all other gods banished, all other religions banned, persecuted. Thus, questioning thought was abolished — any doubt no longer tolerated. Her only beloved — science — cut short; all her questions answered with a trinity.

It could not be so. She wanted to know, to discuss, to devote herself to the questions, and she wanted to learn. Knowledge should reach everyone. Those who wished to hear it ought to be able to hear it. For that reason, she stood on the street, wore the tribon, and shared her knowledge with all those who were prepared to listen and learn: about the orbit of the stars, the secrets and design of the astrolabe, the mathematics of circles and cones, Euclid’s Elements and philosophy, the love of wisdom.

It was the spirit that lived, that breathed, and that was her. Hence her body was unimportant. They had undressed her, brought her to the church, and now they stood before her with pottery shards in their hands. It was their interpretation of ostracism. They told her what they planned to do. They would rip her body apart and cut it into pieces, so that it would no longer be whole. They would bring these pieces to the edge of the city — half would be burned, the other half thrown to the dogs. And she knew they would keep their word. She could see it in the eyes of Petros, the church lector. Yet she was not afraid, for she would ascend and finally be one. Under this firmament nothing would be lost, not even a life, for everything is cyclical.