“Yes; two,” she said, more puzzled than ever.
“Good. I will enter one of them once I have finished my Confession to your husband.” He lifted his hands in an attitude of prayer. “May God hear me with Mercy.”
“Amen,” said the priest’s wife apprehensively.
Anshelm and Theubert dismounted and went to the back of the plausterum; they moved slowly, reluctant to do the work that had to be done. They retrieved Notrold’s body and bore it to the entrance to the little church.
“How long has this man been dead?” she asked, going pale.
“Not long,” said Einshere. “I killed him.”
Now the woman was upset. “Why do you bring him here?” She held up her hand in a gesture to keep away misfortune.
“He is a true Bellatore and worthy of burial as a Christian,” said Einshere. “I will entrust him to you and enter your penitent’s cell to expiate my sins.”
“Nothing more?” the priest’s wife challenged. “You are all armed. Is that all you want?”
“What more is there?” Sulpicius asked her.
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “God preserve us all.”
“Amen,” said all of them in ragged chorus.
“I will gladly make a donation toward Masses for the dead man’s soul,” said Rakoczy, and reached for the wallet on his girdle.
The priest’s wife smiled, her expression showing intense allayment of anxiety. “That would be welcome, and a charitable act.”
Rakoczy handed the woman two silver coins. “This should suffice for twenty Masses.”
She took the money. “Yes. Twenty Masses.”
A bell sounded inside the church and a moment later, the priest emerged, his alb still in place. “In God’s Name,” he exclaimed as he looked down at the body.
Both Einshere and Anshelm began to explain; while they were trying to make themselves heard, Sulpicius leaned over toward Rakoczy and whispered, “What more can happen? So near to Roma, surely this is the end of our misadventures.”
Rakoczy nodded to show he had heard, but kept his thoughts to himself.
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CARDINAL ARCHBISHOP PAULINUS EVITUS IN ROMA TO PATRIARCH PETROS OF ANTIOCH IN CONSTANTINOPLE, WRITTEN IN GREEK CODE AND CARRIED BY A CLANDESTINE MESSENGER.
To the most excellent Patriarch Petros of Antioch, the submissive greeting of Cardinal Archbishop Paulinus Evitus, with the assurance of his continued fealty and affection, in anticipation of the Pope’s return to Roma in one or two months.
Now that summer is ending, there is increasing certainty that Leo will be back in Roma before the season of the Nativity, and in the company of that Frankish barbarian, Karl who is called Great by his people. It is unfortunate that we must receive him as if in triumph, but failure to do so is likely to bring about more bloodshed and destruction than we will suffer for the presence of the Franks in this city. If the Cardinal Archbishops do not take it upon themselves to refuse the Pope entrance to the city, then we may not be able to keep him from reclaiming Sant’ Pier’s Seat This would be a tragedy for Christians everywhere, and I am troubled by the lack of resolve I have found among my fellow Cardinal Archbishops.
That does not mean all is lost There have been so many rumors about the misconduct of Leo that he may find such accusations impossible to refute, and therefore he may yet have to resign the Papacy in order to preserve the Church, which will make it possible for us to put our candidate forward Once he wears the tiara, he will be able to subsume the Roman Church to the Orthodox Church, and thereby bring all Christians to the true Church. I pray day and night for that joyous day.
I do not fear the Franks, mighty in war though they are. I am certain that devotion to God is greater than any allegiance to a worldly lord. This buffoon imagines that he is heir to the Caesars! The temerity of the man! Yet many Cardinal Archbishops tremble at his name and profess themselves ready to recognize him as governor of all the Romans. It would be an insult if it were not so absurd. I cannot conceive of any circumstances that would render Karl worthy of the high regard he demands, and which Leo, the fool, provides him. It would be a dreadful thing to join the Church to such a one as he.
You have warned me that there are fewer Cardinal Archbishops favoring the Orthodox Church than there were a year ago, and that is probably so, but I am confident that those of us who still adhere to your Church are more committed to the victory of the faith than those who have wavered in their duty. It is imperative that all of us cleave to the Orthodox Church of Constantinople. To that end I dedicate my soul.
Cardinal Archbishop
Paulinus Evitus
by my own hand
Chapter Eight
“THIS IS ROMA?” Gynethe Mehaut asked, her voice hushed, as they made their way past the gate newly built in the ruined city walls. She had pulled the covering of her plausterum aside in order to look at this most renowned of all cities in Karl-lo-Magne’s domain. What she saw appalled her a dead horse lay between the shafts of an abandoned cart in the curve of the old, collapsed wall; the flies and other insects had had the greater part of a day to feast upon it as the stultifying heat sped bloating; already the taint of putrefaction was on the air around the animal, cloying and metallic. Within the shadows of a dilapidated emporium beggars watched the horse, as if hoping for an opportunity to butcher it before it became too rotten to be of use.
“It is.” Rakoczy almost added now; this was not Roma as he had first seen it, in the time of Julius Caesar, and later, when Nero and Vespasianus ruled. The city had been bursting then, with a much larger population, its walls intact, its buildings new.
Sulpicius shook his head, half in awe, half in disappointment. “What happened here?”
“It was sacked,” said Rakoczy. “Repeatedly.”
Gynethe Mehaut stared up at the ruins of the Circus Maximus, looming behind a row of two-story brick buildings. She made a sign to protect herself. “What have they done? Why is it like this? How did it come to be so … so wretched?”
“Romans have been taking its marble facing for four centuries,” said Rakoczy, “and the bricks have been used by everyone.”
They went farther into the city, passing deserted buildings with plants growing out of the cracks in their stone fronts, over an old bridge that had once been graceful and sturdy, with statues of gods at both ends; now it was patched with wooden beams, and the road-bed had a few holes worn through, where the Tiber could be seen, all green and white. After crossing the bridge they went toward the House of the Franks, keeping to the streets that were fairly clear of rubble; it was a dismaying vision of fallen splendor. Yet Roma was not devoid of beauty: the afternoon glowed a buttery gold, and the first aroma of the grape harvest—which had just begun—made the air vibrant with promise. The old stones, amber and aureate, were impressive in the waning day, vivid as living flesh, yet would soon fade to lunar canescence in the intense blue of twilight.
“I don’t think it is wise for you to go about the city, just you and the White Woman, not so late in the day,” said Usuard. “You cannot be sure of your way and mischief could happen.”
“It is true that Roma has changed since I was here last and I might not find the most direct route to the house we seek,” Rakoczy conceded, “but you don’t know your way at all. I can find the old Temple of Hercules, and the square before it, which is all I need to know this evening. Let me offer you this: if I believe we are in danger, I will return here. You may repose confidence in me—I will defend Gynethe Mehaut to my death, should it come to that.” He held out three of the six leads he had gathered in his hand. “You may keep these horses for your use. I will have remounts aplenty from my hostess.” He smiled slightly. “I will pay for their feed.”
“You are very generous, Magnatus,” said Theubert. “When I tender my report, I will say you have done this for us, as well as your other good acts.”
“That is very welcome,” said Rakoczy, who knew all beneficial reports about him were given lim
ited credibility by most of those who read them. He ducked his head in respect, then swung his grey around, and with his single remount behind him and three mules on a lead, including the one drawing Gynethe Mehaut’s plausterum, he looked about the square before the House of the Franks, aware of the attention they had attracted.
Usuard was the only one of the soldiers who reverenced Rakoczy, and he stopped half-way through the gesture, looking shamefaced.
Rakoczy made his way through the gathering purple shadows, picking his way around the various abandoned buildings and damaged paving. He called out to Gynethe Mehaut. “We’re not far from the place now.”
As if to punctuate his assertion, a near-by carillon began the Vespers’ chimes and was soon joined by a chorus of bells in that quarter of the city. There was a last flurry of activity on the streets, and a closing of shutters and doors.
“It is getting dark,” said Gynethe Mehaut.
“We’re almost at the Temple of Hercules,” said Rakoczy.
Gynethe Mehaut said, “How dangerous is it at night? Not the temple, the city itself.”
Rakoczy laughed sadly. “It isn’t safe for anyone after dark. Gangs of criminals roam the streets. They attack anyone hapless enough to be abroad at night, and they war with one another. The Guards permit it because they’re unable to stop it, and they would rather the gangs fight one another than join together against the Guard.” He turned a corner into the dusk of long shadows, although the sky above glowed lilac and apricot with the afterglow of sunset. “Almost there. The Temple of Hercules is right ahead.”
Three painted women in vivid-hued silken stollae hurried past them, rushing toward the steps of the massive building; Gynethe Mehaut watched them and felt her face grow hot. “You are taking me to a brothel?”
“No; no,” said Rakoczy. “But you will find that there are brothels all over Roma, unlike it was during the time of the Caesars, when the prostitutes had their own district. It was called the Lupanar.” He did not add that in those long-ago days, the women in that profession were not despised, and the fortunes they made were their own. He turned toward the blank-fronted building across from the Temple of Hercules and dismounted before it. As he pulled the bell-chain, he tried to recall how this square had looked when he had first seen it; his thoughts were interrupted by the door being pulled open by a handsome Greek, who reverenced Rakoczy with a flourish and then offered him an old Roman salute.
“Sanct’ Germain,” he said, standing aside to admit them all. “Welcome to Olivia’s house.” Beyond the door was a large courtyard in excellent repair, a two-story Roman house, and a stable, all fronted in marble. The courtyard stones were a vast mosaic, hard to make out in the fading light, but extensive and expertly done, with a complex pattern of horses and verdure against a pale-ochre background. Torches were burning from a dozen wall sconces, whipping like brilliant silks in the evening breeze and giving a ragged brightness to the descending dark. “There are paddocks behind, if you need them. There is a caladarium through that arch, and a small tepidarium. The caladarium can be heated in a short while, and the tepidarium is cleaned and ready for use. You don’t need to do anything more. The grooms will take care of your horses and mules, brushing them down and stalling them for the night; your chests and satchels will be taken to the chambers assigned to you.” His accent was excellent, very Roman, if a bit old-fashioned, and his smile was easy and wide. “It is good to see you again, Sanct’ Germain, and it is an honor to have you a guest in this house.”
“Efficient and effusive as always, Niklos,” said Rakoczy with an approving nod. “You have anticipated almost every question.”
“To assume two more,” said Niklos with a wicked grin accompanying his slight bow of acknowledgment, “your suite is on the ground floor; I am sure you will find it comfortable. The woman you escort has her choice of apartments; I have rooms ready for her on the floor above you, if you will permit me to discharge my duty as major domo. You may wait for Bonna Dama Clemens if you like: my mistress is with her mariscalcus; she will join you directly.”
Rakoczy gestured his satisfaction. “I am left with nothing to ask, then, but how you are, and how life is here in Roma.” He went to the rear of the plausterum as he spoke and pulled back the cover. “Gynethe Mehaut, come down. We are arrived.”
Gynethe Mehaut answered the summons, stepping down carefully to the narrow platform and then to the stones of the courtyard; she looked around, her eyes widening as she took in all she saw. “This is a fine villa, surely. How lovely it all is.”
“Not quite a villa, but I thank you in any case,” said Niklos Aulirios. “Illustra, I welcome you in my mistress’ name.” His Frankish was tolerably good, but he returned to the Roman dialect at once. He clapped his hands. “Wine and water for our guest.”
As if materializing out of the evening air, four mansionarii came up, drink on one tray, a basin of water and a drying cloth on another; the remaining two without apparent purpose reverenced her without any impression of surprise.
Gynethe Mehaut turned to Niklos. “I … I am not used to being received so well.” She stared at the magnificence around her. “This is … very grand.”
“Hardly,” said Niklos. “But for now it will have to do.” He pointed to the mansionarius with the basin. “Cyrillus, help our guest rid herself of the grime of the road.”
Another barrage of chimes sounded, and chanted prayers began to drone in the dusk. The mansionarii paid little heed to this, continuing instead with the rites of welcome. Grooms came to take their animals away, and a man who was probably the buticularius brought out a brazier that burned wood for light and branches of rosemary for aroma.
“How near is that?” Rakoczy asked while Gynethe Mehaut puzzled over how best to use the basin of water without getting her hands wet.
“There is a church in the next street—very old, or so they claim. The building is old in any case, but it hasn’t always housed priests. These days they keep the Hours meticulously. And four blocks away there is a monastery,” Niklos answered. “And there are chapels everywhere; you must have noticed. Every thermopolium and tratorium has become a chapel, dispensing blessings instead of food. There are over ten in the blocks around us, and many more in the lanes beyond. During the day, the streets are thick with pilgrims, and the women in the Temple are kept busy.”
Rakoczy gave a single crack of laughter. “No doubt.” He noticed Gynethe Mehaut’s dilemma and went to her at once. “What is the matter, my confidant?”
“This,” she said in a burst of exasperation, holding up her bandaged hands and feeling suddenly helpless. “Should I wash or—”
Rakoczy took the drying cloth and dipped one end in the water, wrung it out, and handed it to her, ducking his head respectfully. “This should suffice for now. You may want to use the caladarium later, to ease you.”
Gynethe Mehaut took the cloth and wiped her face and neck; the tension in her face lessened, and she nodded. “Oh. Yes, please. I think so. Yes. That would gladden me very much.” She wanted to conceal her nervousness, but could not think of how to do it, so instead she babbled on. “Your welcome is generous, and grand enough for a Dux or the King’s sons. How can I show you my appreciation?”
“By taking advantage of what we offer: you’ll want comestus first, I should think,” said Niklos. “You’ve had a long journey, Bonna Dama.” This Roman title came easily to him, but it sounded unexpected to her.
“I suppose I must answer to that,” she said thoughtfully. “Is that what the Papal Court will call me?”
“I hope so,” said Rakoczy with strong feeling.
Niklos Aulirios reverenced her, this time not more extravagantly than good manner required. “I trust you will prevail.” He signaled to the mansionarii. “Well, Zelotius, are you going to pour water and wine, or not? And Crispernus, bring a torch and a mirror so that she may—”
“Oh, no, no mirror,” said Gynethe Mehaut, shaking her head. “It isn’t right. The Sorrae ne
ver allowed it, and I admit that I dislike seeing myself.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said Niklos. “But as you wish.” He motioned one of the mansionarii away. “At least tell me you will drink. The wine is reputed to be very good—will you have some?”
“Yes, and gladly,” said Gynethe Mehaut, accepting the alabaster goblet she was offered; the wine within it was lit through the thin, pale stone, and glowed red as a jewel. “This is excellent,” she said, and took the silver cup half-filled with water and drank that, too.
“For comestus we have spitted hens and rabbits stewed with sweet onions and summer pears.” Niklos watched to see if this would interest her. “Nothing very elegant, but tasty in its way.”
“Niklos, stop apologizing to our guests,” said a voice from the archway leading to the stables. The woman was of middle height with a mass of fawn-brown hair done up in a disorderly knot. She wore a palla of bronze-colored linen girdled and bloused, and Persian boots. Her clothes were dusty but her hazel eyes shone. “Sanct’ Germain!” Without bothering to reverence him, she ran across the courtyard and flung herself into his arms. “How like you, to arrive at the last minute.”
“I apologize, Olivia,” said Rakoczy, kissing her forehead and embracing her heartily.
She beamed up at him. “I’d given up on seeing you today.”
“And yet, here I am,” he said lightly, then caught her hand. “I thank you for permitting us to stay with you. If I must stay within the walls, I can think of no place better than this house.”
She shook her head. “You’ve done as much—and more—for me.” She started toward Gynethe Mehaut, pausing just long enough to reverence her. “You are welcome here, Bonna Dama.”
“I’ve already said that,” Niklos remarked.
“Pay him no heed,” she recommended. “He’s always watching after me, for which I am very grateful, when I am not nettled by his solicitous manner. He has no concept of subordination, which is just as well.” She glanced back over her shoulder as if to be certain that she was still dragging Rakoczy after her. “You’re quite a remarkable woman, that’s apparent. I’d imagine most of the Church officials are terrified of you.”
Night Blooming Page 46
