“...One afternoon you turned to me in a sudden rage, it was after we had shared the gifts of Venus again. Then you hit me. Do you remember how you hit me? You, Aurel, you who were once a respected teacher of rhetoric, you beat me almost senseless because you had allowed yourself to be tempted by my tenderness. So it was I who had to bear the blame for your lust. I have already cited Horace, but I will gladly do so again: When foolish people want to avoid making a mistake, they usually do the opposite thing!

You hit me and screamed, Bishop, because now I posed a threat again to the salvation of your soul. Then you seized a stick and beat me again. I wondered if you might want to beat the life out of me, for that might serve the same purpose as if you had castrated yourself. I was not so afraid for my own skin, I was just so broken, so disappointed and so ashamed of my Aurel that I clearly and distinctly remember wishing that you would do away with me now once and for all, Suddenly I had become something you could not just turn your back on for the sake of your soul’s salvation. I myself had become the bleeding sacrificial lamb that was necessary to open the gates of heaven.

Then you wept, I shall not forget that. You had stopped beating me, but I had several bleeding wounds. And you wept, and you comforted me, and you begged me for forgiveness. Everything was so different now Monica was no longer here, you explained. You folded your hands and begged, now me, now your God, for pardon. You found some cloth and bound up my wounds. I myself was merely cold and frightened, cold because I was bleeding, and frightened because I had seen right into a kind of wickedness I had no inkling of.

It was as if something completely new had begun, a new time. The old time, that came to an end when we two crossed the River Arno together. Then followed several years of confusion and doubt. Then the new time began when you suddenly hit me. I thought only one thought: ‘You, Aurel! You!’ You sent me back to Carthage. I heard no more from you before Adeotatis (nineteen year old son of Floria and Augustine) died two years later...”

Excerpted from ‘Vita Brevis’ by Jostein Gaarder. Published by Phoenix House (Div. Orion Books) in 1997. ISBN:0753801256.