Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [156]
Like most pagan monuments in Rome, the temple had been stripped of its precious metals: the gilt rosettes that had once adorned the coffers of the dome were gone, as were the golden bas-reliefs ornamenting the pediment of the pronaos. The niches lining the walls were empty, their marble statues having been carted off to the lime kilns to be turned into building material for the walls of Christian churches. Remarkably, however, the figure of the goddess herself survived, ensconced in her shrine under the dome. One of her hands had broken off, and the lines of her garment were roughened, eroded by time and the elements, but the statue still had remarkable power and grace of form—testimony to the skill of its heathen sculptor.
Vesta, ancient goddess of home and hearth. She represented all that Joan meant to him: life, love, a renewed sense of hope. He breathed deeply, drinking in the damp sweetness of the morning, feeling better than he had in years. He had been low of late, weary of life’s stale, unchanging round. He had resigned himself to it, telling himself it was the inevitable result of his years, for he was nearing forty-six, an old man’s age.
Now he knew how wrong he had been. Far from being tired of life, he was hungry for it. He felt young, alive, vital, as if he had drunk from the fabled cup of Christ. The rest of his life stretched ahead bright with promise. He would marry Joan, and they would go to Benevento and live together in peace and love. They might even have children—it was not too late. The way he felt at this moment, anything was possible.
He started up as she came hurrying through the portal, her priest’s robes billowing behind her. Her cheeks were rosy from the exertion of her walk; her cropped white-gold hair curled around her face, accentuating her deep-set gray-green eyes, eyes that drew him like pools of light in a darkened sanctuary. How ever had she succeeded in this man’s disguise? he wondered. To his knowing eyes, she looked very womanly and wholly desirable.
“Joan.” The word was part name, part supplication.
Joan kept a cautious distance between them. If once she let herself into Gerold’s arms, she knew her resolve would melt.
“I’ve brought a mount for you,” Gerold said. “If we leave now, we’ll be at Benevento in three days’ time.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m not going with you.”
“Not going?” Gerold echoed.
“I cannot leave Sergius.”
For a moment he was too taken aback to say anything. Then he managed to ask, “Why not?”
“Sergius needs me. He is … weak.”
“He’s Pope of Rome, Joan, not a child in need of coddling.”
“I don’t coddle him; I doctor him. The physicians of the schola have no knowledge of the disease that afflicts him.”
“He survived well enough before you came to Rome.”
It was gentle mockery, but it stung. “If I leave now, Sergius will drink himself to death within a six-month.”
“Then let him,” Gerold answered harshly. “What has that to do with you and me?”
She was shocked. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Great God, haven’t we sacrificed enough? The spring of our lives is already behind us. Let’s not squander the time that is left!”
She turned away, so he would not see how much this affected her.
Gerold caught her by the wrist. “I love you, Joan. Come with me, now, while there’s still time.”
The touch of his hand warmed her flesh, sparking desire. She had a treacherous impulse to embrace him, to feel his lips on hers. Embarrassed by these weak and shameful feelings, she was suddenly, unreasonably angry with Gerold for having aroused them. “What did you expect?” she cried. “That I would run off with you the first moment you beckoned?” She let the wave of anger rise and crest within her, submerging her other, more dangerous emotions. “I’ve made a life here—a good life. I’ve independence and respect, and opportunities I never had as a woman. Why should I give it all up? What for? To spend the rest of my days confined to a narrow set of rooms, cooking and embroidering?”
Gerold said