Pope Joan (62 page)

“… et metuant eum omnes fines terrae. Amen.”

“Amen,” Arsenius echoed. He could hardly wait for the news the next day would bring.

W
AKING
toward morning, Joan smiled to see Gerold sleeping beside her. She let her eyes linger on his long, spare, proud face—as startling now in its manly beauty as when she had first glimpsed it across a banquet table twenty-eight years ago.

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.

T
HEY
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.

A
S 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   

P
APA 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.

S
INCE
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.

T
HE
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.

C
RAFTED
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?”