The Saint's Mistress (23 page)

“Is the plaque getting worse?”

He nodded. “Saint Hilary’s is full. But fewer came yesterday than the day before, so perhaps

…” He shrugged wearily. “It’s in the hands of God.”

“Not completely,” Aurelius pointed out. “Our son would be dead if you hadn’t lanced his

swelling.”

“But it was God who sent me to you,” the priest pointed out. “And remember what your

friend Plato said,” he added, nodding towards Aurelius’ book, “‘The greatest mistake in the

treatment of diseases is that there are physicians for the body and physicians for the soul,

although the two cannot be separated.’”

Aurelius blinked. “You know Plato?”

“I studied Plato for many years, along with Cicero, Homer, and Aristotle. I’m still an admirer

of the wisdom of the ancients, but wisdom is nothing beside the Word.”

“Then you were an educated man?”

“Yes, I had a classical education, and houses in town, and estates in Tuscany, but my sister

was converted by Bishop Ambrose and took me to him, and when our parents died we were both

baptized and gave all of our estate to the Church and dedicated our lives to serving the Lord. He

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has said that whatever we do to the least, we do to him, so in the face of every sick and dying

person, I see my God, and that helps me to do my work.”

His words spoke to a stillness in me so that I momentarily forget even my sick child. Even

Aurelius was speechless.

Brother Mark squared his shoulders now, as if heading for some battle. “Now, the two of you

should rest. Nobody knows what causes this plague, but it can’t do you any good to be exhausted

and run down. Your child will live, by the Grace of God, and he will need his parents. Have your

servant throw away everything that the boy touched before and during his illness, and open the

windows to the sun. Nobody knows why, but these things seem to help.”

I nodded, still under the spell of his words about his God. He said a last prayer over Adeo, and

was gone.

“Ambrose is the one I told you about,” I said to Aurelius. “The one who he said converted his

sister? That’s the bishop that I told you about, that I go to hear.”

Aurelius grunted.

“He’s a great speaker. You should want to hear him just for the sake of that.”

“Maybe some time.”

“His God healed our child.”

“That priest healed our child, and Adeo was fortunate to have a strong body to start with. Ask

yourself why not all who pray to the Christian God are healed.”

I had no good answer for that, so I fell silent. But, in the days that followed, as Adeo regained

his strength and good spirits, I felt myself in the presence of a miracle worked by the suffering

God who admonished his followers to care for the poor and heal the sick.

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Once Adeo had regained his strength and it was clear that Aurelius and I had been spared, I

thought to look for Brother Mark to thank him and offer a donation. The plague loosened its grip

on Milan almost suddenly with the coming of spring. Fewer were falling ill, and the church bells

tolling the count of the dead had fallen almost silent.

I knew Aurelius would try to talk me out of going to St. Hilary’s to look for Brother Mark.

Why risk illness now, with the plague almost defeated? I could hear him asking. But I felt

compelled to seek out the handsome young priest who had saved our son’s life.

I entered the foul-smelling dimness of St. Hilary’s on a day of sunshine and fresh spring

breeze. Motes of dust and little bugs floated and spun in the shafts of dirty yellow light near the

windows. Many sick still lay on pallets and on the cold stone floor of the simple church. The

stench of illness, sweat and human waste was so stomach-turning that I drew the end of my

headdress over my mouth and nose, and still my stomach rolled. The weak moans of the

suffering, and the rustle of the woolen robes of the nurses combined in the echoing stone church

into a general swishing sound that was almost soothing.

I picked my way down an aisle, fearful of stepping on some poor soul, living or dead. I

squinted into the dimness seeking Brother Mark and finally disturbed a nurse in a brown robe

and foul, spattered apron. “Is Brother Mark here?” I asked.

Without slowing her steps, she pointed to a corner of the apse, near the altar.

As I approached, he was closing the eyelids of a gaunt man in a slave’s tunic. It was hard to

tell whether the dead man had been young or old. He skin was gray and mottled, his cheeks

sunken. I shuddered. How easily it could have been Adeo!

I could see the gleam of tears on Brother Mark’s cheeks, and he buried his face in one hand,

shoulders shaking. I stood awkwardly for a moment, trying to decide whether to speak or to

leave him alone with his grief for a moment. Finally, I placed my hand on his shoulder and

asked, “Someone you knew, Brother?”

“No, I – Oh,it’s you. The mother of the young man whose father reads Plato. How does your

son fare? He still lives, I hope.”

“Yes, yes, he’s fine thanks to you. But this man – was he a friend?”

“No,” the priest replied, rising wearily, and gazing at the dead man with regret. “No, he was

left here two days ago by another slave. The family they served were in a hurry to get out of

town, and left them here. I thought he might live, but ….” He rubbed his face with one hand.

“You seemed so upset, I just thought…”

“No, I never even got his name. He reminded me of our Lord. He was a Jew like our Lord. I

knew by his facial hair and his…they have a distinctive ritual having to do with the male organ,

you see. And, of course, he was of a lowly caste, like our Lord Jesus.” He looked softly at the

dead man. “It was especially for the ones like him that our Lord came among us.”

“He… your God was born a slave?”

Brother Mark looked at me with something like amusement in his weary eyes. “Not a slave,

no, but of humble parents. You didn’t know that, I see.”

“I knew that many of the poor follow your God. My brother…” I started, then finished, “No, I

didn’t know. I thought he was powerful, like other gods who rise from the dead.”

“He is like no other god you’ve heard of. He gave up that power to be among us, to be like us,

even the lowest of us like this poor slave.”

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I felt light-headed, maybe from the stench in the church, but my heart was hammering, too, as

if I were in the presence of Brother Mark’s strange god, the god whose symbol I had carried

around my neck for years with no real understanding at all.

“You’re surprised,” Brother Mark said.

“I.. yes.”

The priest fixed on me the same tender gaze that had rested on the dead slave. “He loves you,

too, child. Go and sit with him a while.” He gestured at the crucifix hanging behind the altar and,

patting my shoulder, walked away.

I did as he said. I knelt in front of that image of the dying god for what might have been a few

minutes of a few hours. Aurelius had taught me to be so clever with words, but I had no smart

words during that time in the plague-infested church. Only
One of us! One of us!
, my heart kept

singing.

I had worn his symbol for years out of loyalty to Miriam, and had made careless promises to

him in times of trouble, which I promptly broke. I had listened to Ambrose’s sermons and been

found him to be as subtle and as logical and Aurelius’ beloved Plato – and far more comforting. I

had been drawn to the Christian church, as so many were in these hard days, by their care for the

poor and the sick.

But never had I known the astounding fact that this Christ was one of us, one of the poor and

lowly.

I felt like a gong that had been hammered and made to sing some sweet music. As I knelt, my

soul was slowly and willingly given over to this greatest and humblest of gods. After a while, I

noticed that I was still clutching the gold coins that I had meant to offer to Brother Mark. I

opened my fist and left them before the altar. Then I walked back home, feeling insubstantial, as

if my body were made of light.

“You must do as you think best, of course,” Aurelius said stiffly.

“And Adeo.”

“Adeo must decide for himself when he is old enough. Do as you wish, take him to your

Masses if you must, but don’t fill his head with miracles and fairy tales when he’s too young to

tell the difference between truth and magic.”

“I want the three of us to be together in heaven,” I pleaded.

“In heaven. And where exactly is this heaven?”

“I don’t know.”

“And yet you do know that if we’re all baptized we will be joined there.”

I made no answer.

“Well, go ahead. I’m not stopping you. But you know what I think.”

I hesitated over the words that I had to say next. “You know that we can’t continue to live in a

sinful relationship.”

“Leona, don’t be ridiculous. Priests live with women not their wives all over Italy and the

Empire.”

“They live in sin then.”

Aurelius flushed and didn’t respond.

“We can marry now. You said so yourself before we left Africa.”

“We can’t marry now,” he argued impatiently. “Leona, my position at the university depends

partly on my availability as a mate to important men’s daughters. They favor me as a potential

son-in-law. Married to you, I’m far less valuable and therefore vulnerable.”

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I had half-expected it, but still my body went heavy with disappointment. I knew better than

to argue, but I couldn’t help it. “There’s always some reason. I’ve been a wife to you in

everything but name. I’m the mother to your child. Think of him.”

“I do think of him. Why do you think I’m so worried about my position?”

“Haven’t I been as good as a wife to you?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he assured me, reaching to pull me to him. “Oh, Leona, you know I

love you.”

His touch was so warm, his hands so large and strong. I melted into his familiar body with the

old ease, inhaling the sweaty, manly scent of him, his smell of olives and salt. My cheek brushed

the coarse, springy hairs of his broad chest.

He cradled my face in his two big hands and lifted it to look into his eyes. “Listen to me. You

are the only woman I have ever loved or ever will love. Nothing can change that. I admit that I’m

ambitious, but that can’t come between us, and your Bishop Ambrose can never come between

us.”

My heart sprung towards him, but I knew that I had to resist. Tears rose behind my cheeks. “It

isn’t Ambrose that comes between us, but the One that he speaks for.”

“I speak a wholly different language,” he teased, bending to kiss me, his full lips covering

mine, his firm tongue probing behind my teeth. One of those hands that I so loved cradled the

back of my head and the other gripped my bottom and pulled me tighter against him, so that I felt

his swollen penis pressing against my belly. I melted further into him, dizzy with lust, oh, one

last time, only once more and then I will be chaste. He broke away from me and smiled, then

lifted me and carried me to his bed. He laid me down, then lay on top of me without undressing,

kissing me again, hard, my lips, my neck, my shoulders, biting lightly with his teeth sometimes

the way he knew I liked. I clung to him and squirmed beneath him and he entered me and first

his movements were slow, smooth and taunting, as he gazed down at me. Then his eyes closed

and he lowered himself to me and moved faster and I moved with him, until pleasure bloomed

like a suddenly blooming flower, and he shuddered and groaned on top of me.

The familiar honey filled my veins. I couldn’t move. I felt disappointed that my resolve had

failed so easily and so completely, but I wasn’t sorry. At the same time, I knew that this was the

last time, that I would make my confession tomorrow and sin no more.

He knew that he was heavy on me, and rolled quickly to his side, drawing me onto my side to

face him. We lay like that in silence for several minutes, the sweat drying on our bodies, our

breath slowing.

Finally, I broke from his embrace and stood, reordering my robe and smoothing my hair. He

smiled up at me. “Leaving me so soon?” he teased.

“I make my confession tomorrow,” I reminded him. “After that…” I looked down. “After

that, I can’t do this anymore unless we’re married. I hope that out of love for me and your son,

you’ll allow me to live on here. I hope that I may continue as your friend. But, I can’t sin with

you anymore.” It was the speech that I had intended to make earlier.

“You can’t be serious!”

“Of course I can be serious! Weren’t you serious every time you and your friends took a

notion to dabble in asceticism and you avoided my bed for weeks at a time?”

“That was different.” He sat up.

“Different? Yes, I suppose it was. With you, it was the philosophy of the week. Oh, what am I

today? An Epicure, a Cynic or an Ascetic? Or shall I be a Stoic? Or a Platonist or a Manichean?”