Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [183]
Nevertheless, Waldipert’s death had left him feeling depressed and uneasy. Such violent acts, however necessary, took an inevitable toll.
With an effort of will, Arsenius turned his mind to more pressing matters. His son’s absence complicated affairs; his election to the papacy would now be more difficult, but not impossible. The first thing to do was to get Eustathius, the archpriest, to overturn the sentence of excommunication against him. That would take some politic maneuvering.
Lifting a jeweled silver bell from his desk, Arsenius rang for his secretary. There was much to do, and very little time in which to do it.
IN HER workshop in the Patriarchium, Joan stood at her bench, crushing dried hyssop flowers to a fine powder in her mortar. Twist and grind and twist and grind; the familiar motions of hand and wrist were soothing balm to the grief battering her heart.
Leo was dead. It seemed impossible. He had been so vital, so forceful; he had loomed so much larger than life. Had he lived, he might have done much to lift Rome out of the quagmire of ignorance and poverty in which it had languished for centuries; he had the heart for it, and the will. But not the time.
The door opened, and Gerold entered. She met his eyes, feeling his presence as keenly as if he had touched her.
“I’ve just received word,” he said brusquely. “Anastasius has left Aachen.”
“You don’t think he’s coming here?”
“I do. Why else should he leave the Emperor’s court so suddenly? He’s coming to claim the throne that was denied him six years ago.”
“But surely he can’t be elected; he’s excommunicate.”
“Arsenius is trying to prevail upon the archpriest to reverse the sentence of excommunication.”
“Benedicite!” This was very bad news. After his years of exile in the imperial court, Anastasius was surely more the Emperor’s man than ever. If he was elected, Lothar’s power would extend itself over Rome and all its territories.
Gerold said, “He will not have forgotten how you spoke against him at Leo’s election. It will be dangerous for you to remain in Rome with him as Pope. He’s not a man to forgive an injury.”
Coming on top of her still-raw emotions over Leo’s death, this realization was too much. Joan’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“Don’t cry, my heart.” Gerold’s arms were around her, strong and sure and comforting. His lips brushed her temples, her cheek, sparking currents of response. “Surely you’ve done enough, sacrificed enough. Come away with me, and we’ll live as we were always meant to—together, as husband and wife.”
She had a dizzying glimpse of his face close to hers, and then he was kissing her.
“Say yes,” he said fiercely. “Say yes.”
She felt as though she were being pulled below the surface of her conscious mind and carried off by a powerful current of desire. “Yes,” she whispered, almost before she knew what she was saying. “Yes.”
She had spoken without volition, responding impulsively to the force of his passion. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, a great calm descended upon her. The decision had been made, and it seemed both right and inevitable.
He bent to kiss her again. Just then the bell rang, summoning everyone to the afternoon meal. A moment later, voices and hurrying footsteps sounded outside the door.
With murmured endearments, they parted quickly, promising to meet again after the papal election.
ON THE day of the election, Joan went to pray in the small English church that had been her own when she first came to Rome.
Burned to the ground during the great fire, the church had been reconstructed with materials stripped from Rome’s ancient temples and monuments. As Joan knelt before the high altar, she saw that the marble pedestal supporting it bore the unmistakable symbol of the