The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1)

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The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1) Page 30

by Amy Mantravadi


  “I am glad you did. I spend every day in the company of people who explain things to me.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  He had now come to stand directly beside me, and together we gazed upon the walls, our eyes registering every aspect.

  “These figures here, around the entrance to the sanctuary—they must be the apostles,” I finally said, walking closer to the subject of my comments. “See, there is Peter, and Paul, and Thomas!” I pointed to each of them in turn.

  “They say it was made to resemble the throne room of Emperor Alexios in Constantinople.”

  “Then his palace must be grand indeed.”

  As I continued to look toward the front of the church, I saw two great murals: one of an emperor surrounded by counselors, and the other of a great lady and her attendants.

  “Who are they?” I whispered, more as a comment to myself than an actual question, but the emperor had heard me.

  “That is Justinian to the left, one of the greatest emperors that ever reigned in the East, and that to the right is Theodora, his empress.”

  “She looks as if she must have been very pretty; at least, the craftsman wishes us to think so.” I glanced at my husband, whose own eyes were fixed upon the image of Justinian. After wavering for a moment, I finally said, “You too have the chance to be remembered, even as he was. An opportunity lies before you, if only you would take it.”

  This seized his attention, and he turned back to face me.

  “You refer to the efforts with Paschal.”

  “I do.”

  “And you think I take too hard a line with him?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “So what did you mean? What is this opportunity of which you speak?”

  “The opportunity to forge a peace for your kingdom that could last for generations. The opportunity to be seen as a ruler who wished for something better for his subjects.”

  “I do seek a better life for my subjects, but the matter is not so easy as you suppose.” For a moment he seemed to search for the correct words, and then he added, “That the pope has authority in spiritual matters, I do not deny. Indeed, it must be so, according to the word of our Lord. But it is only in this present generation that Rome has sought such power over kings as it now possesses. Never before has a bishop been so bold as to seek control over every aspect of life in the kingdoms of the North. It is a strange thing never before heard, but begun in the time of my father, and I believe it to be as dangerous for the purity of our holy Church as it is for the powers of the temporal realm. I seek a greater freedom for my kingdom, for the German lands. We have our own manner of doing things, and that must be respected.”

  “So why not go to Rome and make your case to Paschal directly?” I asked. “If your cause is just, then perhaps the two of you may reach an accord that will prevent any blood from being shed.”

  “Paschal cannot even enter Rome under the present circumstances. The people have turned against him. It is best that we wait for the opportune moment. When the time comes, they will beg for us to come and restore order. Just wait, and you will see how our position is strengthened.”

  I thought that he must be angry with me, but instead he smiled and concluded, “I see that my friend Bruno has affected you.”

  “How so?”

  “Here you are lecturing me about warfare. Surely you know that queens are meant to concern themselves with affairs of court and not those of state! But I see he has made a scholar out of you, and I suppose I should be glad of it. Better a wife who is of real use to me. In fact, I am depending on you in the coming days to take a greater part in our dealings. Do not think that your acts are unseen. I believe you are able to fulfill any request I might make of you.”

  “I am honored that you should deem me worthy of your trust. I do wish to be for you as Theodora was for Justinian.” This was perhaps an odd thing to say, Daughter, but it was my earnest desire. Knowing I had gained the emperor’s trust justified my efforts.

  He stepped forward still farther, coming so close to me that I was forced to look upward to meet his gaze. The emperor was a tall man, and though I had by this time grown very near my full height, I was not much past the level of his shoulders.

  “Mathilda,” he said. “You have grown much since we first met. Do you remember the day?”

  “How could I possibly forget?” I thought, but instead merely nodded my head. Such close proximity had robbed me of speech.

  “And now here you stand before me, a young woman worthy of esteem.”

  A suspicion had been forming in my mind, and now seemed warranted, that the emperor had not been thinking purely of mosaics when he asked me to accompany him there. Indeed, the fact of our solitude was now of far greater import than I had guessed moments earlier. I had always known, since that first night when I was granted a reprieve, that my husband would not be content to act as a brother toward me much longer, not if the Salian line was to continue. Therefore the present situation did not come as a surprise, yet it incited a kind of fear in me. I was not troubled by the idea so much as the pressing fact of it all.

  He placed his hands around my waist and pulled me closer to himself. He must have sensed my concern, for he paused for a moment and asked, “Are you afraid of me?”

  “No,” I replied. This was mostly true, but my uncertainty as to what would come next did make me nervous.

  There was no further time to consider the matter, for he leaned down and kissed my mouth. Although I said nothing, I was thinking that this was not such a bad thing after all, if a bit awkward. Then something happened that I did not quite understand. He seemed to let out a kind of groan and pulled away from me, wincing in pain.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked without stopping to consider. The words immediately sounded rather childish to my ears.

  “No, I am quite all right,” he told me, recovering his tranquility. “I just had a slight pain. I must still be sore from riding.”

  I was not sure whether or not to believe him, as this “slight pain” seemed to have come on rather suddenly and with some degree of violence, but I decided that I should not press the matter.

  “I think it best that we return to the palace now. It is almost time for supper.”

  “Yes,” I answered without thinking. I took his arm once again as we proceeded out of the church. If he was in pain, he hid it well.

  We made our return journey without any further conversation, and when we reached the entrance to my chamber, he said, “Farewell for now, then. I hope you enjoyed the church.”

  “Yes, I did,” I said honestly, still trying to understand what had happened.

  “I shall see you at supper,” he replied, and departed without waiting for me to enter the room.

  With whom does one speak concerning love, or if not the substance, at least the outward forms of love? To whom should a young woman look for advisement? To female peers? An empress has no peers. She might have friends, but true friendship is hard to come by when one is the mistress and the other the minister. The women who surrounded me in my youth were of a decent sort, but we did not share that equal disposition on which confidences are so easily built. To men? Surely not! To a mother? Mine was a world away. No, in such matters, I had none to counsel me. Nevertheless, I remained undaunted, for although the land I entered was a strange wilderness, it was not the first time I had trod the path with none beside me.

  Christmas came and went, and we entered those days leading up to the feast of the Epiphany, which were filled with one grand occasion after another. I believe it was a Wednesday, the third before the nones of January, when the imperial company traveled just south of the city to the monastery of San Severo. That house was particularly favored by Archbishop Jeremias of Ravenna, and as a favor to the old man, Emperor Henry was set to grant San Severo new privileges and rights.

  We arrived in the morning and were welcomed in the usual manner. I remember that we were ushered inside by the abbot,
who on account of the hour chose to bring us in by a side door, for the monks had not yet finished the prayers of terce. He led us—that is, me, the emperor, Archbishop Jeremias, Philip of Ravenna, and a contingent of the imperial guard—along the walkway that surrounds the abbey cloister, there to await the proper moment. Suddenly I felt the ground beneath me begin to shake and I became unstable on my feet. I saw that the others were also knocked about. I clung to my husband for support, and he in turn grasped one of the nearby columns. The other members of our party were also forced to brace themselves as the ground continued to pulse more violently. The poor archbishop, who had been walking with the aid of a stick, was unable to move to safety in time and fell to the ground, receiving bloody scrapes on his hands when he moved to catch himself.

  Dust fell from the ceiling above, and as I looked out across the cloister, I saw some of the weaker stones give way and tumble from their lofty heights. Screams came from the church, the refectory, and the fields beyond. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the quaking ceased, and it was only our hearts that continued to tremble. One by one, we looked one another in the eye, our silent gazes revealing the terror we all felt.

  “Good Lord, what judgment have you sent upon us?” the archbishop finally said as he struggled to reclaim his footing. Even as Philip moved to help the older man recover his balance, he continued, “What is this? My cane is broken to pieces!”

  We all looked at the spot to which the archbishop had pointed with his outstretched finger. The fractured remains of his walking aid lay underneath some bricks that had come loose.

  “Never mind it,” Philip replied. “You may lean on me until we can find a new one.”

  “I was so afraid,” I admitted. “I thought the whole building was going to give way.”

  “That is a common response from a foreigner,” the abbot replied, dusting off his robes with a few swipes of the hand. “We here are accustomed to these movements of the earth, though I admit this one was far stronger than usual. Perhaps we ought to pray for absolution if God is displeased with us.”

  “Think you that this is the work of God?”

  We all turned to look at the emperor, who had made the inquiry. None of us offered an answer.

  “Come then,” he continued, “are none of you man enough to say what you really think? I know what you must suppose: that I have brought the wrath of the Almighty upon us all!”

  “Sir,” Philip began, but the archbishop quickly cut him off.

  “What he means to say, my liege, is that no such thought had entered our minds. Who knows why God allows such calamities, whether for our own sins or those of another? But know for certain that such things do not befall us without reason! For we have the words of Job, which read, ‘Who has been fierce against him and has prospered? He removes the mountains, and they feel not when he overthrows them in his anger. He removes the earth out of her place, and the pillars thereof do shake.’”

  “But the sin may well be on the part of Your Grace’s enemies,” the abbot quickly added.

  I found this discussion of the mysteries of divine judgment a bit superfluous in light of what had taken place over the past few minutes, which had left me in some anguish of spirit. I think the emperor noticed my discomfort, for he said, “Abbot, look to your house and make certain that none are hurt. Do you think we should continue with the ceremony today?”

  “I see no reason why not,” the archbishop interrupted, apparently feeling that he could speak on behalf of his subordinate. “Unless further tremors are to visit us, there is nothing which should stand in our way. The church does not appear to have suffered any substantial damage.”

  “Very well, then. On we go.”

  Having concluded that all was well in the monastery, the abbot led us through the remainder of the day. It would be some time before I felt safe once more beneath a roof, and for the next few weeks we did feel the ground move to and fro to a lesser degree than it had in that first hour. Word reached us from the North that this trembling of the earth had been felt for many miles, from the town of Pisa in the West up to Augsburg in the North and Venice in the East. Worst affected was the city of Verona, which we had visited only a few weeks earlier. Almost all the buildings in the city were destroyed. The cathedrals of Padua and Cremona also tumbled to the ground, and in general it seemed that the worst devastation was north of our position.

  The earth’s shaking kindled a further cycle of changes, which threatened to dislodge the sphere of government in the same manner. That very month, Archbishop Jordanus of Milan—no friend to the emperor—held a counsel that was attended by clergy from across the region of Lombardy. Spurred on by certain meddlers, they made their own declaration of excommunication against the emperor, with the support of many local consuls and a large portion of the citizens.

  I could not help but remember the many difficulties facing my husband, for although he had spent most of the past year winning over the provinces of Italy, he had not won the loyalty of those western regions around Milan and leading into Savoy. There the pull of the Gregorians and Cluniacs was stronger, due in part to the nearness of the Kingdoms of France and Burgundy, both of which were the emperor’s natural enemies.

  Yet this new declaration of excommunication did not achieve what its authors intended, for despite increased support from the southern Normans and a band of new troops, Pope Paschal was unable to recover the city of Rome. The longer such a situation continued, the more legitimate it would become in the eyes of many.

  At last, as the winter frost began to melt away, Emperor Henry V sensed his opportunity and marched his troops back through the land of Tuscany and down the southern road that leads to Rome. In so doing, he placed himself beyond the point of possible reversal—much as when Caesar crossed the Rubicon, thus beginning the civil war that led to his elevation. Bruno had told me about it once.

  “Notice, when he discusses the casus belli, Caesar omits his own action in crossing the river,” my tutor had said to me during our study of the Commentarii de bello civili. “He is quick to blame his foes, whether they be Scipio, or Cicero, or the great Pompey. But here, where a mention ought to be made of his departure from the provinces and unlawful entry into Italy itself, the account is entirely silent. Men are apt to remain silent upon the matter of their own faults.”

  “But Archbishop, did not Caesar have good reason to take up arms? Surely he believed that he would be attacked himself if he did not strike the first blow.”

  “Or perhaps he saw the opportunity to gain an advantage,” Bruno countered.

  I struggled to form a reply, knowing that my tutor wished to see me mount a challenge that displayed the workings of my mind. Finally I arrived at one.

  “Well, Caesar defeated Pompey in the end, so I suppose that the question of who struck first was of little consequence. Victory was its own justification.”

  “Yes,” Bruno replied, rising to my challenge, “but what sort of legacy did he leave behind? His life was ended in a pool of blood, betrayed by those he loved! The empire he created was torn apart by war. The great Roman republica of legend had come to an end.”

  “So you believe he seized power to no purpose, then?”

  “Only God knows that,” Bruno concluded. “Time makes of us what it will.”

  I could not help thinking as the imperial company made for Rome that the words of Bruno would be proven true yet again: time truly does make of us what it will.

  XV

  I once possessed a book of sentences given to me by Bruno of Trier for the furtherance of my study. With so many of the ancient works lost to us, these small proverbs were all that remained of most of the Roman fathers. Time and again I read those words and committed them to memory, always uncertain if they were truly the product of those famous minds or merely the invention of a clever scribe. Among them was one quote by Livy that I thought of often during my travels in the South: “Rome is overwhelmed by its own greatness.”

  Such a declaration
befits the city that has long declared itself to be both Caput Mundi and Civitas Aeterna. Whether it can honestly lay claim to either of those titles in our present age is perhaps a matter worthy of disputation, but the Romans care not; the pillars of the ancients may lie in ruins, but upon such a perch they will always place themselves. They are not content to be subjected. Therefore it was with some degree of caution that the emperor proceeded toward Rome, knowing as he did that the mood of the crowd might be turned in an instant. And it must be said that the Romans are more fickle than most, for long before they carried out their rebellions in our own time, they displayed much the same temper in former days to that famous general Coriolanus, who the writers tell us was betrayed by both consuls and citizens long before he lent his support to the Volscian cause.

  Emperor Henry hoped for a happier result as the party crossed back over the Appenines and toward Tuscany, whence we would set out along the Via Cassia toward Rome. We were traveling through that region known as the Futa Pass when a rider approached bearing the ensign of a gold cross upon a field of red. Chancellor David rode his black steed ahead of the company and within a few paces of the stranger.

  “Who is this that approaches the imperial company? Declare yourself!” the chancellor bellowed.

  “I am Sancho, my lord, servant of the bishop of Braga!”

  “Why come you hence?”

  “My master wishes to parley with the emperor.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “On the matter of his discussions with the Holy See.”

  “And what does the bishop of Braga have to do with that?” Emperor Henry asked, bursting forward of the line and joining the discussion.

  The man, Sancho, leaned slightly backward in response to emperor’s swift approach. Even his horse appeared to sense that the stakes had just been raised, for it neighed and beat its hoof upon the rocky ground.

 

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