Augustine, catching his disapproval, took my feet and placed them in his lap, something he often did when we were sitting on the same couch. He then refilled my goblet, offered more wine to Monica, which she refused, and set down the ewer.
I saw Ambrose hide a grin.
Adeodatus, the birthday boy, had fallen asleep beside me, his face pushed into my side, one arm draped carelessly over my waist. I stroked his head but he did not stir.
Ambrose took his cloak off the back of his couch and, getting up, walked over to me and draped it lengthwise over my sleeping son.
“He has been ill, I hear,” he said. “We don't want him catching cold.” Then he bowed to me. “I must congratulate you on your son. Seldom have I seen such a bright and loving boy. Truly he lives up to his name.”
It was gallantly said and I blushed a little and then squirmed as Augustine tickled the soles of my feet. A great glow of contentment bloomed in my chest then and it was not because of the wine I had drunk but because of my sleeping son at my side and Augustine caressing my feet.
The men talked late into the night and I listened half-dozing. After an hour or so Monica excused herself and went to bed. When Augustine would have carried Adeodatus to bed, I prevented him.
“Leave him a while,” I said. “He is so peaceful.”
It was a joy to feel the even rise and fall of his chest beneath my hand, the way he lay so still, his limbs so relaxed. After the terror of his illness and his delirium, I could not get enough of his healthful sleep.
Nebridius was asking Ambrose what he made of the language
of the Bible, if he thought it untutored, almost childish, in its simplicity and confusion of metaphors and parables.
“If it were as eloquent and subtle as Cicero or Plotinus,” Nebridius said, “it would make more sense to me.”
Symmachus nodded.
“I agree,” Augustine said. “Especially the Old Testament. Take, for instance, the story of Adam and Eve. How can we believe that a woman who ate an apple could bring ruin to the world?”
Here he grinned at me then quickly grew serious again.
“How can we believe in a man who built an ark or a sea that parted to give dry passage to the Israelites. It is against all reason. They sound like fairytales for the unlearned and the credulous, not the literal word of God.”
Ambrose smiled. “Yes,” he said. “They can seem childish, I agree. Consider this: the Scriptures, both Old and New, but especially the Old, are parables, stories that hold a spiritual meaning deep inside like a nut once cracked reveals the meat therein and so sustains the soul. Christ himself spoke in parables.”
In response to Ambrose's comment Augustine fell silent, almost brooding. After a while, he said: “Let's say that you are right, that the Bible is, somehow, true. Why would God and his Son speak in riddles? Why not be plain?”
Ambrose choked on his wine and began to cough. Symmachus pounded him on the back. I looked at Augustine, worried that he had offended the bishop, but when the coughing fit passed I saw it had been brought on by his laughter.
“Excellent question, my friend. How I wish more people asked questions like that.”
Ambrose sat a while in silence, and I was reminded of the way Augustine ordered his thoughts in his mind before opening his mouthâa trait I did not share.
“ âTherefore I speak to them in parables,' ” Ambrose quoted, “ âbecause they seeing do not see: and hearing do not hear, neither do they understand.' And again, âExcept you are converted and become as little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.' The gospel of Matthew.”
“That's exactly what I'm talking about,” Augustine said. “Riddles. And we are children no longer with neither will nor reason and require more than childish stories. We require something that is according to reason and not merely blind faith.”
This time Ambrose did not laugh but looked at Augustine intently as if weighing him in a scale. “Paradox,” he said, “is the space God gives us for the exercise of the will. And our attraction to beauty is what He gives us to draw the will. We desire what is beautiful and restlessly seek it out. When we find it, we find God.”
Augustine stared at him as if thunderstruck, but I could not see what had amazed him. An awkward silence fell, one in which I saw Ambrose continue to regard Augustine although Augustine did not notice, so absorbed he seemed in his own thoughts.
Symmachus coughed. “I must thank you, Augustine,” he said, raising his goblet in a toast. “Your panegyric for my friend, Bauto, was the most brilliant thing. He is a Frankish general of great repute and you hit the mark exactly.”
Augustine acknowledged this compliment with a slight nod of his head. As official Orator of Milan, he was called upon to write such things, but I knew his heart was not really in it. He much
preferred to study the philosophers and poets rather than write laudatory pieces for political types.
“The high road to public office,” Symmachus went on, still addressing Augustine, “is laid by literary success. You have a bright future ahead of you, my friend. Does he not?” Symmachus said turning to his cousin.
I glanced at Ambrose, who had been looking at Augustine pensively all this while.
“He does indeed,” he said at last. “He does indeed.”
“In fact,” Symmachus said, addressing Augustine again, “the proconsul has taken an interest in you and would like to meet. He believes he may have a position for you at court.”
I glanced at Augustine. He looked startled then uneasy. We had only been in Milan a short while and already he had come to the attention of the highest-ranking officials. It was what he had always wanted, and I was puzzled why he did not seem more pleased. I opened my mouth to say something and then caught Nebridius's eye across the room. He shook his head slightly so I left my words unsaid.
As if rousing himself with great effort from his thoughts, Ambrose got to his feet.
“Come cousin, we must go and let these good people have their rest. Thank you,” he said, taking my hand and bowing over it. “I have seldom had a pleasanter evening. The food was delightful, the company even more so.” He briefly touched Adeodatus's head. “Gift from God,” he murmured.
I carefully peeled his cloak off Adeodatus and gave it back to him. “Thank you,” I said, “for being so kind to my son.”
Symmachus got unsteadily to his feet. He was a little drunk. “Charmed,” he said to me, bowing, and headed for the door. Augustine glanced at me and shrugged.
Perhaps feeling chilled without the cloak, Adeodatus stirred so Augustine said his good-byes and picked him up in his arms and carried him to bed. Nebridius also said his farewells.
As the hostess, I saw our guests out.
I stood on the step and watched as Ambrose and Symmachus walked down to the end of the street where Symmachus's litter bearers had been waiting for their master all night. Earlier I had sent Marta out to them with food and drink. Ambrose had walked, he told us on his arrival at the house when Augustine had expressed surprise he was alone. Something he seldom got the chance to do anymore, he said, without being trailed by a train of servants. He loved the peace and freedom of walking at night.
“A brilliant man, Augustine,” I heard Symmachus say, his slightly slurred voice carrying clear on the still night air. “Shame about his unfortunate liaison with that woman, though I can see the attraction, believe me. She's a beauty and no mistake. He'd go far if he could only make a suitable marriage to someone of his own class. The proconsul's already expressed his concern. Apparently the emperor frowns on such relationships.”
“Be silent, man!” I heard Ambrose say angrily. “She will hear you.”
As I turned to go in, I saw Nebridius standing in the atrium behind me, his face in shadow. I shut and bolted the door slowly so that I could erase the effect of Symmachus's words from my face. I felt sick to my stomach, the joy of the evening, the foundation of my whole life, changed in an instant. Then I turned to face him.
“You heard,” I said.
“Yes.”
I moved past him into the dining room and began to dowse the lamps. When only one remained lit, the flickering shadows providing a kind of refuge, I sat down on the couch where only a short while before I had reclined with Augustine and my son. Nebridius sat down next to me.
“Is it true what Symmachus said? That the emperor is against unions such as ours?”
Nebridius looked down a moment and then turned to face me. “It is true,” he said.
“And Augustine knows this.” Now I understood the look on Augustine's face when Symmachus had mentioned the proconsul's interest in him.
“He does. It was communicated to him in no uncertain terms when he arrived in Milan. He was told that if he wanted to rise at court he would have to . . .”
“Put me away,” I finished for him.
He sighed. “Yes.”
I surveyed the room. On the low tables between the dining couches was the detritus of our meal: wine cups not quite empty, a half-eaten round of cheese, the bare stalks of a bunch of grapes. The cushion where my son's head had lain, once warm, was now cold. The brazier had burned low and gave off little heat so the room was growing cold. The house lay silent.
I looked back at Nebridius and asked the question I dreaded to ask. “Is that what Augustine plans to do?” I said. “Put me away?”
“No!” Nebridius's voice was loud and seemed to echo through
the sleeping house. Lowering it he said: “No. He has never said such a thing, not even hinted at it.” He took my hand and pressed it. “He loves you, Naiad. You know that.”
“Yes,” I said sadly. “But like Aeneas, his love for Dido and her love for him made no difference in the end. They were still parted.”
We sat in silence for what seemed like a long time. Symmachus's words rang in my head: “unfortunate liaison . . . suitable marriage.” I had forgotten what Monicaâwhat even my auntâhad tried to tell me all those years ago. Seduced by time, I had thought as the years wore on, as our love matured and grew stronger day by day, as together we watched our son grow from infancy to boyhood and thence to manhood that Augustine and I would always be thus. I had imagined us in old age, grandparents, Augustine famed throughout the world for the wit and passion and eloquence of his words. But however famous he became he would always, always be my Augustine, my only love, still that shy seventeen-year-old standing on my aunt's doorstep with the shell, that perfect gift, concealed in his hand.
In our youth, we had set out on the same road but now, in our maturity, the road had forked and we must take a different path, one to the right, one to the left. And it seemed to me that all along we had possessed a map that had foretold this but in the passion of our first love we had ignored it. I did not ask Nebridius what could be done. I knew the answer: either Augustine would be forever stalled in his career or he would have to marry and I would return to Africa.
“I have a farm outside of Carthage.” Nebridius's voice was low, almost a whisper.
I looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then slowly I understood. “You mean a place where I could live?”
He had not let go of my hand from before and now he squeezed it hard. “It is only so you know you will not be friendless and alone if . . .”
Again, he paused.
“If I return to Africa.” I could not say “leave” Augustine or my son nor even think it.
I got up and, bending down, kissed Nebridius good night.
“Take the lamp,” he said.
When I left the room he was still sitting in the dark. The house was silent, the only sound a faint splashing from the fountain in our tiny atrium and the lone trill of a night bird far off. I looked into Adeodatus's room and listened a moment to his quiet breathing.
Augustine was sleeping. He had left a lamp lit for me beside the bed. My eyes filled with tears when I saw its tiny flame burning bravely in the darkness, making shadows dance on his face, his closed eyes, a lock of hair fallen untidily across his brow.
He needs a haircut
, I thought and smiled a little at my wifely concern. Then all at once I was weeping, tears running silently down my face.
W
eeks passed. Monica remained with us, as the shipping lanes had closed for the winter. I found myself watching Augustine for some sign that he had decided to send me away, interpreting each word he spoke, each gesture he made to mean the worst. I became withdrawn, easily startled, more impatient with Adeodatus, whose hurt look when I snapped at him increased my misery. Everyone noticed this change in me, not least Augustine, but when he asked me what was wrong, I said I was fine. Only Nebridius knew what ailed me and he kept his peace.
It was no comfort to me at all that Augustine had never lied to me, had never falsely promised what he could not give. It was I who had lied to myself, told myself that he would not be thwarted by our union. Never in all our years together had he shown me that he regretted his decision to take me to him though many another man would have done so. But I knew that he felt trapped and while my heart pitied him, I also felt an anger borne of helplessness.
Symmachus's words lay lodged in my heart, an arrowhead breaking off when the surgeon tries to remove it, festering there, making me sleepless. At night I demanded Augustine's caresses like
a wild animal that gorges itself while it can before the starvation of the winter. I grew so thin and pale he fretted I had taken a secret malady like a lump that sometimes grows in women's breasts until it kills them. He told Monica of his fears, and she questioned me closely about my health, insisting I allow her to examine me.
“I can feel nothing untoward,” she said as I was getting dressed again. “As far as I can tell, your body is healthy.” She looked closely at my face. “But your heart is sick. What is troubling you?”