Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [148]
Gerold would lead this rearguard of the imperial army into Rome as he had promised. But afterward, he resolved firmly, he would quit the service of the tyrant Lothar forever.
BEYOND Nepi, the road deteriorated. The solid, hard-surfaced high way gave way to a narrow and decaying track, pitted with treacherous crevices and gulleys. The Roman paving was gone, the ancient stones removed and carted off for use in other construction—for such strong building materials were scarce in these dark times. Gerold read the marks of Lothar’s passing in the dark earth, deeply rutted with the multiple tracks of wagons and horses. They had to take extra care with the horses, lest they lame themselves with an unlucky step.
During the night, a heavy rainfall turned the road into an impassable sea of mud. Rather than call another halt, Gerold decided to strike out through the open countryside and come round to the Via Palestrina, which would bring them into Rome through the eastern gate of St. John.
They rode swiftly through budding, sweet-scented meadows of gentian and woods sprouting with the gold-green leaves of spring. Emerging from a patch of dense scrub, they suddenly came upon a group of mounted men riding escort around a heavy wagon pulled by four strong cart horses.
“Greetings.” Gerold addressed the man who appeared to be their leader, a dark-avised fellow with narrow, puffy eyes. “Can you tell us if we are headed toward the Via Palestrina?”
“You are,” the man responded curtly. He turned to ride past.
“If you’re bound for the Via Flaminia,” Gerold said, “better think again. The road’s washed out; your cart will be mired to its axles before you’ve gone ten yards.”
The man said, “We’re not headed there.”
That was curious. Other than the road, there was nothing in the direction they were headed but deserted countryside. “Where are you going?” Gerold asked.
“I’ve told you all you need to know,” the man snapped. “Ride on and leave an honest merchant to his business.”
No ordinary merchant would address a lord so pridefully. Gerold’s suspicions were aroused.
“What is your trade?” Gerold rode to the cart. “Perhaps you’ve something I’d be interested in buying.”
“Leave that alone!” the man shouted.
Gerold wrenched the covers back, revealing the contents of the cart: a dozen bronze coffers secured with heavy iron locks, each marked unmistakably with the papal insignia.
The Pope’s men, Gerold thought. They must have been sent from the city to transport the papal treasure out of reach of Lothar’s clutches.
He toyed with the idea of commandeering the treasure and bringing it back to Lothar. Then he thought, No. Let the Romans salvage what they may. Pope Sergius would no doubt find a better purpose for the money than Lothar, who would only use it to finance more brutal and bloody military campaigns.
He was about to ride on when one of the Romans leapt from his horse and prostrated himself on the ground. “Mercy, lord!” he cried. “Spare us! We must not die unshriven with the weight of this great crime upon our souls!”
“Crime?” Gerold echoed.
“Hold your tongue, fool!” Their leader spurred his horse and would have trampled the other in the dirt, but Gerold intercepted him with drawn sword. Immediately Gerold’s men drew their swords and surrounded the Romans, who, observing how greatly they were outnumbered, wisely kept their own blades scabbarded.
“Benedict’s the one to blame!” the man on the ground sputtered in a burst of retaliatory anger. “It was his idea to steal the money, not ours!”
Steal the money?
The man called Benedict spoke placatingly. “I have no quarrel with you, lord, nor need our petty quarrels concern you. Let us pass in peace, and in token of our gratitude you may have one of these coffers.” He smiled at Gerold conspiratorially. “There’s gold enough inside to make you a wealthy man.”
The offer and the manner of his making it resolved all doubt.