The Saint's Mistress (6 page)

of the slaves refilled it with wine.

Aurelius flushed. “No! I didn’t mean that at all.”

“Then … ?” Urbanus spread his hands, as if pleading for enlightenment.

“Then…” Aurelius hesitated, frowning. “Then, I would say that right is always right and

wrong is always wrong, but human wisdom is perhaps insufficient to make the correct

determination.”

“Ah.” This seemed to be the answer that Urbanus had been seeking. “Then,” he concluded,

“there’s no point in my financing your further education in Carthage, is there? Since no amount

of education could ever hope to ordain you with even so much wisdom as to determine whether

you would be right to hand over your mother’s Christian Bible to be burned.”

It was Aurelius’ turn to smile wickedly. I saw that he finally realized Urbanus was playing a

game. “No, sir, your patronage wouldn’t be wasted at all. I might still make wrong judgments,

but, with an education, they would be less wrong and less frequent. And, I would learn the skills

of rhetoric, grammar and declamation that would allow me to defend any position, even my

patron’s and even if – not that this would ever happen, of course – he himself were wrong.”

I had trouble following that, but Urbanus barked out a loud laugh and took a swallow of his

wine. “Excellent answer. I’m sure my investment will not be wasted.” He turned to me. “Your

young teacher shows great promise. His family’s finances will not allow him to continue his

education in Carthage, but I have agreed to finance his studies and in return he will come back to

Thagaste and teach, and to make arguments on my behalf in the courts when I need him.”

Aurelius flushed and looked down at the mention of his family’s finances. I realized he had

been telling the truth when he insisted he wasn’t as rich as I thought he was, and I saw that it

embarrassed him. I was surprised, too, that Urbanus knew about our reading lessons in his

garden. I wondered whether he disapproved, but was too shy to ask.

He saved me the trouble. Urbanus leaned towards me. “It interests me that you want to learn

to read Latin.”

“Yes,” was all I could think of to say, but I held his eyes.

He nodded and took another sip of wine. “Tell me why.”

I was having trouble continuing to hold his gaze. I looked down at my lap for a second, then

lifted my head again. “Well, sir, I guess if I find an opportunity to have something the rich and

noble have, I should take it.”

He turned to one of his slaves and said, “Count the gold-plate after she leaves, Saul.” But he

was smiling. He frowned again, toying with the stem of his wine goblet. “You’re pretty. You

have other ways of getting more than just book learning.”

“Then I’d be just a whore, wouldn’t I?” I responded. “I’d rather be a poor man’s honest wife

than a rich man’s whore.”

21

Urbanus raised his eyebrows at Aurelius. “Well. How refreshing. Some poor goat herder will

be very lucky indeed to have a wife who is both beautiful and extraordinarily well-educated.” He

raised his goblet to us and took another drink.

Seeing he had no objection to the teaching arrangement, I began to relax. It had also become

clear that no other guests were expected, that the whole array of food on the table was meant for

the three of us. On the principle of taking good things when they were offered, I ate myself into a

near-stupor.

When Aurelius found his way to my chamber after dark, while the crickets whistled and the

fountain outside trickled under a silver moon, I was not surprised and not afraid. The terrors and

alarms of the day had awakened my blood, and the heavy food and wine left me feeling languid

and not myself. My determination not to be a rich man’s whore seemed like words spoken by

someone else, many years ago.

I was a virgin and had never even been kissed, except in play by village boys when I was a

little flat-chested girl. Aurelius’ eyes were hard and demanding, but his mouth was soft and

tender. He leaned over and kissed me gently at first, questioningly, and when I responded, he

gathered me up and kissed me harder. I was barely awake and determined to stay that way. If I

could convince myself I was dreaming, I couldn’t be blamed for not resisting. And so it was in

complete silence that we first became lovers.

22

By the next day, order was restored in Thagaste, though rocks, sandals, and scraps of clothing

littered the center of town, and here and there in the back alleys an unclaimed body remained for

the constables to haul away.

I returned Peter to his mother in the shop that morning, and Miriam was so happy to see him,

weeping with joy and scolding him at the same time, that she barely noticed me, and for that I

was glad. I felt transformed, as if my whole body must glow with my new secret.

My sharp-eyed sister noticed that something was different about me. Numa walked into the

shop at a pace quicker than her usual stroll, and her face sagged with in relief when she saw me.

But, instantly, she frowned. “Well, you look bright for someone we thought was dead.”

I wanted to hug her, but I looked down instead. “I’m sorry. Peter ran off and I had to find him.

Then we got stuck and… a kind family offered us a place to stay the night.”

She frowned again. I could tell she suspected there was more to the story. “Have you heard

anything of Maron?” she asked. “He didn’t come home either.”

“I saw him yesterday in the middle of the riot,” I admitted. I lowered my voice to a whisper.

“He was carrying a club.”

Numa nodded. “That’s what father’s afraid of. I have to get to work. I’m glad you’re all

right.” Now, finally, she embraced me, but it felt awkward and she cast another puzzled frown

over her shoulder as she left.

All day, I saw the shop, and Miriam and the children and our customers, through a veil, my

mind absorbed in the events of the previous evening: the tumult in the forum, the sumptuous

dinner, and, most of all, what had happened between me and Aurelius. My heart rapped against

my chest all day, and I felt more than light-headed; I felt light all over as if my mind had left my

body, leaving my legs and arms with a simple drill to follow on their own: walk into the back

room, reach for this roll of cloth, now open it for the customer, now smile pleasingly. Between

my legs I still felt raw and moist. If I squeezed my legs together under my tunic, I could imagine

I still felt his presence there.

My brain jangled with the question of whether to meet him in the square as usual for our

reading lesson. I couldn’t think of a reason not to, but I felt uncomfortable, as if our intimacy last

night had changed things in a way I didn’t understand. I realized then how naïve and unknowing

I was about such things, and wished I could ask someone how to conduct myself, but my usual

confidantes were Miriam and Numa, the people from whom I most wanted to keep my secret.

I wished Aurelius would come to the shop and give me a signal that our daily meeting time

remained unchanged, but as the afternoon sunlight puddled into the shop, I slowly put away the

remaining rolls of cloth and sorted the day’s coins into bags for Miriam, reluctant to make my

way to the square, where I would either wait or keep going for my walk home.

“You’re quiet today,” Miriam observed.

It took me a few seconds to collect an answer. “I’m still upset about yesterday,” I said. Not a

lie, exactly.

She nodded, and rubbed my back. “Will you meet your friend for your reading lesson today?”

“I suppose.” I shrugged, then squared my shoulders and took a breath. “I’d better be going or

I’ll be late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She gave my shoulders a squeeze, whispered, “Thanks again,” and let me go.

23

I set off for the square purposefully, but my stride slowed as I approached and once more

began to feel the anxiety that everything had changed, that he might not be there waiting for me.

I dragged my feet towards the town center, scanning for him so if he wasn’t there I could keep

moving instead of suffering the humiliation of waiting and waiting and finally giving up.

Who I saw was not Aurelius, but Numa. “Are you ready for a sight that will turn your

stomach?” she asked me.

“What is it?”

She looked me in the eye and took my hands. “Maron is dead.”

“Oh.” The syllable was expelled from me by some force that knotted my stomach and

numbed my face. “Oh,” I said again, and Numa put her arms around me. Maron the man had

been surly and angry, and had treated us like his slaves. But, now I remembered Maron the boy,

the playmate who made the bigger children include his little sisters in their games of run-goat-

run and Romans-and-Gauls, who twisted little dolls for us out of leftover wheat.

“I know,” Numa said, reading my mind. “Do you want to see? It isn’t pretty.”

I shook my head and frowned at her, not understanding.

“His body and five others are hung outside the forum.”

For once, I was not impatient with Numa’s slow pace. I wasn’t sure I wanted this last look at

our brother. Yet, another part of me buzzed with a mixture of dread, morbid curiosity and

impatience to just get it over with.

We soon reached the gateway to the forum.

The six bodies hung from rough scaffolding, in various states of ruin. Carrion birds swooped

and cackled overhead. I was afraid to look up and identify Maron, hoping childishly that Numa

had made a mistake. Slowly, though, I raised my eyes and scanned each body. It wasn’t hard to

spot Maron’s, the darkest one. His mouth hung open as innocent as a sleeping boy’s, but the

birds had already plucked his eyes and pecked at his smooth brown cheeks. His side showed a

long sword gash and one of his arms hung from his shoulder by a few threads of muscle.

Numa burst into tears. A sour, burning liquid rose in my throat and I had to turn away from

the sight of Maron’s body.

I wrapped my arms around Numa. “Come on. We’ll have to go home and break the news to

Father.”

Father already knew. We arrived home at our hut to find it crowded with men we’d never

seen before.

Father and Tito sat at our small table with a tall, sinewy man with a wild gray beard and the

robes of a priest. Three younger men stood nearby.

Father glanced up when Numa and I came in, but didn’t greet us. “Burying dead bodies,” he

growled at his guest, “is a disgusting Hebrew custom. I won’t have it even if it were possible. If

I’m allowed the body, it will be burned the way my fathers’ bodies were burned. But, you’re

wasting your time talking to me. The Romans won’t allow a funeral of any kind.”

“They might, with the right kind of persuasion.”

Numa started stirring the porridge that had been simmering on the fire all day, gently, as if it

might explode if she weren’t careful. I took a lead from her and went to the larder and quietly

unwrapped a cheese.

Father snorted. “You think because your Christ is the new official god, they’ll make

exceptions for you? You’re as naïve as your god.” He jabbed a finger towards the bearded man.

24

“The Romans understand one thing: power. Challenge their power and die. It’s as simple as that.

My boy’s body will hang there until it rots, to get that message across.”

“We can send a message of our own,” the bearded man argued, tipping his head toward his

silent companions.

Father stood. “The same kind of message you sent yesterday? My son was killed delivering

your message, and now I have one less set of strong arms to help support this family in my old

age. You used him. You used a stupid, headstrong boy to fight your little internal religious

battles and now you want to use his body to make some kind of point to the Empire. No. It’s

nothing to do with him, do you understand?”

I stole a glance at Numa as I started slicing cheese. She widened her eyes and shook her head.

“To the contrary,” the priest answered. “Of the six dead, four are martyrs. Maron is one. He

was a baptized Christian.”

Father leapt from his seat. “What? No, he wasn’t.”

“He was. He was more Christian than many who claim the name. He was baptized by a

legitimate priest, one ordained by a bishop of the martyr tradition.”

I had seldom seen my father speechless. Numa and I stopped our work and turned towards the

men, waiting to see what would happen next. Tito looked down, his folded hands nervously

tapping on the table top.

Finally, Father leaned across the table towards the priest. “You and your martyrs. Now you

have another, and I hope it satisfies you. But, I will not consent to a burial. His body will hang

and rot or it will burn. Leave my house now.”

The priest rose. “May you and your family be led to peace,” he said, and he left our hut with

his still-silent companions following.

The next morning, when Numa and I came back into town for work, only two bodies still