“Right,” Henry mused out loud, remembering more history lessons. “Some old pope named Leo tired of Saint Peter’s Basilica getting sacked every time barbarians came to town, so he extended Rome’s walls around it.”
Gustave laughed. “It’s funny, don’t you think, those barbarians were our own forefathers?”
Henry chuckled at the idea and puffed up with a little pride.
“Turns out, it wasn’t a bad idea to build the wall,” Gustave added, seriousness creeping into his tone. “Not long before you were born, I was here with your father laying this very place to siege. That pompous old man, Pope Gregory, refused to recognize your father as emperor. Refused to perform the coronation on him. All attempts to drag him out of that fortress to make him perform his duty failed. He and his cronies hid behind those walls like cowards.”
“I have to admit, Father’s solution had a certain audacity to it,” Henry said.
“Ja, I’ll give him that,” Gustave conceded, some mirth returning to his voice. “If you don’t like the rules, break them and make your own. Grabbing another pompous old man, making him pope, then having him make you emperor will work. But by doing so you won’t have the support of all the people. You never will, but it’s important to get as much support as possible.”
“Which is precisely why we’re here,” Henry nodded. “Honey attracts more flies than vinegar.”
Gustave placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder and squeezed.
They came to the shore just below the little gate. From here they could see the foundations of the bridge supporting the arches in the low September waters. They gave the impression the bridge had feet.
“I hope you’re right. This way cannot possibly have any worse an outcome than your father’s,” Gustave said, then jumped into a familiar tirade. “Shortly after he was crowned emperor, we fled Rome as Gregory’s supporters from the south came to his rescue. It was shameful, running from a city that, by all rights, was ours. The only consolation we had was that their rescuers, the southern Normans, so ravaged the city in the process that the local nobility chased Gregory out of the city as well.”
“And years later Gregory’s successor sits here in Rome again, living like some sort of emperor himself in the Lateran Palace, and we sneak about like thieves. The papacy still refuses to recognize my father as emperor,” Henry added, stoking his companion’s fires, though by now he didn’t need to. Gustave had proved fully committed to Henry’s plan long ago.
“And there is nothing but war because of it,” Gustave continued. “Too many popes and too many nobles use that fact to choose whichever side they want to further their own ends. Your father spends all his time and energy quashing rebellions.”
“And murdering his own family,” Henry added, his face contorting into a mask of anger. “It is too much. Conrad was a fool to covet Father’s throne so openly, but he did not deserve this.”
“Ja, it was his murder that opened many eyes,” Gustave agreed. “I loved your father. Trusted him. But he swore it was a natural sickness that took your older brother’s life. He lied to my face.”
“A ‘natural sickness?’” Henry scoffed. “What sickness has the audacity to leave a garland of baby’s breath stuffed into Conrad’s mouth as a message?” Henry’s eyes squeezed shut, his head drooped, and his fists shook with outrage. “Well, I got the message. But not the one my father intended: if you’re going to covet the crown, do it quietly. Certainly don’t start by smearing your father’s and stepmother's names by calling them perverts. And don’t switch your allegiance to an opposing pope by announcing it in public, let alone acting as his lackey. Could you believe it? He actually led the man’s horse around as if he were a servant.”
Gustave shook his head. “Conrad may have had all the cunning of a gourd, but you are right, he should be alive today. You, on the other hand, will survive. You are not so headstrong. You are smarter. Now that you are next in line, the world will become a better place on the day your father falls from power.”
“Agreed.” Henry’s chest puffed. “And I thank you for believing in me and my plan. Tonight we will make the first moves of the game—quietly.”
The boat bumped against the marshy shore. An oarsman jumped out to steady it, indifferent to the water and mud. Judging by the smell; it wasn’t all mud. Placing a hand on the willing shoulder of one of the commoners, Henry made the leap from the boat to the dry riverbank. One of his escorts shared a few words with the boat’s captain, no doubt planning the return trip.
Gustave landed next to him and led the way up the hill toward the gate.
“Too many popes, indeed,” Henry picked up their conversation. “Too many rebellions. That all must end. There must be one pope, one emperor, one empire.”
A path of sorts led them up a steep hill, making them sweat even more. Henry threw open his cloak, grabbed the edges of the fabric, and fanned himself, not caring if he exposed his sword.
Gustave paused ahead of him. He turned, and while jerking a thumb in the direction of the gate said, “You sure you want that pope to be the pope?”
Henry paused, took a breath, and fanned himself more.
“A chessboard has many pieces,” he replied. “The more you position in the right places, the better your chances of success. Some of the pieces won’t survive. Doesn’t matter, so long as the final objective is accomplished. And what pieces remain on the board when it’s all said and done will be very, very grateful pieces. Besides, Conrad made the mistake of conspiring with the wrong pope. I am collaborating with my father’s own pope, and should a rumor start, it won’t be so damning.”
Gustave looked Henry up and down with approval. Smiling, he gestured to the last few steps through some scrub trees to the gate.
It revealed itself as a sort of postern gate with thick double wooden doors, perhaps as high as two and half men, and one wide. It most likely served for quick entry and exit of messengers.
“Very well then,” Gustave said, reaching up to one of the huge iron rings. “Let’s accomplish in one night with a little honey what your father couldn’t in many months with vinegar and an army: gain audience with a pope in the Leonine City.”
Gustave banged the ring on the wood. The noise sounded thunderous.
A moment passed, then the door’s peephole slid open. A shadow appeared behind an iron grate.
“Quo vadis?” came a young man’s voice.
Gustave replied, “In nómine Patris et Fílii et Spíritus Sancti.”
A pause followed while all held their breath.
“Bonum!” came the positive response, followed by the peephole slamming shut.
When the door started to swing open, Henry’s escort jumped in front of the young king, hands on sword hilts, though it proved unnecessary.
Standing in the doorway, a lone figure bid them to enter quickly. The man was slightly built and wore a black cassock, and when he had finished locking the door behind them, the dim torchlight revealed him as someone not much older than Henry’s own fifteen years. Unlike Henry, however, this fellow managed to grow a thick and well-manicured goatee. Its dark color matched his wavy hair.
“Willkommen, König Heinrich Salian, der König der Römer,” he said in German with only a hint of an Italian accent.
Pleased, Henry responded in German, “Thank you for making the effort to accommodate my language, especially the proper form of my name ‘Henry,’ and for properly addressing me as ‘King of the Romans.’ Few these days are wont to recognize that.”
The man touched his breast with a hand and bowed.
“Ours is to serve, Your Highness. I am Victor, attendant to His Eminence Cardinal Teodorico, soon crowned this night pope, loyal to the empire. He charged me with conducting you with safe passage to the basilica. He wished me to convey his gratitude for your presence at his coronation ceremony.”
We’ll see about that, Henry thought, but only smiled.
“You are alone?” Gustave asked, looking around nervou
sly, hand on hilt. His tone conveyed both surprise and suspicion.
Victor remained calm, almost smugly so. “I was confident His Highness would bring sufficient men for his comfort. Any men I might have brought may have disconcerted you.”
“Still, there is some risk in what we do tonight, and you walk the streets alone?”
“Paschal and his anti-imperialist supporters are safely behind their walls on the other side of Rome. As for the streets, they pose no threat to one who is familiar with them. I assure you we will be safe on our way to Saint Peter’s.”
He motioned for them to follow and they moved away from the gate, paralleling the river separated by the Leonine Wall. Now Henry saw the fortress sat a good distance away from the wall. He strode down a cobblestone street between the wall and the place his father had attacked many years before. Seeing it this close, with its massive walls and gate, he understood why his father’s siege had failed.
“Sì,” Victor said, noting Henry’s interest in the structure. “Castel di Sant’Angelo. Many a pope has hidden there from the people’s armies. A proper spiritual leader shouldn’t have need of castles to hide, not from his own people. He should be among them, about the Lord’s work. Something we hope you can help make happen, mein König.”
Henry grunted his acknowledgment, but did not pursue the discussion. He would discuss such things with Teodorico himself, not his servant.
As they walked, the wall and street diverged and the street became populated by buildings. First there came small shops with red-tiled roofs, then the large, crowded buildings typical of Rome.
The occasional lit window among the tall stucco structures punctuated the empty street. Though only a little more than half full, the moon was bright enough to make shadows.
“I must warn you,” Victor said, turning and making a point to look directly at the king. “When you take audience with His Eminence, he will be surrounded by his supporters who’ve also come to witness his coronation and make oaths.”
Henry scowled at the man, barely believing his audacity. He gripped his sword hilt so tightly the leather creaked.
“That was not the agreement,” Henry said, coming to a complete stop. “There will be no oaths from me. I offered promise for promise, as my correspondence with your master stated, and I insist on a private audience. As I can see you have no intentions of honoring the agreement, I see I wasted a trip!”
Henry turned his back on the open-mouthed servant, but made sure Gustave saw his wink as he walked away.
Gustave smiled nervously and ordered the rest of the entourage to follow.
Henry did not smile. He squeezed his eyes shut, set his lips into a grim line, and raised his fist to gently beat his breast, keeping count. By the count of two, he realized he did not breathe.
“Apologies,” Victor called after the group, arrogance drained from his voice. He chased after them.
On the third beat of his breast, Henry exhaled and his eyes snapped open, smiling. By that time Victor positioned himself in front of the group, bowing deeper than ever.
“I am merely passing along a message,” Victor continued, frantic. “His Eminence is perfectly aware there will be no oaths from you. As for the others in the room, a notable presence is necessary for confirmation of the ritual. All those present are ardent supporters of my master—and you, my highness. In fact, they will be eager to make oaths to you.”
Henry stared impassively at the servant until satisfied with the man’s squirming.
“Are there any other surprises?” Henry asked.
“None, I swear.”
With a dismissive huff Henry gestured Victor to lead on.
With a sigh of relief, Victor urged them in the direction of a building looming in the distance. As Henry calmed his beating heart, he wished not for the last time they rode on horseback and were not walking like commoners. The closer they came, the more they needed to zig-zag through smaller streets and alleys, as no direct path presented itself.
At last they opened upon an expansive plaza, and directly across from them loomed Saint Peter’s Basilica, Western Christendom's most holy site and the place where emperors and popes were made.
From here, the building appeared to be a series of square columns assembled like building blocks, ornately carved in incredible detail. Smaller buildings surrounded the central structure, some of them full-sized churches, but they were dwarfed in comparison.
Despite the late hour, plenty of people were about. From this distance, next to the building, they looked like ants.
Henry gawked. He knew past generations had built Saint Peter’s over the tomb of its namesake, but he had always imagined a chapel built about a gravestone. The Castel Sant’Angelo could almost fit inside this structure.
“So big,” he said in wonder, forgetting himself.
Victor smiled, no doubt enjoying Henry’s moment of amazement. “Your first time?”
Henry quickly closed his jaw and grunted in the affirmative.
“Wait until you see the inside,” Victor said with a note of returning pride.
They mounted the steps, the exertion bringing out more perspiration, and came to three giant bronze doors the size of castle gates.
“Under normal circumstances,” Victor said, “the coronation would take place here, on the platform in front of an adoring crowd,” he said waving a hand over the plaza, imagining a sea of spectators. “But these are desperate and uncertain times.”
Henry nodded. “When it comes time for your master to perform my imperial coronation, I expect it to be here, in public view.”
Victor nodded as well, turned on a heel, and led the band through the massive doors into a dark atrium.
Inside lay a courtyard open to the sky containing a well-landscaped garden bathed in moonlight. Beyond rose the front of the immense facade of the double-tiered basilica proper.
“Popes, emperors, kings, and queens are not unlike architecture,” Victor continued, gesturing to the many columns. Paths wound through the garden, but Victor took them to the right, toward a lantern-lit colonnade.
“They need to be built up, and supported from beneath. They are only as strong as their base,” Henry responded, eager to show he understood the metaphor. He did not care for this servant’s attempt at philosophizing. It sounded too much like lecturing, which did not sit well with Henry.
As they traveled the corridor, Victor said, “Consider the keystone.” Victor did not notice or care about his guest’s agitated tone. “It hangs precariously from the center of an arch at its apex. If it weren’t for the support of the stone to its left and its right, it would slip and fall.”
When Henry responded indignantly, he had to speak a little louder as they passed two fountains gurgling in the courtyard, and night birds flittered noisily from well-pruned tree to well-pruned tree. The largest of the fountains was in the shape of a bronze pine cone, green with age. It sat nested upright beneath a bronze cupola supported by many columns. Water flowed from its top, spilled over the ridges of the cone, and splashed into a waist-high, box-shaped pool.
“Without the keystone, the whole arch collapses.”
“Precisely,” Victor said, pleased.
They approached five wooden doors, banded and studded with iron. Victor took them to the center and greatest of these. Two armed men in full armor stood guard, and Victor spoke to them in quiet Italian.
Gustave leaned close to his king and whispered, smiling, “Ja, but who is the keystone? That is the question.”
Henry smiled only with his eyes and said nothing.
The guards opened the ponderous door.
If the outside of Saint Peter’s surprised Henry, the inside shocked him.
Before him stretched a cavernous space difficult to imagine being built by man. He had heard stories of the sheer size of the Coliseum, but had yet to lay eyes on it. He had learned of the Great Pyramids of Egypt in his studies. But this... Darkness filled the square cavern, but just enough moonlight
pierced the upper story windows of the structure that he could make out a forest of giant columns, supporting a shelf of intricately carved marble. Expansive sections of more marble surmounted the shelf, with colorful frescoes of biblical scenes, past popes, patriarchs, and prophets covering every inch. Atop these marble sections rested the gabled roof, constructed with crossbeams whose single pieces of solid wood had to have come from monstrous trees. The beams hovered so high off the ground, if Henry had had a bow, he would have had difficulty reaching one with an arrow.
While he gaped, Gustave gently took Henry by the arm and guided him down a short flight of steps, making sure to keep up with Victor.
“Impressive, no?” Victor said over his shoulder.
Henry swallowed before answering, not wishing to have Victor catch him as slack-jawed again.
“Of course it is.”
Victor waved a hand over the expanse of columns, saying, “A testament to Christianity’s victory over the ancient Roman Empire. That fact and the fact this holy place has stood for close to eight hundred years is also a testament to His everlasting glory.”
“That’s all very fascinating,” Gustave said impatiently, “but if I may remind you we must leave before sunrise. We don’t have another eight hundred years.”
Beyond a massive arch and resting in a well-lit chamber, a small structure nestled against the back of the basilica, beckoning them.
A building within a building? Henry thought.
During the long approach to the little square building made of blue-veined marble, Henry studied the painting on the curved wall above it. There a colossal Jesus floated in a blue celestial gallery of stars, apostles, and sheep while making a sign of peace.
Henry’s gaze flickered back to the top the structure where sat the church’s altar under a bronze canopy that dangled a crown of flickering votive candles.
An enclosure of marble walls and spiraling columns surrounded the building, complete with an iron gate. A group of robed men knelt just inside the gate at the base of the stairs to the altar, chanting. Incense joined their song, rising to the heavens.
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 2
