Pope Joan (56 page)

Arsenius took no offense at Waldipert’s hasty departure; it was imperative for the vicedominus to get back to the Patriarchium before his absence was noticed.

Arsenius congratulated himself on his foresight in having identified Waldipert as a young man with a future many years ago, when he was only a chamberlain in the papal household. It had been costly, buying the man’s loyalty all these years. But now that Waldipert was vicedominus, the investment would pay off handsomely.

Arsenius rang for his servant. “Go to the Church of St. Marcellus and bid my son come at once.”

H
EARING
the news, Anastasius sat down heavily in a chair opposite his father. Silently he cursed himself, humiliated that his father had learned how badly he had bungled things.

“Who would have guessed the boy would talk?” he said defensively. “To betray me, he had to condemn himself.”

“It was a mistake to let him live,” Arsenius said matter-of-factly. “You should have had his throat slit the moment the deed was done. Well, it’s over now. We must look to the future.”

“Future?” Anastasius echoed bleakly. “What future?”

“Despair is for the weak, my son, not for such as you and me.”

“But what am I to do? Surely the situation is past all righting!”

“You must leave Rome. Now. Tonight.”

“Oh, God!” Anastasius buried his face in his hands. His whole world was crumbling around him.

Arsenius said sternly, “Enough! Remember who and what you are.”

Anastasius sat up, struggling to master himself.

“You will go to Aachen,” Arsenius said, “to the Emperor’s court.”

Anastasius was bewildered. The sick fear gripping his heart was keeping him from thinking clearly. “But … Lothar knows I denounced him at the papal election.”

“Yes, and knows as well why you were compelled to do so. He’s a man who understands political necessity—how else do you think he managed to wrest the throne from his father and brothers? He’s also a man in need of money.” Arsenius took a leather pouch from his desk and handed it to Anastasius. “If the imperial feathers are still ruffled, this purse will help smooth them.”

Anastasius stared dully at the heavy bag of coins.
Must I really leave Rome?
The idea of living out the remainder of his days among a
tribe of barbarian Franks filled him with loathing.
Better, perhaps, to die now and have done with it.

“Think of it as an opportunity,” his father was saying. “A chance to win powerful friends at the imperial court. You’ll need them, once you are Pope.”

Once I am Pope.
The words penetrated the heavy fog of Anastasius’s despair. Then he was not being sent away forever.

“I’ll look after your interests here, never fear,” Arsenius said. “The tide of opinion cannot run in Leo’s favor forever. Eventually it will crest, and then subside. When I judge the time to be ripe, I’ll send for you.”

The cold nausea that had gripped Anastasius began to recede. His father had not given up hope; therefore, neither must he.

“I’ve arranged for an escort,” Arsenius said briskly. “Twelve of my best men. Come, I’ll walk with you to the stables.”

T
HE
twelve guards were mounted and ready, armed with sword and pike and mace. Anastasius would not want for protection on the dangerous roads. His mount stood nearby, tossing its head impatiently— a strong and spirited beast; Anastasius recognized it as his father’s favorite stallion.

“There’s two or three hours of daylight yet—enough to give you a good start,” Arsenius said. “They’ll not come for you today, for they’ve no way of knowing you suspect anything, and Leo will surely take the precaution of drawing up an official writ for your arrest. It’ll be morning before they start looking, and then they’ll try St. Marcellus first. By the time they think of coming here, you’ll be well away.”

Struck with a sudden concern, Anastasius said, “What about you, Father?”

“They’ve no reason to suspect me. If they try to question me as to your whereabouts, they’ll find they have a wolf by the tail.”

Father and son embraced.

Can this actually be happening?
Anastasius wondered. Things were moving so quickly it was bewildering.

“God go with you, my son,” Arsenius said.

“And with you, Father.” Anastasius mounted and turned his horse quickly so his father would not see the start of tears to his eyes. Just beyond the gate, he turned back for a last look. The sun was westering, spilling lengthening shadows over the sweet slopes of the
Roman hills, painting with red-gold hues the majestic skeletons of the Forum and the Colosseum.

Rome. Everything he had worked for, all he cared about, lay inside its sacred walls.

His last sight was of his father’s face—pained but resolute, and steady and reassuring as the rock of St. Peter.

“M
EMBRUM
putridum et insanibile, ferro excommunicationis a corpore Ecclesiae abscidamus …”

In the cool dark of the Lateran Basilica, Joan listened to Leo pronounce the solemn and terrifying words that would sever Anastasius from Holy Mother Church forever. She noted that Leo had chosen the
excommunicatio minor
, the lesser form of excommunication, in which the condemned was enjoined from administering or receiving the sacraments (save for the last rites, from which no living soul could be excluded) but not from all intercourse with his fellow Christians.
Truly
, Joan thought,
Leo has a charitable heart.

All the clergy of Rome and its patrimonies were gathered to witness the solemn ceremony; even Arsenius was here, for he would not jeopardize his own position as Bishop of Horta with a futile public opposition. Leo suspected, of course, that Arsenius had been complicit in his son’s flight from justice. But there was no proof to substantiate such a charge and no other ground for complaint against him, since it was certainly no crime merely to be a man’s father.

As the candle representing Anastasius’s immortal soul was upended and extinguished in the dirt, Joan felt an unexpected twinge of sadness.
A tragic waste
, she thought. So brilliant a mind as Anastasius’s could have been used to do much good, if his heart had not been twisted by obsessive ambition.

   26   

C
ONSTRUCTION on the Leonine Wall, as the structure was now universally called, proceeded apace. The fire intended to destroy it had done little actual harm; the wooden scaffolding used by the workers had burned to the ground, and one of the western ramparts had been badly blackened, but that was all. The problems that had plagued the project from the beginning now blessedly ceased. Work continued steadily throughout the winter and the following spring, for the weather remained blessedly mild, marked by long, cool, sunny days with no drop of rain. A constant supply of good-quality stone came in from the quarries, and the workers from the various domains of the papal campagna settled in to the work, laboring side by side in productive unison.

By Pentecost, the topmost row of stone reached a man’s height. No one called the project folly now; no one complained of the time and money lavished on it. The Romans felt a growing pride in the work, whose immensity harked back to the ancient days of Empire, when such prodigies of construction were a commonplace, not a rarity. When finished, the wall would be magnificent, monumental, a towering barrier even the Saracens could never scale or breach.

But time ran out. On the calends of July, messengers arrived in the city with terrifying news: a Saracen fleet was gathering at Totarium, a small island off the east coast of Sardinia, in preparation for another attack on Rome.

Unlike Sergius, who had looked to the power of prayer to protect the city, Leo chose a more aggressive course of action. He sent immediately to the great maritime city of Naples, requesting a fleet of armed ships to engage the enemy at sea.

The idea was bold—and chancy. Naples still nominally owed allegiance to Constantinople, though in reality it had been independent for years. Would the Duke of Naples help Rome in her hour of need? Or would he use the opportunity to join forces with the Saracens and strike a blow against the Roman See on behalf of the Eastern Patriarchate?
The plan was fraught with danger. But what alternative was there?

F
OR
ten days the city waited in tense expectation. When at last the Neapolitan fleet arrived at Porto, on the mouth of the Tiber, Leo set forth warily to meet them, accompanied by a large retinue of heavily armed militia under Gerold’s command.

The Romans’ anxieties were allayed when Caesarius, the commander of the fleet, prostrated himself before Leo and humbly kissed his feet. With a degree of relief he did not reveal, Leo blessed Caesarius, solemnly committing the sacred bodies of the apostles Peter and Paul to his protection.

They had survived the first roll of fortune’s dice; on the next one all their futures would depend.

T
HE
next morning the Saracen fleet appeared. The broad-stretched lateen sails spread across the horizon like opened talons. Bleakly Joan counted them—fifty, fifty-three, fifty-seven—still they kept coming— eighty, eighty-five, ninety—were there this many ships in the world?— one hundred, one hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty!
Deo, juva nos!
The Neapolitan vessels numbered only sixty-one; with the six Roman biremes still in serviceable condition, that made a total of sixty-seven. They were outnumbered almost two to one.

Leo stood on the steps of the nearby Church of St. Aurea and led the frightened citizens of Porto in prayer. “Lord, Thou who saved Peter from sinking when walking on the waves, Thou who rescued Paul from the depths of the sea, hear us. Grant power to the arms of Thy believing servants, who fight against the enemies of Thy church, that through their victory Thy holy name may be glorified among all nations.”

In the open air, the voices of the people reverberated with a resounding “Amen.”

Caesarius shouted orders from the deck of the foremost ship. The Neapolitans hurled themselves against the oars, muscles straining. For a moment the heavy biremes stood motionless in the water. Then, with an enormous groan of creaking timber, the ships began to move. The double banks of oars rose and dipped and rose and dipped, flashing like gems; the wind caught the sails, and the great biremes drove ahead, their ironclad prows cleaving the turquoise water into twin shafts of foam.

The Saracen ships turned to meet them. But before the two opposing fleets could engage, an earsplitting thunderclap signaled the advent of a storm. The sky darkened as black clouds rolled in rapidly from the sea. The heavy-drafted Neapolitan ships were able to make it back to safe harbor. But the Saracen vessels, crafted with low freeboards for speed and maneuverability in battle, were too flimsy to ride out the storm. They pitched and heaved on the rising waves, tossed about like pieces of bark, their iron rams striking their sister ships, breaking them apart.

Several of the ships headed into port, but as soon as they reached land, they were set upon. Fanned by the violent anger that follows terror, the Romans slaughtered the crews without mercy, dragging them from their ships and suspending them from gibbets hastily constructed along the shore. Witnessing their comrades’ fate, the other Saracen ships struck out desperately for the open sea, where they were broken apart by giant, roiling waves.

In the moment of unexpected victory, Joan was watching Leo. He stood on the steps of the church, arms upraised, eyes lifted to Heaven in thanksgiving. He looked saintly, beatific, as if touched by a divine presence.

Perhaps he
can
work miracles
, she thought. Her knees bent willingly as she bowed down before him.

“
VICTORY!
Victory at Ostia!” The news was cried jubilantly through the streets. The Romans spilled forth from their houses, the papal storehouses were thrown open, and wine flowed freely; for three days the city indulged in wild and drunken celebration.

Five hundred Saracens were marched into the city before jeering, hostile crowds. Many were stoned or hacked to death along the route. The survivors, some three hundred in number, were taken in chains to a camp in the Neronian Plain, where they were confined and required to labor on the Leonine Wall.