Night Blooming (63 page)

She glanced at him, their gazes meeting through the veil. “Must you be so courteous?”

“We are at the Papal Court. This demands good conduct,” Rakoczy reminded her, and looked at the peeling frescos on the side of the Lateranus; the building was far from elegant and seemed woefully small to be the Papal residence. Slaves, mansionarii, monks, priests, Archbishops, Cardinal Archbishops, and a few nuns thronged the courtyard between the residence and the side entrance of Sant’ Ioannes Lateranus. A group of pilgrims with crosses sewn on their shoulders were huddled together on the far side of the courtyard, attempting to sing Psalms in the confusion. “The door on the left.” He pointed to a squat-arched entryway. “There must be someone who can direct us—”

“There is,” said Gynethe Mehaut deploringly; she recognized the figure of Sorra Celinde standing just inside the entrance.

“That nun?” Rakoczy asked.

“She is Bishop Iso’s woman. She must be our guide.” She sighed. “I cannot trust her.”

“I should think not,” said Rakoczy, but continued to walk toward her.

Gynethe Mehaut faltered. “What do you think? Shall We go or stay? I don’t want to speak to her; she twists my words and seeks to compromise me.”

“Then don’t turn away, or she’ll assume the worst,” Rakoczy advised as he went directly to Sorra Celinde and half-reverenced her.

The nun almost jumped. “I didn’t realize it was you,” she said, recovering herself and attempting to smile. “I’m sorry. You did startle me. That veil…”

For the first time Gynethe Mehaut was glad that she was still wearing it. “Bishop Iso summoned us.”

“So that he may question you before the Pope returns.” Sorra Celinde was attempting to regain her authority. “I will show you to his apartments. They are rather small, but it is because so many other Bishops are in Roma just now.” She started up the steep flight of stairs.

“The Pope will be back before the Mass of Christ,” said Rakoczy. “No wonder so many of them want to be here.” He reverenced the nun to take the sting out of his observation.

Sorra Celinde glared at him. “I know about you, Magnatus. I didn’t realize you would be with Gynethe Mehaut.”

“Surely you didn’t expect her to walk the streets alone,” Rakoczy said.

“We were attacked by roughians on our way here,” Gynethe Mehaut blurted out, stopping on the narrow tread. “If not for Rakoczy, I should never have lived to reach this place.”

Sorra Celinde looked at Rakoczy. “You fought them off?”

“There were four of them,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “They followed us.” She stopped talking suddenly, as if she had realized she was saying too much.

“Four men attacked you?” Sorra Celinde asked Rakoczy, continuing to climb.

“Yes,” he said.

“And you escaped them?” The nun looked dismayed.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Rakoczy, helping Gynethe Mehaut to continue up the stairs.

“He fought them,” said Gynethe Mehaut, feeling compelled by an external force.

“Four against one?” Sorra Celinde was skeptical and surprised at once.

“We were in a biga,” said Rakoczy, as if that explained his victory.

They were at the top of the stairs now and making their way along a narrow, ill-lit corridor. Distant chanting filled the air, although it was not the time of devotions. A dozen monks came down the hallway, large scrolls in their hands; they argued in the dialect of Carinthia, paying no attention to Sorra Celinde, Gynethe Mehaut, or Rakoczy.

“Bishop Iso requires a short while to prepare himself for this interview,” said the nun as she pointed to a door. “If you will wait there, he will call upon you shortly.”

By which, Rakoczy thought, the Bishop needs time to put a spy at a watch-hole to observe them. “We are here at the Bishop’s pleasure,” he said smoothly, and guided Gynethe Mehaut into the reception room, which was little more than a cubiculum.

“Why are we—?” Gynethe Mehaut asked, only to go silent at a gesture from Rakoczy.

“Sit down, Bonna Dama,” said Rakoczy, maintaining a formality that no one could fault. “I hope they will send a slave with water and wine; if we must wait, it would be appropriate to let us be comfortable.”

“I don’t care what they provide,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “And why should you?”

“If we are guests here, the Pope owes us courtesy, or his Court does.” Rakoczy sounded indignant, and he took a turn about the room as if annoyed. When he came back to Gynethe Mehaut’s side, he leaned down and whispered, “There are two peep-holes.”

Gynethe Mehaut’s hands clenched. “This is maddening.”

“Then we shall complain to Great Karl, when he comes to Roma.” Rakoczy continued to pace. “It is grossly insulting to be detained like slaves.”

“It may be the Bishop wishes to allow me to compose myself in prayer. Better that I should recite the Psalms than regale myself with the Pope’s wine.” She looked up at him. “This is a most imposing place.”

Rakoczy thought of how grand Roma had been before, and the other splendid places he had seen over the centuries, from the Temple of Imhotep to the palaces of Peiking: the Lateranus was far less than the others. “It was intended to be.”

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.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
P
ATRE
M
AXIMUS OF
S
ANT’
S
ALVATOR ON THE
V
IA
A
URELIA TO
H
IERNOM
R
AKOCZY AT THE HOUSE OF
A
TTA
O
LIVIA
C
LEMENS ON THE SQUARE OF THE
T
EMPLE OF
H
ERCULES IN
R
OMA, CARRIED BY A
B
URGUNDIAN 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

I
N 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 corruption 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.