When Adeodatus died, Augustine sent him home to me in a coffin full of honey, so that I could bury him or burn him as I chose, in the country where he was born. He wrote that he would follow later, and attend if I would permit it. I did not wait upon his endless episcopal tasks, and in the event he was delayed for months, so I had not even the satisfaction of denying him an ending. I remember I opened the lid, cleaned the honey from his skin, and spoke the words, and cried, then put him down once more in his box. A true Christian might give him to the soil, but I’d not have him rot. I remember that the honey smelled of rosemary, with the faintest whisper of raw meat and piss.