Gynethe Mehaut stared at the door. “How long will we have to wait?”
“That is up to the Bishop,” said Rakoczy, and kept on pacing and covertly scrutinizing the peep-holes, where the flicker of eye movement glinted.
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM PATRE MAXIMUS OF SANT’ SALVATOR ON THE VIA AURELIA TO HIERNOM RAKOCZY AT THE HOUSE OF ATTA OLIVIA CLEMENS ON THE SQUARE OF THE TEMPLE OF HERCULES IN ROMA, CARRIED BY A BURGUNDIAN PILGRIM AND DELIVERED TWO DAYS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.
To the distinguished Magnatus, Hiernom Rakoczy, courtier to Karl-lo-Magnus, the Emperor of the Franks and Longobards and protector of the Pope, the humble salutation of Patre Maximus, and the fulfillment of a pledge to a dying man on this, the Eve of Toutti Santi in the Pope’s year 800. Amen.
My Bonna Dama, Ina, who had the felicity to speak to you when you came here to consign the earthly remains of your comrade to my care and the prayers and Masses for the dead, told me that you were the one responsible for all these arrangements, and I commend you for your charity as well as your generosity.
It is a doubly sad thing, then, that I must write to you with distressing news: the Bellatore Einshere, who came here to do penance for his revenge-killing of the Bellatore Notrold, took the mal aria and died of the fever that possessed him. He said before he died that as he had exacted vengeance on Notrold, so God would exact vengeance upon him. He was content to have it so, but he implored me to send word to you, with the desire that his family be informed of what became of him, and that he achieved the restoration of the family honor. I do so now with the hope that you will accept this duty as suits a man of your rank and standing in the Emperor’s Court.
May God bless and guard you in the trying days ahead, and may you always maintain the conduct worthy of your estate.
Patre Maximus
by the hand of Fratre Fortunatus
Chapter Ten
IN SPITE OF THE RAIN the streets of Roma were filled and had been since dawn, for Prime had been set aside in favor of this momentous occasion; monks and pilgrims lined the streets holding crosses and palm-fronds, singing Alleluia and reciting the prayers of thanksgiving. The blare of buccinae from the Tomb of Hadrian announced that the party escorting the Pope to Roma had been sighted, along with the lances and banners of Karl-lo-Magne’s hosts. A cheer rose in answer to the brazen cry of the buccinae, and a few of the monks began to dance, turning in slow circles while reciting the Gloria over and over, their faces filled with ecstasy. While the joyous excitement increased, pick-pockets made their way through the crowd, taking what they could, while a number of Fratri worked with the Guard to maintain order.
“You’d think it was Titus returning, and not poor old Leo,” Olivia said as she stood on her upper balcony, a hooded mantellum of boiled wool protecting her from the weather as she watched the excitement; her palla beneath the mantellum was a beautiful shade of sea-green silk edged in a design of Persian gryphons. “Are you going down into that?”
“Eventually I’ll have to,” said Rakoczy, and glanced at the veiled figure of Gynethe Mehaut. “I’ll take you to Karl-lo-Magne later, when the streets are clearer.” He was in a black silken dalmatica, a long capa of black-dyed goat-leather over it; he had not bothered to raise the hood.
“So tell me, when will all this nonsense be over?” Olivia asked. “They might as well bring back the Games; the people would be better occupied than they are now.”
“But this is a holy occasion,” said Gynethe Mehaut, and pulled nervously at her veil.
“It is, for a small number of all those people. But for most Romans it is a festival, and for a few, it is a political contest.” Olivia turned to Gynethe Mehaut and smiled. “I’m past redemption, I fear.”
“You say it so … so merrily,” said Gynethe Mehaut.
“Well,” said Olivia, “I am of the same nature as Sanct’ Germain, and I’ve seen more than I’d like over the years. That is the difficulty with long life: you see too much.” She smiled slightly and then tried to take the sting out of what she had said. “When I was a breathing woman, the women of Roma were protected by laws that gave us property and inheritance. I was unable to use all the law provided me, but that was not the law’s fault. In that time women were not beholden to men for everything, and we were more than chattel. All that we had has eroded away, and it troubles me.”
Gynethe Mehaut stared at her. “How is it possible that you would know—” She stopped and ducked her head. “I was assuming you were much younger than the Magnatus.”
“I am much younger than he,” said Olivia. “Ask him yourself if you doubt me.”
Rakoczy nodded. “Yes. She is many centuries younger than I am.”
“How many?” Gynethe Mehaut demanded, then fell silent, dreading the answer.
“Not quite twenty-one, as I recall,” said Rakoczy as if none of this interested him. “She came to my life when Vespasianus ruled.”
Although she was unsure how long ago that was, Gynethe Mehaut shivered. “A long time.”
“Yes.” Olivia raised her head as another blast from the buccinae filled the morning. “They must be nearing the gates.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Rakoczy, moving forward on the balcony and shading his eyes against the suffused glare of the shrouded sun. “I can see nothing yet.”
“It must be vexing,” said Olivia a bit later as their waiting drew out; below in the streets the crowd was growing restive. “Your own Villa Ragoczy is three thousand paces beyond the walls, and you aren’t permitted to live there. Not that it is in the best repair, but it is walled and most of the villa is standing. You could be more comfortable there than here in Roma.”
“It seems foolish, but I understand why Great Karl required it.” Rakoczy cocked his head toward Gynethe Mehaut. “He wants her to be within the Church’s beck and call. If she is outside the walls, then she might be able to decide for herself when she accommodates the summons of the Church.”
“I would never defy the Church; for the Church has protected me all my life,” said Gynethe Mehaut.
“Ah, but the Churchmen don’t know how loyal you are,” said Rakoczy as kindly as he could. “They assume that they must keep close guard on you, which is why I am with you. Had you come with pilgrims, who knows what might become of you here in Roma or on the way. You might not have arrived at all, and there would be no one to blame for it.”
“And even Karl-lo-Magne is not such a barbarian as to order you to travel with his army,” said Olivia.
“Why not?” Gynethe Mehaut challenged. “His daughters do.”
Olivia shook her head. “They are different. It is prudent for him to keep them near him. And only a fool would make demands on the King’s daughters. It would not be the same for you.”
Gynethe Mehaut set her jaw firmly. “Great Karl would protect any woman in his company.”
Olivia laughed aloud. “That must be why he has so many bastards.” Then she regained her self-control. “I don’t mean to insult you, Gynethe Mehaut. I understand you far better than you know. But Great Karl is not the paragon you want to make him: no one who rules can afford to be, not in this world. I will give him credit for ambition and rigorous campaigning.”
Rakoczy held up his hands. “You will neither of you change your minds,” he said.
“I won’t,” Gynethe Mehaut declared. “And Great Karl is here. From today he rules in Roma, and all Romans are subject to him.”
“He’s lucky he got his army through the high passes before the snows came,” Olivia remarked. “Leo would have had to stay in Spoleto until spring, and that would have given his enemies more time to close ranks against him. They certainly have tried to, in his absence.”
Gynethe Mehaut sighed. “It’s terrible that the Pope should be so besieged,” she said, and made a sign of protection.
“It’s his own doing—or his predecessor’s,” Olivia said, dismissing Leo’s misfortunes. “When the Church allied itself with the Franks, it opened itself to the corrupt
ion of worldly gain, and all that accompanies it. It has already happened in Byzantium. Roma is following that example, unfortunately, and eventually all of the Roman Church will pay the price for this folly.” She turned her head suddenly, calling out, “Niklos! Bring my guest bread and wine. And a bowl of soup; there must be some in the cauldron in the kitchen.” This was as close to an apology as she was prepared to offer.
From the floor below Niklos Aulirios answered, “I will directly, Bonna Dama.”
The buccinae sounded again, long and more enthusiastically; the shouts and chanting in the streets became louder, and slightly more coherent.
“I wonder who entered the gates first?” Olivia mused.
“If Karl-lo-Magne hasn’t forgotten himself entirely, he would allow the Pope to enter ahead of him. Anything else could be seen as a slight, which would be unwise in this place: this is the Church’s city, and the Donation of Pepin makes it the Pontiff’s. As Pepin’s son, Karl-lo-Magne should uphold his father’s acts.” Rakoczy folded his arms under his capa. “The avenue to the Lateranus must be impossible. There will be people everywhere. How could his army get through?”
“Will he go there, to the Lateranus, first, or to Sant’ Pier’s?” Gynethe Mehaut inquired uneasily. “It would show the Byzantines that he means to hold the Roman Church apart from theirs, if he goes to Sant’ Pier’s.”
“Let us hope that he chooses wisely, wherever he goes,” said Olivia. “Roma is still recovering from the last sacking she had.”
“You don’t think it would come to that, surely?” Gynethe Mehaut protested. “This is Roma, not Aachen or Paderborn, or Pavia.”
“That has never stopped anyone before,” said Olivia brusquely. “In fact, the city has become something of a prize, though I sometimes wonder why: it is not what it was.”
Rakoczy put his hand on her shoulder. “Nothing is,” he told her.
“So you say,” she answered, then made a quick dismissing gesture. “And on such a day as this, why be cast into gloom? Look. You can see the first of the Bellatori. Down there.” She pointed to a gap in the high roofs; a procession of armed men rode by on barded horses, lances raised, axes displayed. “They’re impressive,” she conceded. “For barbarians.”
“The men of Franksland aren’t barbarians,” Gynethe Mehaut declared, scowling at Olivia. “They are great warriors and faithful monks.”
“You can say that, after the way you’ve been treated?” Olivia asked.
“Do you tell me the Romans would behave any better?” Gynethe Mehaut countered her question with a sharper one. “The Franks are not barbarians.”
“They seem so to me,” Olivia responded without apology. “And I have seen more than my share.” She looked around as Niklos came onto the balcony carrying a small table bearing a loaf of bread, a bowl of steaming pork-and-lentil soup, and a cup of wine. “Good. Just what I had in mind. Set it down where Gynethe Mehaut can enjoy it.”
“You’re most generous, Bonna Dama,” said Gynethe Mehaut, lifting her veil enough to eat. She whispered prayers before she took her knife from her girdle and cut the bread.
“You are my guest, though sometimes I treat you woefully,” said Olivia, and returned her attention to the activity in the street. “Everyone is saying Karl-lo-Magne is a giant. Is he?”
“Well, he is head and shoulders taller than I am,” Rakoczy said. “He stands roughly nineteen hands. I have seen taller men, but not many.”
“Nineteen hands! What is he—a camel?” Olivia shook her head. “It can’t be possible. You are what—sixteen-two? And you are above average.”
“Not as much as I used to be,” said Rakoczy. He pointed to the gap where they could see the procession. “A carpentum. That must be Leo; the cloth over it is purple.”
“Then Karl-lo-Magne is being sensible,” Olivia approved. “What do you say, Gynethe Mehaut?”
Interrupted in mid-bite, Gynethe Mehaut swallowed too quickly, coughed twice, and answered, “I say that the King will support and uphold the Pope in all he does.”
“If you will pardon me for doubting it,” Olivia said, “I will agree that it appears so.”
“Olivia,” Rakoczy chided gently.
“I don’t mind,” said Gynethe Mehaut, half-reverencing the carpentum as it slid from view.
“I meant not only for you,” said Rakoczy. “This is a precarious time in Roma and anyone speaking so takes a great chance.”
“When isn’t it a precarious time in Roma?” Olivia said, expecting no answer. “Is the soup to your liking? Would you like something else?”
“This is very good. You keep a fine kitchen, Bonna Dama,” said Gynethe Mehaut, and resumed her meal.
It was mid-afternoon before all of Karl-lo-Magne’s soldiers had entered Roma, and the noise from the crowd had become deafening; Rakoczy, Olivia, and Gynethe Mehaut had gone in from the balcony some time before as the parade became repetitious. By then, the squall of the morning had passed and turned to scattered clouds riding a brisk wind, and the festivities in the street had become more frenetic than they had been earlier in the day. About half the populace was drunk, and the rest were so excited that they needed neither wine nor beer to stimulate their celebrating.
“Must you go out?” Gynethe Mehaut asked as she stood by the saddled grey in the courtyard. “It could be dangerous.”
Rakoczy touched her face through her veil. “I am charged to present myself to the Emperor upon his arrival. You have nothing to fear: we were only attacked once, in all the eight times Bishop Iso summoned us. I don’t think I have reason for apprehension, not with Great Karl here in Roma. I have my long-sword with me, and my francisca.” He patted the weapon that lay along the small of his back under his girdle. “I must present myself at the Emperor’s Court or risk his displeasure; that is far more dangerous than anything in the streets.”
“But if there were many of them…” She held up her hands joined as a sign of petition. “Take Niklos with you.”
“He’s needed here,” Rakoczy reminded her. “Particularly now, with so many strangers in the city.” He took the reins from the groom standing at the mare’s head. “Look for me before midnight, though I may return earlier, if the King orders it.”
“Tell me you’ll have an escort when you return,” said Gynethe Mehaut.
“I guess that the women in the Temple of Hercules would rather I didn’t. They’ll get little sleep tonight.” He took hold of the saddle and vaulted up.
“I’ll pray for your safety,” she vowed.
Earlier in his life Rakoczy might have asked her not to bother, but now he said, “If you want to do so, I thank you.” He rode out of the gate and had the satisfaction of hearing it clang shut behind him. He kept his horse to a walk, picking his way through the alleys and lanes, away from the main avenues where the greatest roistering was going on. Even then, he encountered bands of men in pilgrim’s weeds, wandering the streets, half-drunk, celebrating. Once he made a wrong turn and ended up in a cul-de-sac where half-a-dozen ragged children played, two of them with scarred faces. As they cowered in trepidation, Rakoczy backed his grey out of the closed way and turned off to the west; the faces of the children haunted him as he rode.
At last he reached the House of the Franks and was confronted by such activity and confusion that he could hardly move his horse through the milling mass of soldiers and monks. He looked over the bustle for a senescalus or buticularius who could take him into the King’s presence without delays that would last well past sunset. Dismounting, he led his horse to the stable and handed the reins to a mariscalcus, asking as he did, “Can you tell me where I might find a mansionarius?”
The mariscalcus laughed harshly. “In the streets, with the other sots,” he said, then pointed to a narrow passageway. “Someone will find you if you go through there.”
Rakoczy gave him a silver coin. “For your trouble.”
“No trouble at all; an honor to serve the hobu,” said the mariscalcus. “I’ll h
ave your grey in the third stall on the left, with the two bays. I’ll provide water and grain.”
“Very good,” said Rakoczy, and strode off toward the opening the mariscalcus had indicated.
The crowding was as bad inside as out: mansionarii busied themselves fetching and carrying everything from mantella to messages to casks of wine and beer. The babble of voices echoed so that it became a tide of noise in the stone building. Rakoczy followed the corridor until it reached a reception hall where a group of Bellatori and Comesei stood around a table littered with the remains of an impromptu meal. All of them were drinking, and one of them—Rakoczy recognized Comes Haganric—was holding up a map of Roma, pointing at it and insisting that the others look. In the next room along the corridor fourteen women were seated at a table, wholly occupied in eating: these were Karl-lo-Magne’s daughters and current concubines. Rakoczy glanced in, wondering if he would find Odile among them, but she was missing from their number. As he reached the main hall, he heard the sound of a lituus and a bladder-pipe played together, the merry tune accompanied by clapping and stomping. On impulse, Rakoczy went toward the music and found Karl-lo-Magne sprawled in a large, carved chair, three Bishops sitting near him, with Cardinal Archbishop Paulinus Evitus at the King’s elbow, three Potenti a bit farther off on the opposite side. A group of mansionarii hovered behind the group, anxiously waiting for any order that the King might issue.
Tapping his toe in time with the rollicking melody, Karl-lo-Magne was saying, “—and the Declaration of Innocence should end any calumny clinging to Leo’s name. Anyone who would question him after he makes the Declaration will do so at his peril. Pope Leo will make the Declaration before all the Cardinal Archbishops, and it will provide incontrovertible proof that the Pope has done nothing immoral or illegal. Such an oath is as binding in Heaven as it is on earth.” He slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair. “Then we’ll have my coronation, and the whole will be settled. I’ll be Emperor.”
Night Blooming Page 50
