The Saint's Mistress (27 page)

Quintus frowned at this, and I added, “We’re following the instructions of our own Lord

Jesus, Bishop. ‘I was hungry and you gave me to eat.’”

My new bishop’s frown softened, but he stared into the distance as if contemplating

something. “Go on,” he urged.

I took a deep breath. “And I take a few hours on the Lord’s day to teach some of the women

to read and write. Most are illiterate, of course, even some of the wealthy widows.”

Quintus looked down at his cup, swirling the remaining wine. “And the benefit of this to the

Lord is what exactly?”

“Most of your priests and monks are illiterate, too, Bishop. Educated converts like yourself

who are interested in the priesthood are still as rare and valuable as purple dye. Having women to

help them with copying the scriptures is a help – and the bishop’s sermons, too, of course.”

“The women attend Mass daily?” Quintus asked.

“Yes, Bishop.”

“Have there been any instances of concupiscence?” His eyes bored into me.

“Two, bishop. One last year between two of the young women. I thought it best not to make

much of it. We sent one of the women to another community. The other instance was between

one of the women and a monk. The woman…a child was born.”

“What was done?”

“The baby is being cared for by my brother Tito and his family, who live nearby. The woman

was whipped and sent to another community.” My heart twisted at the memory of Hanna’s

suffering under the whip and worse agony at her separation from her child. “The monk she

named was high-born, Bishop. He confessed his sin and got a penance of self-flagellation and ten

days of bread and water.”

Quintus shuddered and shook his head at the mention of the whip. “There will be no

whippings while I’m in charge,” he told me. “We’re not barbarians.” He sat and swallowed the

last of his wine. “I’ll meet your women next week. I’ll come to your house myself, unannounced.

Oh,” he added, setting down his cup, “there was another reason why I called for you alone.”

I waited.

“I wondered if you had news of Adeodonatus and his father,” he said.

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How like Quintus to make me wait for that, while answering all of his questions first, I

thought. I answered, “My son writes to me occasionally. I know that Aurelius has finally

accepted the One True God, and that they live a life of retirement and contemplation at a villa

outside Carthage. I heard that Aurelius’ mother had died.”

Quintus nodded. “Just wanted to share it with you if you didn’t already know. I’m trying to

persuade Aurelius to take a more active role in the Church. He was not made for the life of a

hermit. There is also the matter of some land that his mother left to the bishopric that requires his

signature. I think I have persuaded him – and your Adeo – to come to Thagaste and pay me a

visit. So, you see, I am your friend whether you know it or not.”

Tears pressed at the back of my eyes at the thought of seeing Adeo again. “Yes, Father,” I

whispered.

“You may leave me now. I’ll visit with you and your women next week and if I am satisfied

with what I see you don’t need to worry that I’ll interfere with you.”

“Yes, Father,” I repeated, and left with my head down to hid the emotion in my face.

To see Adeo again! His face was before me the whole walk home, like a melody that won’t

leave your head. In my first years back in Thagaste, the separation had been like torture, as if my

heart was ripped out of my chest anew every morning. In the course of hard work and much

prayer, the raw pain had receded to a dull ache, and I came to see the pain of separation as the

penance that I paid for the sin that had given him life. I devoted myself to serving God, and

slowly came to feel that life was endurable as long as I knew that Adeo still lived. Once or twice

a year, I received a letter from him, full of the love of God, and I treasured these, bringing them

out every Sunday evening to re-read.

I hardly ever thought of Aurelius. In the early years, lustful feelings had still occasionally

tortured me, but I had done many severe penances and had not had more than a fleeting sinful

thought in a long time now. I was confident that, by the Grace of God, I was freed of that.

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Months passed and, true to his word, Quintus interfered little in my management of the

women’s house. I met with him weekly to report on our activities and turn over any excess

produce and coin, and he was satisfied. This week as I walked to dusty path into town, the roads

were unusually crowded, and I knew why.

I stepped off the road to let a train of wagons pass me. It was the longest train I had seen yet,

twenty wagons by my estimation, clattering on the cobblestone road to Carthage, the same road I

had taken with Aurelius when I was a girl, pregnant with Adeo.

I stood watching them pass, the wagons loaded with carpets, bronze tables, silver plates, hams

wrapped in moist cloth, amphorae of wheat, oil and wine. Scarred, muscular men marched or

rode alongside, narrow-eyed, stern-mouthed and armed with swords. Yet another caravan of the

wealthy who could afford to abandon Thagaste ahead of a rumored attack by the Aitheopes.

The withdrawal of the legions from smaller cities in North Africa had made towns like

Thagaste the new frontier, and it had been only a matter of time before the savages on the

borders of the Empire would take advantage of that. Rumor in town was that bands of Aitheope

warriors were massing to our south and that occasional raids were about to gather themselves

into a full-scale attack on the city. The rich escaped if they could. Any poor who had not already

accepted Christianity lined up for baptism.

After the caravan passed, I continued my walk to Quintus’s office. I carried with me a basket

of cloth-wrapped cheese and fresh-picked vegetables to deliver for the bishop and his household.

Normally, I would have had bread for him as well, but flour was hardly to be had anywhere near

Thagaste. It was bitterly ironic to me that, in the breadbasket of the Empire, bread could not be

found to feed any but the wealthiest. Almost all went to Rome in the form of taxes or as a cash

crop, and the little that was left on the continent immediately filled the tear-shaped clay

amphorae of the rich, heading to Carthage in their wagons.

I sighed. As I passed Urbanus’ town house, I heard my name.

“Leona! Sister!” It was my brother, Tito. He beckoned me from the door of the town house.

“Tito? What are you doing here?”

He waved me into the house and slammed the heavy door behind us. “The factor headed out

of town. Pala worked for them, washing their clothes, so he left me and Pala to guard the house.

You want anything from this house for the holy women?”

I frowned. “Do I want anything? Tito, what do you - ? You aren’t giving away Urbanus’

property?”

“They don’t need all these things. Nobody needs all these things. I’m doing like Jesus said.

I’m sharing.” Tito was still a fairly young man, only three years older than I, but his years of

hard work and semi-starvation had left their mark. His skin was grayish and wrinkled and he was

missing most of his teeth, but he grinned that old grin at me now, and I couldn’t help smiling at

his literal interpretation of Christ’s admonitions and his carefree notion that property laws were

mere suggestions. And the fact was, that if the Aitheopes did sweep into Thagaste, this property

would only make it into their hands anyway. Towards Urbanus, the owner of that property, I no

longer had any feelings either way. He had been my patron in a way, as well as Aurelius’, but

had never failed to act in his own best interests. On the other hand, our Lord also admonished not

to steal nor covet.

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“They left lots of good stuff,” Tito continued wonderingly. “Look at this jewelry Pala’s

wearing.”

Pala, sitting in the corner of the reception room sorting through a trunk of robes, was laden

with necklaces, bracelets, anklets and rings, and wore a tiara. I could see that it was cheap stuff,

tin and carnelian. Surely whatever gold, silver and precious gems Urbanus had left behind, his

factor had taken along in his escape from town. Suddenly, it angered me that my brother and his

family could see as precious these trifles that a rich landowner cared so little about that he would

leave it behind in a threatened city. Why, I wondered for the thousandth time, should some have

so much and other so little?

“Be careful you aren’t robbed yourselves, Tito,” I warned.

“Nobody needs to rob us. Some other poor person wants some, they can have it. Anyway, I

already told her she can’t keep it all,” he added. “Some is for sharing, some little bit she can

keep, and some we’ll sell for food money. This rich man, he hardly left behind any food.”

“That’s because there’s hardly any to leave, and it’s worth more than all that jewelry Pala’s

wearing. I don’t think you’re going to find anyone right now who will trade you food for tin

jewelry.”

Tito’s face fell for a moment, but then it brightened. “Yes, but later.”

“True. Later,” I agreed, adding mentally,
if we’re all still alive and not enslaved somewhere in

Aitheopia.

“Where are the kids?” I asked.

“Playing in the courtyard,” Tito said. “That man has orange trees right in his own courtyard,”

he added, shaking his head. “And flowers! The children are outside eating oranges and playing

with the flowers.”

“I’ll just go out and give them a hug,” I said. “Then I have to be going.”

Pala had endured half a dozen pregnancies and had only two living children: their first,

Juliana, and their youngest, a boy named Marcus. It was Marcus who Pala had been nursing

when I gave her Hanna’s baby to wet-nurse, and 2-year-old Marcus and Hanna’s Paul sat in

Urbanus’ courtyard now with orange juice running down their chins, while Juliana picked herself

a bouquet.

I thought how lovely Juliana was, how like Numa she looked with her long neck and smooth,

dark skin. At 14, her breasts and hips had begun to bloom under her plain tunic. I hoped to save

her from the hard life of a peasant’s wife by bringing her into our community, but Tito and Pala

kept putting me off, hoping for grandchildren some day.

“Aunty!” she cried when she saw me. “Look at these flowers!”

“They’re beautiful,” I agreed.

“When I find a man,” she said, “I hope he’ll have a house with flowers.”

“You shouldn’t hope for too much,” I scolded. “You’re a peasant girl, and I haven’t given up

hope that you will commit your life to God.”

“Yes, aunty, but before that I’d like to have one boyfriend who will bring me flowers and will

kiss me and say that I’m pretty.”

Hearing her say those words, so like my own at her age, was like a splash of cold water in my

face, especially hearing them in this place where my own sin had begun.

I took my niece’s face in my hands. “You don’t need a man to tell you that you’re pretty. You

are very pretty, but our Lord cares more about your soul. Just be sure that your insides are

beautiful. And listen to me: if the Aithiopes really come, run to the church. You may be safer

there.”

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“Yes, aunty,” Juliana smiled, and went back to plucking flowers.

I sighed, gave the two little boys quick, sticky hugs, and let myself out. On my way, I left for

Tito and his family half of what had been meant for my bishop’s household.

“This city is ready to panic,” I observed to Quintus when I arrived to deliver his reduced food

supply. I handed my basket to a servant to be taken to the kitchen. “I wasn’t able to bring you

much, and no bread at all. Urbanus’ factor has skipped town, along with anyone else with the

means.”

“God uses all things to his purposes,” Quintus replied with a smirk.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve had more people ask for baptismal instruction in the past two weeks than you’ve had

in the past two years, if I read the records right. Of course, the Donatists have more,” he

frowned, “but I have the answer to that now.”

“How’s that?”

Quintus smiled again and drew from his desk drawer an alabaster vial. He held it in front of

my face. “The milk of Saint Perpetua,” he whispered, caressing the vial with his eyes.

“Saint who?”

“Perpetua. I preached a sermon on her not three weeks ago, Leona. Don’t you pay attention?

She was put to death while still a nursing mother for refusing to renounce her Christian faith

during the Severan persecution. Precious drops of her milk were preserved in this vial.”

“Two hundred year old milk.”

“Miraculously preserved.” He wrapped the vial in a piece of wine-colored velvet and tucked it

back into the drawer

“How did you come by it?”

Quintus glanced at me sharply and slammed the desk drawer. “Why should that matter? Are