“What on earth?” Joan was astonished.
“A secret passage,” Arighis explained. “Built in the days of the pagan Emperors—in case they needed to make a quick escape from their enemies. Now it connects the papal bedroom to the private chapel, so the Apostolic One can enter and pray undisturbed any time of day or night. Come.” He took a candle and entered the passage. “This way you can avoid that pack of jackals, at least for tonight.”
Joan was touched that Arighis would share his knowledge of the secret passageway; it was a sign of the growing trust and respect between them. They descended a steep circular flight of stairs that leveled out before a wall into which was set a wooden lever. Arighis pulled it, and the wall moved aside, opening a passage. Joan slipped through, and the vicedominus pulled the lever again. The opening disappeared, leaving no trace of its existence.
She was behind one of the marble pillars in the rear of the Pope’s private chapel, the Sanctum Sanctorum. Voices sounded near the altar. This was unexpected; no one should be here at this hour of night.
“It’s been a long time, Anastasius,” one voice said in gruff, heavily accented tones she recognized as Lothar’s. He had called the other one Anastasius; that must be the Bishop of Castellum. The two men had obviously withdrawn to the chapel to speak privately. They would not look kindly upon an intruder.
What should I do? Joan wondered. If she tried to slip quietly through the door of the chapel, they might see her. Nor could she retrace her steps to the papal chamber; the lever that controlled the secret passage was on the other side of the wall. She would have to stay hidden until the meeting concluded and both men left. Then she could slip out of the chapel unnoticed.
“Most distressing, His Holiness’s attack this evening,” Lothar said.
Anastasius replied, “The Apostolic One is very ill. He may not live out the year.”
“A great tragedy for the Church.”
“Very great,” Anastasius agreed smoothly.
“His successor must be a man of strength and vision,” Lothar said, “a man who can better appreciate the historic … understanding between our two peoples.”
“You must use all your influence, my liege, to ensure that the next Pontiff is such a man.”
“Don’t you mean—a man like you?”
“Have you reason to doubt me, Sire? Surely the service I did you at Colmar proved my loyalty beyond all question.”
“Perhaps.” Lothar was noncommittal. “But times change, and so do men. Now, my lord Bishop, your loyalty is to be put to the test again. Will you support the oath taking, or no?”
“The people will be reluctant to swear loyalty to you, my liege, after the damage your army has visited upon the countryside.”
“Your family has the power to change that,” Lothar responded. “If you and your father, Arsenius, take the oath, others will follow.”
“What you ask is very great. It would require something great in return.”
“I know that.”
“An oath is only words. The people need a Pope who can lead them back to the old ways—to the Frankish Empire, and to you, my liege.”
“I can think of no one better able to do that than you, Anastasius. I shall do everything in my power to see that you are the next Pope.”
There was a pause. Then Anastasius said, “The people will take the oath, Sire. I will make certain of it.”
Joan felt a surge of anger. Lothar and Anastasius had just bartered for the papacy like a pair of merchants at a bazaar. In return for the privileges of power, Anastasius had agreed to hand the Romans over to the Frankish Emperor’s control.
There was a knock on the door, and Lothar’s servant entered.
“The count has arrived, my liege.”
“Show him in. The bishop and I have concluded our business.”
A man entered, dressed in a soldier’s brunia. He was tall and striking, with long, red hair and indigo eyes.
Gerold.
23
ASTARTLED cry burst from Joan’s lips.
“Who’s there?” Lothar asked sharply.
Slowly Joan came out from behind the pillar. Lothar and Anastasius looked at her with astonishment.
“Who are you?” Lothar demanded.
“John Anglicus, my liege. Priest and physician to His Holiness Pope Sergius.”
Lothar asked suspiciously, “How long have you been here?”
Joan thought quickly. “Some hours, Sire. I came to pray for His Holiness’s recovery. I must have been more tired than I realized, for I fell asleep and only just awoke.”
Lothar looked down his long nose disapprovingly. More likely the little priest had been trapped in the chapel when Anastasius and he had entered. There was no place to run and no place to hide. But it scarcely mattered. How much could he have overheard, and, more important, how much understood? Little enough. There could be no danger in the man; he was obviously no one of importance. The best course was to ignore him.
Anastasius had arrived at a different conclusion. Obviously John Anglicus had been eavesdropping, but why? Was he a spy? Not for Sergius, surely, for the Pope lacked the ingenuity to use spies. But if not, then for whom? And why? From now on, Anastasius decided, the little foreign priest would bear close watching.
Gerold was also studying Joan curiously. “You look familiar, Father,” he said. “Have we met before?” He peered at her frowningly through the dim light. Suddenly his expression changed; he stared like a man who had just seen a ghost. “My God,” he said chokingly. “It can’t be …”
“You know each other?” Anastasius asked.
“We met in Dorstadt,” Joan said quickly. “I studied some years at the cathedral school there; my sister”—she emphasized the word ever so slightly—“stayed with the count and his family during that time.”
Her eyes flashed Gerold an urgent warning: Say nothing.
Gerold recovered his composure. “Of course,” he said. “I remember your sister well.”
Lothar broke in impatiently. “Enough of this. What have you come to tell me, Count?”
“My message is for your ears alone, my liege.”
Lothar nodded. “Very well. The others may leave. We will speak again, Anastasius.”
As Joan turned to go, Gerold touched her arm. “Wait for me. I would like to hear more … about your sister.”
Outside the chapel, Anastasius went his way. Joan waited nervously under the baleful eye of Lothar’s steward. The situation was extremely dangerous; one ill-considered word, and her true identity could be revealed. I should leave now, before Gerold comes out, she told herself. But she yearned to see him. She stood rooted there by a complex mix of fear and anticipation.
The chapel door opened, and Gerold emerged. “It is you, then?” he said wonderingly. “But how—?”
The servant was eyeing them curiously.
“Not here,” Joan said. She led him to the little room where she kept her herbs and medicines. Inside, she lit the poppy oil lamps; they flared into life, enclosing the two in an intimate circle of light.
They stared at each other with the wonder of rediscovery. Gerold had changed in the fifteen years since Joan had last seen him; the thick, red hair was traced with gray, and there were new lines around the indigo eyes and wide, sensual mouth—but he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen. The sight of him set her heart hammering.
Gerold took a step toward her. All at once they were in each other’s arms, holding on so tightly that Joan could feel the metal rings of Gerold’s mail through her thick priest’s robe.
“Joan,” Gerold murmured. “My dearest, my pearl. I never thought to see you again.”
“Gerold.” The word blotted out all reasonable thought.
Gently his finger traced the faint scar on her left cheek. “The Norsemen?”
“Yes.”
He bent and kissed it gently, his lips warm against her cheek. “They did take you, then—you and Gisla?”
Gi
sla. Gerold must never know, she must never tell him, the horror that had befallen his elder daughter.
“They took Gisla. I—I managed to escape.”
He was astonished. “How? And to where? My men and I scoured the countryside looking for you but found no trace.”
Briefly she told him what had happened—as much as she could tell in so hurried and constrained a circumstance: her escape to Fulda and acceptance as John Anglicus, the near-discovery of her identity and flight from the abbey, her pilgrimage to Rome and subsequent rise to the position of Pope’s physician.
“And in all this time,” Gerold said slowly when she had finished, “you never thought to send word to me?”
Joan heard the pain and bewilderment in his voice. “I—I did not think you wanted me. Richild said the idea of marrying me to the farrier’s son was yours, that you had asked her to arrange it.”
“And you believed her?” Abruptly he released her. “Great God, Joan, had we no better understanding between us?”
“I—I didn’t know what to think. You had gone; I could not be certain why. And Richild knew—about us, about what happened at the riverbank. How could she have known, unless you told her?”
“I don’t know. I only know that I loved you as I have never loved anyone before—or since.” His voice tightened. “I drove Pistis almost beyond endurance on the road home, straining to catch sight of Villaris, for you were there, and I was wild with impatience to see you … to ask you to be my wife.”
“Your wife?” Joan was dumbfounded. “But … Richild …?”
“Something happened while I was gone—something that helped me see how empty my marriage was, how vital you were to my happiness. I was returning to tell you that I meant to divorce Richild, and marry you, if you would have me.”
Joan shook her head. “So much misunderstanding,” she said sorrowfully. “So much gone wrong.”
“So much,” he replied, “to make up for.” He pulled her close and kissed her. The effect was like holding a candle to a wax tablet, dissolving what the years had written. Once again they were standing together in the river behind Villaris in the spring sunshine, young and giddy with new-discovered love.
After a long while he released her. “Listen, my heart,” he said huskily. “I’m leaving Lothar’s service. I told him so just now, in the chapel.”
“And he agreed to let you go?” Lothar did not seem the kind of man to set aside willingly any man’s obligation to him.
“At first he was difficult, but I got him to come round in the end. My freedom comes at a price; I’ve had to surrender Villaris with all its estates. I’m no longer a rich man, Joan. But I have the strength of my two arms, and friends who will stand by me. One of them is Siconulf, Prince of Benevento, whom I befriended when we served together on the Emperor’s campaign against the Obodrites. He needs good men around him now, for he’s being hard-pressed by his rival Radelchis. Will you come with me, Joan? Will you be my wife?”
Brisk footsteps outside the door jolted them apart. A moment later the door opened and a head peeked in. It was Florintinus, one of the palace notaries.
“Ah!” he said. “There you are, John Anglicus! I’ve been looking all over for you.” He looked sharply from Joan to Gerold and back again. “Am I … interrupting anything?”
“Not at all,” Joan said quickly. “What can I do for you, Florintinus?”
“I’ve a terrible headache,” he said. “I wondered if you could prepare one of your palliatives for me.”
“I’d be happy to,” Joan said courteously.
Florintinus lingered by the door, exchanging idle conversation with Gerold while Joan quickly prepared a mixture of violet leaves and willow-bark, decocting it in a cup of rosemary tea. She gave it to Florintinus, and he left at once.
“We can’t talk here,” she said to Gerold as soon as he was gone. “It’s too dangerous.”
“When can I see you again?” Gerold asked urgently.
Joan thought. “There’s a Temple of Vesta on the Via Appia, just outside of town. I’ll meet you there tomorrow after terce.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her again, softly at first, then with an intensity that filled her with aching desire. “Till tomorrow,” he whispered. Then he went through the door, leaving Joan’s head spinning with a dizzying mix of emotions.
ARIGHIS peered sharply through the predawn light, checking the Lateran courtyard. All was in readiness. A lighted brazier had been placed alongside the great bronze statue of the she-wolf. A pair of sturdy fire irons were set inside the flaming brazier, their tips beginning to glow red from the heat of the flames. Nearby stood a swordsman, sharpened blade at the ready.
The first rays of the sun crested the horizon. It was an unusual hour for a public execution; such events normally took place after mass. Despite the earliness of the hour, a crowd of spectators was already gathered—the eager ones always arrived well in advance to secure the best position for viewing. Many had brought their children, who scampered about in excited anticipation of the gory spectacle.
Arighis had deliberately set the hour of Benedict’s punishment for dawn, before Sergius awakened and changed his mind. Others might accuse him of proceeding with unseemly haste, but Arighis did not care. He knew exactly what he was doing, and why.
Arighis had held the high office of vicedominus for over twenty years; his entire life had been devoted to the service of the Patriarchium, to keeping the vast and complicated hive of pontifical offices that composed the seat of government in Rome running smoothly and efficiently. Over the years, Arighis had come to think of the papal household as a living entity, a being whose continuing welfare was his sole responsibility and concern.
That welfare was now threatened. In less than a year, Benedict had turned the Patriarchium into a center of corrupt power brokering and simony. Grasping and manipulative to the core, Benedict’s very existence was a malignant canker upon the papacy. The only way to save the patient was to amputate the diseased member. Benedict must die.
Sergius did not have the backbone for the deed, so it fell upon Arighis to shoulder the burden. He did so unhesitatingly, knowing that he acted for the good of Holy Mother Church.
Everything was in readiness. “Bring the prisoner,” Arighis commanded the guards.
Benedict was marched in. Clothes rumpled, face drawn and ashen from a sleepless night in the dungeon, he anxiously searched the court yard. “Where is Sergius?” he demanded. “Where is my brother?”
“His Holiness cannot be disturbed,” Arighis said.
Benedict whirled on him. “What do you think you are doing, Arighis? You saw my brother last night. He was drunk; he didn’t know what he was saying. Let me talk to him, and you will see: he will reverse the judgment against me.”
“Proceed,” Arighis commanded the guards.
The guards dragged Benedict to the center of the courtyard and forced him to his knees. They grabbed his arms and pulled them across the pedestal of the statue of the she-wolf so his hands rested levelly on the top.
Terror creased Benedict’s face. “No! Stop!” he shouted. Raising his eyes toward the windows of the Patriarchium, he cried out, “Sergius! Sergius! Serg—!”
The sword sliced downward. Benedict screamed as his severed hands dropped to the ground, spurting blood.
The crowd cheered. The swordsman nailed Benedict’s severed hands to the side of the she-wolf. According to ancient custom, they would remain there for one month as a warning to others tempted to the sin of thievery.
Ennodius the physician came forward. Pulling the hot irons from the brazier, he pressed them firmly against Benedict’s bleeding stumps. The smell of burning flesh rose sickeningly in the air. Benedict screamed again and toppled into a faint. Ennodius bent to attend him.
Arighis leaned forward attentively. Most men died after such an injury—if not immediately from shock and pain then shortly afterward from infection or loss of blood. But some of the strongest managed to
survive. One saw them on the streets of Rome, their grotesque mutilations revealing the nature of their crimes: severed lips, those who had lied under oath; severed feet, slaves who’d fled their masters; gouged-out eyes, those who had lusted after the wives or daughters of their betters.
The distressing possibility of survival was the reason Arighis had asked Ennodius and not John Anglicus to attend the condemned man, for the skill of the latter might be great enough to save Benedict.
Ennodius stood. “God’s judgment has been rendered,” he announced gravely. “Benedict is dead.”
Christ be praised, Arighis thought. The papacy is safe.
JOAN stood on line in the lavatorium, waiting her turn for the ritual hand washing before mass. Her eyes were swollen and heavy from lack of sleep; all night she had tossed restlessly, her mind filled with thoughts of Gerold. Last night, feelings she believed long buried had resurfaced with an intensity that astonished and frightened her.
Gerold’s return had reawakened the disturbing desires of her youth. What would it be like to live as a woman again? she wondered. She was accustomed to being responsible for herself, to having complete control of her destiny. But by law a wife surrendered her life to her husband. Could she trust any man so far—even Gerold?
Never give yourself to a man. Her mother’s words echoed like warning bells in her mind.
She needed time to sort out the turmoil of emotions in her heart. But time was one thing she didn’t have.
Arighis appeared beside her. “Come,” he said urgently. He pulled her out of line. “His Holiness needs you.”
“Is he ill?” Worriedly, she followed Arighis down the corridor to the papal bedroom. Last night’s rich food and wine had been purged from Sergius’s body, and the strong dose of colchicum Joan had administered should have staved off a return attack of gout.
“He will be if he keeps carrying on as he is.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“Benedict is dead.”
“Dead!”
“The sentence was carried out this morning. He died immediately.”
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