THE RHIPSIMIANS

Арм Коста

THE RHIPSIMIANS

CHAPTER I. THE MONASTERY

The sun had only just begun to rise, and its fine, almost invisible orange-crimson rays touched the earth at first with caution, with shyness, and then enveloped all living things around. The sky bore gashes, as if from a dagger: deep, fierce, almost bleeding… The morning star clung to the edges of the snow-white clouds, straining to grasp one last hope of remaining upon the horizon.

Gradually, the first golden gleam shifted to the peaks of the stone masses — the astonishingly mighty, high, and sheer Alban Mountains — which stretched from the southeast of Rome and reached as far as Antium. In the early morning, nothing could be heard in the mountains: no birdsong, no cry of wild roe deer. A complete silence, mute, in which the firs and spruces slept a deep, untroubled sleep.

Encircled by three nameless crags stood the Monastery of St. Paul: built of stone, wood, and clay, it was plain and poor on the outside, yet at the same time adorned the mountain massif with its presence. The enormous, broad cupolas seemed ready to collapse at any moment, dragging the walls and gates down with them. The monastery looked incredibly old; in places, water seeped through the crimson-grey stone… Yet for many years it had stood majestic and proud, had received many a novice, granting them peace, strength, and purity of thought, and had healed many of life’s wounds.

Gayania, the abbess of the Monastery of St. Paul, approached the gates and, lifting her head to the sky, whispered something softly with her parched lips; then, lowering her face to the earth in submission, she froze for several minutes, closing her eyes.

Her regular features seemed a gift from above for a pure soul: pale pink, thin lips with tiny cracks; cheekbones as sharp as the mountain slopes; deep eyes blacker than the blackest Roman night, in which calm could be read, and only in their corners were tears visible. The abbess’s long hair was concealed beneath a veil, but one unruly lock had nonetheless broken free, fluttering in the wind and trembling like an autumn leaf.

Gayania woke earlier than her disciples. Without drinking even a sip of icy water, she robed herself in her garments and immediately set out for her walk — a conversation with the Creator. A dialogue about truth, love, faith, and other worldly matters she conducted at the very edge of the precipice. It seemed that there, where neither human foot nor beast’s paw had trodden, where the wind found its utter freedom, there was God, and He saw her, a small woman, a small human being; He could listen to her, come to her in the form of a speck of dust, a drop from the sky, to teach, to guide, to bless.

At last, the abbess stepped out of the monastery: the impossibly heavy doors groaned painfully, weeping after the one who was leaving their walls; white mountain dust rose beneath her bare feet. Having crossed the threshold of the holy abode, the nun slowly set out for her walk. She passed by the ponderous pines, their roots clinging to the earth like hands, and she felt the pure scent of pine needles and a cold that cut to the bone — but this only heartened her.

She came almost to the edge of the world, sank to her knees, and crossed her arms over her chest. The wind, howling like a jackal, pierced her thin body. Gayania felt a shiver run through her, and her palms grew damp and cold.

Storm clouds thickened above the precipice where the abbess stood bowed — the sky became so each time a human being attempted to speak with the Almighty. The trees began to roar, their trunks cracking and groaning under the powerful flow of air; Gayania kept whispering — nothing disturbed her prayer. The wind tore at her paraman, lashed her cassock; dust flew into her eyes, and from them streamed hot tears.

It seemed as if all living things — and even the earth itself — feared the wrath of the Lord. In her prayer, the nun begged for human souls to be cleansed, for understanding, acceptance, compassion to be breathed into them — that which this world so desperately needs; she thanked God for the chance to wake each morning alive and in good health, to learn, to teach, to labour for the good of mankind.

All fell silent around: the trees returned to their carefree sleep, the dust dissolved into the air as though it had never existed at all; the grey clouds resumed their pilgrimage eastward — where these pilgrims were bound, no one knew.

The abbess was in no hurry to re-enter the monastery; something seemed to hold her there… It was always so after the dawn walk: God’s grace overflowed the woman, and she longed to share it with her disciples. She stood before the gates and gathered the knowledge from Him into a single sermon; she stood between two worlds: the world of nature and the world of man, a world in need of a new Word. Through her lips, God Himself whispered the message that must be delivered to the other nuns. The abbess invariably left the monastery walls with a prayer, and with a prayer she re-entered them, and only after did she conduct the morning service for the novices.

«The road is mastered by the one who walks it,» uttered Gayania, taking a step into the holy abode.

The heavy wooden gates immediately closed behind her, reminding the abbess to leave all worldly things out there in the mountains, to forget all sorrows, griefs, and joys, accepting peace in the House of God.

A narrow path, paved with wooden blocks, divided the monastery grounds into two equal parts: on the right stood a small annexe — dark grey, with a single window and small double doors, entwined with the green stalks of grapevines. It seemed as though the secret place of the nuns was deliberately hidden from the evil eye, and one could not overhear their thoughts or the words spoken alone with themselves and the Lord.

Beyond the dark-grey annexe rose the monastery itself: on the ground floor was the prayer hall — spacious, wide; beyond it lay the refectory, and the door at the end of the long corridor led to a modest infirmary. On the second and third floors, the cells spread out like tiny rivulets — small, austere chambers; only one little room, with a tiny window, stood empty, and no one knew why.

The abbess would always say to the virgin novices: «The cell is dark, cold, and damp so that each of you may understand what awaits you at the end of life’s journey. No one should live in luxury, like a spoilt child of fortune, gorging oneself as a spider gorges on a hapless fly — for we can take nothing with us into the Kingdom of Heaven. Before the Lord, all are equal: to Him we bring only what we have done or left undone — our deeds, whether righteous or not. The cell is a place where we draw nearer to God, a place where there is neither rich nor poor, neither beautiful nor ugly. The cell is a mysterious place for our souls, a place of their purification.»

Adjacent to the rear of the monastery was the Library of St. Paul. The repository of books was a rectangular building with stained-glass windows. The glass played in the sunlight with bright colours — the mosaic shimmering in shades of green, blue, and yellow.

Inside the house of books stood tall, rough-hewn shelving, among which Gayania loved to wander. Opening the ancient pages, yellowed by time, she would thoughtfully study every written word about the greatest rulers, elder sages, healers and herbalists, gods and deities. The abbess treated the books with reverence and great love; in them she drew wisdom, inspiration, and the possibility of transporting herself to another world — the world of past centuries.

One book occupied a special place in the library — it lay upon a cloth adorned with embroidered patterns, precious stones, ribbons, and lace. Beside it on the table there always stood a clay vase with tea roses, wildflowers, and fir branches. The novices of the monastery treated this book with veneration: within it one could find answers to all questions; in days of despair and anguish, the book granted peace to the soul and mind, thoughts became instantly pure and bright, and a warmth and grace were felt within the body. They called it the Book of Books. And within it was contained more wisdom than in all the sages of Babylon. And within it was more love than in a mother’s heart for her child.

A little way from the shelves stood a row of old oak tables, with benches beside them. On one of these, the novices often saw the chronicle kept by the abbess. She wrote of the days spent within the walls of the House of God, recorded prayers and sermons, and recounted her visions of the Lord.

The walls of the library were painted, the ceilings laid with mosaic. Here light and stillness always reigned. «Truth and wisdom cannot abide noise,» Gayania would repeat. «Cognition comes to the one who knows how to find what matters within the noise, and within the silence — to understand it. Never will he be heard who shouts and cries at another; only a half-tone — be it a prayer or a blessing, words of great Love or a petition — shall be heard by your neighbour. That is why it is quiet in the library and in the church — one must come to knowledge and to God in silence.» The abbess loved the library with all her heart and filled its shelves with rare, precious books. They were precious not because their covers were adorned with gold or silver, but because these books were brought by lost wanderers, philosophers, healers, and teachers, who gave them in gratitude for a night’s shelter, a meal, and a kind word. Gayania helped as many souls, exactly as many, as there were books in her collection.

Roses grew on the monastery grounds, but near the reading hall they were especially abundant. Gayania once told the maidens a beautiful but sad story about them.

«Once, a Roman legionary stole a flower from the garden of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius in order to give it to a beautiful girl living in the mountains. But when the emperor, during a walk, was counting the flowers in his garden, he found one missing. By order of the enraged Marcus Aurelius, the thief was found and publicly executed, and the girl who had received the flower was given over to torture until she returned the treasure she had been given. Day after day, the legionary’s beloved was lashed with a whip, drenched with icy water; on her lovely young body, burgundy stripes appeared from the red-hot metal with which the unfortunate girl was tormented… The girl died, never submitting to the emperor’s will. On the very spot where she was tormented, a flower grew — the very same as the one stolen from the imperial garden — and then another, and another, and another… And they named it after the perished beauty — the rose, and those flowers required neither water nor sun. Later, there where those immense, thorny, yet entrancingly fragrant flowers grew, the Monastery of St. Paul was erected.»

The abbess slowed her pace and sat down beside a stream that flowed through the garden of olive trees. Where the stream began, no one knew, nor where it emptied. It wound like a broad ribbon, filled with water of an emerald hue. The abbess leaned over the moisture, stretching out her hands toward it, and pressed her wet fingers to her parched lips, feeling the strength return to her once more.

«It is time to go,» the nun reminded herself.

She finished her morning walk, hastening back to the monastery, to her thirty-five disciples.

Almost all the novices had already gathered in the prayer hall. Their hair, which once fell upon their shoulders and elbows, was now hidden under apostolniks — head-coverings that evenly covered the chest and back; the girls’ slender bodies were drowned in their under-cassocks, only their fingers showing white against the long dark garments.

When Gayania entered, absolute silence reigned in the hall. The maidens rose to greet the abbess, then sat down again upon the benches. The service that she conducted resembled not so much a strict prayer service as words of guidance, instilling faith in Christ. The morning prayer served for the novices as a gulp of cool water in time of thirst, a piece of soft, fragrant bread in time of hunger — they always flocked to Gayania’s words like moths to a light, listening to the abbess’s kind, tender voice. The abbess wished to impart to them all the wisdom, all the visions that came to her, to protect them from an evil fate:

«And the Lord said to me this day: „A soul shall come ashore upon your shore, a soul in need of faith and hope — and still more of love. And it shall be your duty to nurture this sinner — set her upon the true path, grant her the chance to save her own soul, and accept her will, whatever may come!“ And I asked of God, who gives all and asks nothing in return: „Will I and my novices have enough wisdom to grow a seed of faith within a lost soul? Will I have the strength, without doubting, without fearing, to receive her into these monastery walls?“ And God answered me: „Doubt not, my daughter, for doubt is a sea wave that washes away everything in its path. He who doubts himself and his neighbour — cannot receive anything from the Lord.“»

The abbess lowered her eyes and began to pray softly: her words, spoken in the silence, echoed through the walls of the prayer hall, flew like a bird into every corner, and struck like an arrow into the hearts of the novices. The maidens did not know who would wash ashore at their monastery, who was in need of help, but within them ripened seeds of compassion and mourning, of mercy and love for one’s neighbour — without doubt, they were ready to help the wanderer, ready to follow after him if need be, and to follow Gayania — should she ask it. «I have come to You, Lord, just as I am. I wait humbly, and now my novices too, for Your further word. I beg, direct us to the true path, tell us what to do next, from what direction to await Your disciple, man or woman. Forgive us our sins and our doubts; let a new person enter our life, and let the monastery be home to him or her, and may he or she discover the Lord within himself or herself. We pray for that person. We beseech You to save and preserve their life. Let the lost soul be kept alive and shielded from evil, falsehood, and temptation.»

The prayer ended. The abbess rose first and made for the exit, but almost at the door, her hand was seized by the novice Mania, who flew into the prayer hall.

«Mother, forgive me, but during your hour of morning prayer, while I was labouring in the yard, someone knocked insistently at the gates. Fear overcame me; I thought it was one of the imperial messengers come to take our souls. Then I thought perhaps it was a homeless man or a philosopher who had lost his way. This wanderer sits still now upon the ground by the gates, does not go away, asks for nothing…»

«Let him into the monastery. Feed him. If necessary — give him shelter for as many days as he needs. The Almighty Lord forewarned me of the soul that would come to our abode. Cast aside, Mania, all your worries and fears about legionaries, the homeless, thieves — cease your fretting and fear nothing, for as long as we are in the monastery and God is with us — nothing is frightening. Contradictions in your soul are enemies of faith; they keep you from receiving a true answer from Christ.»

The maiden bowed to Gayania and ran out of the hall: the black mantle of the novice rustled in the air and vanished from sight in the same instant.

Mania opened the monastery gates and addressed the traveller in a kind voice:

«Whoever you may be — whether you mean us good or ill — we bid you enter, accepting as a gift our kindness and love for you, wanderer. Share our Lenten meal this day and stay within the walls of our home. Everything that is ours — is now yours. God Himself has led you to St. Paul. God be with you. Enter, then.»

The wanderer answered. His voice sounded thin, like a trembling harp string.

CHAPTER II. RHIPSIMIA

Rhipsimia was fair of face; it seemed that no maiden more wondrous could be found in all the world: upon her skin, the colour of sea foam, a blush would bloom, turning rosier still in the bright sunlight and from shyness — a shyness she felt each time men’s intent gazes were fixed upon her. Her full, crimson lips, like the sweetest Greek peaches, would have driven, perhaps, a dozen kings to madness. Such beauty was the dream of any Roman woman, any Egyptian, even any Greek, yet she, a modest maiden, hid her girlish figure beneath a grey, sack-like garment that disfigured her, turning her into a vagabond or a drunkard — a wretched, soiled creature.

From the long and torturous journey, the leather straps of her sandals bit painfully into Rhipsimia’s tender soles. In her hands, the maiden held a bundle of coarse cloth. Within it lay some meagre provisions: a couple of grain flatcakes, garum in a clay bottle, a little carrot, garlic, cucumbers, small vessels of red wine and olive oil, and a tiny pouch of spices. And beneath them all, gold lay hidden.

«Do not drive me away — I have nowhere to go; do not drive me away, I am utterly alone. They have hunted me as if I were a wild boar. Here,» Rhipsimia pointed to the bundle, «is all that I possess. There is gold, much gold and precious ornaments, gifted by my father. Take it all, only I beg you — let me stay.»

In Rhipsimia’s eyes, the thirst for life had yielded to fear. The girl was greatly frightened, and it seemed to her, plainly, that no one could come to her aid, that no one sought to understand from what she fled, nor whither.

«Come in, I beg thee, O maiden! Surely thou hast misheard!» Mania uttered in confusion. «I am not driving thee away! Be calm, and enter quickly.»

Rhipsimia glanced about her swiftly and warily. Mania smiled and with a gesture showed that here there was nothing to fear. Beyond the gates lay a different life entirely — a life without lust and debauchery, without judgement and reproach. There, in Rome, chaos reigned, where the clever man was devoured by the cunning and the treacherous, where innocent maidens were delivered to filthy, brutal legionaries who demanded to be pleasured all night long with no right to rest; where the power of golden coins, the thirst for bread and circuses held dominion over simplicity, humanity, and order, and where Cupid’s arrows pierced the amorous hearts of emperors several times a day.

Rhipsimia came from a noble line. Her father had attained the rank of consul, and her mother was the personal physician to the prefect. The girl grew up as the only child in the family, which meant that, from infancy, all attention was bestowed upon her. When she was but newly born and they laid her, utterly defenceless, upon her mother’s heart, it was clear at once: in time she would grow into a beauty whose grace and countenance would ruin not only men, but herself as well.

Rhipsimia lacked for nothing, yet she grew into a kind, caring, merciful girl.

«The day will come, daughter, when you shall be the wife of an emperor!» her father would say — at first in jest, and then with stern insistence. «A wife such as you can only be dreamt of. In Rome and beyond its borders there are crowds of women, but they are all faceless and dull. Fair of face, yet in their heads — the north wind. What occupies them? Wine and gowns? They are but ornaments to the bedchambers of magistrates, nothing more. But you, my life — you are another matter: astonishing, singular, wise… Your wisdom would suffice to build libraries across all Egypt, and your warmth — to thaw frozen seas.»

«Father, you know that I cannot and will not give myself to anyone without love and respect! Power and status are no comfort to me. What am I to do with an emperor? Hold debates about the next conquest of lands? Or support his desire to destroy the poor slaves? Or resign myself to the fact that in our bed will sleep some woman brought to him from the street? No, Father, alas, I cannot do this to myself. My body I may wash clean of shamelessness and falsehood, but what of my soul — will you advise me there?»

«The soul, daughter! — that is demagoguery. Where have you read of it, my dear — in books? Well, there let it remain: in the treatises of philosophers and windbags, in myths — but not now, not here, not in this age. Understand, my love, that great deeds must be done, not endlessly pondered. You may weigh for an eternity whether it be good or ill to be the wife of a great Roman; you may spend days on end discoursing upon your soul and your destiny… and while you are thinking, someone else is already seizing everything you are worthy of. One must not gape, my dear — your happiness may be snatched away from under your very nose.»

«Dear Father, of all the suitors who have come to ask for my hand — not a single one does my heart incline to, do you understand? I cannot trespass against myself; I cannot share my days and nights with a man I do not love! Even Mother used to say…»

«Your mother, like you, was raised on foolish myths — what could she possibly tell you?» her father’s voice erupted like thunder from a clear sky. «No one asked her and me whether we desired this union or not; we, still so very young, were simply thrown into each other’s arms! Do not dare to say that you cannot trespass against yourself — what, are you marching to murder or to battle? Do not dare speak to me of love!» he cried in fury. «Do you know that for the first half-year of our life together, your mother could not endure the very sight of me? She asked for a separate bedchamber, shunned my kiss, would not even let me touch her!» A note of chagrin flickered through the consul’s harsh voice.

«But Mama loves you now, and had she not loved you, I simply would not exist in this world!»

«She loved her learning, her craft, but in no way me! This debate is ended, my love.»

Her father departed, and with him went Rhipsimia’s hope of being heard, of being understood by him. The person dearest to her had not merely shown her his back; he had truly betrayed her. Rhipsimia’s father was gentle and indulgent with her, but rather firm and stubborn in his dealings with the high officials of the state. By duty, he was obliged at times to lull his kindness to sleep, becoming harsh and severe even with women. He was often and long absent from home, and his wife and daughter would pine for him beyond measure. But in that hour, to Rhipsimia, he was an insufferable tyrant!

«I will not surrender without a fight!» she defied him. «Another life is destined for me by fate, Father! If you will not accept my right — others will!»

The girl’s hot blood rebelled and seethed. The Vesuvius of her thoughts poured lava through her veins, reaching her heart. There, an idea had long been ripening: to cast everything aside and set out across the world in search of her own fate — a true fate, one not imposed by society or by her ancestors. Rhipsimia was weary of being a figurine that people came to gaze upon in the hope of purchasing — all displayed the vile desire to snatch up a luxurious specimen. Continually, in the courtyard of her house, there scurried either the young and foolish sons of Roman patricians or their aged fathers. And all, as one, promised to cast at her feet the riches of the world, trophies, palaces… yet what is a soap bubble, when within it is hollow? There is nothing more loathsome than a man who can offer only gold. And nothing but gold.

In moments of sorrow and hopelessness, the girl would often recall her wet nurse — warm and dear to the point of tears. Rhipsimia never knew the name of the one who had nourished her with her own milk. The milk of Rhipsimia’s mother — Agapia — had dried up at once after the birth, for she wept often and fell asleep to the clatter of arms; her husband, as a perpetual consul and a man of immense wealth, was the constant target of slander by magistrates rising to power. Someone had once framed him, slipping a ring stolen from the emperor into the pocket of his mantle. The procurator had saved the consul from execution at the last moment, presenting the Roman ruler with a series of proofs… Yet his trust could no longer be regained.

What milk in a young mother’s breast could there be, if the clang of swords served as a lullaby for her child? Thus, the parents of little Rhipsimia decided to summon a wet nurse to their house, one who would keep their beloved daughter sated and calm.