The Saint's Mistress (10 page)

Thagaste was more than a little goat town or trading post. We had a small garrison of

legionnaires, brick grain warehouses, an amphitheater, temples to every known god, and, of

course, local gentry in the form of Urbanus. But Thagaste was nothing compared to Carthage.

The city began well outside the pocked yellow walls. Here, dusty paths fanned away from the

cobbled road, zigzagging between huts, tents and small shops. Our horses and donkeys had to

pick their way down the road, nearly tramping many times on wandering sheep, goats, pigs or

their leavings, or on the thin brown children who darted around after them. Nobody did more

than glance up at us, except for the ones who wanted to sell us spices or hair ribbons or jugs of

water or sticks of garlic-smelling goat meat. The smell of the meat made me nauseous. I would

have gladly paid all the coins I had for one of the sweating clay jugs of water, but our driver led

us resolutely forward, to the city gate.

We were delayed for a long, thirsty hour at the massive gate as each entrant paid their gate

tax, and then we were in Carthage. My eyes took in the mellow shades of the setting sun

reflected on the white stone: purple, pink, amber as rich as honey. Lined with palm trees, the

cardomaximus ran wide and straight through the center of town, to a town square with a

fountain, ten times the size of Urbanus’, surrounded by date palms.

Despite its width, the street was crowded. The people were more varied than the ones I knew

in Thagaste. There were the Arabs and Berbers and the occasional Aeithiope as dark as a date,

the same as home, but I had never before seen a person with yellow hair. I turned and stared as

two blond giants crossed the street in front of us, and Aurelius explained that they were probably

Gauls or Saxons from the cold lands north of Rome, and many of them had yellow hair and

white or ruddy skin – and often blue eyes as pale as the morning sky. To call someone a “stupid

Gaul” was a commonplace insult in our part of the world, but I had never before seen one. I

couldn’t tell from their looks if they were really stupid, but they looked brutish and sinister to

me, so large and pale.

The smells were different from home, too. First, the smell of filth was stronger from the sheer

volume of humans, animals and their garbage. But, rising above the odors of waste and cooking

meat, were sweeter and spicier aromas that I couldn’t recognize, smells I would later learn the

names of and associate forever after with Carthage: cinnamon and clove from the Indies,

lavender from Gaul, lilies from Judea. And there was the fishy, salty odor I had yet to identify as

the smell of the sea.

Our driver delivered Aurelius and me, and our small luggage, to the address Urbanus had

given him, an apartment building owned by a distant cousin near the center of the city. We’d

taken so many turns to get there that I couldn’t imagine ever again finding our way to the

university, the well, the city wall or anything else I’d seen. A slave girl with a mutilated face

showed us to our apartment and brought us water for drinking and washing. Never had a sight

been so welcome. I gulped water from the smaller jug and then happily washed from the larger.

As soon as we were clean, Aurelius wanted to go out and find something to eat and see more

of the city.

“Give me a minute to rest,” I replied irritably. At home, I was used to sleeping on a pallet

stuffed with goat hair laid on the floor. Here, a bed of carved olive wood dominated the small

bedchamber. I sat down on the pallet that covered the bed.

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“This is so soft,” I sighed, and folded myself into a lying position. “What kind of goat gives

fur so soft?”

Aurelius sat beside me and patted the bed with one hand. “It’s not goat hair. It’s probably

sheep’s wool.” He bent to sniff. “And it stinks. We need a slave to find a place to air this.”

I waved him away. “Not yet,” I murmured and was instantly asleep.

I must have slept only an hour or so, for when I woke it was still light, though barely. Pools of

purple shadows spread in every corner of the apartment. I was starving. I leapt to a sitting

position, shook my head, and got up to find Aurelius.

I found him in the front room, frowning over one of his books. He looked up when I

wandered into the room. “Oh, there you are. I was about to give up on you and go out on my own

to find us supper. But, I thought you’d like to go with me and see some of the city.”

Now that I’d rested, I once again felt excited to be in Carthage and the idea of walking around

the maze of the city seemed less daunting. “Let me just rinse my face,” I replied.

The ugly slave girl had given Aurelius directions to a booth where we could get bread and

meat and olives and fruit until after dark. Left then left then right, she’d said, but at the second

left we hesitated. Did an alley count as the next left, or did she mean left at the next street?

As we stood trying to puzzle it out, two young men about our age approached. “Lost?” one of

them asked politely.

“Well, yes, we are,” Aurelius admitted, “we’re looking for a booth where we can get

something to eat. We were told – “

“Oh, you don’t want to bother with a booth. You want some place where you can sit down

and have a little wine, too. You new in town?”

Aurelius nodded and the two boys began walking one on each side of us, as if we were old

friends, steering us through zigzag alleys. “I’m Quintus and this is Nebridius. You’re welcome to

come with us.”

I would rather have just found the booth, but Aurelius didn’t consult me before agreeing,

“Sounds good. I’m Aurelius and this is my – this is Leona.”

Quintus and Nebridius guided us into a tavern and we took an outdoor table. “So, where are

you from?” Nebridius asked.

“Thagaste,” Aurelius replied. “I’ve come to study rhetoric.”

I thought I noticed an amused glance pass between Quintus and Nebridius. “Studying under

Claudius and Titus, are you?” Nebridius wanted to know.

“Yes, I hope to.”

“Well, us, too!” Nebridius crowed, and he and Quintus clapped Aurelius on the back heartily,

as if inducting him into some secret society. They seemed to me just a little too gleeful about

this, like they knew something he didn’t, but they were scholars and wore embroidered tunics

and they were Carthaginians. I kept quiet.

Nebridius and Quintus ordered several plates of fish and shellfish and bread and olives for us

to share, along with a flagon of wine and a bowl of fruit.

“So,” Nebridius challenged, “favorite philosopher? Don’t think. Just answer.”

“Cicero, I suppose,” Aurelius answered.

Quintus was already popping ripe olives into his mouth. “He’s not a philosopher,” he scoffed

through a mouthful of olive. “Cicero was just a politician, and an old-school one at that. The

Roman Republic is not only dead; it never really lived in the idealized way Cicero envisioned it.

Come on, a real philosopher.”

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“I don’t know. I suppose Zeno? I like the Stoics, but I really like the Ascetics best of all.”

“Oh, absolutely, absolutely,” Nebridius agreed. Watching him dig into the shellfish and

olives, I mentally questioned any commitment to Asceticisim. Some of the foods were unfamiliar

to me, even having eaten at Urbanus’ table. There were hard, ear-shaped shells which I watched

Nebridius and Quintus pick up with their hands. They then used their picks to extract a pale,

slime-covered scrap of meat, which they drowned in garum sauce and then swallowed without

chewing. Our hosts consumed these one after another, tossing the empty shells to the ground.

Although the sight of the nubs of meat made me nauseous, I longed to try it, just to see what it

was like; and yet, I would have rather died than made a fool of myself by failing to extract the

morsel, or by choking on it. I stuck to the familiar fruit and olives and bread dipped in oil.

The three men continued their discussions of philosophy until well after dark, and I began to

worry that we’d never find our way back to our apartment. We’d finished several flagons of wine

by the time Quintus and Nebridius excused themselves to duck into the alley behind the tavern,

to relieve themselves.

“Can we go home soon?” I pleaded once they were gone. “I’m tired.”

“Oh!” Aurelius replied, as if suddenly remembering I was there. “Oh, sure. As soon as they

come back so we can settle up the bill.”

“Do you remember how to get back to our apartment?”

“I think so.” He hesitated. “Well, anyway, Quintus and Nebridius can direct us if we’re not

sure.”

The tavern was lit with oil lamps, and only a few patrons remained. Aurelius and I sat in

exhausted, sated silence for a while. Finally, I said, “Should you go look for them?”

“I guess I’d better,” Aurelius agreed, and rose slowly, as if his body were a heavy weight he

had to drag. He reeled a little when he stood. “Whoa,” he whispered, and steadied himself.

Aurelius was gone for several minutes and when he returned I saw him in an animated

conversation with the taverner. An uneasy feeling grew in my chest.

He steamed back over to me, flushed with too much wine. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe

they just left. And that guy says I have to pay for everything. Do you know what it comes to?”

I shook my head, too tired to care.

“Well,” - he hesitated and then thought the better of telling me the exact amount – “well, a

lot.” He stopped for a minute, frowning off into the distance, his hand fiddling in the purse

attached to his waist, as if he were counting his coins by touch. “I guess we have to pay it.”

“Let’s just pay and go,” I pleaded.

Aurelius settled with the tavern owner, for what looked to me like a sickening number of

coins, and we walked back out into the night. It was not as black as a night in Thagaste, where

any public shop closed at dark. Here and there in this port city, shops were still open, with rush

lights illuminating their entrances. Oil lamps glowed dimly from the windows of other houses

and shops.

“Which way?” I asked.

Aurelius looked to both sides. “Well, which way did we come from?”

“I don’t remember. Don’t you?”

“Not really.”

“Well, how are we going to get home?” My voice rose. I was so tired after the long trip, the

wine, the heavy meal. I wanted to just sit down in the street and cry – or lie down and sleep right

here, and wait until morning to find our home.

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“This way,” Aurelius said firmly, and we headed to the left. Soon the street headed steeply

downhill and we could faintly hear the night sounds of the harbor: the creaking of ships and the

slap of water against their hulls.

“No, this must not be right,” he admitted. “All right, then, we know it must be the other way.”

Near tears, I forced my legs to keep plodding on, back up the hill. “You should have kept

track of where they were taking us,” I said.

“You could have, too, you know,” he shot back.

“You’re the one who wanted to go with them.” We passed another tavern, smelling of wine

and vomit. Someone was singing in a language I didn’t recognize, not Berber or Latin.

“What do you mean? I didn’t hear you objecting. I didn’t hear you say anything all evening.

You just sat there and pouted.”

“I’m tired. I was riding a stinking horse for days and days. And I’m not some big scholar like

you. I just wanted to get something to eat and go home and sleep.”

“Well, you should have said something.” We had reached another corner and he was

frowning, looking both ways again.

I pointed. “There. I remember we passed that building with the bell tower. That way.” I

couldn’t help adding, “I guess I’m good for something, even without reading Cicero and Zeno.”

“What are you saying? Are you saying I’m not good for anything?”

“I’m not saying anything.” I folded my arms.

“No, what are you trying to say?”

“Well, your book learning didn’t keep you from being taken in by those boys, did it?”

I could see that my arrow had hit its mark. He flinched, and didn’t respond, marching

doggedly ahead of me, in the direction he thought would take us home.

“Do you even know the name of our building?” I called out from behind him.

To my satisfaction, he froze in his steps. I smiled and stood in the middle of the street with my

arms folded. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea to know the name of the house we’re looking

for?” I called.

He turned. “I suppose you know?”

“So, an uneducated girl, who just sits around and pouts while scholars talk, is actually good

for something.”

“Leona, quit playing games.”

“It’s the House of Apollo. And, anyway, I know which way to go now. I can see our building

from here.” I pointed.