Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [160]
The song died on their lips as they entered the sun-dazzled piazza of the Lateran and saw a crowd of citizens milling anxiously round a weary and mud-stained messenger.
“The infidels have landed,” the messenger announced grimly. “The town of Porto is taken, its people slaughtered and its churches defiled.”
“Christ aid!” someone cried.
“What will become of us?” wailed another.
“They will kill us all!” a third shouted hysterically.
The crowd threatened to break into a dangerous disorder.
“Silence!” Sergius’s voice rang above the uproar. “Cease this unworthy display!” The voice of authority cut commandingly through the din, compelling obedience.
“What,” he said, “are we sheep, to cower so? Are we babes, to think ourselves defenseless!” He paused dramatically. “No! We are Romans! And this is Rome, protectorate of St. Peter, key bearer of the Kingdom of Heaven! ‘Thou art Peter,’ Christ has said, ‘and upon this rock shall I build my church.’ Why should you fear? Will God suffer His sacred altar to be defiled?”
The crowd stirred. Scattered voices cried out in response: “Yes! Listen to the Lord Pope! Sergius is right!”
“Have we not our guards and our militia?” With a sweep of his arm, Sergius indicated the papal guards, who obliged by raising their lances and shaking them fiercely. “The blood of our ancestors runs in their veins; they are armed with the strength of Omnipotent God! Who shall prevail against them?”
The crowd let out a ragged cheer. Rome’s heroic past was still a source of pride, the military triumphs of Caesar and Pompey and Augustus the common knowledge of every citizen.
Joan watched Sergius in wonderment. Could this heroic figure be the same ailing, ill-tempered, disheartened old man she had encountered two years ago?
“Let the infidels come!” Sergius cried. “Let them hurl their weapons against this sacred fortress! They will crack their hearts against our God-protected walls!”
Joan felt the excitement, the swelling crest that rose thrillingly and broke upon the crowd in a roiling tumult of emotion. Her own feet were too firmly planted in reality to be so easily swept away. The world is not as we would have it, she thought, no matter how skillfully we may conjure it.
The crowd were on their feet, heads lifted, faces aglow. All around Joan excited voices reverberated in unison: “Sergius! Sergius! Sergius! Sergius!”
AT SERGIUS’S command, the people spent the next two days fasting and praying. The altars of all the churches shone brightly, lit with a profusion of votive candles. Miracles were everywhere reported. The golden statue of the Madonna at the Oratory of St. Cosmas was said to have moved her eyes and sung a litany. The crucifix above the altar of St. Hadrian had shed tears of blood. These miracles were interpreted as signs of divine blessing and favor. Day and night the sound of Hosanna rang out from churches and monasteries, as the clergy of the city rose to the Lord Pope’s challenge and prepared to meet the enemy with the invincible strength of their Christian faith.
Shortly after dawn on August 26, the cry came down from the walls. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”
The terrified shrieks of the people penetrated even the thick stone walls of the Patriarchium.
“I must go to the parapets,” Sergius announced. “When the people see me, they will know they have nothing to fear.”
Arighis and the other optimates protested, arguing that it was far too dangerous, but Sergius was adamant. In the end they reluctantly led him to the wall, careful to choose a place where the stones rose somewhat higher, affording better protection.
There was a great cheer as Sergius ascended the steps. Then all eyes turned toward the west. A great cloud of dust rose shimmering in the air. The Saracens emerged from it at a rapid gallop, their loose garments flapping behind them like the wings of giant birds of prey. A terrible war cry rang out, a long, high ululation