Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [159]
He shook his head impatiently. It was idle to dwell upon the past. Joan had not shared his feelings, or she would not have sent him away.
The woman rolled onto her side. Gerold touched her shoulder and she woke, opening pretty brown eyes that stared back at him without depth or meaning.
“It’s morning,” Gerold said. He took a few coins from his scrip and handed them to her.
She jingled them and smiled happily. “Shall I come again tonight, my lord?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
She looked disappointed. “Didn’t I please you?”
“Yes, yes, of course. But we’re breaking camp tonight.”
A short while later he watched her cross the field, her sandals slapping dully against the dry grass. Overhead the cloudy sky was lightening into a flat and pallid gray.
Soon it would again be day.
SICONULF and his chief fideles were already gathered in the great hall when Gerold entered. Dispensing with the usual courtesies, Siconulf announced abruptly, “I have just received word from Corsica. Seventy-three Saracen ships have set sail from the African coast. They are carrying some five thousand men and two hundred horse.”
An astonished silence followed. So large a fleet was scarcely imaginable.
Eburis, one of Siconulf’s fideles, gave a low whistle. “Whatever they intend, it’s more than just another piratical raid upon our coast.”
“They have set course for Rome,” Siconulf said.
“Rome! Surely not!” said another of the fideles.
“Preposterous!” scoffed a third. “They’d never dare!”
Gerold scarcely heard them. His thoughts were racing ahead. “Pope Sergius will need our help,” he said tautly.
But it was not Sergius he was thinking of. With a single stroke, the news of the approach of the Saracen fleet had erased all the bitter hurt and misunderstanding of the past two years. Only one thing mattered—to reach Joan and do everything within his power to protect her.
“What do you suggest, Gerold?” Siconulf asked.
“My prince, let me lead our troops to Rome’s defense.”
Siconulf frowned. “Surely the Holy City has defenders of her own.”
“Only the familia Sancti Petri—a small and undisciplined group of papal militia. They will fall like summer wheat before the Saracens’ blades.”
“What about the Aurelian Wall? Surely the Saracens cannot breach it?”
“The wall seems strong enough,” Gerold admitted. “But several of its gates are poorly reinforced. They won’t withstand a sustained assault. And the tomb of St. Peter is entirely unprotected, for it lies outside the wall.”
Siconulf considered this. He was reluctant to commit his troops to a cause other than his own. But he was a Christian prince, with a proper reverence for the Holy City and its sacred places. The idea of barbarian infidels defiling the Apostle’s tomb was appalling. Besides, it occurred to him now that there might be some personal benefit in sending men to Rome’s defense. Afterward, a grateful Pope Sergius might reward him with one of the rich papal patrimonies that bordered Siconulf’s territory.
He said to Gerold, “You may have three divisions of troops. How long will you need to prepare to march?”
“The troops are battle hardened and ready. We can leave at once. If the weather holds, we’ll be in Rome in ten days’ time.”
“Let us pray that will be sufficient. God go with you, Gerold.”
IN ROME, an eerie sense of calm prevailed. Since the initial warning from Siena two weeks before, there had been no further word of the Saracen fleet. The Romans gradually began to relax their vigilance, convincing themselves that the reports of an enemy fleet had been false, after all.
The morning of August 23 dawned bright with promise. The stational mass was held at the Cathedral of Sancta Maria ad Martyres, known in pagan days as the Pantheon, one of the loveliest of Rome’s churches. It was an especially beautiful service, with the sun filtering through the circular opening in the basilica