The priests of the city were kept busy from prime to vespers, saying Mass and hearing confession. The churches were filled to bursting, the ranks of the faithful swelled with a multitude of unfamiliar faces—for fear had goaded many a fainthearted Christian into newfound faith. Piously they lighted candles and raised their voices in prayer for the safety of their homes and families—and for the recovery of the ailing Sergius, on whom all their hopes depended. May the strength of God be with our Lord Pope, they prayed, for surely he would have need of great fortitude to save Rome from the devil Lothar.
SERGIUS’S voice rose and fell in the fluid melodies of the Roman chant, truer and sweeter than that of any of the other boys in the schola canto-rum. The singing master smiled approval at him. Encouraged, Sergius sang out more loudly, his young soprano rising higher and higher in joyous ecstasy, till it seemed as if it would lift him into Heaven itself.
The dream receded, and Sergius awoke. Fear, vague and undefined, crowded the edges of his consciousness, setting his heart racing before he understood why.
With a nauseating lurch, he remembered.
Lothar.
He sat up. His head throbbed, and there was a foul taste in his mouth. “Celestinus!” His voice cracked like a rusted hinge.
“Holiness!” Celestinus rose sleepily from the floor. With his soft pink cheeks, round child’s eyes, and tousled blond hair, he resembled a heavenly cherub. At ten, he was the youngest of the cubicularii; Celestinus’s father was a man of great influence in the city, so he had come to the Lateran earlier than most. Well, Sergius thought, he is no younger than I was when I was taken from my parents’ home.
“Bring Benedict,” he commanded. “I would speak with him.” Celestinus nodded and hurried off, stifling a yawn.
One of the kitchen servants entered with a platter of bread and bacon. Sergius was not supposed to break fast until after his celebration of Mass—for the hands that touched the eucharistic gifts had to be free from any worldly stain. In private, though, such niceties of form were often disregarded—especially with a Pope of such prodigious appetite.
This morning, however, the smell of the bacon made Sergius’s gorge rise. He waved the tray aside. “Take it away.”
A notary entered and announced, “His Grace the Archpriest awaits you in the triclinium.”
“Let him wait,” Sergius responded curtly. “I will speak first with my brother.”
Benedict’s common sense in this crisis had proved invaluable. It had been his idea to take money from the papal treasury in order to buy off Lothar. Fifty thousand gold solidi should be enough to assuage even an Emperor’s wounded pride.
Celestinus returned, not with Benedict but with Arighis, the vicedominus.
“Where is my brother?” Sergius asked.
“Gone, Holiness,” Arighis replied.
“Gone?”
“Ivo the porter saw him ride out just before dawn with a dozen or so attendants. We thought you knew.”
A rise of bile bathed Sergius’s throat. “The money?”
“Benedict collected it last night. There were eleven coffers altogether. He had them with him when he left.”
“No!” But even as Sergius’s lips formed the denial, he knew the truth of it. Benedict had betrayed him.
He was helpless. Lothar would come, and there was nothing, nothing Sergius could do to stop him.
A wave of nausea overtook him. He leaned over the side of the bed, spilling the sour contents of his stomach onto the floor. He tried to rise but could not; pain stabbed at his legs, immobilizing him. Celestinus and Arighis ran to help him, lifting him back and down. Turning his head into the pillow, Sergius wept unrestrainedly, like a child.
Arighis turned to Celestinus. “Stay with him. I’m going to the dungeon.”
JOAN stared at the bowl of food before her. There was a small crust of stale bread, and some gray, indistinguishable chunks of meat, threaded through with wriggling maggots; the rotten odor rose to her nostrils. It had been several days since she had eaten, for the guards, whether from carelessness or design, did not bring food every day. She stared at the meat, hunger doing battle with judgment. At last she put the bowl aside. Taking up the crust of bread, she bit off a small piece, chewing it slowly, to make it last longer.
How long had she been here—two weeks? Three? She had begun to lose count. The perpetual darkness was disorienting. She had used her piece of candle sparingly, lighting it only to eat or to prepare medications from her scrip. Nevertheless, the candle was reduced to a tiny stub of wax, good for no more than another hour or two of precious light.
Even more terrible than the darkness was the solitude. The utter and unremitting silence was unnerving. To stay alert, Joan set herself a series of mental tasks—reciting from memory the entire Rule of St. Benedict, all one hundred and fifty psalms, and the Book of Acts. But these feats of memory soon became too routine to keep her attention engaged.
She remembered how the great theologian Boethius, similarly imprisoned, had found strength and consolation in prayer. For hours she knelt on the cold stone floor of the dungeon, trying to pray. But at the core of her being, she felt nothing but emptiness. The seed of doubt, planted in her childhood by her mother, had taken deep root within her soul. She tried to weed it out, to rise up into the solacing light of grace, but she could not. Was God listening? Was He even there? As day after day passed with no word from Sergius, hope gradually slipped away.
The loud clank of metal jolted her as the bar on the door was lifted. A moment later the door swung wide, pouring dazzling light into the blackness. Shielding her eyes against the glare, Joan squinted toward the opening. A man stood silhouetted against the light. “John Anglicus?” he called uncertainly into the darkness.
The voice was instantly familiar. “Arighis!” Joan swayed light-headedly as she rose and made her way through the stagnant water toward the papal vicedominus. “Have you come from Sergius?”
Arighis shook his head. “His Holiness does not wish to see you.”
“Then why—?”
“He is gravely ill. Once before you gave him medicine that helped him; have you any with you now?”
“I have.” Joan took a packet of powder of colchicum from her scrip. Arighis reached for it, but Joan quickly drew it back.
“What?” said Arighis. “Do you hate him so much? Beware, John Anglicus, for to wish harm upon Christ’s chosen Vicar is to place your immortal soul in the gravest peril.”
“I do not hate him,” Joan said, and meant it. Sergius was not a bad man, she knew, only weak and overtrusting of his venal brother. “But I will not give this medicine into untrained hands. Its powers are very great, and the wrong dose could be lethal.” This was not entirely true, for the powdered root was not as potent as she pretended; it would take a very large dose to do any real harm. But this was her chance at freedom; she would not let the door close upon it again. “Besides,” she added, “how do I know Sergius is suffering from the same ailment as before? To cure His Holiness, I first must see him.”
Arighis hesitated. To free the prisoner would be an act of insubordination, a direct countermanding of the Lord Pope’s order. But if Sergius died with the Frankish Emperor at the gates, the papacy, and Rome itself, might be forfeit.
“Come,” he said, abruptly arriving at a decision. “I will take you to His Holiness.”
SERGIUS lay against the soft silken pillows of the papal bed. The worst of the pain had passed, but it had left him drained and weak as a newborn kitten.
The door to the chamber opened, and Arighis entered, followed by John Anglicus.
Sergius started violently. “What is this sinner doing here?”
Arighis said, “He comes with a powerful medicine that will restore you to health.”
Sergius shook his head. “All true physicking comes from God. His healing grace will not be transmitted through so impure a vessel.”
“I am not impure,” Joan protested. “Benedict lied to you,
Holiness.”
“You were in the harlot’s bed,” Sergius replied accusingly. “The guards saw you there.”
“They saw what they expected to see, what they had been told to observe,” Joan retorted. Quickly she explained how Benedict had contrived to trap her. “I did not want to go there,” she said, “but Arighis insisted.”
“That is true, Holiness,” Arighis confirmed. “John Anglicus asked if I would not send one of the other physicians. But Benedict insisted that John Anglicus and no other should go.”
For a long while, Sergius did not speak. Finally he said in a cracked voice, “If this is true, you have been grievously wronged.” He burst out in despair, “Lothar’s coming is God’s just judgment against me for all my sins!”
“If God wanted to punish you, there are easier ways to do it,” Joan pointed out. “Why sacrifice the lives of thousands of innocents when he could smite you with a single stroke?”
This took Sergius by surprise. With the customary self-absorption of the great, such a thought had not occurred to him.
“Lothar’s coming is not a punishment,” Joan persevered, “it is a test—a test of faith. You must lead the people with the strength of your example.”
“I’m sick in body and in heart. Let me die.”
“If you do, the will of the people dies with you. You must be strong, for their sake.”
“What difference does it make?” Sergius said hopelessly. “We cannot prevail against Lothar’s forces; it would take a miracle.”
“Then,” Joan said staunchly, “we will have to make one.”
THE day after Pentecost Sunday, the date of Lothar’s anticipated arrival, the piazza before the basilica of St. Peter began to fill with members of the various scholae of the city, dressed in their best finery. Lothar had not made a formal declaration of hostilities, so the plan was to accord him the reception due a personage of his exalted position. The unexpected show of welcome might disarm him long enough for the second part of Joan’s plan to take effect.
By midmorning all was in readiness. Sergius gave the signal, and the first group, the judices, rode out, the yellow banners bearing their sign fluttering above them. Behind them rode the defensores and the deacons; then, on foot, the various societies of foreigners—Frisians, Franks, Saxons, Lombards, and Greeks. They called to one another bravely as they traveled down the Via Triumphalis, past the decaying skeletons of pagan temples lining the ancient road.
God grant they are not marching to their deaths, Joan thought. Then she turned her attention to Sergius. He had made good progress over the past few days but was still far from well. Would he be strong enough to endure the day’s ordeal? Joan spoke to a chamberlain, who fetched a chair, into which Sergius sank gratefully. Joan gave him some lemon water mixed with honey to fortify him.
Fifty of the most powerful men in Rome were now gathered on the broad porch before the doors of the basilica: all the major officials of the Lateran administration, a select group of cardinal priests, the dukes and princes of the city, and their retinues. The archpriest Eustathius led them all in a short prayer, and then they stood in silence. There was nothing left to do but wait.
With taut faces they kept their eyes trained to where the road bent out of sight beyond the green hedges and meadows of the Neronian plain.
Time passed with unbearable slowness. The sun inched higher in a cloudless sky. The morning breeze diminished, then died, leaving the banners draped limply against their staffs. Swarms of flies circled lazily overhead, their irksome droning loud in the still, expectant air.
More than two hours had passed since the procession rode out. Surely they should have returned by now!
A barely perceptible noise came from the distance. They listened with pricked ears. The noise rose again, sustained and unmistakable— the sound of distant voices raised in song.
“Deo gratias,” breathed Eustathius as the banners of the judices floated into view, topping the green horizon like yellow sails upon a sea. Moments later, the first riders appeared, followed by members of the various scholae, on foot. Behind them marched a dark multitude that stretched as far as the eye could see—Lothar’s army. Joan drew in her breath; never before had she seen so great a host.
Sergius rose, leaning on his crosier for support. The vanguard of the procession drew up to the basilica and fanned out, creating a path through which the Emperor could pass.
Lothar rode through. Looking at him, Joan could well believe the tales of barbaric cruelty that had preceded him. He had a stocky body, crowned by a thick neck and massive head; his broad, flat face and shallow-set eyes registered a look of malevolent intelligence.
The two opposing groups faced each other, one dark and muddied from the rigors of the road, the other spotless and gleaming in their white clerical robes. Behind Sergius the roof of St. Peter’s rose in candescently, its silver plates shimmering with the reflected light of the morning—the spiritual heart of the Church, the beacon of the world, the holiest shrine in all Christendom. Before such sacred grandeur, even Emperors had bowed.
Lothar dismounted, but he did not kneel to kiss the bottom step of the basilica in the customary show of reverence. Boldly he mounted the steps, followed by a group of armed men. The prelates gathered before the open doors of the basilica drew back in alarm; the papal guards surrounded Sergius protectively, their hands on their sword hilts.
All at once, the open doors of St. Peter’s jolted and moved. Lothar jumped back. His men drew their swords, then stood bewildered, gazing wildly from one side to the other. But there was no one nearby. The doors swung slowly inward on their hinges as if supernaturally propelled. Then they closed with a final, definitive crack.
Now. Joan willed Sergius to act. As if he had heard her unspoken command, he drew himself up, extending his arms dramatically. Gone was the weak and sickly man of a few days ago; in his white camelaucum and golden robes, he looked imposing, magisterial.
He spoke in Frankish, to be sure Lothar’s soldiers would understand. “Behold the hand of God,” he intoned solemnly, “which has barred the holiest of His altars against you.”
Lothar’s men cried out fearfully. The Emperor stood his ground, wary and suspicious.
Now Sergius switched to Latin. “Si pura mente et pro salute Reipublicae huc advenisti … If you are come with a pure mind and goodwill toward the republic, enter, and welcome; if not, then no earthly power will open these doors to you.”
Lothar hesitated, still mistrustful. Had Sergius conjured up a miracle? He doubted it, but he could not be certain: God’s ways were mysterious. Besides, his own position was now considerably weakened, for his men were dropping in terror to their knees, their swords slipping from their hands.
With a forced smile, Lothar opened his arms to Sergius. The two men embraced, their lips meeting in the formal kiss of peace. “Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini,” the choir chanted joyously. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.”
The doors jolted into motion again. As everyone watched, awestruck, the silver-plated panels swung outward until once again they stood full open. Arm in arm, with the joyous sounds of Hosanna ringing in their ears, Sergius and Lothar walked into the basilica to pray before the shrine of the Blessed Apostle.
THE difficulties with Lothar were not yet over—explanations still needed to be offered, apologies tendered, advantages negotiated, concessions made. But the immediate danger was past.
Joan thought of Gerold and how amused he would have been to see the use she had made of his hydraulic trick with the door. She pictured him, his indigo eyes alight with humor, his head thrown back in the generous laugh she remembered so well.
Strange, the workings of the heart. One could go on for years, habituated to loss, reconciled to it, and then, in a moment’s unwary thought, the pain resurfaced, sharp and raw as a fresh wound.
22
GEROLD breathed with relief as he and his men descended the final slope of Mt. Cenis. With the Alps be
hind them, the worst of the journey was over. The Via Francigena stretched ahead, blessedly flat and well kept, for it still retained its ancient paving of stone, laid down by the Romans in a time before memory.
Gerold spurred his horse into a canter. Perhaps now they could make up for time lost. An unseasonably late snowfall had made the narrow Alpine pass extremely treacherous; two men had died when their mounts lost their footing on the slippery ground, plunging horses and riders to their deaths. Gerold had been forced to call a halt until conditions improved; the delay put them even farther behind the vanguard of the imperial army, which must now be drawing close to Rome.
No matter; Lothar would scarcely miss them. This rear division numbered only two hundred men—lordlings and small landholders who had arrived late to the spring muster at the Marchfeld. It was an insulting command for a man of Gerold’s stature.
In the three years since the Battle of Fontenoy, Gerold’s relationship with Emperor Lothar had gone from bad to worse. Lothar had gradually become more and more tyrannical, surrounding himself with toadying followers who flattered him at every turn. He had absolutely no tolerance for fideles like Gerold, who continued to voice his opinions honestly—as, for example, when he had advised against this current campaign against Rome.
“Our troops are needed on the Frisian coast,” Gerold argued, “to defend against the Norsemen. Their raids are becoming more and more frequent—and destructive.”
It was true. Last year the Norsemen had attacked St.-Wandrille and Utrecht; the previous spring they had sailed brazenly down the Seine and burned Paris! This had sent a shock wave of fear over the countryside. If so great a city as Paris, in the very heart of the Empire, was not safe from the barbarians, then no place was.
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