Pope Joan (51 page)

Gerold scarcely heard them. His thoughts were racing ahead. “Pope Sergius will need our help,” he said tautly.

But it was not Sergius he was thinking of. With a single stroke, the news of the approach of the Saracen fleet had erased all the bitter hurt and misunderstanding of the past two years. Only one thing
mattered—to reach Joan and do everything within his power to protect her.

“What do you suggest, Gerold?” Siconulf asked.

“My prince, let me lead our troops to Rome’s defense.”

Siconulf frowned. “Surely the Holy City has defenders of her own.”

“Only the
familia Sancti Petri
—a small and undisciplined group of papal militia. They will fall like summer wheat before the Saracens’ blades.”

“What about the Aurelian Wall? Surely the Saracens cannot breach it?”

“The wall seems strong enough,” Gerold admitted. “But several of its gates are poorly reinforced. They won’t withstand a sustained assault. And the tomb of St. Peter is entirely unprotected, for it lies outside the wall.”

Siconulf considered this. He was reluctant to commit his troops to a cause other than his own. But he was a Christian prince, with a proper reverence for the Holy City and its sacred places. The idea of barbarian infidels defiling the Apostle’s tomb was appalling. Besides, it occurred to him now that there might be some personal benefit in sending men to Rome’s defense. Afterward, a grateful Pope Sergius might reward him with one of the rich papal patrimonies that bordered Siconulf’s territory.

He said to Gerold, “You may have three divisions of troops. How long will you need to prepare to march?”

“The troops are battle hardened and ready. We can leave at once. If the weather holds, we’ll be in Rome in ten days’ time.”

“Let us pray that will be sufficient. God go with you, Gerold.”

I
N ROME
, an eerie sense of calm prevailed. Since the initial warning from Siena two weeks before, there had been no further word of the Saracen fleet. The Romans gradually began to relax their vigilance, convincing themselves that the reports of an enemy fleet had been false, after all.

The morning of August 23 dawned bright with promise. The stational mass was held at the Cathedral of Sancta Maria ad Martyres, known in pagan days as the Pantheon, one of the loveliest of Rome’s churches. It was an especially beautiful service, with the sun filtering through the circular opening in the basilica’s great domed roof, casting
a golden glow over the entire congregation. Returning to the Patriarchium, the choir joyously chanted,
“Gloria in excelsis Deo.”

The song died on their lips as they entered the sun-dazzled piazza of the Lateran and saw a crowd of citizens milling anxiously round a weary and mud-stained messenger.

“The infidels have landed,” the messenger announced grimly. “The town of Porto is taken, its people slaughtered and its churches defiled.”

“Christ aid!” someone cried.

“What will become of us?” wailed another.

“They will kill us all!” a third shouted hysterically.

The crowd threatened to break into a dangerous disorder.

“Silence!” Sergius’s voice rang above the uproar. “Cease this unworthy display!” The voice of authority cut commandingly through the din, compelling obedience.

“What,” he said, “are we sheep, to cower so? Are we babes, to think ourselves defenseless!” He paused dramatically. “No! We are Romans! And this is Rome, protectorate of St. Peter, key bearer of the Kingdom of Heaven! ‘Thou art Peter,’ Christ has said, ‘and upon this rock shall I build my church.’ Why should you fear? Will God suffer His sacred altar to be defiled?”

The crowd stirred. Scattered voices cried out in response: “Yes! Listen to the Lord Pope! Sergius is right!”

“Have we not our guards and our militia?” With a sweep of his arm, Sergius indicated the papal guards, who obliged by raising their lances and shaking them fiercely. “The blood of our ancestors runs in their veins; they are armed with the strength of Omnipotent God! Who shall prevail against them?”

The crowd let out a ragged cheer. Rome’s heroic past was still a source of pride, the military triumphs of Caesar and Pompey and Augustus the common knowledge of every citizen.

Joan watched Sergius in wonderment. Could this heroic figure be the same ailing, ill-tempered, disheartened old man she had encountered two years ago?

“Let the infidels come!” Sergius cried. “Let them hurl their weapons against this sacred fortress! They will crack their hearts against our God-protected walls!”

Joan felt the excitement, the swelling crest that rose thrillingly and broke upon the crowd in a roiling tumult of emotion. Her own
feet were too firmly planted in reality to be so easily swept away.
The world is not as we would have it
, she thought,
no matter how skillfully we may conjure it.

The crowd were on their feet, heads lifted, faces aglow. All around Joan excited voices reverberated in unison: “Sergius! Sergius! Sergius! Sergius!”

A
T SERGIUS’S
command, the people spent the next two days fasting and praying. The altars of all the churches shone brightly, lit with a profusion of votive candles. Miracles were everywhere reported. The golden statue of the Madonna at the Oratory of St. Cosmas was said to have moved her eyes and sung a litany. The crucifix above the altar of St. Hadrian had shed tears of blood. These miracles were interpreted as signs of divine blessing and favor. Day and night the sound of
Hosanna
rang out from churches and monasteries, as the clergy of the city rose to the Lord Pope’s challenge and prepared to meet the enemy with the invincible strength of their Christian faith.

Shortly after dawn on August 26, the cry came down from the walls. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

The terrified shrieks of the people penetrated even the thick stone walls of the Patriarchium.

“I must go to the parapets,” Sergius announced. “When the people see me, they will know they have nothing to fear.”

Arighis and the other optimates protested, arguing that it was far too dangerous, but Sergius was adamant. In the end they reluctantly led him to the wall, careful to choose a place where the stones rose somewhat higher, affording better protection.

There was a great cheer as Sergius ascended the steps. Then all eyes turned toward the west. A great cloud of dust rose shimmering in the air. The Saracens emerged from it at a rapid gallop, their loose garments flapping behind them like the wings of giant birds of prey. A terrible war cry rang out, a long, high ululation that rose and hung shuddering in the air, sending a chill of terror down the spines of all who stood listening.

“Deo, juva nos,”
one of the priests said tremblingly.

Sergius raised a small, gem-encrusted crucifix and cried, “Christ is our Savior and our Shield.”

The city gates opened, and the papal militia marched out bravely
to meet the enemy. “Death to the infidel!” they shouted, waving their swords and spears.

The opposing armies collided with a great noise of clashing steel, louder than the din of a thousand smiths. In minutes, it became evident the battle was hopelessly unequal; the Saracen cavalry rode straight over the front ranks of the Roman foot soldiers, cutting and slashing with their curved scimitars.

The militia in the rear could not see the slaughter up front. Still convinced of victory, they thronged forward, pushing against the backs of those before them. Line after line of men were driven relentlessly onto the Saracens’ swords and fell, their bodies creating a treacherous stumbling ground for those who came after.

It was a massacre. Broken and terrified, the militia retreated in desperate disorder. “Run!” they screamed as they scattered across the field like seeds of grain before a wind. “Run for your lives!”

The Saracens did not trouble to pursue them, for their victory had gained them a much greater prize: the unprotected basilica of St. Peter. They surrounded it in a dark swarm. They did not dismount but rode their horses straight up the steps and through the doors in a great flying wedge.

Behind the walls, the Romans waited breathlessly. A minute passed. Then another. No thunderclap split the sky, no sea of flame poured from the heavens. Instead, the unmistakable noise of rending wood and metal issued from the basilica. The Saracens were pillaging the sacred altar.

“It cannot be,” Sergius whispered. “Dear God, it cannot be.”

A band of Saracens emerged from the basilica, waving the golden cross of Constantine. Men had died, it was said, simply for daring to touch it. Yet now the Saracens tossed it about mockingly, laughing as they pumped it up and down between their legs in obscene and beastly parody.

With a muted groan, Sergius dropped the crucifix and sank to his knees.

“Holiness!” Joan rushed to him.

He grimaced in pain, pressing one hand to his chest.

A seizure of the heart
, Joan thought in alarm. “Take him up,” she commanded. Arighis and several of the guards lifted the stricken Pope, cradling him in their arms, and carried him into a nearby house, where they laid him down on a thick straw mattress.

Sergius’s breath was coming in labored gasps. Joan prepared an infusion of willow bark and hawthorn berries and gave it to him. It seemed to ease him, for his color improved and he began to breathe more easily.

“They’re at the gates!” People were screaming outside. “Christ aid! They’re at the gates!”

Sergius tried to raise himself from the bed, but Joan eased him back. “You must not move.”

The effort had cost him; he pressed his lips together tightly. “Speak for me,” he pleaded. “Turn their minds toward God…. Help them … Prepare them …” His mouth worked agitatedly, but no words came.

“Yes, Holiness, yes,” Joan agreed. Clearly nothing else would pacify him. “I will do as you say. But now you must rest.”

He nodded and lay back. His eyelids fluttered and closed as the medicine began to take effect. There was nothing to do now but let him sleep and hope the medicine would do its work.

Joan left him under the solicitous eye of Arighis and went out onto the street.

A rending noise, loud as a thunderclap, sounded close by. Joan started in fear.

“What’s happening?” she called to a passing group of guards.

“The idolatrous swine are battering at the gate!” a guard called back as they marched past.

She returned to the piazza. Terror had driven the crowd into a frenzy. Men yanked the hairs violently from their beards; women shrieked and tore their cheeks with their nails till the blood ran. The monks of the Abbey of St. John knelt together in a solid clump, black cowls fallen from their heads, arms uplifted to Heaven. Several of their number tore off their robes and began to scourge themselves with split canes of wood in a frenzied attempt to propitiate the evident wrath of God. Frightened at this alarming display, children began to wail, their high-pitched voices threading reedily through the mad, discordant chorus.

Help them
, Sergius had pleaded.
Prepare them.

But how?

Joan climbed the steps to the wall. Picking up the crucifix Sergius had dropped, she thrust it aloft for all to see. The sun caught its gems, sparking a golden rainbow of light.

“Hosanna in excelsis,”
she began loudly. The high, clear notes of the holy canticle rang out over the crowd, strong and sweet and sure. The people nearest the wall raised tear-streaked faces toward the familiar sound. Priests and monks joined their voices in the song, kneeling on the cobbled stones beside masons and seamstresses.
“Christus qui venit nomine Domini …”

There was another great crash, followed by the sound of splintering wood. The gates gave an inward heave. Light filtered through where a narrow crack had been opened.

Dear God
, Joan thought.
What if they break through?
Until this moment such a possibility had seemed unthinkable.

Memory flooded her. She saw the Norsemen bursting through the doors of the cathedral at Dorstadt, swinging their axes. She heard the awful screams of the dying … saw John lying with his head crushed in … and Gisla … Gisla …

Her voice trembled into stillness. The people looked up in alarm.
Go on
, she told herself,
go on
, but her mind seemed frozen; she could not remember the words.

“Hosanna in excelsis.”
A deep baritone sounded beside her. It was Leo, Cardinal Priest of the Church of the Sancti Quattro Coronati. He had climbed up beside her on the wall. The sound of his voice jolted her from her fear, and together they went on with the canticle.

“God and St. Peter!” A loud cry resounded from the east.

The guards on the walls were jumping up and down, cheering, shouting, “God be praised! We are saved!”

She looked over the wall. A great army was galloping toward the city, its fluttering banners emblazoned with the emblems of St. Peter and the cross.

The Saracens dropped their battering rams and ran for their mounts.

Joan squinted into the sun. As the troops drew nearer, she gave a sudden, sharp cry.

At the head of the vanguard, his lance already poised for the throw, tall and fierce and heroic as one of her mother’s ancient gods, rode Gerold.

T
HE
ensuing battle was sharp and savage. The attack of the Beneventans had caught the Saracens off guard; they were driven back from the city walls and forced to retreat through the campagna all the way to
the sea. At the coast, the infidels hauled their stolen treasure aboard their ships and set sail. In their haste to depart, they left great numbers of their brethren behind. For weeks Gerold and his men rode up and down the coast, hunting down scattered bands of the marauders.

Rome was saved. The Romans were torn between joy and despair—joy at their deliverance, despair at the destruction of St. Peter’s. For the sacred basilica had been plundered beyond recognition. The ancient gold cross on the tomb of the Apostle was gone, as was the great silver table with the relief of Byzantium, given by Emperor Karolus the Great. The infidels had torn silver entablatures from the doors and gold plates from the floor. They had even—God darken their eyes!—carried away the high altar itself. Unable to remove the bronze coffin containing the body of the Prince of the Apostles, they had broken it open, scattering and defiling the sacred ashes.