Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [144]
This took Sergius by surprise. With the customary self-absorption of the great, such a thought had not occurred to him.
“Lothar’s coming is not a punishment,” Joan persevered, “it is a test—a test of faith. You must lead the people with the strength of your example.”
“I’m sick in body and in heart. Let me die.”
“If you do, the will of the people dies with you. You must be strong, for their sake.”
“What difference does it make?” Sergius said hopelessly. “We cannot prevail against Lothar’s forces; it would take a miracle.”
“Then,” Joan said staunchly, “we will have to make one.”
THE day after Pentecost Sunday, the date of Lothar’s anticipated arrival, the piazza before the basilica of St. Peter began to fill with members of the various scholae of the city, dressed in their best finery. Lothar had not made a formal declaration of hostilities, so the plan was to accord him the reception due a personage of his exalted position. The unexpected show of welcome might disarm him long enough for the second part of Joan’s plan to take effect.
By midmorning all was in readiness. Sergius gave the signal, and the first group, the judices, rode out, the yellow banners bearing their sign fluttering above them. Behind them rode the defensores and the deacons; then, on foot, the various societies of foreigners—Frisians, Franks, Saxons, Lombards, and Greeks. They called to one another bravely as they traveled down the Via Triumphalis, past the decaying skeletons of pagan temples lining the ancient road.
God grant they are not marching to their deaths, Joan thought. Then she turned her attention to Sergius. He had made good progress over the past few days but was still far from well. Would he be strong enough to endure the day’s ordeal? Joan spoke to a chamberlain, who fetched a chair, into which Sergius sank gratefully. Joan gave him some lemon water mixed with honey to fortify him.
Fifty of the most powerful men in Rome were now gathered on the broad porch before the doors of the basilica: all the major officials of the Lateran administration, a select group of cardinal priests, the dukes and princes of the city, and their retinues. The archpriest Eustathius led them all in a short prayer, and then they stood in silence. There was nothing left to do but wait.
With taut faces they kept their eyes trained to where the road bent out of sight beyond the green hedges and meadows of the Neronian plain.
Time passed with unbearable slowness. The sun inched higher in a cloudless sky. The morning breeze diminished, then died, leaving the banners draped limply against their staffs. Swarms of flies circled lazily overhead, their irksome droning loud in the still, expectant air.
More than two hours had passed since the procession rode out. Surely they should have returned by now!
A barely perceptible noise came from the distance. They listened with pricked ears. The noise rose again, sustained and unmistakable— the sound of distant voices raised in song.
“Deo gratias,” breathed Eustathius as the banners of the judices floated into view, topping the green horizon like yellow sails upon a sea. Moments later, the first riders appeared, followed by members of the various scholae, on foot. Behind them marched a dark multitude that stretched as far as the eye could see—Lothar’s army. Joan drew in her breath; never before had she seen so great a host.
Sergius rose, leaning on his crosier for support. The vanguard of the procession drew up to the basilica and fanned out, creating a path through which the Emperor could pass.
Lothar rode through. Looking at him, Joan could well believe the tales of barbaric cruelty that had preceded him. He had a stocky body, crowned by a thick neck and massive head; his broad, flat face and shallow-set eyes registered a look of malevolent intelligence.
The two opposing groups faced each other, one dark and muddied from the rigors of the road, the other spotless and gleaming in their white clerical robes. Behind Sergius the roof of St. Peter’s rose in candescently, its silver plates shimmering