The Saint's Mistress (36 page)

“Who?”

“Us.

Augustine, Boniface and their inner council were to meet that afternoon to discuss the food

situation. Boniface already had a soldier at the door of each warehouse. Every baker in the city

would get the same ration of flour daily, and prices, set by Boniface, would be posted in all of

the shops and public squares. The penalty for selling anyone more than their daily ration, or

charging more than the mandated price, would be death. The Bishop and the General also agreed

that the Church would receive a ration of bread for free distribution to the refugees and other

destitute people who could not afford to buy it at any price, and Augustine put forth my proposal

that Lucy and I should manage the distribution.

“I’m not at ease with leaving the management of food distribution in the hands of women,”

General Boniface complained, refusing to look at me as always.

“Sister Leona presented me with an excellent plan to keep the distribution fair, and to verify

that no one received more than their daily ration,” Bishop Augustine replied. “But, I think you

are right that they will need the help of a good man. Eraclius, I ask you to help the sisters to

manage this important task. And now I would like to move on to a matter that is of grave concern

to me: the spiritual well-being of the citizens.”

“The people need hope,” Quintus said. His voice wavered, his back was bent, and his hands

constantly shook , but he was a vehement and certain as ever, and, for once, he was right.

“They need food and water and strong walls,” Boniface argued. “Then they will have reason

to hope.” He could never be still in these meetings. He rose and paced to the window as he

always did, as if he could repel the Vandals with his eyes.

I reported what Rufus had told me. “Some people are whispering that we should just give up,

that maybe the Vandals will show some mercy if we don’t resist.”

Bishop Augustine shook his head. “These barbarians must be resisted at all costs. They will

show no mercy and, what’s more, they are heretics. Better that the whole city should starve or be

put to the sword than surrender to heresy. The immortal souls of every citizen of Hippo are in

our hands.” He looked around the room, pinning each of us in turn with his eyes, as if scanning

for disagreement.

“Then we’ve got to do something to strengthen their resolve,” Marius said. “Already, I hear

rumors of the old rituals coming back.”

“Tell me what you mean,” Augustine urged gravely.

“Reading of entrails in the old Roman way, sacrifices to the old Roman gods, and worse.”

“Worse? Meaning what?”

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Marius smiled slightly, as if the bishop had fallen into some sort of trap. “The old Berber

religions, Bishop. We might have thought that those had died with the Roman conquest, but it

seems that they had only gone underground. We hear murmurings that the gods may require

human sacrifice if the city is to be saved.”

“Surely not,” Eraclius argued.

Marius shrugged. “People are afraid. Terrified people do terrible things. And, then, of course,

our sister Leona is also correct, that many would be willing to compromise with heresy if it

would save their lives.”

Nobody argues.

“We need a rallying point,” Marius said.

“Yes,” Eraclius said. “But what?”

“The Saint Perpetua relic.”

That old thing again, I thought. Would they never give up? “We left that behind in Thagaste,”

I pointed out. “Remember?”

“No, we were mistaken, sister,” Marius announced. “We had it all along.” He produced a

small flask from the pocket of his robe.

I stared at it, hardly believing that Marius would even attempt to perpetrate such a hoax.

“Marius, stop wasting our time. That isn’t even the same flask.”

“You’re mistaken, sister. It is.” He smirked. “You can surely be forgiven for your mistake,

given your advanced age.”

I clenched my fists in my lap. “I’ve seen that flask every single year since the bishop got his

hands on it. He brings it out every feast day of Saint Perpetua. I know what it looks like, and

that’s not it. This fraud it not going to save this city.”

“It saved Thagaste from the Aitheopes and the Donatist heresy,” Quintus argued, “and it

will save us now.”

I narrowed my eyes at my bishop. “You know that is not the same vial.”

He looked away. “I know nothing of the kind. You’re mistaken, sister, and, I would add, in

violation of your vow of obedience – as usual.” He shot a pointed look at his old friend,

Augustine.

We all followed his gaze and looked at the Bishop of Hippo.

“This could be both a source of hope and defense against heresy,” Marius said. “And, if we

are faithful, it may even produce a miracle again.”

I scanned the room for a possible ally against this nonsense and settled against my will on the

gruff, practical Boniface. “What does General Boniface think?” I asked.

The General refused to look at me, as usual. “On spiritual matters, I defer to the bishop.”

Augustine closed his eyes for a moment. “These relics of the saints may sometimes work

miracles,” he conceded, “But, they must be carefully verified. Let us make a study of it. But,

leave me now. It’s time for my afternoon prayers.”

As we filed out of the Bishop’s office, Marius caught up with me. “This is another fight that

you won’t win, Sister,” he whispered.

“Another?”

“Well, you’ve lost the fight about the tithe, of course. The milled flour you brought to town is

forfeit to the grain seizure and therefore you won’t be able to pay your tithe.”

“The Church seized my grain and that counts as my tithe,” I snapped, but my blood stopped

for a second. I wasn’t sure that my statement was strictly true.

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“General Boniface seized your flour,” Marius corrected me, “and therefore when we get back

to Thagaste, your bishop will be pleased to accept some or all of your acres in payment of your

annual tithe. Excuse me, now.” He shouldered past me to catch up with Boniface and whisper

something in his ear.

I was back in Aurelius’ office later that day to transcribe his arguments against Julian of

Eclanum. I had marveled at how easily, after so many years apart, we had settled into our old

routine of my taking his dictation, but this was not the first thing on my mind today.

“Your old friend Quintus is still trying to get hold of your mother’s land,” I exploded the

minute I walked in the door.

Aurelius looked puzzled for a moment and then his eyes lit. “Oh, yes,” he said, turning back

to the papers text he had been studying.

“We owe the bishopric a tithe each year,” I went on.

“Yes, of course. That’s only right.”

“Well how can we pay it this year with the Vandals amok and the only little bit of wheat we

could mill seized by your friend Boniface?” I eased my old bones into a chair next to him.

“Make it up next year.”

“That’s my point. Quintus and his little
catamitus
Marius won’t wait until next year. They

insist that I forfeit some of our acres in place of the wheat tithe. You have to stop them.”

“Quintus is your bishop, Leona.”

“He will listen to you. This was your son’s last wish.” I took one of his hands in both of mine,

feeling how thin and dry his skin was.

“I remember.” Augustine withdrew his hand, but his watery old eyes softened on me. “All

right, Leona, I’ll exert my influence on Quintus one more time. I’ll see if I can persuade him.”

“Don’t see if you can persuade him. Persuade him. Force him if you have to.”

He smiled. “You’re still a passionate young girl at heart.”

“No, I’m a very old woman who doesn’t want to see people starve. And another thing,” I

added, “That vial isn’t the same one that Quintus has been trotting out every year on Saint

Perpetua’s day,” I said.

“And you are sure of this?”

I drew my knife from my waist bag, and began to sharpen the quill that lay on the table.

“Yes, I’m sure. Don’t tell me you don’t see what’s happening here. Marius forgot to bring it, and

now he’s cooked up a replacement because he thinks it will keep the simple people firm in the

Church. He wants to make a name for himself, to guarantee that he will be Quintus’ successor as

bishop of Thagaste.”

“Your own bishop certifies it as the true relic.”

I swallowed several possible responses before settling on, “He’s wrong.”

Aurelius nodded, staring into space again.

I tried another angle. “You used to heap scorn on signs and miracles. When did you change

your mind?”

“That was back when I relied on my own will and discernment.”

“But what use are these supposedly miraculous objects? Shouldn’t the Word and the example

of our Lord be enough to convince us? ”

Augustine bent his head and rubbed at his forehead. “Yes, of course, Leona, certainly they are

enough to convince
us
, but we are educated people. How can the ignorant peasant or dock

worker possibly be kept in the fold by mere words? I’ve tried over the years. I’ve simplified the

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message, put it into poetry and song and crude little slogans that they’d find easy to remember.

And still they will have their signs and miracles and pageants. You know this. You came from

the simple class yourself, and you’ve made them your life’s work.”

“I took a different approach. I made sure that they were fed, comforted when they were

distressed and cared for when they were sick. Isn’t that what Jesus told us to do? Didn’t he say

that even as we do to the least, we do to him?”

“Of course you did. Of course, and I hope God will bless you for all the souls that you

brought to Him in your way.” He patted my hand.

“Jesus said the first would be last, Aure – Bishop. When we trick them with false relics, I

think we are just putting them under a new kind of sandal. Marius and Quintus are interested in

power.” There, I’d said it.

“You’ve always misjudged Quintus,” he said. “You’ve never forgiven him for that first night

in Carthage. Remember?”

Of course I remember, I thought, and he’s seldom given me any reason since then to change

my mind about him. But I could see that this argument was lost, and the name of Carthage

brought a tenderness to my heart for our lost son, and for the young man Aurelius and the girl

that I had been, and so I just said, “I remember.”

Aurelius bowed his head and rubbed at his temples again.

“Are you all right?” I asked. He looked pale, and the creases in his face seemed deeper just

since this morning.

“Dizzy for a moment,” he admitted. “Perhaps we should be done for today.”

I poured him a cup of water from an earthen jug on his table. “Drink.”

As he took the cup from me, my hand touched his. His big hands were splashed with dark

freckles now, swollen and knotted at the joints, and I noticed a tremor as he took the cup. I

remembered a time when the touch of his firm young hands sent currents of delight through me.

His eyes softened. “Leave me now. Your intentions are right, and our Lord sees that. You can

copy my argument for me tomorrow when I’m feeling better.” He made the sign of the cross

before me with his free hand, and I left him.

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Sweat trickled down my torso beneath the empty bags of my breasts, and I flapped my tunic

against my chest with one hand and I wiped sweat from my forehead with the other.

Even in the shade of the portico, I felt like I was standing in an oven. I could only imagine the

suffering of the line of destitute people waiting for their daily ration, snaking through the forum

and down the hill towards the cathedral, squirming children, sagging mothers and impatient

young men, all gray and stinking now that the baths had been closed for over a month.

After the first three weeks, we realized that we would quickly run out of grain if we gave

bread daily, so we had started dishing out porridge for the daily ration. Two weeks after that, we

saw that even the porridge must be thinned if our supplies were to last. The port was still open,

but Boniface had no word from Rome or Carthage about possible resupply.

Lucy dipped her ladle into a pot and slopped a ration into a filthy young man’s bowl.

“Why so thin?” he asked. “It was nice and thick yesterday. And there was more.”

He wasn’t the first to ask. “Order of the bishop,” Lucy explained for the hundredth time.

“We’ve got to make our grain last until the siege is lifted.”

“Or until the Second Coming," he spat back. “That army’s not going anywhere unless the

Lord Himself comes back and sends them. We ought to just give up and save ourselves. A man

can’t live on this slop.”

“You want to give it back?” Lucy said. “Plenty of people behind you will be glad to have your

share.”

The man spat on the ground and grabbed Lucy’s arm. “Listen, sister, no man can live on this