Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [170]
The light of dawn was already coming through the window. With a start of surprise, she realized she must have overslept. If she didn’t hurry, she would be late to her meeting with the head of St. Michael’s hospice.
As she swung out of bed, she became aware that the light coming into her room was not the dawn. It could not be the dawn, for the window faced west.
She ran to the window. Behind the dark silhouette of the Palatine Hill, on the far side of the city, ribbons of red and orange light streamed into the moonless sky.
Flames. And they were coming from the Borgo.
Without pausing to slip into her shoes, Joan ran barefoot through the halls. “Fire!” she shouted. “Fire! Fire!”
Doors were thrown open as people spilled excitedly into the hall. Arighis came toward her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“What’s all this?” he demanded sternly.
“The Borgo is on fire!”
“Deo, juva nos!” Arighis made the sign of the cross. “I must wake His Holiness.” He hurried off toward the papal bedroom.
Joan ran down the stairs and out the door. It was harder to see from here, for the numerous oratories, monasteries, and clergy houses surrounding the Patriarchium obscured the view, but she could tell the fire had spread, for the entire night sky was now illuminated with lurid brilliance.
Others were following Joan out to the portico. They fell to their knees, weeping and calling upon God and St. Peter. Then Leo appeared, bareheaded and in a simple tunic.
“Fetch the guard,” he ordered a chamberlain. “Rouse the stable-boys. Have them make ready every available horse and cart.” The boy ran off to carry out his orders.
The horses were led up, restive and irritable at having been dragged from the comfort of their stables in the middle of the night. Leo mounted the foremost, a bay.
Arighis was aghast. “You do not mean to go yourself?”
“I do,” Leo replied, taking up the reins.
“Holiness, I must object! It’s far too dangerous! Surely it would be more fitting for you to remain here and lead a mass for deliverance!”
“I can pray just as well outside the walls of a church as within,” Leo replied. “Stand aside, Arighis.”
Reluctantly, Arighis complied. Leo spurred the bay and took off down the street. Joan and several dozen guards mounted and followed close behind.
Arighis frowned after them. He wasn’t much of a rider, but his place was at the Pope’s side. If Leo was bent upon this foolish course, then it was Arighis’s duty to accompany him. He mounted awkwardly and set off after them.
They rode at a gallop, their torches reflecting wildly off the walls of the houses, their shadows chasing one another down the dark streets like demented ghosts. As they drew near the Borgo, the acrid smell of smoke rose to their nostrils, and they heard a great roar like the bellowing of a thousand wild beasts. Rounding a corner, they saw the fire straight ahead.
It was a scene out of Hell. The entire block was aflame, shrouded in a solid sheet of fire. Through a shimmering red haze, the wooden buildings writhed in the grip of the flames that consumed them. Silhouetted sharply against the fire, the figures of men capered about like the tortured souls of the damned.
The horses whinnied and backed away, tossing their heads. A priest came running toward them through the lowering smoke, his face smeared with sweat and soot.
“Holiness! Praise God you are come!” By his accent and manner of dress, Joan knew him for a Frank.
“Is it as bad as it looks?” Leo asked tersely.
“As bad, and worse,” the priest replied. “The Hadrianium is destroyed, and the hospice of St. Peregrinus. The foreign settlements are gone as well—the Schola Saxonum is burned to the ground, along with its church. The houses of the Schola Francorum are in flames. I barely got out with my life.”
“Did you see Gerold?” Joan asked urgently.
“The superista?” The priest shook his head. “He slept on one of the upper floors with the masons. I doubt if any of them got out; the smoke and fire spread too quickly.”
“What about the survivors?” Leo asked.