The Last Lecture

Morning light slants through the tall windows of the Neoplatonist School. Chalk dust dances in golden shafts, settling onto marble floors covered with geometric diagrams. The air smells of papyrus and beeswax, cool against Hypatia's skin.

She traces a parabola in the air, her fingers drawing invisible curves. Twenty students lean forward on wooden benches, styluses poised above wax tablets. The scratch of their writing mingles with her voice.

"Consider Apollonius's theorem on conic sections," Hypatia says, touching the hem of her worn tribon. "When a plane intersects a cone, what forms emerge?"

A young man raises his hand. "Circles, ellipses, parabolas, hyperbolas."

"Precisely." Hypatia kneels to chalk a fresh diagram, the marble cold beneath her knees. "Each curve follows immutable laws, indifferent to our beliefs about them."

Outside, distant voices rise. Chanting, rhythmic and harsh. The students' eyes flick toward the windows.

Hypatia stands, brushing chalk from her hands. "The truth of mathematics persists regardless of who speaks it or who listens." She holds their gazes, unflinching. "As Euclid proves in his Elements—"

The chanting grows louder. "Close the pagan school!" The words echo off stone walls.

A girl in the front row grips her stylus tighter. Her knuckles whiten.

Hypatia crosses to her lectern where the worn copy of Euclid's Elements lies open. Pages marked with her father's notes curl at the edges. She touches them gently, tracing Theon's faded ink.

"Truth requires no defenders," she says, measuring each word. "Only witnesses."

The bronze astrolabe by the window catches sunlight, its rings rotating slowly in a draft. Celestial movements mapped in metal, eternal and precise.

More voices join the chant outside. Boots on cobblestones, approaching. A student near the back shifts on his bench, preparing to stand.

"Remain seated," Hypatia says quietly. "We will complete the demonstration."

She returns to the diagram, kneeling again. Chalk clicks against marble as she sketches the intersection of plane and cone. Her hand is steady.

The students watch her fingers rather than the window. One by one, they lower their eyes to their tablets. Styluses resume scratching.

"When the plane cuts parallel to the cone's base," Hypatia continues, "a circle forms. When angled, an ellipse." Her voice carries through the high-ceilinged space, clear and unhurried.

The chanting reaches the school's entrance. Fists pound on the heavy wooden door. The bronze astrolabe trembles, rings clicking softly.

Hypatia completes the final curve. She stands, dusting her palms. "For tomorrow, prove that any conic section can be expressed as a locus of points."

A boy in the middle row raises his hand, voice wavering. "Teacher, will there be a tomorrow?"

Hypatia meets his eyes. The pounding continues, rhythmic as a heartbeat. She touches her tribon again, fingers finding the familiar worn fabric.

"There will always be tomorrow for those who seek truth," she says. "Whether I am here to witness it or not."

The students sit frozen. Outside, the mob's chant shifts: "Hypatia the heretic! Cyril defends the faith!"

She crosses to the window, standing beside the astrolabe. Sunlight illuminates her face. Below, men in rough tunics crowd the street, brandishing wooden clubs.

"Class dismissed," Hypatia says, turning back. "Leave through the east gate. Avoid confrontation."

The students rise slowly. Several linger, glancing between her and the door. A girl with dark braids approaches the lectern.

"Come with us, Teacher," she whispers. "Please."

Hypatia shakes her head. Her hand rests on Euclid's Elements. "My place is here, with the books and the light."

The girl's eyes fill. She blinks rapidly, bows, and hurries toward the exit with the others.

Soon the school is empty. Only Hypatia remains, standing in slanted sunlight. The chanting outside swells, then gradually fades. Boots retreat on cobblestones.

She closes Euclid's Elements carefully. The leather cover is soft with age. She shelves it among the scrolls, fingers lingering on the spine.

The bronze astrolabe continues its slow rotation. The diagrams on the floor will remain until someone sweeps them away. The truth they represent will endure longer.

Hypatia traces one final parabola in the air. Her fingers complete the curve. Then she walks to the door and opens it to whatever comes.