Did I know even then, she wondered, in the very first moment? Did I know that I loved him? I think I did.
At last she had come to accept what she had fought so long to deny—Gerold was part of her, was her in some unfathomable way she could neither explain nor deny. They were twin souls, linked inextricably and forever, two halves of one perfect whole that would never again be complete without both.
She did not let herself dwell upon the full implications of this wondrous discovery. It was enough to live in the present moment, in the supreme happiness of being here, now, with him. The future did not exist.
He lay on his side, his head close to hers, lips slightly parted, long, red hair tousled about his face. In his sleep, he looked vulnerable and young, almost boyish. Moved by an inexpressible tenderness, Joan reached out and gently smoothed a stray tendril off his cheek.
Gerold’s eyes opened, gazing at her with so intense an expression of love and need that it left her breathless. Wordlessly he reached for her, and she went to him.
THEY were dozing again, entwined in each other’s arms, when Joan started alert, aware of a strange sound. She lay still, listening with pricked ears. All was quiet. Then she realized that it wasn’t noise that had awakened her but silence—the absence of the loud, steady drumming on the roof overhead.
The rain had stopped.
She rose and went to the window. The sky was overcast and gray, but for the first time in over ten days patches of blue showed on the horizon, with shafts of sunlight spilling through the clouds.
Praise God, she thought. Now the flooding will end.
Gerold came up behind her and put his arms around her. She leaned back against him, loving the feel of him.
“Will they come for us soon, do you think?” she asked.
“Very soon, now the rain’s stopped.”
“Oh, Gerold!” She buried her head in his shoulder. “I’ve never been so happy, nor so unhappy.”
“I know, my heart.”
“We can never be together again, not like this.”
He stroked her bright hair. “We needn’t go back, you know.”
She looked at him with surprise. “What do you mean?”
“No one knows we’re here. If we don’t signal the rescue boats when they come, they’ll go away. In a day or so, when the flood waters recede, we’ll slip away from the city by night. No one will come after us, for they’ll think we both died in the flood. We’ll be free and clear—and we’ll be together.”
She made no answer but turned to look out the window again.
He awaited her decision, his life, his happiness hanging in the balance.
After a while she turned back to him. Looking into the depths of those gray-green eyes, haunted with grief, Gerold knew that he had lost.
She said slowly, “I cannot walk away from the great responsibility with which I’ve been entrusted. The people believe in me; I can’t abandon them. If I did, it would turn me into someone else, someone different from the person you love.”
He knew he would never have more power over her than he had at this moment. If he used that power, if he took her in his arms and kissed her, she might yet agree to come away with him. But that would be unfair. Even if she yielded, it would be a surrender that might not last. He would not try to persuade her to do anything she might afterward regret. She must come to him of her own free will or not at all.
“I understand,” he said. “And I’ll not press you further. But there’s something I want you to know. I’ll say it only once, and never again. You are my true wife on this earth, and I your true husband. No matter what happens, no matter what time and fate may do to us, nothing can ever change that.”
They dressed, to be ready when rescue should come. Then they sat together, holding each other close, Joan’s head resting lightly on Gerold’s shoulder. They were sitting like that, rapt in each other, when the rescue boats arrived.
AS THEY were rowed back toward the Patriarchium, Joan kept her head bowed as if in prayer. Aware of the watchful eyes of the guards, she did not dare look at Gerold, for she was not sufficiently in control of her feelings.
Arriving at the dock, they were immediately surrounded by a jubilant, cheering crowd. There was time for only one last backward glance before they were triumphantly borne off to their separate quarters.
28
PAPA POPULI, they called her, the people’s Pope. Over and over the story was told of how the Lord Pope had gone forth from his palace on the day of the flood, risking his life to save those of his people. Wherever Joan went in the city, she was given a riotous welcome. Her path was strewn with sweet-smelling petals of acanthus, and from every window people called down blessings upon her. She drew strength and solace from their love, dedicating herself to them with renewed fervor.
The optimates and high clergy, on the other hand, were scandalized by Joan’s behavior on the day of the flood. For the Vicar of St. Peter to rush off to the rescue in a dinghy—why, it was absurd, an embarrassment to the Church and the dignity of the papal office! They regarded her with growing disaffection, amplified by the very real differences they had with her: she was a foreigner, and they were native-born Romans; she believed in the power of reason and observation, and they believed in the power of sacred relics and miracles; she was forward looking and progressive, and they were conservative, bound by habit and tradition.
Most had entered the ranks of the clerical bureaucracy in childhood. By the time they reached maturity, they were thoroughly steeped in Lateran tradition and quite inimical to change. In their minds there was a right way and a wrong way to do things—and the right way was what had always been done.
Understandably, they were disconcerted by Joan’s style of governance. Wherever she saw a problem—a need for a hospice, the injustice of a corrupt official, a shortage in the food supply—she sought to move quickly to correct it. Frequently she found herself thwarted by the papal bureaucracy, the vast and cumbersome system of government that over the course of centuries had evolved into a labyrinthine complexity. There were literally hundreds of departments, each with its own hierarchy and its own jealously guarded responsibilities.
Impatient to get things done, Joan looked for ways to circumvent the ponderous inefficiency of the system. When Gerold ran short of funds for the ongoing work on the aqueduct, she simply withdrew the money from the treasury, bypassing the usual course of putting a request through the office of the sacellarius, or papal paymaster.
Arsenius, alert as ever to opportunity, did what he could to exploit the situation. Seeking out Victor, the sacellarius, he broached the subject with politic art.
“I fear His Holiness lacks a sufficient appreciation of our Roman ways.”
“So he would, not being born to them,” Victor responded non-committally. A cautious man, he would not reveal his hand until Arsenius played his.
“I was shocked to hear that he withdrew funds from the treasury without going through your office.”
“It was rather … inappropriate.” Victor conceded.
“Inappropriate!” Arsenius exclaimed. “My dear Victor, in your place I would not be so charitable.”
“No?”
“If I were you,” Arsenius said, “I’d look to my back.”
Victor dropped his air of studied indifference. “Have you heard anything?” he asked anxiously. “Does His Holiness mean to replace me?”
“Who can tell?” Arsenius replied. “Perhaps he means to dispense with the position of sacellarius altogether. Then he can take whatever funds he likes from the treasury without having to explain to anyone.”
“He’d never dare!”
“Wouldn’t he?”
Victor didn’t answer. Like a skilled fencer, Arsenius gauged his timing and thrust home.
“I begin to fear,” he said, “that John’s election was a mistake. A serious mistake.”
“The thought has occurred to me,” Victor admitted. “Some of His Holiness’s ideas—the
school for women, for example …” Victor shook his head. “God’s ways are certainly mysterious.”
“God didn’t put John on the throne, Victor; we did. And we can remove him.”
This was too much. “John is Christ’s Vicar,” Victor said, deeply shocked. “I admit he’s … odd. But to move forcibly against him? No … no … surely it has not come to that.”
“Well, well, you may be right.” Artfully Arsenius let the matter drop. There was no need to pursue it further; he had planted the seed and knew it could be trusted to grow.
SINCE their parting on the day of the flood, Gerold had not seen Joan. The remaining work on the aqueduct was not within the city but at Tivoli, some twenty miles distant. Gerold was closely involved with every aspect of the construction, from overseeing the design of the repair to supervising the work crews. Frequently he bent his own back to the work, helping lift the heavy stones and cover them with new mortar. The men were surprised to see the lord superista stoop to such menial work, but Gerold welcomed it, for only in hard physical labor did he find momentary respite from the aching sadness inside.
Better, he thought, far better if we had never lain together like man and wife. Perhaps then he could have gone on as before. But now …
It was as if he had lived all the years before in blindness. All the roads he had traveled, all the risks he had taken, all he had ever done or been had led to one person: Joan.
When the aqueduct was finished, she would expect him to resume his position as leader of the papal guard. To be near her again every day, to see her and know that she was hopelessly out of reach … it would be unendurable.
I’ll leave Rome, he thought, as soon as the work on the aqueduct is complete. I’ll return to Benevento and resume command of Siconulf’s army. There was an appealing simplicity to a soldier’s life, with its definable enemies and clear objectives.
He drove himself and his men relentlessly. Within three months’ time, the work was completed.
THE restored aqueduct was formally dedicated on the Feast of the Annunciation. Led by Joan, the entire clergy—acolytes, porters, lectors, exorcists, priests, deacons, and bishops—circled the massive peperino arches in solemn procession, sprinkling the stones with holy water while chanting litanies, psalms, and hymns. The procession halted, and Joan spoke a few words of solemn blessing. She looked up to where Gerold stood waiting atop the foremost of the arches, lean, long legged, taller by a head than the others around him.
She nodded to him, and he pulled a lever, opening the sluice gates. The cheers of the people rang out as the cold, pure, healthful waters of the springs of Subiaco, which lay some forty-five miles outside the city walls, flowed within the Campus Martius for the first time in over three hundred years.
CRAFTED in the imperial style, the papal throne was a massive, high-backed piece of richly carved oak studded with rubies, pearls, sapphires, and other precious gems, as comfortless as it was impressive. Joan had been ensconced in it for over five hours, granting audience to a stream of petitioners. Now she shifted restlessly, trying to ease the growing discomfort in her back.
Juvianus, the head steward, announced the next petitioner. “Magister Militum Daniel.”
Joan frowned. Daniel was a difficult man, thorny and irascible— and he was a close associate of Bishop Arsenius. His presence here could only mean trouble.
Daniel entered briskly, nodding greeting at several of the notaries and other papal officials.
“Holiness.” He saluted Joan with the most minimal of bows, then began with rude abruptness. “Is it true that at the March ordinations, you intend to install Nicephorus as Bishop of Trevi?”
“It is.”
“The man’s a Greek!” Daniel protested.
“Why should that matter?”
“So important a position must go to a Roman.”
Joan sighed inwardly. It was true that her predecessors had used the episcopacy as a political tool, distributing bishoprics among the noble Roman families like so many choice plums. Joan disagreed with this practice, for it had resulted in a great number of episcopi agraphici—illiterate bishops, who had spawned all kinds of ignorance and superstition. How, after all, could a bishop correctly interpret the word of God to his flock if he could not even read it?
“So important a position,” she replied equably, “should go to the person best qualified. Nicephorus is a man of learning and piety. He will make a fine bishop.”
“You would think so, being yourself a foreigner.” Daniel deliberately used the insulting term barbarus rather than the more neutral peregrinus.
There was an audible intake of breath from the others in the room.
Joan looked Daniel straight in the eye. “This has nothing to do with Nicephorus,” she said. “You are guided by selfish motives, Daniel, for you want your own son Peter to be bishop.”
“Well, why not?” Daniel said defensively. “Peter is well suited for the position by virtue of family and birth.”
“But not by ability,” Joan said bluntly.
Daniel’s mouth gaped in astonishment. “You dare … you dare … my son—”
“Your son,” Joan interrupted, “reads equally well from a lectionary placed right side up or upside down, for he knows no Latin. He has committed to memory the few scriptural passages he knows. The people deserve better. And in Nicephorus they shall have it!”
Daniel drew himself up, stiffly offended. “Mark my words, Holiness: you have not heard the end of this!”
And with that he turned and left.
Joan thought, He will go straight to Arsenius, who will no doubt find some way to make further trouble. About one thing Daniel was certainly right; she had not heard the end of this.
Suddenly she was inexpressibly weary. The air in the windowless room seemed to close in upon her; she felt queasy and faint. She tugged on her pallium, pulling it away from her neck.
“The lord superista,” Juvianus announced.
Gerold! Joan’s spirits rose. They had not spoken since the day of their rescue. She had hoped he would come today, though at the same time she feared their meeting. Aware of the watchful eyes of the others, Joan kept her face impassive.
Then Gerold entered, and her treacherous heart leapt at the sight of him. The flickering lamplight played across his features, illuminating the handsomely chiseled angles of his brow and cheekbone. He returned her gaze; their eyes locked in silent communication, and for a brief moment they were quite alone in the midst of that great company.
He came forward and knelt before the throne.
“Rise, Superista,” she said. Did she imagine it, or was her voice somewhat unsteady? “This day your head is crowned with honor. All Rome is indebted to you.”
“I thank you, Holiness.”
“Tonight we will celebrate your great accomplishment with a feast. You shall sit at my table in the place of honor.”
“Alas, I regret that I will not be able to attend. I leave Rome today.”
“Leave Rome?” She was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“Now that the great work with which you charged me is complete, I am resigning as superista. Prince Siconulf has asked me to return to Benevento to resume command of his armies—and I have accepted the post.”
Joan kept her rigid posture on the throne, but her hands gripped the arms. “You can’t do that,” she answered brusquely. “I won’t permit it.”
The assembled prelates raised their eyebrows. True, it was unusual to resign so prestigious a post, but Gerold was a free Frank, at liberty to commit his services wherever he chose.
“In helping Siconulf,” Gerold answered reasonably, “I will be continuing to serve Rome’s interests as well, for Siconulf’s territories provide a strong Christian bulwark against the Longobards and Saracens.”
Joan set her mouth firmly. Turning to the others, she commanded, “Leave us.”
Juvianus and the rest exchanged surprised glances, then exited the room with a flurry of res
pectful obeisances.
“Was that wise?” Gerold asked after they had gone. “Now their suspicions may be aroused.”
“I had to talk to you alone,” she replied urgently. “Leave Rome? What on earth can you be thinking of? No matter, I won’t allow it. Let Siconulf find someone else to lead his armies. I need you here, with me.”
“Oh, my pearl.” His voice was a caress. “Look at us—we cannot so much as look at each other without betraying how we feel. A single unwary glance, a careless word, and your life could be forfeit! I must go, can’t you see?”
Joan knew what he was saying, even knew he was right in a way. But it didn’t matter. The prospect of his leaving filled her with dismay. Gerold was the one person who truly knew her, the only one upon whom she could absolutely depend.
She said, “Without you, I’d be utterly alone. I don’t think I could bear it.”
“You are stronger than you know.”
“No,” she said. She rose from the throne to go to him and swayed as a strong wave of dizziness swept her.
Instantly Gerold was at her side. He took her arm, supporting her. “You’re ill!”
“No, no. Just … overtired.”
“You’ve been working too hard. You need rest. Come, I’ll help you to your quarters.”
She gripped him fiercely. “Promise me you won’t go until we’ve had a chance to talk again.”
“Of course I won’t leave.” His eyes were filled with concern. “Not until you’re feeling quite well again.”
JOAN lay on her bed in the quiet of her room. Am I truly ill? she wondered. If so, I must discover the cause and treat it quickly before Ennodius and the other physicians of the schola get wind of it.
She applied her mind to the problem, putting questions to herself as if she were her own patient.
When did the first symptoms begin?
Now she thought about it, she had not felt well for several weeks.
What are the symptoms?
Fatigue. Lack of appetite. A feeling of bloatedness. Queasiness, especially upon first arising …
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