Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [194]
“The marks of a lash?” he asked quietly.
She flushed. “Yes.”
“Who did this to you?”
Slowly, haltingly, she told him of the beating she had received from her father when she refused to destroy Aesculapius’s book.
Gerold said nothing, but the muscles in his jaw tightened. He bent over her and began to kiss each jagged scar.
Over the years, Joan had trained herself to rein her emotions in, to hold tight against pain, not to cry. Now the tears slid down her cheeks unchecked.
He held her tenderly, murmuring endearments, until her tears stopped. Then his lips were on hers, moving softly with a skill and tenderness that filled her with surging warmth. She slid her arms around him and closed her eyes, letting the sweet, dark wine of her senses rush over her, mind’s will yielding at long last to body’s desire.
Dear God! she thought. I didn’t know, I didn’t know! Was this what her mother had warned her against, what she had run from all these years? This wasn’t surrender; it was a wondrous, glorious expansion of self—a prayer not of words but of eyes and hands and lips and skin.
“I love you!” she cried at the moment of ecstasy, and the words were not profanation but sacrament.
IN THE Great Hall of the Patriarchium, Arsenius waited with the optimates and members of the high clergy of Rome for news. When he had first received word of what Pope John had done, Arsenius could scarcely believe it. But then what else could one expect from a foreigner—and a commoner at that?
Radoin, second in command of the papal militia, entered the hall.
“What news?” Paschal, the primicerius, asked impatiently.
“We managed to rescue several score of the inhabitants,” Radoin reported. “But I fear His Holiness has been lost.”
“Lost?” Paschal repeated thinly. “What do you mean?”
“He was in a skiff with the superista. We thought they were following us, but they must have turned back to rescue another survivor. That was just before the gate of St. Agatha collapsed and sent a wall of water crashing into that area.”
This news was followed by scattered cries of alarm and dismay. Several of the prelates crossed themselves.
“Is there any chance they survived?” Arsenius asked.
“None,” Radoin replied. “The force of the flood swept away everything in its path.”
“God have mercy upon them,” Arsenius said gravely, using all his control to conceal his elation.
“Shall I give the order to sound the bells of mourning?” Eustathius, the archpriest, asked.
“No,” Paschal replied. “We must not be precipitate. Pope John is God’s chosen Vicar; it is yet possible that God has worked a miracle to save him.”
“Why not return and search for them?” Arsenius suggested. He had no interest in a rescue, but he did need to assure himself that the Throne of St. Peter was again vacant.
Radoin replied, “The collapse of the northern gate has rendered the entire area impassable. We can do nothing more until the flood-waters subside.”
“Then let us pray,” said Paschal. “Deus misereatur nostri et benedicat nobis …”
The others joined in, bowing their heads.
Arsenius recited the words by rote, while his mind ranged to other matters. If, as it now appeared certain, Pope John had died in the flood, then Anastasius had a second chance at the throne. This time, Arsenius thought determinedly, nothing must go wrong with the election. This time he would use all his power to make certain his son’s candidacy did not fail.
“… et metuant eum omnes fines terrae. Amen.”
“Amen,” Arsenius echoed. He could hardly wait for the news the next day would bring.
WAKING toward morning, Joan smiled to see Gerold sleeping beside her. She let her eyes linger on his long, spare, proud face—as startling now in its manly beauty as when she had first glimpsed it across a banquet table twenty-eight years ago.
Did I know even then, she wondered, in the very first moment? Did I know that I loved him? I think I did.
At last she had come to accept what she had fought so long to deny—Gerold was part of her, was her in some unfathomable way she could neither explain nor deny.