THE RHIPSIMIANS

…From the heavy breathing of the Emperor’s men, it grew ever stuffier in Rome: the legionaries strode through the city and its outskirts, brandished their plumed crests, and spread across the land like ants. In their hands — a sword, with which they opened the doors of strange houses, peered into maidens’ bedchambers, interrogated each one, and departed in disappointment with nothing. Here, the abductor of the Emperor’s heart was not to be found.

«Are you Rhipsimia?» the warriors of Diocletian snorted as they approached one girl, then a second, then a third — but those simply rounded their eyes in fright.

The army marched along roads, passing bare fields and downy thickets of shrubs. In their attempts to find the missing girl, the legionaries entered houses, gladly spent the night with the mistresses of the insulae or with their daughters, and at the break of dawn set out once more upon their way — they could not return to the Emperor empty-handed.

CHAPTER VI. IN SAVING ONE LIFE, THOU SAVEST ALL UPON THIS EARTH

The sky hung overhead, stained with misshapen clouds, and only above the cupolas of the Monastery of St. Paul did the sun shine — bright, joyful, warming. Rhipsimia was tending the flowers: where a rosebush had spread and begun to resemble a shapeless ball, she carefully trimmed the superfluous stems; the faded buds she likewise removed from the bush. The novice loved to care for the flowers and to watch them; it seemed to her that these divine creations had been made tender and strong at one and the same time.

«How can this be? You touch with the tips of your fingers the finest, softest petals; you breathe the fragrance of the roses; you are enchanted by their very sight — yet the moment you touch the stem, the rose wounds you, and drops of blood appear upon your skin…» Rhipsimia murmured.

«So it is with love for a person, my child. When you treat your neighbour as tenderly as a rose, when you fear to wound him with a word sharp as a knife, so long as you care for him and come to him with good intentions — he will not offend, will not reproach, will not betray; he will give you all the fairest things that dwell within him. But the moment you turn to a person with force, disturb his existence, intrude into his world — he will put forth his thorns; he will defend himself, fight back, wage war,» Gayania approached Rhipsimia and began to speak with her. «Sometimes roses do wound, do they not?»

«Yes, Mother — but one cannot be angry with roses; they are so beautiful!»

«And a person need not be angry at all — not even with roses,» Gayania sat down upon the bench. «Would you like me to tell you a piece of wisdom?»

«Yes, Mother.»

«Once there lived two brothers — Cain and Abel. And they were friends, and loved one another, and helped one another. But one day, wrath crept into Cain’s heart — fierce, unbridled, clouding the mind. And Cain killed his brother in the midst of the field, and left Abel dead. Wrath did not merely quarrel the brothers; it forced a man to commit a sin — to take away a life given by God.»

«What horror!» Rhipsimia cried out, but at once covered her lips with her palm. «Mother, what are we, the people of this earth, to do? How are we to struggle against wrath?»

«Do not let causeless wrath swallow you. We are all imperfect; the Lord created us so. Yet we must all strive toward purity, toward goodness and beauty, and care for the soul as you now care for the flowers.»

Gayania was filled with admiration at how everything around had been transformed: Rhipsimia tended the flowers impeccably; the earth around them was loose, alive, fresh; fallen leaves and mountain debris lay in little heaps beside each bush.

«The roses have been waiting for you,» Gayania addressed the industrious novice with tenderness. «It always seemed to us that they needed no care, that they grew of their own accord, required no attention, no guardianship, no love. It seems we were mistaken — everyone needs love as they need air. Once, a man told me that our faith in God, and God Himself, would die in the hour when all of us — believers in Our One Lord — die. That man hurled curses in my face; he cried out, „In whom will the Christians believe after God, and to whom will they be of any use?“»

Gayania gestured for Rhipsimia to sit and speak with her, to rest upon the bench, to tell of this day and of the morrow.

«And what did you answer to his words, Mother?»

«Nothing remained for me but to forgive him and to quit that land where he dwells. The earth, like the sky, is vast; it is enough for all. A place is appointed upon it for everyone: for the believer and the unbeliever, for the kind and the wrathful, for the miserly and the generous.»

Gayania’s words grew ever quieter, and Rhipsimia could already scarcely hear what the abbess was saying — her voice was drowned out by a loud sound: metal clanged; beneath their feet, everything trembled as though a thousand horses’ hooves had swept across the earth. The sound drew nearer, frightening all living things around the stone walls of the House of God. Evil itself, it seemed, had resolved to visit the abode: mighty fists beat against the wooden gates, but they endured valiantly, crying: «I shall hold fast to the last!»

«They have come…» was all the abbess of the Monastery of St. Paul could utter.

Rhipsimia seized Gayania’s hand, squeezing her fingers tightly.

«Mother…» the girl whispered in terror.

Something was burning Rhipsimia from within: it stretched from her stomach, lingered somewhere near her solar plexus, then swiftly rose to her throat and cut painfully, tearing, searing it; her feet grew heavy, as though shackled with chains, rooted to the earth; her shins and calves trembled, quaked; every muscle contracted nervously, as though in convulsions; darkness gathered before her eyes — thus did the beauty who had fled Rome stand face to face with death.

Gayania took her mantle in both hands and, freeing her legs, ran to the entrance of the monastery, only casting a few words to Rhipsimia:

«My child, run quickly to Sister Nune — she knows the secret passage. Explain nothing to her — there is no time; only tell her to hide you in the underground chamber. Run to the hiding-place, for God’s sake, I beg you — go quickly, do not stand there, save yourself!»

And then Rhipsimia seemed to awaken: if there was a chance, even a vanishingly small chance, to be saved — she must run, run at once to Nune.

«Where are you? Where?» Rhipsimia looked about her, rushing like a bird caught in a cage, darting from side to side, searching for Nune with her eyes. «Nune!» Fear paralysed her voice, and only a faint squeak escaped the novice’s lips.

Rhipsimia dashed down the corridor, flew into the infirmary — but it was empty. The maiden ran upstairs; her under-cassock hindered her, tangled her legs, slowing the novice’s flight. She burst into every cell, flinging the doors wide, and ran out again.

«Sister, stop! Halt! Stop!» Rhipsimia exclaimed, catching sight of a nun’s silhouette from behind. «Nune!»

«What has happened? Are we under attack?»

«Sister, listen,» Rhipsimia clasped Nune’s wrists, «ask nothing, I beg you — hide me! The Mother said you know where. Otherwise they will kill me!»

«Quickly — let us run! Quickly!»

The hiding-place lay beneath the prayer hall: the entrance to the underground chamber was concealed beneath heavy marble slabs. Nune threw herself to the floor and tried to shift them, but in vain. The novice wept from helplessness.

«Lord, our efforts are in vain! We shall not be in time!»

«We shall!» cried Rhipsimia and collapsed to her knees. She helped the despairing Nune to lift the slabs; the maidens’ fingers had already turned blue from the weight, and in their backs, they felt an immense strain and pain.

«The first!» Nune exhaled. «I do not know what to do! Two more!»

«We shall manage! Come now!»

The second slab the maidens dragged aside with great difficulty — no time remained for rest.

«Do you hear?» Nune turned her head from side to side. «They have already entered the grounds!»

«The third!» With a wrenching effort, Rhipsimia pushed aside the last slab. The maiden bowed her head as though in prayer; her arms dangled like two threads; she had not the strength to rise.

«Quickly, climb in! Sit quietly; try to make no sound! Try!» Nune embraced Rhipsimia as though for the last time, and then opened the wooden lid, pushing the girl inside. «Sister, save your soul! All will be well! God be with you!»

«You cannot put the slabs back in place, Sister — alone you cannot close the entrance!»

«Hush, hush…» Nune implored Rhipsimia.

At the last moment, Nune sealed the entrance to the hiding-place with the slabs.

Into the prayer hall strode the Emperor’s men.

Nune trembled and begged Christ that they might not notice, in the perfectly even floor, a crack — the last slab that closed the entrance to the refuge had settled unevenly.

«Who are you?» the highest-ranking warrior addressed the nun menacingly. «Your name!»

«Sister Nune.»

«Not a Roman?»

«Good man, Cappadocia was once my home, but I left those lands and washed ashore among pure and radiant maidens; now I speak with God, labour for the good of mankind, read of the healing arts, and have lived here for many years in peace and obedience.» Nune looked at the Roman warrior, hoping to catch his gaze. «Good man, does something trouble you?»

«How do you know what kind of man I am?» the commander of the troop asked with irritation. «Do you call everyone good? And who told you that some ailment troubles me?»

«But there are no evil people upon the earth!» Nune continued to study the leader of the warriors with her eyes. «There are unhappy people, sick, unloved — and because of that, they cause harm to others.»

«Ha-ha-ha!» the commander laughed. «Little you know of life, woman, and little you know of our Emperor! But as for my ailment — how did you guess?»

«Upon your palms, in their very centre, little drops of sweat are visible; they usually appear in those whom illness troubles or whom weakness torments. You need help, good man; come, I will hasten your recovery.»

«If you do not help, I will behead you!»

«I beg you, good man,» Nune pointed the way for the imperial warrior, «go first, for you are our guest, and I will follow.»

The centurion, broad as a boulder, turned his whole body toward his legionaries and, in a loud, fearsome voice that flew from his stony chest, gave the order: «Round up every last maiden here, and search whether the fugitive is among them!»

On the way to the infirmary, the centurion pressed for news of a beautiful girl from a noble Roman family who had dared not only to refuse the Emperor, but also to outwit his messengers. Nune only sighed compassionately and shook her head — she insisted that she knew of no Roman beauties here, still less of one who had managed to deceive the great ruler.

The novice opened the door to the chamber and let the centurion in. He marvelled at the quantity of remedies and potions in the cramped room, steeped in the scent of herbs and oils; yet even more did the books trouble him. Some were written in Latin, some in Greek, some in Egyptian. The warrior glanced with scorn upon the icons. The image of a gaunt elder with sunken blue eyes stared him full in the face. Nune asked whether the centurion would entrust his health to her, and whether he was ready, of his own will, to hear, to repeat, and to accept all that she would utter, recite, or pour for him. The man nodded his assent.

«„Show, O Lord, to Thy suffering servant, healing and forgiveness for his earthly sins. Deliver him, O Lord, from grievous malady, from bitter sicknesses. Save, O Lord, Thy servant from his deathbed, and from the deep wounds in his flesh. I send up glory unto Thee, O Lord — glory to Christ, our One Saviour. Save and preserve him, O Lord. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen!“»

The centurion bowed his head wearily, like a small child worn out by study. The chief of the troop did not understand what this maiden was doing with him, yet somewhere within himself he felt relief — the pain was departing, and with it, the cold sweat upon his skin. A cough tormented the faithful imperial warrior: during one campaign, a downpour and hail had overtaken Diocletian’s army; the senior commander had fallen ill, and the fire they kindled at halts did not save him — he was racked with chills, his joints twisted and ached, the soreness in his body would not leave him — he grew ever worse. He could not continue to fight; even rising from his bed cost him no little strength.

«You must drink this,» Nune addressed the commander imperiously. «I will give you this medicine to take with you; only do not forget to take it at one and the same hour. You will feel better. If your pain, if your ailment passes — thank God for the healing. And if you lose your strength entirely — then punish me.»

«„O Lord, Master of heaven and earth, Master of life and death! I beseech Thee: heal this man; grant him peace and sound sleep! I thank Thee, O God, for Thy love, for Thy mercy, for Thy kindness! Shield him, O Lord, from worldly sufferings, from the pains and the cough that oppress his heart! I magnify and bow before Thy power, before Thy gift of healing and of help to those in need! Thy life-giving, all-healing, and wonder-working hands do I kiss; upon my knees I stand before Thee; I bow my head! Help, O Lord! I thank Thee for Thy help to us, sinful souls; I thank Thee for Thy boundless compassion toward us sinners! Teach me, O Lord, to aid the needy, those chained to their beds by sickness and infirmity. Care for this man, O God; set him upon a path pure and harmless; love him as a child; preserve his life, the soundness of his body, the clarity of his thoughts; teach him all that Thou didst teach Thy children — but above all, grant him health, that he may walk the righteous path and enter Thy Heavenly Kingdom with a pure soul and flesh. Amen.“»

Nune noticed how he looked at her uncomprehendingly, as though she had poisoned him. The centurion grew limp and began to yawn, and then collapsed altogether upon the bench.

— —

The legionaries seized the maidens by the arms and dragged them by force into the prayer hall: hatred toward the immaculate maidens of the Christian faith bred mockery and contempt among the legionaries.

«How do you like it in this lupanarium?» the warriors laughed. «It would be foolish not to make use of the wenches here, don’t you agree?»