Читать книгу Sacred Bones - Michael Spring - Страница 5

TWO

Leo returned to Rome in late November, escorted by Charles’s agents, and isolated himself in the Lateran. He seldom appeared in public anymore, but he continued to sell holy offices to the highest bidder, and one of the virgins he touched gave birth to a frog.

Rumors spread that Charles himself was coming to Rome to look into the accusations against the Pope, but nothing was certain until the king reached Ravenna, accompanied by his son Pippin, king of the Lombards. Though he was a grown man in his thirties, Pippin barely reached up to his father’s chest. When he and Charles arrived in Nomentum, twelve milestones from Rome, Leo was there to greet them. No pontiff had ever extended himself so slavishly before.

Word spread that Christmas Mass, usually held at the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore, was moving to Saint Peter’s. Something big was going on. Twenty-six years before, Charles had approached the Eternal City on foot. Now he arrived by horse, accompanied by a grand procession. I found a good vantage point on the steps leading to the grand courtyard. The singing began as a distant hum, and grew to a roar. As the king approached, we surged forward. “Long life to Charles,” we shouted. “Victory to the most excellent, crowned of God, mighty and peaceful, king of the Franks and the Lombards, patrician of the Romans.”

Charles’s hair stuck out, white and unruly, beneath his gold crown. His neck was thick as an oak. He sat squarely on his horse. No one could question who was master. Then, in one smooth, deliberate gesture, he dismounted and slid to the ground. I could have followed him forever.

“Redeemer of the World, help him,” the people cried, and I cried too: “Saint Mary, Saint Michael, Saint Gabriel, Saint Raphael, Saint John, Saint Stephen, help him.”

His height was amazing. He loomed over everyone. I had expected to see him in a short tunic and high boots, but he was wearing Roman dress: a long green chlamys and the sandals of a nobleman. The jewels on his silver scabbard gleamed in the sun. I imagined him drawing his sword and impaling a charging boar in one clean thrust.

Here is a man who loves and hates, I thought. Here is a man who says yes and no.

“Hear us O Christ,” I sang out. “Long life to the most noble family of kings. Holy Virgin of Virgins, help him. Saint Silvester, Saint Laurence, Saint Pancras, help him.”

I fought back tears. It was wrong of me to cry, but how could I help myself? I was lifted up on a sea of voices. There was no Deusdona anymore; I merged with the crowd. I bit my lip so the pain would exceed the joy.

“Hear us, O Christ,” I shouted. “Long life and victory to all the army of the Franks. Saint Hilary, help them. Saint Martin, Saint Maurice, Saint Denis, help them.”

The marble stairway was slippery from an early morning rain, but Charles, who had lived for nearly sixty winters, moved firmly up the steps. I followed him to the great Court of Honor, where he greeted the Pope and the officers of his household. The sky was a deep blue, the day as crisp as a Gozmaringa apple.

Charles and Leo led the procession to the Great Fountain. Here they paused to purify themselves before entering God’s house. I should have cleansed myself, too. I should have dipped my hands in the holy water and pressed it to my lips. But I was afraid of losing sight of Charles, and so, like a willful child, I slipped through the great brass doors and pushed my way down the aisle. When I reached the choir I turned, and there, standing in the great doorway, blocking the sun, was Charles.

Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini. Our voices hummed like bees.

Charles handed his crown and sword to an attendant, bowed, and strode forward. My heart raced as he came toward me. White and purple banners floated between the great columns, flecked with gold. The flames of a thousand candles glanced off the silver beams and candelabras and turned the silver plates before the altar into pools of burning light. Everything shimmered, everything blazed with heavenly fire. This is Peter’s home, I thought. He is with us today.

Charles, bathed in brightness, passed through the gates into the choir. He knelt and bowed silently at the golden railing before the confession of the blessed Apostle Peter. Pope Leo took his place at the rear of the church, in the chair of Peter’s successors. The suburbicarian bishops arranged themselves around him.

The solemn mass was about to begin when Leo climbed down from the bishop’s throne, walked around behind the kneeling king, and placed a crown on his head. “To Charles,” he cried. “To the most pious Augustus, crowned by God, the great and peace-giving emperor of the Romans: life and victory.”

“Long life and victory to Charles Augustus,” we shouted back. “Long life and victory to Charles Augustus!”

My heart was bursting. After more than three centuries, we had an emperor again. The crown of the Imperial Caesars was back in Rome.

Smoke from the candles curled up toward the angels in the choir. I shuddered. Eight hundred years ago today God had given us His only Son. Now he was giving us Charles, the caput orbis, who would restore Rome to her ancient glory, under Him.

Charles rose and turned to face us. A shadow of grief seemed to cross his face. Was he bruised by the memory of his wife Liutgarda, who had died the previous spring? Perhaps he realized that there is no crown but the crown of glory, no victory but the triumph over death. He flicked his hair from his eyes. Leo anointed him with holy oil and wrapped him in a purple mantle, then prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the ground three times.

I longed to bow down and serve Charles, too. He was not a man but a force, like thunder or a great wind. He straddled the world. He was the current in the Tiber, sweeping all before him.