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PAPA POPULI, they called her, the people’s Pope. Over and over the story was told of how the Lord Pope had gone forth from his palace on the day of the flood, risking his life to save those of his people. Wherever Joan went in the city, she was given a riotous welcome. Her path was strewn with sweet-smelling petals of acanthus, and from every window people called down blessings upon her. She drew strength and solace from their love, dedicating herself to them with renewed fervor.

The optimates and high clergy, on the other hand, were scandalized by Joan’s behavior on the day of the flood. For the Vicar of St. Peter to rush off to the rescue in a dinghy—why, it was absurd, an embarrassment to the Church and the dignity of the papal office! They regarded her with growing disaffection, amplified by the very real differences they had with her: she was a foreigner, and they were native-born Romans; she believed in the power of reason and observation, and they believed in the power of sacred relics and miracles; she was forward looking and progressive, and they were conservative, bound by habit and tradition.

Most had entered the ranks of the clerical bureaucracy in childhood. By the time they reached maturity, they were thoroughly steeped in Lateran tradition and quite inimical to change. In their minds there was a right way and a wrong way to do things—and the right way was what had always been done.

Understandably, they were disconcerted by Joan’s style of governance. Wherever she saw a problem—a need for a hospice, the injustice of a corrupt official, a shortage in the food supply—she sought to move quickly to correct it. Frequently she found herself thwarted by the papal bureaucracy, the vast and cumbersome system of government that over the course of centuries had evolved into a labyrinthine complexity. There were literally hundreds of departments, each with its own hierarchy and its own jealously guarded responsibilities.

Impatient to get things done, Joan looked for ways to circumvent the ponderous inefficiency of the system. When Gerold ran short of funds for the ongoing work on the aqueduct, she simply withdrew the money from the treasury, bypassing the usual course of putting a request through the office of the sacellarius, or papal paymaster.

Arsenius, alert as ever to opportunity, did what he could to exploit the situation. Seeking out Victor, the sacellarius, he broached the subject with politic art.

“I fear His Holiness lacks a sufficient appreciation of our Roman ways.”

“So he would, not being born to them,” Victor responded non-committally. A cautious man, he would not reveal his hand until Arsenius played his.

“I was shocked to hear that he withdrew funds from the treasury without going through your office.”

“It was rather … inappropriate.” Victor conceded.

“Inappropriate!” Arsenius exclaimed. “My dear Victor, in your place I would not be so charitable.”

“No?”

“If I were you,” Arsenius said, “I’d look to my back.”

Victor dropped his air of studied indifference. “Have you heard anything?” he asked anxiously. “Does His Holiness mean to replace me?”

“Who can tell?” Arsenius replied. “Perhaps he means to dispense with the position of sacellarius altogether. Then he can take whatever funds he likes from the treasury without having to explain to anyone.”

“He’d never dare!”

“Wouldn’t he?”

Victor didn’t answer. Like a skilled fencer, Arsenius gauged his timing and thrust home.

“I begin to fear,” he said, “that John’s election was a mistake. A serious mistake.”

“The thought has occurred to me,” Victor admitted. “Some of His Holiness’s ideas—the school for women, for example …” Victor shook his head. “God’s ways are certainly mysterious.”

“God didn’t put John on the throne, Victor; we did. And we can remove him.”

This was too much. “John is Christ’s Vicar,” Victor said, deeply shocked. “I admit he’s … odd. But to move forcibly against him? No … no … surely it has not come to that.”

“Well, well, you may be right.” Artfully Arsenius let the matter drop. There was no need to pursue it further; he had planted the seed and knew it could be trusted to grow.

SINCE their parting on the day of the flood, Gerold had not seen Joan. The remaining work on the aqueduct was not within the city but at Tivoli, some twenty miles distant. Gerold was closely involved with every aspect of the construction, from overseeing the design of the repair to supervising the work crews. Frequently he bent his own back to the work, helping lift the heavy stones and cover them with new mortar. The men were surprised to see the lord superista stoop to such menial work, but Gerold welcomed it, for only in hard physical labor did he find momentary respite from the aching sadness inside.

Better, he thought, far better if we had never lain together like man and wife. Perhaps then he could have gone on as before. But now …

It was as if he had lived all the years before in blindness. All the roads he had traveled, all the risks he had taken, all he had ever done or been had led to one person: Joan.

When the aqueduct was finished, she would expect him to resume his position as leader of the papal guard. To be near her again every day, to see her and know that she was hopelessly out of reach … it would be unendurable.

I’ll leave Rome, he thought, as soon as the work on the aqueduct is complete. I’ll return to Benevento and resume command of Siconulf’s army. There was an appealing simplicity to a soldier’s life, with its definable enemies and clear objectives.

He drove himself and his men relentlessly. Within three months’ time, the work was completed.

THE restored aqueduct was formally dedicated on the Feast of the Annunciation. Led by Joan, the entire clergy—acolytes, porters, lectors, exorcists, priests, deacons, and bishops—circled the massive peperino arches in solemn procession, sprinkling the stones with holy water while chanting litanies, psalms, and hymns. The procession halted, and Joan spoke a few words of solemn blessing. She looked up to where Gerold stood waiting atop the foremost of the arches, lean, long legged, taller by a head than the others around him.

She nodded to him, and he pulled a lever, opening the sluice gates. The cheers of the people rang out as the cold, pure, healthful waters of the springs of Subiaco, which lay some forty-five miles outside the city walls, flowed within the Campus Martius for the first time in over three hundred years.

CRAFTED in the imperial style, the papal throne was a massive, high-backed piece of richly carved oak studded with rubies, pearls, sapphires, and other precious gems, as comfortless as it was impressive. Joan had been ensconced in it for over five hours, granting audience to a stream of petitioners. Now she shifted restlessly, trying to ease the growing discomfort in her back.

Juvianus, the head steward, announced the next petitioner. “Magister Militum Daniel.”

Joan frowned. Daniel was a difficult man, thorny and irascible— and he was a close associate of Bishop Arsenius. His presence here could only mean trouble.

Daniel entered briskly, nodding greeting at several of the notaries and other papal officials.

“Holiness.” He saluted Joan with the most minimal of bows, then began with rude abruptness. “Is it true that at the March ordinations, you intend to install Nicephorus as Bishop of Trevi?”

“It is.”

“The man’s a Greek!” Daniel protested.

“Why should that matter?”

“So important a position must go to a Roman.”

Joan sighed inwardly. It was true that her predecessors had used the episcopacy as a political tool, distributing bishoprics among the noble Roman families like so many choice plums. Joan disagreed with this practice, for it had resulted in a great number of episcopi agraphici—illiterate bishops, who had spawned all kinds of ignorance and superstition. How, after all, could a bishop correctly interpret the word of God to his flock if he could not even read it?

“So important a position,” she replied equably, “should go to the person best qualified. Nicephorus is a man of learning and piety. He will make a fine bishop.”

“You would think so, being yourself a foreigner.” Daniel deliberately used the insulting term barbarus rather than the more neutral peregrinus.

There was an audible intake of breath from the others in the room.

Joan looked Daniel straight in the eye. “This has nothing to do with Nicephorus,” she said. “You are guided by selfish motives, Daniel, for you want your own son Peter to be bishop.”

“Well, why not?” Daniel said defensively. “Peter is well suited for the position by virtue of family and birth.”

“But not by ability,” Joan said bluntly.

Daniel’s mouth gaped in astonishment. “You dare … you dare … my son—”

“Your son,” Joan interrupted, “reads equally well from a lectionary placed right side up or upside down, for he knows no Latin. He has committed to memory the few scriptural passages he knows. The people deserve better. And in Nicephorus they shall have it!”

Daniel drew himself up, stiffly offended. “Mark my words, Holiness: you have not heard the end of this!”

And with that he turned and left.

Joan thought, He will go straight to Arsenius, who will no doubt find some way to make further trouble. About one thing Daniel was certainly right; she had not heard the end of this.

Suddenly she was inexpressibly weary. The air in the windowless room seemed to close in upon her; she felt queasy and faint. She tugged on her pallium, pulling it away from her neck.

“The lord superista,” Juvianus announced.

Gerold! Joan’s spirits rose. They had not spoken since the day of their rescue. She had hoped he would come today, though at the same time she feared their meeting. Aware of the watchful eyes of the others, Joan kept her face impassive.

Then Gerold entered, and her treacherous heart leapt at the sight of him. The flickering lamplight played across his features, illuminating the handsomely chiseled angles of his brow and cheekbone. He returned her gaze; their eyes locked in silent communication, and for a brief moment they were quite alone in the midst of that great company.

He came forward and knelt before the throne.

“Rise, Superista,” she said. Did she imagine it, or was her voice somewhat unsteady? “This day your head is crowned with honor. All Rome is indebted to you.”

“I thank you, Holiness.”

“Tonight we will celebrate your great accomplishment with a feast. You shall sit at my table in the place of honor.”

“Alas, I regret that I will not be able to attend. I leave Rome today.”

“Leave Rome?” She was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Now that the great work with which you charged me is complete, I am resigning as superista. Prince Siconulf has asked me to return to Benevento to resume command of his armies—and I have accepted the post.”

Joan kept her rigid posture on the throne, but her hands gripped the arms. “You can’t do that,” she answered brusquely. “I won’t permit it.”

The assembled prelates raised their eyebrows. True, it was unusual to resign so prestigious a post, but Gerold was a free Frank, at liberty to commit his services wherever he chose.

“In helping Siconulf,” Gerold answered reasonably, “I will be continuing to serve Rome’s interests as well, for Siconulf’s territories provide a strong Christian bulwark against the Longobards and Saracens.”

Joan set her mouth firmly. Turning to the others, she commanded, “Leave us.”

Juvianus and the rest exchanged surprised glances, then exited the room with a flurry of respectful obeisances.

“Was that wise?” Gerold asked after they had gone. “Now their suspicions may be aroused.”

“I had to talk to you alone,” she replied urgently. “Leave Rome? What on earth can you be thinking of? No matter, I won’t allow it. Let Siconulf find someone else to lead his armies. I need you here, with me.”

“Oh, my pearl.” His voice was a caress. “Look at us—we cannot so much as look at each other without betraying how we feel. A single unwary glance, a careless word, and your life could be forfeit! I must go, can’t you see?”

Joan knew what he was saying, even knew he was right in a way. But it didn’t matter. The prospect of his leaving filled her with dismay. Gerold was the one person who truly knew her, the only one upon whom she could absolutely depend.

She said, “Without you, I’d be utterly alone. I don’t think I could bear it.”

“You are stronger than you know.”

“No,” she said. She rose from the throne to go to him and swayed as a strong wave of dizziness swept her.

Instantly Gerold was at her side. He took her arm, supporting her. “You’re ill!”

“No, no. Just … overtired.”

“You’ve been working too hard. You need rest. Come, I’ll help you to your quarters.”

She gripped him fiercely. “Promise me you won’t go until we’ve had a chance to talk again.”

“Of course I won’t leave.” His eyes were filled with concern. “Not until you’re feeling quite well again.”

JOAN lay on her bed in the quiet of her room. Am I truly ill? she wondered. If so, I must discover the cause and treat it quickly before Ennodius and the other physicians of the schola get wind of it.

She applied her mind to the problem, putting questions to herself as if she were her own patient.

When did the first symptoms begin?

Now she thought about it, she had not felt well for several weeks.

What are the symptoms?

Fatigue. Lack of appetite. A feeling of bloatedness. Queasiness, especially upon first arising …

Sudden terror struck her.

Desperately she thought back, trying to recall the time of her last monthly bleeding. Two months ago, perhaps three. She had been so busy, she had paid no attention.

All the symptoms fit, but there was one way to be certain. She leaned over and picked up the bedpan that rested on the floor beside her bed.

A short while later, she set it down again with shaking hands.

The evidence was unmistakable. She was with child.

ANASTASIUS pulled off his velvet buskins and leaned back comfortably on the divan. A good day, he thought, pleased with himself. Yes, it’s been a very good day. This morning he had shone at the imperial court, impressing Lothar and his entire retinue with his wisdom and learning.

The Emperor had asked his opinion of De corpore et sanguine Domini, the treatise that was causing such a stir among the country’s theologians. Written by Paschasius Radbertus, Abbot of Corbie, the treatise advanced the daring theory that the Eucharist contained the true Body and true Blood of Christ the Savior—not His symbolic but his actual, historic flesh: “that which was born of Mary, suffered on the cross, and rose from the tomb.”

“What do you think, Cardinal Anastasius?” Lothar inquired of him. “Is the sacred Host Christ’s Body in mystery, or in truth?”

Anastasius was ready with an answer. “In mystery, my liege. For it can be shown that Christ has two distinct bodies: the first born of Mary, the second represented symbolically in the Eucharist. ‘Hoc est corpus meum,’ Jesus said of the bread and wine at the Last Supper. ‘This is my body’ But he was still present bodily with his disciples when he said it. So clearly He must have meant the words in a figurative sense.”

So clever was this argument that when he’d finished speaking, all had applauded him. The Emperor had lauded him as “another Alcuin.” Plucking several hairs from his beard, he had presented them to Anastasius—a gesture of highest honor among these strange, barbarian people.

Anastasius smiled, reliving the pleasure of the moment. He poured wine from the pitcher on the table beside him into a silver cup, then picked up the parchment scroll containing the latest letter from his father. He broke the wax seal and unrolled the fine white vellum. His eyes scanned the scroll, reading with eager interest. He stopped at the report of the theft of the corpses of Ss. Marcellinus and Peter from their cemetery.

Not that the taking of saints’ bodies from their tombs was unusual; Christian sanctuaries all over the world constantly clamored for these holy relics in order to attract throngs of the faithful with the promise of miracles. For centuries the practical-minded Romans had made capital out of this foreign obsession with relics by conducting a regular trade in them. The countless pilgrims who swarmed to the Holy City were willing to dole out substantial sums for a finger of St. Damian, a collarbone of St. Anthony, or an eyelash of St. Sabina.

But the bodies of Ss. Marcellinus and Peter had not been sold; they had been stolen, dragged ignominiously from their graves at night and smuggled out of the city. Furta sacra—the theft of sacred things—such crimes were called. They had to be stopped, for they robbed the city of its greatest treasures.

“After this disgraceful theft,” his father wrote, “we asked Pope John to double the number of guards posted in the churchyards and cemeteries. But he refuses. He says men are better employed in the service of the living than the dead.”

Anastasius knew that John had put great numbers of the papal militia to work building schools, hospices, and houses of refuge. He had devoted his time and attention—and the greater part of the papal finances—to such secular projects, while the city’s churches were left to languish. His own father’s church had not received so much as a single golden lamp or silver candelabrum since John had taken office. Yet Rome’s innumerable cathedrals, oratories, baptisteries, and chapels were her claim to glory. If they were not constantly embellished and improved, Rome could not hope to compete with the splendor of her eastern rival, Constantinople, which now brazenly called itself New Rome.

If—no, Anastasius corrected himself—when he was Pope, things would be different. He would lead Rome back to the days of her greatness. Under his solicitous patronage, her churches would once again gleam with fabulous riches, more resplendent than even the finest palaces of Byzantium. This, he knew, was the great work that God had put him on this earth to do.

He returned to reading his father’s letter, but with diminishing interest, for the last part was taken up with items of minor importance: the list of names of those to be ordained at the coming Easter ceremonies had finally been published; his cousin Cosmas had married again, this time to a widowed deaconess; a certain Daniel, magister militum, was greatly aggrieved because his son had been passed over for a bishopric in favor of a Greek.

Anastasius sat up. A Greek to be bishop! His father seemed to regard the move as just another example of Pope John’s regrettable lack of romanità. Was it possible that he had completely overlooked the possibilities of the situation?

This, Anastasius thought with mounting excitement, is the chance for which I’ve been waiting. At long last, fortune had delivered opportunity into his hands.

He rose quickly and went to his desk. Taking up a quill, he began to write. “Dear Father. Waste no time upon receiving this letter, but send the magister militum Daniel here to me at once.”

JOAN paced the floor of the papal bedroom. How, she asked herself, could I have been so blind? It had simply not occurred to her that she could be pregnant. After all, she was over forty-one, well past the normal time for childbearing.

But Mama was older still when she quickened with child for the last time.

And died in the birthing.

Never give yourself to a man.

Fear, cold and unreasoning, gripped Joan’s heart. She struggled to calm herself. After all, what had happened to Mama might not happen to her. She was strong and healthy; she had a good chance of surviving childbirth. But even if she did, what then? In the watchful beehive that was the Patriarchium, there was no way to keep her labor and delivery secret, no way to hide the child when it came. Her womanhood would surely be discovered.

What kind of death would be considered sufficient punishment for such a crime? It was certain to be terrible. They might put her eyes out with red-hot irons and flay her to the bone. Or she might be slowly dismembered, then burned while still alive. Some such hideous end was inevitable when this child came.

If it came …

She put both hands on her abdomen; there was no hint of movement from the babe growing within. The thread of life was as yet wound very thin; it would not take much to break it.

She went to the locked chest where she kept her medicaments. She had transferred them from her herbarium soon after her consecration; they were easier to hand here and safer against theft. Her hands ranged among the various vials and bottles until she found what she was looking for. With swift skill, she infused a measure of ergot into a cup of strong wine. In small doses, it was a beneficial medicine; in larger doses, it could induce abortion—though it didn’t always work and was not without serious risk to the woman taking it.

What other choice did she have? If she did not end this pregnancy, she would face a death far more horrible.

She lifted the cup to her lips.

The words of Hippocrates came unbidden to her mind: The medical art is a sacred trust. A physician should use his skill to help the sick according to his ability and judgment, but absolutely never to do harm.

Resolutely Joan pushed the thought aside. All her life this woman’s body of hers had been a source of grief and pain, an impediment to everything she wanted to do and to be. She would not now let it rob her of her life.

She tipped the cup and drank.

Never to do harm. Never to do harm. Never to do harm.

The words burned into her, searing her heart. With a sob, she threw the empty cup to the ground. It rolled away, the last drops streaking an erratic scarlet pattern across the floor.

SHE lay in her bed and waited for the ergot to take effect. Time passed, but she felt nothing. It’s not working, she thought. She was frightened and at the same time greatly relieved. As she sat up, she was taken by a great fit of trembling. Her whole body shook with uncontrollable spasms. Her heart pounded; when she felt at her wrist, her pulse was wildly erratic.

Pain gripped her. She was stunned by its intensity, like a hot knife plunged into her innards. She rolled her head from side to side, biting her lip to keep from crying out. She dared not risk drawing the attention of the papal household.

The next few hours passed in a kind of haze as Joan moved in and out of consciousness. At one point she must have hallucinated; it seemed to her that her mother sat with her, called her “little quail,” and sang to her in the Old Tongue as she used to, placing cool hands on her fevered brow.

Before dawn she awoke, weak and shaky. For a long while, she lay quite still. Then she slowly began to examine herself. Her pulse was regular, her heartbeat strong, her skin color good. There was no effusion of blood, no sign of any lasting harm.

She had survived the ordeal.

But so had the child within her.

THERE was only one person she could turn to now. When she told Gerold of her condition, he reacted at first with shocked disbelief.

“Great God! … is it possible?”

“Evidently,” Joan said dryly.

He stood for a moment, his gaze fixed and reflective. “Is that why you’ve been ill?”

“Yes.” She did not mention the abortifacient; even Gerold could not be expected to understand that.

He took her in his arms and held her close, cradling her head against his shoulder. For a long moment they remained quite still, silently sharing what was in their hearts.

He said quietly, “Do you remember what I said to you on the day of the flood?”

“We said many things to each other that day,” she replied, but she felt her pulse quicken, for she knew what he meant.

“I said you were my true wife on this earth, and I your true husband.” He put his hand under her chin, raising her eyes to his. “I understand you better than you think, Joan. I know how your heart’s been torn. But now fate has decided things for us. We’ll go away from here and be together as we were meant to.”

She knew he was right. There was nothing else to do. All the roads that had lain before her were narrowed now to a single path. She felt sad and anxious, and at the same time strangely excited.

“We can leave tomorrow,” Gerold said. “Dismiss your chamberlains for the night. Once everyone’s asleep, it shouldn’t be difficult for you to slip out the side door. I’ll be waiting there with women’s garments for you to change into once we’re outside the city walls.”

“Tomorrow!” She had accepted the idea of leaving but had not realized it would be so soon. “But … they’ll come looking for us.”

“By the time they do, we’ll be well away. And they’ll be looking for two men, not a simple pilgrim husband and his wife.”

It was a daring plan, but it could work. Nevertheless, she resisted it. “I can’t leave now. There’s still so much I want to accomplish here, so much that needs doing.”

“I know, my heart,” he said tenderly. “But there’s no other choice; surely you must see that.”

“Wait until after Easter,” she offered. “Then I’ll go with you.”

“Easter! Why, that’s almost a month away! What if someone guesses your condition before then?”

“I’m only four months along. Under these great robes of mine, I can keep the pregnancy hidden for another month.”

Gerold shook his head emphatically. “I can’t let you risk it. You must get away from here now, while there’s still time.”

“No,” she answered with equal conviction. “I won’t leave my people without their Pope on the holiest day of the year.”

She’s frightened and upset, Gerold thought, and therefore not thinking clearly. He would go along with her for the present, having small choice, but quietly he would make things ready for a quick departure. If at any time danger threatened, he would whisk her away to safety—by force if necessary.

ON nox magna, the Great Night of the Easter celebration, thousands of people crowded in and around the Lateran cathedral to join in the celebration of the paschal vigil, baptism, and mass. The long service began on Saturday evening and would continue into the early hours of Easter morning.

Outside the holy cathedral, Joan lit the paschal candle, then handed it to Desiderius, the archdeacon, who carried it ceremoniously into the darkened church. Joan and the rest of the clergy followed after, chanting the lumen Christi, hymn to the light of Christ. Three times the procession paused on its way down the aisle while Desiderius lit the candles of the faithful from the paschal candle. By the time Joan reached the altar, the great nave was ablaze with a thousand tiny flames, their flickering light reflecting dazzlingly off the polished marble of the walls and columns in dramatic representation of the Light brought into the world by Christ.

“Exultet jam angelica turba caelorum. Exultent divina mysteria!”

Joyously, Desiderius began the Exultet. The time-honored chant, with its beautiful and striking ancient melody, rang in Joan’s ears with special poignancy.

I will never stand before this altar and hear these sweet sounds again, she reflected. The thought brought a strong sense of loss. Here, amid this inspiring celebration of redemption and hope, she came closest to experiencing a true faith in God. “O vere beata nox, quae expoliavit Aegyptios, ditavit Hebraeos! Nox, in qua terrenis caelestia junguntur …”

EXITING the cathedral at the conclusion of the mass, Joan saw a man with torn and mud-stained clothes waiting on the steps. Taking him for a beggar, she signaled Victor, the sacellarius, to give him alms.

The man waved off the proffered coins. “I am no alms seeker, Holiness, but a messenger, come with urgent news.”

“Let’s have it then.”

“Emperor Lothar and his army are marching through Paterno. At the rate they are traveling, they will be in Rome in two days’ time.”

A murmur of alarm rose from the prelates standing nearby.

“Cardinal Priest Anastasius rides with him,” the messenger added.

Anastasius! His presence among the imperial entourage was a very bad sign.

“Why do you call him Cardinal Priest?” Joan asked reproachfully. “Anastasius no longer has claim to that title, being excommunicate.”

“Beg pardon, Holiness, but so I heard the Emperor address him.”

This was the worst news of all. The Emperor’s disregard of Leo’s sentence of excommunication was a direct, unmistakable defiance of papal authority. In such a frame of mind, Lothar was capable of anything.

That night, discussing this turn of events, Gerold pressed her again to keep her promise. “I have waited until after Easter, as you wished. You must leave now, before Lothar arrives.”

Joan shook her head. “If the papal throne is vacant when Lothar arrives, he will use his power to have Anastasius elected Pope.”

Gerold had no better liking for the idea of Anastasius as Pope than she did, but her safety was his first concern. He said, “There will always be some reason or other to keep us from leaving, Joan. We cannot delay forever.”

“I will not abuse the people’s trust by leaving them in his hands,” she replied stubbornly.

Gerold had an almost irresistible impulse to simply pick her up and carry her off, away from the web of danger that was tightening around her. As if sensing his thoughts, Joan quickly spoke again.

“It’s only a matter of a few days,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “Whatever Lothar’s purpose is in coming, he’s unlikely to stay any longer than he needs to accomplish it. As soon as he’s gone, I’ll leave with you.”

He weighed this for a moment. “And you’ll offer no further argument against leaving?”

“No further argument,” Joan promised.

THE next day, Joan waited on the steps of St. Peter’s while Gerold rode out to greet Lothar. Sentries were posted all along the Leonine Wall to keep watch.

A short time later the cry went up from the wall, “The Emperor has arrived!” Joan ordered the gate of San Peregrinus opened.

Lothar rode in first. Anastasius was at his side, brazenly wearing the cardinal’s pallium. His high-browed patrician face registered a look of haughty pride.

Joan acted as though she were oblivious to his presence. She waited on the steps for the Emperor to dismount and come to her.

“Be welcome, Majesty, to this Holy City of Rome.” She extended her right hand, the one that bore the papal ring.

Lothar did not kneel but bent stiffly from the waist to kiss the symbol of her spiritual authority.

So far, so good, she thought.

The first rank of Lothar’s men parted, and she saw Gerold. His face was taut with anger, and around his wrists was a tight cord of rope.

“What is the meaning of this?” Joan demanded. “Why is the superista bound?”

Lothar replied, “He has been arrested on a charge of treason.”

“Treason? The superista is my loyal helpmate. There is no one I trust more.”

Anastasius spoke for the first time. “The treason is not against your throne, Holiness, but the imperial one. Gerold is accused of conspiring to return Rome to Greek control.”

“Nonsense! Who makes such an unfounded charge!”

Daniel rode out from behind Anastasius and fixed Joan with a look of malignant triumph. “I do,” he said.

LATER, in the privacy of her room, Joan bent her mind to the problem, trying to think of a way to respond. It was, she realized, a diabolically clever plot. As Pontiff, she herself could not be put on trial. But Gerold could—and if he was found guilty, she would be implicated as well. The plan had the mark of Anastasius all over it.

Well, he won’t get away with it. She set her chin defiantly. Let Anastasius do what he could. He would not prevail. She was still Pope, with power and resources of her own.