Night Blooming (58 page)

Sulpicius, who was leading Notrold’s remount, said, “See that the monks write it down. Make sure there is a record of what happened.”

“Yes. I must.” He continued to stare at a vacant place ahead of him. “It is a pity, but honor must be vindicated.”

“What had he done that was so reprehensible?” Rakoczy asked, and realized at once he had erred. “You need not tell me.”

“Notrold did not do it himself, and there have been any number of things that have passed between our families over the generations, though the most recent touched me closely,” said Einshere; he told the story in a colorless voice, as if reciting an ancient lesson. “His father’s brother took the wife of my grandfather away from him and kept her as his concubine. When my grandfather appealed to the Bishop, who was Notrold’s father, he ordered the wife returned, as the King required, but she and Notrold’s uncle caused his death instead.”

“You mean they murdered him?” Sulpicius asked, appalled.

“Worse. They performed rites that struck him down. He was a blighted man. He could not speak and his limbs were blighted, and at last, he suffered a fall, and that ended his life.” Einshere blinked as if fighting off sleep. “They had ensorcelled him. The Bishop agreed, and the woman was hacked to pieces. It was only one of many wrongs they have done us.”

Rakoczy said nothing this time, for there was no observation he could make that would change any of these tragedies. He kept his grey moving steadily and wondered what would happen to Einshere.

“What happened to the man?” Usuard finally had the courage to ask.

“Three of his fiscs were confiscated and given to the Church,” said Einshere; he was drawn and tired now.

“And now you have reclaimed the honor of your family,” said Theubert sadly.

“Thanks be to God,” said Einshere. He achieved a smile. “I hope you will forgive me for not going into Roma with you, Magnatus.”

“I’ll have to explain it to the Frankish Bishops,” said Rakoczy.

“We’ll make an account,” said Anshelm. “To our own people. The Romans would not understand, being sots and laggards, all of them.”

“Except the Pope,” said Suplicius.

“Yes, of course: except the Pope,” Anshelm agreed. “The Franks know how these matters are.”

“No doubt,” said Rakoczy dryly. “And I will make my report, too.” He felt dismay at the turn events had taken.

“As you must,” said Einshere. “And you will tell the truth, since you have no family involved in this.” He smiled slightly. “You must tell me if you want me to pray for you, too, as part of my penance.”

Rakoczy shook his head. “You must decide that for yourself.”

“Then I shall,” Einshere said. He stopped talking, his whole attention focused on the road ahead until they reached the door of Sant’ Salvator and summoned the priests with a tug on the bell-chain; a young woman with a mass of brown hair under an untidy veil and in the last months of pregnancy answered the summons, saying, “My husband will be with you shortly. He is finishing None. As soon as he is done, he will come out to you.” She gave the party a guarded look, as if expecting the worst of them.

“God give you good day, Priest’s Wife,” Theubert said, and managed a moderate sort of reverence from the saddle.

“And so He has, but I fear you men are about to end it,” she said, putting a hand to her back. “If you are on the road when most men are praying or sleeping, you must have urgent business.”

“And so we do,” said Rakoczy. “I regret that we must disturb your husband with this, but we must entrust a fallen soldier to the Church for the burial of his body.”

“As well as the preservation of his soul,” said Einshere, and dismounted, handing his reins and lead to Rakoczy. “I thank you, Magnatus. You have done more than was asked of you, and for that I am grateful to you. When I have made my account, I will have it carried to Roma for your sigil for its authenticity. If you will do that for me, I will count myself a fortunate man.” He turned to the priest’s wife. “Is there a penitent’s cell here?”

“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.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
C
ARDINAL
A
RCHBISHOP
P
AULINUS
E
VITUS IN
R
OMA TO
P
ATRIARCH
P
ETROS OF
A
NTIOCH IN
C
ONSTANTINOPLE, WRITTEN IN
G
REEK 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

“T
HIS IS
R
OMA
?” 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 limited 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?”