The Saint's Mistress (18 page)

Miriam had placed around my neck so longer ago, for good luck.

Adeo raised his right arm, and his toga draped impressively. He surveyed his audience and

began, “Cicero on wisdom.” He paused again, as his father had taught him. Good so far, good,

good, I thought, leaning forward and biting the inside of my lip.

He went on, his forehead wrinkled appropriately in a thoughtful frown. He spoke slowly and

clearly, his boyish soprano audible in the highest tiers. “If the souls which we have are eternal

and divine, we must conclude that, the more we let them have their head in natural activity, that

is, in reasoning and in the quest for knowledge, and the less they are caught up in the vices and

errors of mankind, the easier it will be for them to ascend and return to heaven.” He lowered his

arm so that his elbow bent at waist level, again showing a smooth toga drape, and bowed his

head slightly.

“Bravo!” Aurelius burst out, and began clapping wildly. I noticed his eyes filled with tears,

and I felt a lump in my throat myself. I clapped until my hands hurt, and blew my little boy a

kiss, which he did not see. He strode from the stage with the folds of the unfamiliar toga swirling

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around his skinny legs. How I loved him at that moment, with his glossy cap of curly hair like

his father’s, and his square chin and full lips which suddenly reminded me of my brother Tito.

“He’ll win,” Aurelius assured me, still clapping. “He should definitely win. Oh, he did

excellently, excellently,” and he folded me into a hug.

A restless murmur ran up the tiers as anxious parents and friends awaited the announcement

of the awards. Aurelius grabbed my hand and we tensed and leaned further and further forward

as the awards were announced for the bigger boys.

“Finally,” the moderator announced, “in the 8-to-10-year-old category, this year’s

declamation prize goes to Adeodonatus Augustinus, for his fine delivery of Cicero.”

Aurelius leaped to his feet and banged his massive hands together over and over, stomping his

feet, and finally whistling through his teeth. His face radiated joy and pride as he looked over at

me. “I knew he would do it! Oh, Leona, he’ll outshine me in every way! Our boy’s star will rise

higher than I could ever dream for myself.”

Most of the crowd had already streamed out of the theater by the time we found Adeo and

collected him to head out.

His father wrapped him in a fierce hug first, lifting him off the ground. “You did better than I

could have dreamed of at your age!” He put Adeo down and held him by the shoulders at arm’s

length. “Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?” he asked.

“Thank you, father,” Adeo replied formally, as if the donning of the toga had stripped him of

his North African warmth and transformed him into a different person, more formal and

dignified.

“We’re proud of you,” I said softly and gave my newly-dignified son a quick hug.

“Get that blasted blanket off now,” Aurelius ordered, “and let’s go out and celebrate. Is the

Goat’s Head still your favorite tavern?”

Adeo’s eyes lit up. “Yes.”

“Fried squid?” his father asked knowingly.

“Yes!” Adeo began to flail at the folds of the toga, in his hurry to shed the heavy woolen

garment. “I’m roasting in this,” he admitted. I helped him unwrap it and folded the voluminous

material over my arm as best I could.

“This thing weights a ton,” I complained. “Can’t we drop it off at home before we go to the

Goat’s Head?”

“Yes,” Aurelius replied. “Actually, I wanted to stop to visit Amicus anyway. Quintus let me

know he’s sick.”

“Amicus is sick? What’s wrong?”

Aurelius shrugged. “Probably some foul bug he picked up in Rome or at sea.” Amicus,

Nebridius and Quintus had just returned from a trip to Rome. Amicus and Quintus had received

imperial commissions through their patrons, and Nebridius had tagged along just for fun. I knew

that Aurelius had mixed emotions: he would have loved to see Rome and he envied his friends

their powerful patrons and imperial commissions, but he had a dread of the sea. I doubted he

would ever set foot on a boat. It was irrelevant anyway: we lacked the funds to finance the trips

ourselves, and, in the absence of any work that Aurelius could do for him in Rome, it was not

even worth asking Urbanus to finance the trip. We had not seen our friends since their return to

Carthage.

“All right, home, then say hi to Amicus, then Goat’s Head!” Aurelius said, clapping Adeo on

the back.

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Amicus’ sister and widowed mother had come to Carthage to stay with him now that he had

an imperial commission. The commission provided enough income for a house and servants, and

we were shown to Amicus’ tiled sitting room by a quiet teenage girl with the brand of a runaway

on her forehead. I wondered that Amicus would consent to have a slave who had already tried to

run away once.

Our friend lay on a bronze-legged couch covered with an embroidered cushion. Quintus

reclined on a similar couch nearby, a cup of wine in his hand.

“Adeo won the declamation prize for his age group!” Aurelius announced before we were

even halfway across the floor.

“Prizes already at such a young age!” Amicus exclaimed. “What did you recite?”

“Cicero,” Adeo told him, smiling .

“Let’s hear it then.”

Adeo recited his piece, minus the heavy toga, but with the arm gestures and pauses at all the

right places again.

“Bravo!” Amicus cheered.

“You’ll soon outshine your father,” Quintus agreed.

Aurelius beamed. “That’s exactly what I said.” He turned to Amicus with concern. “Quintus

said you were sick.”

“I haven’t felt well since we set sail from Ostia,” Amicus admitted. “I feel weak and my chest

hurts when I breathe. The doctor says to rest and breathe vapors of rosemary. That’s what you

smell.” I did notice the astringent scent of rosemary slicing the air of the room.

“And is it helping?”

“Not yet.” Amicus coughed, and I could see by the folds of pain in his face that his chest was

hurting him very badly. “Aurelius, sit,” he said. “We have other news for you. Good news, but

news that I don’t think you’ll like hearing at first.”

Quintus glanced at Amicus out of the corners of his eyes, then his gazed skittered towards

Aurelius.

Aurelius frowned and gestured for his friend to continue.

“We’ve become Christians, all of us: Quintus, Nebridius and I.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. We are to be baptized Good Friday next, all three of us together.”

Aurelius flushed. “But, we always agreed that Christianity was just a bunch of hocus-pocus.

It’s Mani that offers a scientific explanation of the world.”

Quintus gestured with his cup and the slave girl poured him some more wine. “Aurelius,” he

said, “stop and think for a second: how is the story of the Five descending to the realm of

Darkness to rescue the First Man any less fabulous than Christ’s resurrection?"

“It’s completely different! Amicus, Quintus, you know what these Christians are: they’re

women and slaves who believe that relics of the True Cross can heal leprosy, and the bones of

their saints can bring sight to the blind.”

“Anything is possible with the power of God,” Quintus replied.

“But can you explain how that happens?”

“Can you explain how the particles of light are entrapped and then released?” Quintus shot

back.

“No, but Faustus can.” Faustus was a renowned scholar and speaker, the most famous of

Manichean priests. “He’ll be in Carthage later this summer to debate Christians and conduct

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seminars,” Aurelius went on. “He’ll explain the origin of the universe and the path to goodness

scientifically, not all wrapped up in magic like your Jesus.”

Quintus took a long sip and wine and smacked his lips. “Aurelius, you had better open your

eyes. The Empire has become Christian. Anyone who wants to get ahead should do the same.”

“I thought we were scholars. I thought we were seekers of truth before we were seekers of

power. Didn’t we agree to that one night, or was I so drunk that I’m remembering wrong?”

Aurelius’ voice was rising.

“Aurelius is right,” Amicus said to Quintus. “He shouldn’t pretend to accept the Lord just

because it would help his career. It would be a grave sin to convert just to gain political

advantage.” He paused to cough, and then continued, “No, Aurelius, you’re right. You should

follow your conscience. God will know if you try to deceive Him or use Him to advance your

career. We’ll pray every day for you to see the light.”

“I’ll pray, too,” Aurelius answered. “But, I’ll also come back to you with answers once I’ve

spoken with Faustus. Then we’ll see who converts – or deconverts.”

“We will,” Amicus admitted.

The serving girl refilled Quintus’s wine cup again. I whispered to Amicus, “Why did you buy

a runaway?”

“To free her,” Amicus answered. “She had run away not once, but twice and the penalty this

second time was to be amputation of a foot. I bought her from her master to save her from that

fate and she now works for me for a small wage.”

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll run away on you, too?”

“Not really. She’s grateful and I treat her well. But, if she should want to leave, then she’s

free to do that. Christ came to bring a new age, when the last shall be first,” he added, with a nod

towards Aurelius. “He leaves us no room to mistreat others. He was clear: do unto other as you

would have them do unto you.”

“Cicero says almost exactly the same,” Aurelius grumbled, “and he says it without all the

mystery and magic – oh, not to mention virgin birth.”

“No more unlikely than the half-fish, half-bird Prince of Darkness,” Amicus replied.

Adeo sat silently, his wide eyes shifting from one speaker to the other. Clearly, he was the

night’s only winner; neither Mani nor Christ would win a convert this night.

Aurelius railed the whole way home that night about his friends’ conversions. Poor Adeo’s

triumph was nearly forgotten in the complaints about mysteries and suspicious healings, about

cynical conversions and proliferating splinters of Christ’s cross. “That thing would have to be

100 feet high to account for all the pieces of it that have been miraculously discovered and put in

gold boxes on altars,” Aurelius complained. “Adeo, you spoke well tonight, but be sure that you

always speak truth. Don’t be taken in by claims that can’t be proven. The other word for

‘miracle’ is ‘lie.’”

Later that night, though, after lovemaking had drained his tense peevishness, I lay with

my head nestled in his shoulder and he stroked my back lightly. “Did you think Amicus looked

bad?” he asked me.

“It looked like it hurt him pretty bad when he coughed.”

“His color was bad and he was thin.”

“It’s probably nothing,” I said. “A chill he caught in Italy or at sea. After a few more days’

rest, he’ll be fine.”

Aurelius shook his head. “I think I’ll go see him again tomorrow.”

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Amicus was worse when Aurelius looked in on him the next day: blue-lipped, coughing

almost constantly, too weak to sit up on his couch. Aurelius began stopping in every day after

school, and every day Amicus was bluer and weaker. I went one afternoon about a week after the

declamation contest.

My nemesis, Quintus, met me at the door with the branded servant girl. “He’s taken a turn for

the worse,” Quintus told me. “We’ve sent for a priest.”

“Will the priest be able to cure him?” I shared Aurelius’ doubts about amulets and miracles,

but, I thought that since the Christians were growing so powerful, perhaps their priests had

special magic.

“With God all things are possible, but we shouldn’t get our hopes too high for this life. The

priest is coming to baptize him.”

Amicus had taken to his bed in the past few days, and we crossed the courtyard to the sleeping

wing of his large house, the branded servant girl following us like a shadow.

I felt shaken when I saw him. His face was grayish, and he lay on his bed gasping for air like

a fish out of water. From across the room, I could hear the wet rasping of his breath. I went to the

bed and took his hand. “Amicus?”

He opened his eyes and smiled at me, too weak to speak. I squeezed his hand and he squeezed

back, faintly, then exploded into helpless coughing.

I felt tears coming to my eyes. It was clear that he would be dead before nightfall. “Quintus,

could someone be sent for Aurelius?”

Quintus snapped his fingers at the servant girl and gave her directions to Aurelius’ school.

She scurried out.

“Where is that priest?” Quintus fretted.

“I thought he had to be immersed in the font to be baptized,” I said.

“Illness near death is an emergency. He can be baptized in his bed with a small amount of

water and oil,” Quintus told me. “Our God is merciful,” he added piously, “to those who truly