Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [184]
The incongruity of the sacred altar and its pagan base seemed to Joan a perfect symbol of herself: a Christian priest, she still dreamed of her mother’s heathen gods; a man in the eyes of the world, she was tormented by her secret woman’s heart; a seeker of faith, she was torn between her desire to know God and her fear that He might not exist. Mind and heart, faith and doubt, will and desire. Would the painful contradictions of her nature ever be reconciled?
She loved Gerold; about that there was no question. But could she be a wife to him? Never having lived as a woman, could she begin now, so late in life?
“Help me, Lord,” Joan prayed, raising her eyes to the silver crucifix atop the altar. “Show me the way. Let me know what I must do. Dear God! Lift me into Thy bright light!”
Her words flew up, but her spirit remained below, weighted down by incertitude.
A door cracked open behind her. She turned from her place before the altar to see a head insert itself in the opening and as quickly withdraw.
“He’s in here!” a voice shouted. “I’ve found him!”
Her heart pounded with sudden fear. Could Anastasius have moved against her so quickly? She rose to her feet.
The doors swung open, and the seven proceres entered, proceeded by acolytes carrying the banners of their office. They were followed by the cardinal clergy and then the seven optimates of the city. Not until Joan saw Gerold among them was she sure she was not going to be arrested.
In slow procession the delegation came down the aisle and halted before Joan.
“John Anglicus.” Paschal, the primicerius, addressed her in formal tones. “By the will of God and of the Roman people, you have been elected Lord Pope of Rome, Bishop of the Roman See.”
Then he prostrated himself before her and kissed her feet.
Joan stared at him disbelievingly. Was this some kind of ill-considered jest? Or a trap to lure her into expressing disloyalty to the new Pope?
She looked at Gerold. His face was taut and grimly serious as he dropped to his knees before her.
THE outcome of the election had taken everyone by surprise. The imperial faction, led by Arsenius, had stood staunchly for Anastasius. The papal faction countered by nominating Hadrian, priest of the Church of St. Mark. He was not the kind of leader who inspired confidence. Plump and short, with a face disfigured by smallpox, he stood with slumped shoulders, as if already burdened by the responsibility that had been placed upon him. He was a pious man, a good priest, but few would choose him to be the spiritual leader of the world.
Evidently Hadrian agreed with the general opinion, for he unexpectedly withdrew his name from nomination, informing those assembled that after much prayer and deep reflection he had decided to decline the great honor they would bestow on him.
This announcement caused a mild uproar among the members of the papal party, who had not been informed of Hadrian’s decision in advance. There was a great deal of cheering from the imperialist side. Anastasius’s victory now seemed certain.
Then a clamor arose from the rear of the assembly, where the lower ranks of the laity were gathered. “John Anglicus!” they shouted. “John Anglicus!” Paschal, the primicerius, sent guards to quiet them, but they would not be silenced. They knew their rights; the constitution of 824 gave all Romans, lay and clergy, high and low, the right to vote in a papal election.
Arsenius sought to head off this unexpected problem by making an open bid to buy the people’s loyalty; his agents circulated swiftly through the crowd, offering bribes of wine, women, and money. But