Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [207]
“Long life!” the others shouted. The sound echoed off the walls of the room, shaking the lamps in their silver cressets.
“WHAT did you expect?” Arsenius paced the floor of his room agitatedly in front of his son, who was seated at ease on one of the divans. “Pope John may be guileless, but he’s no fool. You underestimated him.”
“True,” Anastasius conceded. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m back in Rome—with the full support of the Emperor and his troops.”
Arsenius stopped pacing. “What do you mean by that?” he asked sharply.
“I mean, Father, that I am now in a position to take what we could not win by election.”
Arsenius stared. “Take the throne by force of arms? Now?”
“Why not?”
“You’ve been away too long, my son. You don’t know how things stand here. It’s true Pope John has made enemies, but there are many who support him.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“Be patient. Return to Frankland, trim your sails, and wait.”
“For what?”
“For the winds of fortune to change.”
“When will that happen? I have waited long enough to claim what is mine by right!”
“There is danger in moving too precipitously. Remember what happened to John the Deacon.”
John the Deacon had been the opposing candidate in the election that had raised Sergius to the papal throne. After the election, the disappointed John had marched to the Patriarchium with a large group of armed retainers and forcibly occupied the throne. But the princes of the city rallied against him; within hours the Patriarchium was retaken and John deposed. The next day, Sergius was ceremoniously ordained as Pope—and John’s severed head rested atop a pike in the Lateran courtyard.
“That won’t happen to me, Father,” Anastasius said confidently. “I’ve thought about this very carefully. God knows I’ve had time for thinking, stranded all these years in that alien backwater.”
Arsenius felt the sting of his son’s unspoken rebuke. “What exactly do you propose?”
“Wednesday is the Feast of Rogation. The stational mass is at St. Peter’s. Pope John will lead the procession to the basilica. We’ll wait until he is well away, then take the Patriarchium by storm. It will all be over before John even suspects what is happening.”
“Lothar will not order his troops to attack the Patriarchium. He knows such an act would unite all Rome against him, even those of his own party.”
“We don’t need Lothar’s soldiers to take the Patriarchium; our own guards can handle that. Once I’m clearly in possession of the throne, Lothar will come to my support—of that I’m certain.”
“Perhaps,” Arsenius said. “But taking the papal palace will not be easy. The superista is a formidable fighter, and he commands the loyalty of the papal guard.”
“The superista’s chief concern is for the Pope’s personal safety. With Lothar and his army in the city, Gerold will be riding guard on the procession, along with the better part of his men.”
“And afterward? Surely you realize Gerold will come against you with all the power at his disposal?”
Anastasius smiled. “Don’t worry about Gerold, Father. I have a plan that will take care of him.”
Arsenius shook his head. “It’s too risky. If you should fail, it will mean the ruin of our family, the end of all we have worked toward these many years.”
He’s afraid, Anastasius thought. The realization brought a quiet satisfaction. All his life, he had relied upon his father’s help and counsel and at the same time had resented the fact that it was so. For once, he was proving the stronger. Perhaps, Anastasius thought, regarding the old man with a mix of love and pity, perhaps it was this very fear, this failure of the will at the crucial moment of testing, that kept him from greatness.
His father was looking at him strangely. In the depths of those familiar and well-loved eyes, faded now with the years, Anastasius read concern and worry, but something more, something Anastasius had never seen