Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [90]
Watching soundlessly from the entryway, Anastasius wondered, Was I ever so simple in my faith? Perhaps once, when he was very small. But his innocence had died the day his uncle Theodorus had been murdered in the Lateran Palace before his eyes. “Watch,” his father had told him then, “and learn.”
Anastasius had watched, and learned—learned how to conceal his true feelings behind the mask of manners, learned how to manipulate and deceive, even betray, if necessary. The rewards of that knowledge had been gratifying. At nineteen, Anastasius was already vestiarius—the youngest man ever to hold so high a position. Arsenius, his father, took great pride in him. Anastasius meant to make him prouder still.
“Christ Jesus, give me the wisdom I need this day,” Gregory continued. “Show me the way to avert this unholy war and reconcile these rebellious sons to the Emperor their father.”
Is it possible that he does not know, even yet, what he stands to lose this day? Anastasius could scarcely believe it. The Pope was such an innocent. Anastasius was only nineteen, less than half Gregory’s age, and already he understood far more about the world.
He is ill suited to be Pope, Anastasius thought, not for the first time. Gregory was a pious soul, there was no denying that, but piety was an overrated virtue. The man had a nature better suited to the cloister than the papal court, whose subtle politics were forever beyond his reach. Whatever had Emperor Louis been thinking of when he had asked Gregory to make the long journey from Rome to the empire of the Franks to serve as mediator in this crisis?
Anastasius coughed discreetly, to attract Gregory’s attention, but he was lost in prayer, gazing at the Christ figure with a look of exaltation.
“It is time, Holiness.” Anastasius did not hesitate to interrupt the Pope’s devotions. Gregory had been at prayer for over an hour, and the Emperor was waiting.
Startled, Gregory looked around, and seeing Anastasius, nodded, crossed himself, and stood, smoothing the bell-shaped purple paenula which he wore over the papal dalmatic.
“I see you have drawn strength from the Christ figure, Holiness,” Anastasius said, helping Gregory put on the pallium. “I too have felt its power.”
“Yes. It is magnificent, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Especially the beauty of the head, which is large in proportion to the body. It always reminds me of the first Epistle to the Corinthians: ‘And the head of Christ is God.’ A glorious expression of the idea that Christ combines in His person both natures, God-hood and manhood.”
Gregory beamed appreciatively. “I don’t think I have ever heard that thought so well expressed. You make a fine vestiarius, Anastasius; the eloquence of your faith is an inspiration.”
Anastasius was pleased. Such papal praise might well translate into another promotion—to nomenclator, perhaps, or even primicerius? He was young, it was true, but such high honors were not beyond ambition. Indeed, they were but way stations on the path to the single overarching ambition of Anastasius’s life: to be Pope himself one day.
“You overprize me, Sire,” Anastasius said with what he hoped was becoming modesty. “It is the perfection of the sculpture, and not my inadequate words, which deserves your praise.”
Gregory smiled. “Spoken with true humilitas.” He put his hand fondly on Anastasius’s shoulder and said gravely, “It is God’s work we do this day, Anastasius.”
Anastasius studied the Pope’s face. He suspects nothing. Good. Obviously, Gregory still believed that he could mediate a peace between the Emperor and his sons, still knew nothing of the secret arrangements that Anastasius had so carefully and quietly carried out, following his father’s explicit instructions.
“Tomorrow’s dawn will see a new peace in this troubled land,” Gregory said.
That is true enough, thought Anastasius, though the peace will not be of the kind you envision.
If all went as planned, tomorrow at dawn the Emperor would awake to find that his troops had deserted in the night, leaving him defenseless before