Night Blooming (64 page)

“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 have 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.”

“Do you expect that this will be acceptable to the Byzantines?” asked the Cardinal Archbishop. “Shouldn’t you tell them what you are planning?”

“Why should their opinion concern me?” Karl-lo-Magne asked. “This isn’t their territory. They have no reason to concern themselves with what happens here.”

“Do you want to send word to them? As a courtesy?” The Potente who asked was unfamiliar to Rakoczy; the man was almost bald, and he leaned on a stick; his accent was Longobardian. “Shall we dispatch messengers?”

“When it is done,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “There will be plenty of time to have them know what has happened here in Roma. There is nothing they can do to change it, in any case. Why should I tantalize them with an announcement before the deed is done?” He motioned to the musicians. “Get a tabor. I want to hear the beat without having to provide it myself.” Then he saw Rakoczy standing at the edge of the men. “Magnatus! I was beginning to wonder what had become of you.”

“I came as quickly as I could. The streets are not easily traversed at present.” He reverenced the King and moved in a little nearer.

“You have the White Woman with you?” Karl-lo-Magne asked.

“Here in Roma, yes, but not in my company just now. I didn’t think it would be wise to expose her to the celebrations. She is with a distinguished Roman widow who has been our hostess since we arrived here. Your Bishop Iso can confirm this.” Rakoczy kept his manner carefully deferential.

“I have no doubt that you have followed my orders to the limit,” said Karl-lo-Magne, but with a slight hesitation that was eloquent of uncertainty.

“I gave you my Word that I would,” said Rakoczy, aware that he had become the object of curiosity. “I have fulfilled my Word.”

“And I am mindful of your service, and your reliability in its execution,” said Karl-lo-Magne, stifling a huge yawn. “It has been a long journey, and I will not have much chance to rest. There is a great deal to do before the Mass of Christ.”

A third musician carrying a tabor came up to the other two; they whispered among themselves and then began a quick tune, the tabor pounding out the beat emphatically. The men around Karl-lo-Magne paid little attention to this, although the King began to snap his fingers along with the tabor and occasionally hum along.

Rakoczy ducked his head. “I have escorted Gynethe Mehaut to Sant’ Ioannes Lateranus eight times, at his request. I will continue to provide her that duty as long as you require it.”

“Yes,” said Karl-lo-Magne, drawing out the word. “About that. Now that I am in Roma, there are many to give the White Woman the escort she requires. Once the Mass of Christ is over, the Pope will hear her case. As soon as that is done, I want you to return to Franksland. Go to your fiscs and wait there for my orders. I don’t want the Cardinal Archbishops saying that I am giving preference to an outlander at this time.” He glanced at Rakoczy from under his tufted eyebrows.

“I am at your service, Optime,” said Rakoczy, reverencing him again; inwardly he was filled with dismay. He had assumed that he would have another two or three months in Roma to keep the Church at bay and work to improve Gynethe Mehaut’s position.

“If only you were kin of mine, I would be able to distinguish you more. Still, Magnatus, you have provided a good example for my men. I will acknowledge it.” He pointed to Rakoczy. “Look upon this Magnatus,” he said to the others. “Take him as your example if you would serve me.”

“Optime is kind,” said Rakoczy, once again feeling uneasy, the result of the intense gazes of the men around the King.

“I expect you to continue to obey me. By Epiphany, I want you to depart from this city, so that you will be at the foot of the mountains when the passes open. You will return to Franksland.” Karl-lo-Magne clapped his hands. “Slaves! Where is our wine?”

Three mansionarii hurried off to find slaves who could answer the King’s command, and one of the Bishops fidgeted in his chair. The musicians reached the end of their tune and, after a brief consultation, began another, this one a bit slower of pace, the melody wistful.

“These Roman musicians, so eager and proud,” said Cardinal Archbishop Paulinus Evitus. “These three are better than most.”

“With a tabor to keep the beat they are very good,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “No dirges,” he warned them. “Nothing so very glum. This is an occasion for rejoicing; I will have glad music only, to reflect the delight that the Pope’s return must engender in all Romans. Tune your instruments to that.” With a glance at Rakoczy, he said, “I have been told you play well.”

“I play—the hydraulis, the kythera, the Egyptian harp, the psaltery, among others,” said Rakoczy. “How well is a matter for others to decide, not me.”

“You are too modest,” Karl-lo-Magne protested. “According to Odile, you are as accomplished as any clan harper.” He gazed into the middle distance. “A pity about her.”