The Memory Painter

Juliana was a Christian lady from a wealthy family and well educated. She had met Origenes years ago when he had come to visit the Bishop of Caesarea. She had been a young woman then and was quite dazzled by his brilliance. They had formed a fast bond while studying the biblical texts she had inherited, written by Symmachus—the original author of one of the Greek versions of the Old Testament. How many nights they talked, until the candles burned low, about how to change Rome. How to spread love. How to bring about a better world. And in her heart of hearts—in words spoken only to God—Juliana had confessed her love for him as a woman. A part of her had always wondered if, had he not castrated himself, Origenes would have been tempted to deepen their bond.

She knew Origenes sensed how she felt. He would often tell her that there were many kinds of love and that, for her, he had reserved the purist. One night, they had become engaged in a passionate debate after drinking several cups of wine. Origenes had reached out and taken her hand and said that God must have known she would come into his life. Why else would he have guided him to perform such a sacrifice with his body? Otherwise, he might have fallen from grace.

Juliana could hear her heart beating like a bird in a cage as he spoke. Then his hand was gone and he went on as if nothing had happened. They never spoke of it again.

“My brother says Origenes’ school is the finest in the empire and marvels even those in Alexandria,” the young woman said, bringing Juliana out of her thoughts.

“Yes, it does,” Juliana replied. But their efforts to teach God’s love had brought them here to die horrific deaths. She fought back her panic and tried to focus on the young woman before her.

“Are you to burn too?” the little girl whispered.

Juliana gave the woman a questioning look, not wanting to upset the little girl.

The woman nodded. “Septimus has ordered us both to burn in two days’ time,” she answered.