THE RHIPSIMIANS

Agapia at once set forth a number of strict requirements regarding the wet nurse: anyone who so much as offended the second «mother» of her daughter with a glance or a word would be sent to prison that very hour. If anyone frightened the helper or caused harm to her health — that person would be killed at once. The wet nurse who suckled Rhipsimia at her breast would be provided for until the end of her days, and should any misfortune befall her, or should she grow feeble and weak — she would be taken into the consul’s house and cared for as if she were blood kin. Such was Agapia’s decree.

«I wish her to be a young, healthy maiden, with a reputation as clean as a bedsheet,» Agapia pronounced with importance. «I do not wish, nor can I afford, to lose my only daughter on account of a sickly wet nurse. Her hair must be exclusively dark — like my own. The milk of blondes is unsuitable; it is tasteless and colourless, much like their locks. And redheads are not to be admitted into the courtyard at all — they are not of this world.»

Though Agapia was famed for her own beauty, she was troubled over her husband’s fidelity. Thus, she wished the helper to be comely, yet not a mythical nymph who could eclipse all reason — for who knows what lies in the heads of Roman husbands? Crowds of women — those who had lost their children in childbirth, or those who gave their newborns away to other families or into the care of their own parents — thronged in the courtyard of Agapia’s house. To be a wet nurse in so influential a family — was sheer happiness. Yet not a single candidate found favour with Rhipsimia’s mother.

«Agapia, have mercy on these women at last!» her husband entreated her. «Our child is underfed, while you conduct an auction as if buying a gladiator. Choose a wet nurse quickly, and let that be the end of it.»

Agapia resolved to obey her husband’s word and to take the first wet nurse who came her way. Yet, by a twist of fate, the very one who knocked was kind and gentle; she carried with her a warmth and the scent of tender lavender blossoms.

«May I see the child?» the young woman began. «My daughter died barely having come into this world. And I never managed to see her eyes, nor to know the happiness of motherhood. Permit me to suckle your daughter — I have milk in abundance. I need nothing from you, save perhaps to allow me to be, for a little while, a mother to your babe.»

That very day, the wet nurse entered the consul’s house. Agapia absented herself more and more often on medicinal matters — the prefect was unwell, and later he took to his bed altogether with an internal affliction, and only his physician could ease his days with medicines and potions. The young mother was torn before the choice: to refuse the prefect aid meant to destroy herself and her family. But to leave her child, or, far worse, to take the child with her — was impossible.

«Mistress, go, do not torment yourself,» the wet nurse counselled in an even voice. «You are a physician, like Galen, irreplaceable.»

«Are you in earnest? Upon whom shall I leave Rhipsimia?» Agapia answered in confusion.

«Be at ease; nothing will befall her. I have already studied the little one as one studies a book. She is a most gentle and good child. She will be fed, and clean, and smothered with kisses.»

Soon the little beauty found a true «second mother.» The wet nurse entertained and occupied the child in every way: Rhipsimia would stretch out her tiny hands toward her and babble something in her infant tongue; the wet nurse would kiss the baby’s milk-white cheeks and tell her amusing tales — of the world, of people, of nature — and the little girl would laugh and listen to them with interest.

The wet nurse served in the consul’s house not only as a wet nurse, but as a nanny as well: a grave responsibility was laid upon her — to teach the child to know the world; besides, her milk truly helped Rhipsimia: the sickly thinness vanished from the little body — and that was a great happiness for her parents. For there is no greater joy for a mother and father than healthy, sturdy children.

In her nanny’s eyes, Rhipsimia saw the love that at times she did not see from her parents: her father remained, as ever, long and often absent from home. Of course, he was proud of his daughter and never tired of repeating that no lovelier, dearer child existed on earth nor under the earth; he would briskly kiss the hands of little Rhipsimia — and immediately depart the house. Honour and duty always steal time and strength; they steal what is most important, most precious and needful: love, family, friendship, sleep.

Much time had passed since those days.

Now grown, Rhipsimia gazed longingly out of the window: high up, birds flew, and she envied them — no one hunted them in the sky; they owed nothing to anyone, they cared for nothing save freedom. She would have gladly turned into a bird and flown high into the mountains, but she had no wings. Her childhood memories were interrupted by an unceremonious knock at the door, returning Rhipsimia to reality. The girl opened the door and saw a crowd of men — all of them staring at her, making no effort to hide their curiosity and heated eagerness.

«We have come to the house of the consul by order of the Emperor Diocletian,» spoke one man from the crowd. «Word has reached him that the consul’s daughter is uncommonly beautiful, and he wishes to see the loveliness of Rhipsimia with his own eyes and to make her his second wife. Clearly, you are Rhipsimia; we must paint a likeness of you, and then take you with us! For disobedience we are commanded to cast you into prison, and to warn you that after prison there shall follow an even crueller punishment — and the brand of a traitress!»

«I would gladly pose before you upon a canvas, but, to my misfortune, I am not Rhipsimia. You see, that girl is a beauty the like of which cannot be found upon this earth. And I? My legs are crooked and scrawny — I am forced to hide them beneath long robes! You cannot look upon the ribs protruding from my sides without tears — the emperor would only cut his fingers on them… My womanly health is the worst gift my parents bestowed upon me. I am weak and feeble. Do not look at my face because it is somewhat pleasing — by nightfall it grows hideous. In this house, I am merely the helper of the physician Agapia. You may, of course, ask her to confirm my words, but my mistress even now sits at the bedside of the prefect — he is unwell.»

«Where then is Rhipsimia?»

«Rhipsimia departed this house long, long ago, and whither — none of us knows.»

Thus did Rhipsimia — wise beyond her years — dismiss the imperial messengers.

«Sooner or later, all that is secret will become plain,» the beauty whispered uneasily. «I fear the deception will soon be uncovered, and I and my family may be punished for it. I must flee!»

She flew into her bedchamber and snatched all the jewels from their casket.

«This can serve as coin. And these,» she cast a scornful glance upon the stately gowns, «shall be needed no more. No more at all.»

Then Rhipsimia took from the triclinium such provisions as might suffice for the first part of her wanderings. She would not die of hunger. She threw the jewels and the victuals onto a thick piece of cloth and bound it tightly into a bundle.

Forgive me, Father, that I cannot fulfil your will, nor justify your expectations and demands. I also forgive you for your sternness. Mother, understand me! — wrote Rhipsimia on a scrap of paper.

Having donned a garment that resembled an old sack, and her sandals, and having slipped quickly out the door, the girl set forth in search of a new place, where one need not fear being torn apart by lions or tigers, or hanged for disobedience. For want of love.

Past her flitted now dry shrubs devoured by the heat, now picturesque vistas that bewitched the gaze. Rhipsimia walked long, ever farther from Diocletian — he must not have her, neither alive nor dead. Insulae appeared in view and vanished, hiding among the trees like timid hares. And later they hid themselves altogether, and before the fugitive lay bare, naked earth. The girl stood in the midst of a barren desert — there was nothing here save dry red earth, needles and twigs that tore the wanderer’s feet with their thorns.

«From where has the wind brought this refuse? Perhaps it falls from the mountains? If there are needles here, it means pine grows nearby… How it hurts… I have no strength to go on.»

Droplets of blood from the cuts trickled like little serpents down the girl’s white legs. Dust flew into her eyes, heralding a mighty storm. And the maiden had no shelter from the foul weather. There was nothing left but to run. Loud peals of thunder rang out. The sky turned black; the thin, feathery clouds were replaced by asperatus — dreadful stormclouds that frightened Rhipsimia; she cried out upon seeing them.

«Faster!» the girl urged herself.

She ran with all her might. If Rhipsimia grew soaked — her body, from weariness and cold, would simply not endure, and she would fall in the middle of the road. The only way to escape the rain was to find shelter… Dust flew into her eyes, and it was impossible to see what awaited ahead or what lay behind. Tiny grains, like salt, stung her forehead, her cheeks, crunched on her teeth, tangled in her hair. The hood that Rhipsimia had drawn over her head flew back as she ran. Before the wanderer’s eyes, lightning blazed; thunder followed at her heels. For the first time, the girl felt such violent fear, and the only thing that saved her were the words she tried to shape into a plea to be left alive.

«If only I could reach some refuge, or a little tree — please, is it so much that I ask? It is foolish, so foolish to die of a storm or a downpour. If not by the hand of Diocletian, then by the elements… Weather, have mercy on me! Rain, I beg thee, do not pour down; wait a little — see, I have washed my feet in blood; wait a little, have mercy! A little longer, I beg, a little longer!» Rhipsimia sought to charm the storm.

But the elements did not hear her. Ahead lay emptiness, stupid and monotonous; behind her shoulders — the clouds, a noise that snatched away her breath, and a fierce wind that now drove into her back, shoving and goading her on, now struck her full in the chest and face. The sandals weighed down Rhipsimia’s feet. She removed her shoes and ran barefoot, thinking thus to escape the terrible storm more swiftly. The girl quickened her pace, yet it seemed she had not moved from the spot; the earth beneath her feet crunched dryly and cracked without end or limit. Blood flowed from the blows of prickly balls, from dust, from strain. Her legs refused to go on. Rhipsimia sobbed, yet she ran, hoping that soon this hell would cease. But it did not cease. And the girl fell. The wind cast her down, weak and exhausted, and she had not the strength to rise. She lay in the midst of the wild land, alone, almost disbelieving in the rightness of her flight, despairing and spent, feeling the thunderclaps strike painfully against her temples.

The sky began to weep. Softly at first, like a babe waking in fright, and then harder and harder, like a beast wounded by a spear. Large, cold drops streamed down Rhipsimia’s garments. She felt the unpleasant moisture; her hair grew sticky and wet; the earth turned to a clayey mire — red, foul-smelling, loathsome, and only her face did the rain cleanse of the dust and tears that had left dirty trails upon her skin. For a moment, the girl closed her eyes and… could not open them again. One might have thought she had fallen asleep after a long and wearisome road, but no — she lay rigid in exhaustion.

Meanwhile, the foul weather raged on: around the prostrate Rhipsimia, lightning struck, and from the blows the earth split open like a nut dashed against the ground. The rain poured mercilessly upon the girl, leaving not a single dry spot upon her. How long did it last? How long was the high judgement over the fugitive being carried out? She lay. Beside her there was no dear, kind wet nurse, her nanny, who might have sheltered, as with a wing, the little girl, the defenceless, pure Rhipsimia; there was no father who could in an instant resolve all his child’s cares; there was no mother who knew all the remedies in the world for ailments of the soul and of the body. There was no one. Absolute emptiness, and she, pinned to the earth.

But all things pass, and this too passed.

The storm slowly retreated. The clouds spread languidly across the sky; here and there, like the first edelweiss, sunbeams broke through, warming the earth. Rhipsimia lay for a day, perhaps more. She heard nothing around her and responded to nothing… Calm and carelessness reflected upon her sweet girlish face. She seemed not to be breathing. The bundle with the provisions from home lay carelessly beside her. Who needs your gold, if you are dead? Now the tangled twigs, the fir needles and thorns no longer troubled Rhipsimia’s feet. Nothing troubled her at all now — her damp garments gradually dried; the wind blew about the folds of the sack-like cloth. The girl cried out something in her sleep and awoke from her own voice. Nothing recalled the storm just past — the ground was dry, and scarred in places with fissures.

Rhipsimia tried to rise, but she plainly lacked the strength — the long road had worn her out, her legs would not bend, and the fingers of her hands trembled like dry leaves in the wind. With horror the fugitive realised that for more than a day she had eaten nothing. With difficulty, she unwrapped her bundle, drew out a flatcake, and bit off a small piece. Her body sensed the familiar aroma of baked bread and could not contain its joy: «Life continues; I must go on!» At last, Rhipsimia managed to get to her feet. She took up her burden and moved forward. She stepped across the bare earth: no thoughts, no feelings — only steps toward the unknown. The sun rose ever higher: one moment, and it was already at its zenith. It was hot, and beads of sweat coursed down Rhipsimia’s face. The picture before the maiden’s eyes blurred; she thought she was walking through some desert.

«The weather shows its temper. Now it wants to weep, now to dance. A maiden’s character… Someone has deeply offended you, if you seek to destroy a human being! Someone has offended…»

Rhipsimia even smiled a little. The road grew more winding and steep; the girl climbed higher; her breathing became heavy and ragged. She was thrown now into heat, now into cold; a weakness came over her; she wanted to weep, but Rhipsimia continued to walk… She turned around and saw that she was following a road that resembled a serpent: this path led into the mountains.

«Diocletian does not walk here,» Rhipsimia murmured weakly, yet happily. «You have a wife, beautiful and stately — what need have you of another? Can love be divided among three?»

To Rhipsimia’s right stretched a ribbon of tall pines. Huge, mighty, ancient dwellers of the mountain massifs, it seemed as though they knew and remembered all. To the left of the girl — a chasm. Here the road ended and the precipice began: one glance downward, and the earth would swim away from under one’s feet. Frightening and high. Below rustled the crowns of the trees — they seemed miniature, unreal. Birds alighted upon them, and then flew off with a cry, leaving an echo behind. Opposite the precipice, grey crags stood in stillness; in their depths a tiny light glimmered and at once went out. Could there truly be people there? To climb up there would mean to meet a swift and inevitable death. Rhipsimia gazed long at how the clouds sliced through the mountain peaks, and yet she resolved to draw a little nearer to those crags; perhaps she might discern what the tiny ray of light had been that had flickered there.

It was dangerous to walk — dusk was falling, and the girl feared to tumble down, tripping over a stone. But difficulties only heartened Rhipsimia; if she had not submitted to Diocletian, then even less would she submit to grief. The girl thirsted to know what was up there. Were there people there? What were they like? Could one live out one’s years among the mountains without fear… Now the path narrowed beneath the girl’s feet, now, on the contrary, it broadened. Stones threw themselves beneath her swollen toes, and the straps of her sandals once more pulled painfully across her soles. And once more a bite of flatcake for sustenance, and once more — onward. Rhipsimia tried not to stop, lest deep night take her unawares.

«I must go faster,» the fugitive told herself, «perhaps I shall have the good fortune to find shelter there.»

Anxious thoughts of being seized by Diocletian’s guards pursued her, giving birth to horrifying visions: here came men in armour — Diocletian had given them the order to find and kill the cunning wench; here sat her parents before the emperor, and he was deciding their fate: to cast them into prison to rot, to give them over to be devoured by wild, hungry beasts thirsting for flesh, or to have their heads publicly struck off for having raised a worthless daughter, a liar.

A terrible fear took hold of Rhipsimia. Never before had she so feared that her deception would be uncovered, that Diocletian would learn all, grow enraged, and destroy her — for to kill a woman for insubordination was, for him, a most pleasant pretext to arrange another feast. To him, a human life was equal to the life of a moth. Today you live, and tomorrow — you do not. The clash of weapons Rhipsimia could feel even now, and from it, a chill ran between her shoulder blades.

The paths now branched, now narrowed into a grey road leading to nowhere. For fugitives and pilgrims, the road serves as home; wanderers yearn for it when they settle in one place; yet for one who is ever in haste, the wish is for the journey to end the sooner.

At last, Rhipsimia came out onto a sloping stretch of land — night had overtaken the rebellious beauty. She laid her bundle on the ground, sitting down upon a fallen tree torn up by a hurricane. In the darkness, she nevertheless discerned a divine beauty: upon the crests of a chain of mountains lay white snow, covering the peaks as if with a cap; the branches of the trees rustled with luxuriant foliage; nature breathed with a full breast; the grass whispered in the wind. Rhipsimia’s gaze lingered upon an eagle flying overhead: it flew steadily and silently, beating its wings — in the night, it goes out to hunt.

«How I pity the prey that falls to you…» sighed the fugitive. «I, too, like a mouse, hide from an eagle — only my eagle is more terrible than you, O bird. You, at least, will not torment your catch — you will swallow it, and that is the end; but me, they will torture, humiliate, and then grind me to dust, as though I had never existed at all, a mortal. We are all mortal. With this simple truth, questions are born in my mind: is there any meaning in anything, if the end is irreversible? What will remain after me, after all the other people who vanish from this world? What will I feel, if I know the date and the hour of my own death? And what, then, is happiness? A struggle? With oneself? With circumstances? With others? If I win this struggle against the emperor, the struggle of all women against forced love — shall I be happy? I think, yes. I shall be happy. I shall set an example of what it means not to obey a tyrant, not to be a beautiful object, not to be a thing yielded up to him by force.»

Time flowed, and so too did Rhipsimia’s thoughts, in turbulent streams, granting her young head no rest, while only her heart sought peace, sought a separate world — without fear and pain, without sorrow and anguish. The wanderer sat and listened to the silence, and only somewhere behind her shoulders did weariness prowl, trying to catch her eye and ask her why she resisted it, why she would not invite it to her side, strike up a conversation, or be silent together. In the black distance, a rumble sounded — it was the mountains roaring, shouting down the wind… Suddenly the noise fell silent; stillness descended upon the earth, and darkness settled upon the girl’s eyes.

«Are you alive?» someone spoke to her.

Rhipsimia started.

«Who is there? Is anyone here?!» she asked the silence.

«You are alone here, child; fear not. Rest after your long journey; fall asleep to the rustle of the earing grass, to the lullaby of the mountain river — it sings a tender, quiet song and runs, runs, runs… vanishing somewhere among the stone giants. You cannot catch it. You cannot seize it.»

In the morning, Rhipsimia awoke and froze in wonder: she had never seen structures that resembled either a house or a defensive fortress. She marvelled that anything could be built in so wild a place, where a person could scarcely walk.

«What is this? Can it be from here that the tiny light appeared to me? So that is what you are! Not a star, not a vision… So it was for your sake that I nearly caught death by the tail?! Who raised you? Could it have been Jupiter himself? Whatever this may be, I believe and I feel that here I shall be of use, and here I shall find refuge — I shall ask for help!»

With hope ripening in her breast, Rhipsimia sprang from the place where she had fallen asleep and made her way toward the edifice, from afar admiring its beauty. Gigantic gates guarded the peace of the wondrous house, keeping its harmony and order.

«Ah, how it smells here! What wondrous fragrance is this? It intoxicates and maddens!» the wanderer continued to marvel. «I shall knock — perhaps they will open…»

And she knocked thrice at the gates. The fleeing girl was so weary that the sound from her small, almost childlike fist came out muffled and weak. Throwing her bundle of provisions at her feet, she began to beat upon the gates with her fists more loudly, to slap them with her palms — no one opened. A pause. The girl gathered all her strength and drummed again. She did not retreat, yet it seemed that on the other side not a sound was heard. Rhipsimia sat down by the gates. From the weariness that had fallen upon the shoulders of the exhausted wanderer, and from the dawn that had descended upon the earth with mad haste, the beautiful girl, tormented by the long road, fell into a doze. She slept, leaning her back against the gates, her arms flung wide as if for an embrace. Her lovely face was relaxed; her long lashes timidly veiled her fathomless eyes. Rhipsimia felt nothing; only from time to time did her fingers seem to try to grasp something. Now and then she would sob, whisper her mother’s name.

In her dream, Agapia smiled at her daughter, kissed her tenderly on the forehead, braided her hair into a plait, and asked but a single question: «Why did you run away from home, without speaking, without explaining, without asking advice? Foolish, foolish little daughter, you grew frightened…» Wheels creaked — a cart stopped before the house, and from it stepped her father in a long ivory-coloured mantle, in tall black sandals. Her father was tall, handsome, and, for some reason, very young. He held out to his daughter a little pouch, in which sparkled earrings adorned with river pearls. This was a gift for returning home after so many days of wandering. The girl threw herself upon her father’s neck, begging forgiveness for her hasty decision, for her fear, for her betrayal. The scene of family idyll shifted to another: men in iron chain mail and helmets, holding pilums, gladii, spathae — they had not come in peace, but to attack. With one thrust of a pilum to the heart, a warrior struck down her father… Her mother was dragged away to the lupanarium — to give love to wedded Roman citizens for a single sestertius. Rhipsimia fell to her knees; she kissed the feet of the legionaries, cried out that she would do anything at all, if only her mother might be left in peace.

«Leave her, leave her, I beg you! Listen — tell Diocletian that I will do whatever he wishes! That I… I love him! I ran away not because I was afraid, but because I did not wish to be a second wife!»

«You lie, you filthy wench!» the legionary struck Rhipsimia across the face so hard that a fiery mark remained upon her cheek. «Have you heard what the emperor does with such as you? You have not? How dared you deceive the emperor? Do you think yourself cleverer than he? Now you and your mother will be sent far away — only not to prison, no; you shall be harlots, sitting in filthy little rooms with placards and receiving guests! There is where you shall display your cunning and your wisdom! And if you serve someone poorly and complaints are made against you — you’ll die like a worm, and no one will speak your name…»