The Saint's Mistress (9 page)

believes herself to be different from all the pretty peasant girls who had crossed the stage before

her. I looked down at my hands, two separate thoughts at war in my mind.
Welcome to the world

of the Romans
, one of them sneered,
you’re being offered not love, but a business proposition.

And you’re in no position to turn it down.
At the same time, I felt a tingle of victory. The door

was opened to a way out: no more waiting on my father and Tito, no more terror of being

married off to some brute with a scarred face like Numa. I could go and live in a big city with

Aurelius and our child, and, eventually, perhaps, figure out a way to convince him to marry me

after all. I took a deep breath, inhaling the tears that had threatened.

Aurelius had said nothing throughout the conversation. I tossed my head as I raised it to look

at him. “Do you agree to this?”

He stammered, “I – Really, it’s the best thing for us, Leona. I mean – it keeps us together,

right? And what’s marriage really? It’s nothing. It’s business. It’s you I love.”

I looked at Urbanus. “Thank you, sir,” I repeated. “You’re generous.”

He narrowed his eyes and nodded. “Not generous. I expect a return from this young man.

Now, come, let’s seal the deal with a good dinner.” He extended his arm, motioning us to

precede him into the dining room.

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I didn’t think to ask, at the time, what would become of me when Aurelius did finally find a

suitable wife. I didn’t think to ask what would become of our child should he marry. And I didn’t

think, yet, to wonder how his family might react.

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I couldn’t face my father. I made Numa promise that she’d explain after I was gone. With

Miriam, I was distant, though it pained me. I longed to tell her my plans, but didn’t want to force

my secret on yet another person I loved, forcing her to choose between loyalty to me and a duty

to inform my father – as I knew she would want to know if one of her children were in any kind

of trouble.

Over the next two weeks, I’d catch her gazing at me with her head tilted as if trying to figure

out what I could be up to. I deflected her questions by claiming I still didn’t know what to do,

and, no, I hadn’t told my father yet. To her offers of help, I said simply, “No, thanks,” avoiding

her eyes.

One day she took me by the shoulders, gazed into my eyes with her hazel ones, and said,

“Leona, at least promise me this: that you will not go to a disreputable abortionist. Remember

what Ruth said about the surer methods also bringing surer death. Promise me.”

“I promise. I remember what she said. I don’t want to die.” That part, at least, was true. I had

put out of my mind all of my worries over being the mother of a bastard, the mistress of a

Romanized aristocrat, and was heedlessly in love all over again, eager to begin my life in

Carthage with Aurelius. I felt sure I could eventually bind him to me permanently. Life felt sweet

again, and I felt sweet and full, as if honey flowed in my veins.

Little rain had fallen since the day of the governor’s visit. One especially dusty afternoon, a

slave plodded barefoot up the stairs to our shop and bowed to me. “Are you Leona?” he wanted

to know.

“Yes.”

“You’re requested to come with me to attend to Monnica, widow of the deucile Patricius

Augustinus. You’re to come right away. A carriage waits for you downstairs.”

Miriam, having overhead from the back room, drifted into the sales room. “You should go,”

she said gravely, “it’s almost closing time anyway.”

Heart flapping against my ribs, I followed the slave down to the street, where another slave

guarded a sedan chair. The first slave helped me into it, and then the two of them picked it up

and began running down the street with it, bare feet slapping up little clouds of dust. I had never

before ridden in any kind of carriage. I felt off-balance in the swaying chair, and out of control

behind its curtains, unable to see where we were going. But the ride had about it, too, a sly air of

luxury, as if I were getting away with something. It occurred to me that I might be riding around

in carriages a lot more in the future, and that it would be a lovely thing to get used to. Why settle

for the Romans’ reading only, when their wealth provided so many other good things?

When we arrived at Monnica’s house, the slaves set the chair down gently and helped me out.

The slave who had come into the shop led me to the lady’s sitting room and showed me to a

chair.

I looked around while waiting for Monnica. Her home was much less luxurious than

Urbanus’. The floor tiles were large and made of simple red clay, rather than the ornate mosaic

of Urbanus’ dining room, and the walls were plain white plaster. But the chair I sat on had legs

of bronze, in an ornate lion’s paw fashion, and a cushion of green, embroidered with a pattern in

white and gold. On one wall hung the cross that the Christians took as the symbol of their

crucified god.

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Monnica entered the room with such quiet grace that I didn’t realize I was no longer alone

until she spoke.

“Your ride here was comfortable?” she asked.

I nearly jumped out of my chair, I was so startled. I readjusted my tunic, composing myself a

little before I had to look at her. “Yes, thank you.”

“May I offer you some wine?”

Although I was parched, I felt uneasy accepting anything from her. “No, thank you.” I

finished my clothing adjustments, and slowly dared to glance at her as she settled herself on the

couch across from me.

She picked up a piece of embroidery and started pricking it with a needle, frowning. She

made a couple of quick stitches and the looked up at me. She compressed her lips slightly, as if

sizing me up, and then she spoke. “My son tells me you are with child.”

I flushed. I had assumed that, like me, Aurelius would keep our secret from his parent. “Yes,

ma’am,” I admitted.

“His child?” She gazed at me intently, as if her eyes could pierce my heart and read in it truth

or falsehood.

“Yes, ma’am,” I repeated, meeting her gaze. “It couldn’t possibly be anyone else’s.”

She held my gaze a few more seconds and then nodded. “And Urbanus has offered you a

household,” she stated, and I sensed behind her carefully neutral phrasing the discipline it took to

conceal her rage and frustration.

I nodded. Although I longed to rearrange my tunic again, I willed myself to stillness.

Monnica frowned down at her embroidery. I could see that she was stitching a scene of lambs

and flowers. “Is that the life you dreamed of for yourself?” she asked me.

It was not the question I expected. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

She set down her work and spread her hands. “Well, is this all you want out of life: a few

months or years as concubine to a man above your station, and one or two children who you will

have to hand over to him or to the Church when he tires of you?”

I felt the blood drain from my face, and knew I must look as startled as I felt. “What – what

do you mean?”

“Aurelius Augustine is called to the Church,” Monnica said firmly. “I’ve felt it since he was

born. He doesn’t see it yet, but he’s young and –“ she gestured towards my still-flat belly, “ – full

of lust. He’ll hear the call eventually, and if he hasn’t tired of you before that, he will dismiss

you then. Your child – or children? They too will be given to the Church, or to his brother and

his wife to raise. This is what you want then?”

No response formed in my brain, only incoherent panic.

“There are other choices. You’re a pretty girl; my family could help your father find a very

suitable husband for you, who could raise your child as his own. We could quietly see to it that

the child – and your whole family – never suffered any want, and we could use our influence to

find a good match or a place in the Church for the child when he reached adulthood. He would

have many of the same advantages he’d have as Aurelius’ acknowledged bastard, with the

advantage to you of keeping him by your side as he grows.” Monnica picked up her embroidery

again, smoothing it with her hand as if to soothe herself.

I was still speechless, trying to digest the possibility that I could be sent away without the

child at some point. I had forgotten that I’d tried to abort it only two weeks ago. My child felt

real to me now that I had imagined a future with him.

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“Or perhaps you’re not ready to be a mother at all?” Monnica continued. “You could enter the

Church if you like. I know you’re not a Christian, but there are communities which take any

chaste woman as a catechumen. We could help you with that if you prefer.” She paused. “We

want to do what’s right for you, of course, and the child, and for my son’s future.”

“I love him,” I blurted. I lowered my head and dug my fingernails into my palms, willing

myself not to cry.

“Then you would surely want what’s best for him,” Monnica replied sharply.

I lifted my chin. “I think he should decide what’s best for him.”

She frowned, and waved a hand. “He doesn’t know what’s best for him. He’s 17. He’s

blinded by lust. He is meant for the Church,” she repeated, leaning forward, her eyes fierce.

“He’s not even a Christian,” I argued. “How can he be meant to serve a Church he doesn’t

even belong to?”

“He’s been enrolled as a catechumen since birth. I pray on it every day. He’s young yet. He’s

intoxicated now with the pagan philosophers, just as he’s intoxicated with your body. But surely

even you can see how brilliant he is. I refuse to believe that our Lord would have blessed him

with such a mind unless it were for His own use.”

“I love him,” I repeated, hating how plaintive and childish I sounded, but having no better

argument against the great lady and her God.

She stood and waved her hand again. “The kind of love you feel, that corrupt, physical kind of

love? It fades very quickly, believe me. The love of the Lord endures forever. Consider joining a

Christian community of chaste women. If you love my son, save his soul and your own.” She

approached me and spoke softly. I saw that she sensed my vulnerability and hoped to take

advantage of it, and that snapped my stubbornness back into place. I saw myself and Aurelius in

a little house in Carthage, our baby playing at our feet, books and wine and olives on a table,

honeyed evening sun flowing into a window. I saw the sea and felt its breezes. I would not give

that up for something so abstract as a Christian’s idea of a soul.

“I love him, and we want to make a life together in Carthage. I’ll be a good mother to his

child and a good—” I almost said wife… “—a good partner. You are welcome in our home any

time, lady, but I will not give him up unless he himself sends me away.”

Monnica sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I already tried that. It seems our friend Urbanus

has made an offer more attractive than our Lord’s promise of eternal life.” She sighed again and

looked into my eyes. “He will tire of you, and you will lose your child. You must realize this.”

I shrugged. I didn’t believe her.

Monnica sighed one more time. “You have my word that the child will be well cared for

regardless. Do one thing for me.”

I remained silent, but raised my eyebrows and cocked my head to hear her request.

“If it is a boy, name him Tedeodonatus: given to God.”

“We will consider that, lady,” I replied, bowing my head to hide my little smile of triumph.

I finally confessed my plans to Miriam the day before we were to go, and she and Numa both

came to see me off on a cool fall morning with wisps of fog tangled in the olive trees outside

town. I was leaving Thagaste with the clothes on my back, my single change of clothing and the

few coins from last week’s pay that I had not turned over to our father.

Numa hugged me, and I felt her tears on my shoulder. “I’ll never see you again,” she

mourned.

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“I know.” I felt a lump rise in my own throat. “Have a good life with your husband by the

sea.”

She peeled herself away from me reluctantly, and it was Miriam’s turn to embrace me. “I got

you this,” she said, lifting a thong from around her neck and placing it around mine.

I lifted the amulet that hung from the leather thong. It was a Christian cross, but unusual in

design, the arms of the cross carved to look like twisting grape vines.

“I got myself the same one,” she explained, showing me. “You’re my sister in Christ, even if

you’re not a believer yet, and I’ll pray for you every day.”

Now I started to cry, and I nodded and hugged her again. “Go with God,” she whispered.

“Have a good life,” my sister called to me, I headed through the forum to Urbanus’ house,

where horses waited to take us to Carthage.

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