I am grateful to you for your undertaking this mission. There is no one in my Court on whom I can rely more than on you, at least in this situation. You can do more for me by being apart from my Court, and you are skilled enough to know how perilous Roma is. I ask you not to lose sight of this, no matter what blandishments might be offered to you. Keep your head, and think of the difficulties that the Pale Woman faces, for she, more than you, could suffer for being caught up in the maneuvering of the Church. Also, you comprehend the subtlety of the Byzantines, and you do not underestimate their capacity for intrigue. Nowhere in the West is that more apparent than in Roma.
The Pope is concluding negotiations with Constantinople regarding the matter of my title in a most secret manner, for the Byzantines have not been willing to consider any of our requests. They have resisted allowing me Emperor and Augustus, but Leo is a clever man, and more tenacious than any of the Greeks know. I am confident this will be settled long before I leave Franksland to journey to Roma. If Leo should call upon you in this capacity, then I will release you from your assurances that you will remain aloof from such dealings. If you are required to venture to Spoleto, inform me of it before you leave, so that I may know at what stage these processes are. I am certain that you, being a foreigner, may move about the Papal Court more readily than the Frankish Archbishops, who surely are being watched by the Greeks. So, allowing for the exigencies of circumstances, I give you leave to decide what is best: you can put yourself in Pope Leo’s service for this, and this alone.
The matter of my title rankles. I have no wish to war with the Byzantines over it, but I also have no desire to capitulate to their demands. The Pope has suggested that I unite with him by being Emperor of the Church, which is Universal, thereby expanding my realm beyond being King of the Franks and the Longobards. We are agreed on Most Serene Augustus, Crowned by God, Great, Peace-giving Emperor. The Pope wants the addition of Imperial Governor of all the Romans, and I suppose I must comply, for that would clearly make me Emperor in the West, by virtue of the lands included, but it falls short of making me a Roman Emperor, one with the Caesars and therefore heir to their Emperor. But I know that the Pope is right, and the Greeks would not accept such a sweeping title without a battle, so I will leave it to my successors to reclaim the Roman Empire on behalf of the Church. When that dream is finally realized, all Europe will rejoice. If I were twenty years younger, I might still take on the Greeks over this title, but I have wars enough to last me until I die, and I do not wish to vitiate my armies with yet another campaign. Leo may confer this upon me and I will accept it without cavil, and say we all Amen.
Be stalwart in your purpose. Do not yield in your dedication to my cause. I will reward your fealty just as I will punish any lapses on your part. You are my secret advantage in Roma, and I require you to uphold that obligation or face confiscation, imprisonment, and death. Earn my high opinion, Magnatus, and the world will know of your trustworthiness.
Karl-lo-Magne
King of all Franksland
by the hand of Fratre Perquitus
Chapter Five
BY TERCE ROMA WAS ALREADY HOT, the morning light shining off the toppled marble stones that marked the old Forum and the ancient, tumbled temples to old gods no longer honored in this city. The sun was a brassy smear halfway up the high-clouded sky, lending a glare to the morning even while it robbed the shadows of their sharpest edges. A number of little chapels were open to the many pilgrims who wandered the Roman streets, a number of them with small crucifixes sewn onto their shoulders to show their penitence to the world. Gangs of slaves moved through the avenues with wooden sledges, collecting tumbled blocks from old buildings; these were being used to repair the three largest breaches in the walls as well as to rid the city of rubble.
To the rear of the Pantheon, a party of Frankish monks were reciting their prayers, the great dome with its central opening drawing their eyes toward Heaven. The odor of incense hung in the air like dust motes, almost covering the sweaty presence of the monks. There was almost no one about but the Franks; one of them, a maimed, blunt-featured fellow named Lothar, kept his attention on the glowing aperture, his face suffused with rapture. The others with him prayed, too, but without the ecstatic delight Fratre Lothar felt. Beside him, Fratre Egicaberht droned the prayers of the Little Hour, doing his best to disregard Fratre Lothar’s excesses. When the Office was finished, all the monks but Fratre Lothar prepared to leave the venerable building.
“Fratre,” said Prior Ricimar, touching Fratre Lothar on the sleeve of his white Roman dalmatica. “Terce is over.”
Fratre Lothar blinked. “What?” He frowned. “Oh. I was preoccupied. This church—”
“—began as a pagan temple, and reminds us that we must be diligent in our service to Christ, or the pagans will once again claim the earth for their false gods, even here in Roma, where Christ reigns triumphant. It is the lapse and error we must see, not the victory,” Prior Ricimar said bluntly, his glance raking over the eight monks who waited around him in their linen dalmaticae, presenting a much more uniform appearance than they usually did at home. “We have two more churches to visit before prandium and None,” he reminded the monk with the ruined hand. “You cannot remain here, lost in praying, while we have a duty to do here in Roma.”
“I ask your pardon, Prior,” said Fratre Lothar, lowering his eyes to show his humility. “I should have been more alert.”
Standing slightly behind him; Fratre Smaragdus said nothing, only watched with hooded eyes.
“Yes; you should,” said Prior Ricimar, and turned to leave the Pantheon.
“You will get us all into trouble,” Fratre Egicaberht hissed to Fratre Lothar; Fratre Smaragdus nodded. “Keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“It is just that I have never seen such holy places, and it is as if nothing I have ever seen before has had any meaning, no matter how grand,” Fratre Lothar said with intense emotion. “This is a culmination of my calling, to worship here. Since I came to my vocation, I have longed for the opportunity to see the churches and basilicas of Roma.”
Fratre Chunfrid, who was almost deaf, clung to Fratre Fustel’s sleeve and struggled to understand what was happening.
“You have been to Aachen and seen the Royal Chapel there, and you have been to Paderborn,” Fratre Egicaberht reminded him.
“When I was a Bellatore, I saw those places. That was another life, and I another man. I thought nothing of worship then. Aachen was Aachen, a Royal Residence. Paderborn was the capital of the Saxons. And they were not this city, which is the heart of our faith.” The blazing sunlight made him blink, and he stared about as if he were uncertain of where he was. “The sun dazzles here in Roma.”
“So it seems,” said Fratre Egicaberht, motioning his companion to silence.
They followed Prior Ricimar through the confusion of streets that led toward the Tiber and the rambling brick house that was used by Franks in Roma. The streets were noisy, and everyone appeared to be busy, trying to get their morning work completed before prandium and their mid-day nap that let them slumber through the heat of the afternoon. Twice they passed small parties of monks carrying bodies in winding-sheets, a grim reminder that the summer fevers had come early this year.
“This is an important day,” said Prior Ricimar as they reached the steps of Sant’ Ioannes Laterano. “The Cardinal Archbishop Brunehaut of Marmoutier, a fellow Frank, will show us this church; he will point out its most holy possessions and show us the names recorded in the Pope’s Book of Martyrs.” He indicated a book to Fratre Chunfrid and hoped the monk would understand.
“To die for the true faith!” Fratre Lothar exclaimed. “How blessed they are.”
“If God will accept me among them,” said Fratre Gondehold.
“Amen,” said Fratre Smaragdus.
“So you may think now, in the splendor of Roma with the might of the Church all around you,” said Prior Ricimar. “But few have the stalwart purpose to end
ure what God sends them. Fratre Lothar, think: you have been a soldier, and you have faced the foe and death, yet I wonder if you would be willing to accept a martyr’s crown, for all your prayers?”
“If God would think me worthy, I would embrace such an honorable death,” said Fratre Lothar, and looked around at his comrades in the hope they would endorse his enthusiasm.
“For God’s sake, be quiet,” said Fratre Egicaberht. “You embarrass us all.”
“How can I?” Fratre Lothar asked. “Are we not all dedicated to God and the work of His Church?”
“We’re monks,” said Fratre Fustel, as if it was explanation enough. He patted Fratre Chunfrid’s hand.
“And therefore we are soldiers of God,” said Fratre Lothar.
“And therefore we are monks,” said Fratre Fustel. “It is nothing more than that. To aspire to more is a failure of devotion. We have our Office and our Order and that is enough for God.” He glanced at Prior Ricimar, expecting a reprimand.
“True enough,” said the Prior. “You should seek to live as a monk, in simplicity and acceptance of what God provides you, and not hanker after advancement, even within your Order. All monks must give their Will over to the Will of God, and acquiesce in His design. You haven’t surrendered to God, yet, though you think you have, because you have accepted God as you would a Dux of the army. The Church isn’t the army, Fratre Lothar. If there is advancement to be gained it will be for your modesty and virtue, not your enterprise. You have no patron to sponsor you, and all God asks is that you abide by the Rule, and keep the sacraments holy. If you seek after more, you compromise your devotion. Do the simple things that are required of us with a glad heart, and abide in trust in God and the Salvation promised us.” He was getting nervous; he paced the steps, peering into the crowd as if expecting to find the Cardinal Archbishop there. “Anything else smacks of Pride, and that is the Cardinal Sin, above all others.”
Fratre Lothar looked down at his feet. “I hope I may live without sin.”
“More Pride,” Prior Ricimar declared. “No man is sinless but Christ, Who was not a man, but was made flesh.”
“Amen,” said Fratre Ildebald, and glowered at Fratre Lothar.
“How long are we going to wait?” piped the white-haired, half-foolish Fratre Sigisteus. “I’m getting hungry.”
“We’ll wait until the Cardinal Archbishop Brunehaut comes for us,” said Prior Ricimar. He folded his hands and tried to stand still.
Half-a-dozen pilgrims entered the church, one of them stopping at every step to prostrate himself and recite prayers. The monks got out of the way, and Fratre Chunfrid sketched a gesture of blessing in the direction of the prone man.
There was a flurry of excitement inside the church, and then Cardinal Archbishop Brunehaut came out onto the steps and said, “Prior Ricimar? I welcome you to Roma and Sant’ Ioannes Laterano. I am glad you’re here.” He indicated the door.
“Come, Fratri,” said Prior Ricimar. “I want you to be with me for prandium, and the nap afterward, so when we have completed seeing the church, we may depart and be ready for our meal and our prayers.”
“Yes,” the Cardinal Archbishop said. “You keep your observations, and when they are over, and the afternoon nap is finished, there are some matters we must discuss.” He motioned to the monks.
“We are at your service, Primore.” Prior Ricimar lowered his head and waited for a sign to go on.
“Yes. You are.” He stepped back into the narthex and pointed toward the altar. “There is where the Pope says Mass, when he is in Roma. While he is gone, each of us Cardinal Archbishops says Mass, one of us each day.”
“Have you said Mass recently, Primore?” asked Fratre Sigisteus.
“Yes; three days ago,” said the Cardinal Archbishop. He stared at the monks as if trying to make up his mind about them. “If you wish to see the chapels, I will take you around the nave.” He coughed gently and went toward the side of the church, where small alcoves served as chapels for those wishing to pray privately in this large building. “The Popes have dedicated chapels to each of the Apostles, and, as you can see, there are ten chapels to Our Lady. Many pilgrims pray at each one of them, reciting the ‘Ave’ ten times in each.” He walked slowly enough to allow the monks to look into each of the chapels, but quickly enough that they could not linger. As they neared the choir, he pointed to a cluster of chapels behind the benches. “These are dedicated to the early Martyrs and Saints. You can see their stories in mosaics on the walls of each chapel.” Again he let the monks glance in, but kept them moving. “Come this way,” he said, taking the monks behind the High Altar to the Penitents’ Chapels; these were closed cells with barred and locked doors, where single lamps burned to illuminate the occupants of the cells, who spent their days and nights in constant prayer for the remission of sin.
One of the penitents laughed as he prayed, his voice high and sing-song as he recited Psalms in Avar-accented Latin. As the monks passed his door, he stopped and called out, “You should all be ashamed. You are lazy, and that is a Deadly Sin. You should be praying every hour of every day. Anything less will bring ruin on Roma.”
Fratre Ildebald was shocked; Fratre Fustel was frightened, which served to alarm Fratre Chunfrid; Fratre Lothar was transfixed by this unexpected accusation. The three monks stood by the iron door, wary and upset. Fratre Smaragdus listened closely to the muttered Psalms of the occupant of the cell.
“Pay no attention,” said Prior Ricimar. “This is the fate of those who are too zealous in their devotion. Let him be a warning to you all.”
“A warning?” Fratre Lothar exclaimed. “An example, rather. How could you think this man is a warning when his piety is so complete? This penitent is willing to show us the way. Our dedication is not genuine if we are unwilling to make his sacrifice.” He looked to the Cardinal Archbishop. “Primore Brunehaut, what do you say? Surely this monk is more worthy than we are.”
“He is more rigorous,” said Cardinal Archbishop Brunehaut. “He could not be were it not for Fratri like you who are willing to do the daily labor that supports him and the other penitents in their prayers. Without monks like you, these men would starve, and their cells would become tombs.”
Prior Ricimar made a sign of agreement. “Listen to him, Fratre Lothar. You are still new to monastic life and you are like a suitor in the first flush of courtship, all ardor and fine intentions. Yet a monk is not a husband but a servant, and he must accept the nature of his calling or fail God. You have been a soldier, and you have known what it is to submit to the rule of a leader, even in the heat of battle. So must you submit to God’s commands now you are a monk.”
“Well-said,” approved the Cardinal Archbishop. “The Church has need of monks who are willing to consecrate their calling to the most simple tasks—farming, baking, weaving, cheese-making, tending the sick and injured, providing shelter for travelers, and all the other Christian acts that show God our desire to be like Christ in our humility.”
“The penitents in these cells have more to answer for than you do, and more to repent than most men,” said Cardinal Archbishop Brunehaut, raising his voice a little as if to remind the penitents of their purpose. “They have all committed some great crime or affronted God in some way that is beyond what most men do.” He motioned to the monks to hurry, and led them out the west door into a small cloister. “Here. You may join us for Sept. The bell will sound shortly.” He shaded his eyes with his hands and looked up at the sky. “The clouds are thickening. There will be rain by evening, thanks be to God.”
The monks all made gestures imploring deliverance, and Fratre Egicaberht chanted the “Pater Noster,” his hands raised in worship. Fratre Smaragdus folded his hands as if to disassociate himself with such excesses. Cardinal Archbishop Brunehaut hesitated a moment, then joined Fratre Egicaberht in his recitation.
“You are staying at the House of the Franks, aren’t you? With the others from Franksland?” The Cardinal Archbishop wa
s most business-like as he asked, all his pietistic manner gone. “A messenger will find you there, won’t he?”
“We are bidden to the infirmary at Holy Martyrs to help care for the ill, as part of our service,” said Prior Ricimar. “But this evening at Vespers most of us will return to the House of the Franks.”
“Very good,” approved the Cardinal Archbishop. “Who among you is doing night duty at Holy Martyrs?”
Fratre Gondehold and Fratre Lothar signaled that they were to undertake that duty. After a moment, so did Fratre Smaragdus.
“They are the first. Tomorrow night two or three others will serve,” said Prior Ricimar in a tone that brooked no discussion, although a few of the monks were unhappy about this. “Those who will not tend the sick and injured may clean latrines.”
“Very good,” Cardinal Archbishop Brunehaut repeated. “My messengers will find you.”
“Amen,” said Fratre Gondehold, his face shining. “I will be most eager to aid you in any way you wish. You have only to state what you require.”
Cardinal Archbishop Brunehaut coughed once. “For that I am grateful.” He indicated a distant gate in the cloister enclosure. “That is the Pope’s Walkway. It leads to his quarters; they are not so fine as Karl-lo-Magne’s, but they are worthy of His Holiness.” In fact, the Papal quarters were little more than a dormitory with a few small reception rooms and three private chapels, but the Cardinal Archbishop knew better than to admit this.
“Will the Pope reside there when he returns?” Fratre Sigisteus asked.
“It is expected he will, but that isn’t for me to say: Leo must decide where he is to live, and who is to be housed with him.” A shadow crossed the Cardinal Archbishop’s face, as if a cloud had more completely blotted out the sun. “He is a cautious man, and it has served him well in this world.”
Night Blooming Page 40