29  

THE Great Triclinium was a relatively new addition to the Patriarchium, but it was already rich in historical significance. The paint on these walls had only just dried when Lothar’s grandfather Karolus Magnus and Pope Leo III met here with their followers to forge the epic agreement that would raise Karolus from King of France to Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and change the face of the world forever.

The fifty-five years that had passed since then had done nothing to dim the splendor of the hall. Its three large apses were paved with slates of flawless white marble and adorned with finely hewn columns of porphyry carved with decorations of marvelous complexity. Above the marble revetment, the walls were covered with colorful murals depicting the life of the apostle Peter, each drawn with wondrous artistry. But even these marvels were outshone by the great mosaic that rested over the arch of the central apse. In it St. Peter was depicted magnificently enthroned, surrounded by a round saint’s nimbus. To his right knelt Pope Leo and to his left Emperor Karolus, each one’s head surrounded by a square nimbus, the sign of the living—for they had been alive at the time the triclinium was built.

In the front of the hall, Joan and Lothar were ensconced upon two great, jewel-encrusted thrones. They appeared sedentes pariter, meaning that they were seated with equal ceremony; the two thrones were carefully placed side by side, level with each other so as not to give an appearance of greater importance to either one. The archbishops, cardinal priests, and abbots of Rome were seated facing them on high-backed chairs of Byzantine design, softly cushioned in green velvet. The other sacerdotes, the optimates, and the rest of the leading men of the Franks and Romans stood behind, filling the great hall to capacity.

When everyone was in place, Gerold was led in by Lothar’s men, hands still bound before him. Joan’s lips tightened as she saw dark bruises on his face and neck; obviously he had been beaten.

Lothar addressed Daniel. “Come forward, Magister Militum, and speak your accusation so all may hear.”

Daniel said, “I overheard the superista tell Pope John that Rome should form an alliance with the Greeks in order to rid the city of Frankish domination.”

“Liar!” Gerold growled, and was immediately rewarded with a hard cuff from one of his guards.

“Stand off!” Joan spoke sharply to the guard. To Gerold she said, “You deny these charges, Superista?”

“I do. They are false and wicked lies.”

Joan took a deep breath. She must take the plunge now, or not at all. Speaking loudly so all could hear, she said, “I confirm the superista’s testimony.”

There was a shocked murmur from the assembled prelates. By responding in this way, Pope John had turned himself from judge to accused, in effect putting himself on trial along with Gerold.

Paschal, the primicerius, interjected soberly, “Holiness, the accusation is not for you to support or deny. Remember the words of the great Karolus: Judicare non audemos. You are not on trial here, nor can you be judged by any earthly court.”

“I know that, Paschal. But I am prepared to answer these charges of my own free will, in order to free men’s minds from any unjust suspicion.” She nodded to Florentinus, the vestiarius. Following their prearranged signal, he immediately came forward bearing a large volume, magnificently bound—the gospel-book, containing the holy word of the apostles John, Luke, Mark, and Matthew. Joan clasped the book reverently. In a ringing voice she declared, “Upon these sacred gospels, wherein the Word of God is revealed, I swear before God and St. Peter that such a conversation never took place. If I am not speaking truth, may God strike me where I stand.”

The dramatic gesture appeared to have worked. During the awed silence that followed, no one moved or spoke.

Then Anastasius stepped forward, taking up a position beside Daniel. “I offer myself as sacraméntale for this man,” he declared boldly.

Joan’s heart sank. Anastasius had responded with a perfect counterthrust. He had invoked the law of conjuratio, according to which guilt or innocence was proved by whichever side in a dispute was able to amass the greatest number of sacramentales, or oath helpers, to support his sworn word.

Quick to take measure of the situation, Arsenius rose from his seat and joined his son. One by one, others slowly came forward to stand with them. Jordanes, the secundicerius, who had opposed Joan in the matter of the school for women, was among them. So was Victor, the sacellarius.

Ruefully Joan recalled Gerold’s repeated words of caution to her to take things slowly and be more politic with her opponents. In her eagerness to get things done, she had not paid sufficient heed to his advice.

Now the reckoning was come.

“I will serve as sacramentale for the superista.” A voice sounded clearly from the rear of the assembly.

Joan and the others turned to see Radoin, second in command of the papal guard, shouldering his way through the crowd. Staunchly he stood beside Gerold. His action emboldened others; in short order Juvianus, the head steward, came forward, followed by the cardinal priests Joseph and Theodore and six of the suburbican bishops, as well as several dozen of the lesser clergy who, being closer to the people, could better appreciate what Joan had done for them. The rest of the assembly held back, unwilling to commit themselves.

When all who wished to had come forward, the count was made: fifty-three men on Gerold’s side and seventy-four on Daniel’s.

Lothar cleared his throat. “God’s judgment is here made manifest. Stand forth, Superista, to receive your sentence.”

The guards started toward Gerold, but he shook them off. “The charge is false, no matter how many choose to perjure themselves by supporting it. I claim the right of ordeal.”

Joan drew her breath in sharply. Here, in the southern part of the Empire, the ordeal was by fire, not water. An accused man had to walk barefoot over a twenty-foot row of white-hot plowshares. If he made it over, he was judged innocent. But very few people survived the ordeal.

Across the room, Gerold’s eyes blazed an urgent message at Joan: Do not try to stop me.

He intended to sacrifice himself for her. If he made it over the coals, his innocence—and hers—would be proven. But he would probably die in the proving.

Just like Hrotrud, Joan thought. The memory of the village midwife’s grisly death brought a sudden flash of inspiration.

She said, “Before proceeding further, there are some questions I would like to put to the magister militum.”

“Questions?” Lothar frowned.

Anastasius protested. “This is highly irregular. If the superista wishes to undergo the ordeal, that is his right. Or does His Holiness doubt the workings of divine justice?”

Joan responded evenly, “Not at all. Neither do I scorn the workings of God-given reason. What harm can there be in asking a few questions?”

Unable to think of a reasonable reply, Anastasius shrugged and fell silent. But his face registered his vexation.

Joan’s brow furrowed as she concentrated on recalling Cicero’s six evidentiary questions.

Quis.

“Who,” she asked Daniel, “apart from you, was witness to this alleged conversation?”

“No one,” he replied. “But the testimony of these sacramentales is surety for my word.”

Joan went on to the next question.

Quomodo.

“How did you come to overhear so private a conversation?”

Daniel hesitated only a moment before replying. “I was passing by the triclinium on my way to the dormitory. Seeing the door standing open, I went to close it. That’s when I heard the superista talking.”

Ubi.

“Where was the superista standing at the time?”

“Before the throne.”

“About where he is now?”

“Yes.”

Quando.

“When did this happen?”

Daniel pulled nervously on the neck of his tunic. The questions were coming so fast he had no time to think. “Aah … on the Feast of St. Agatha.”

Quid.

“What exactly did you overhear?”

“I have already told the court that.”

“Were those the superista’s actual words, or an approximate rendering of the conversation?”

Daniel smirked. Did Pope John think he was stupid enough to fall into so obvious a trap? He said firmly, “I reported the superista’s words exactly as he spoke them.”

Joan sat forward on the papal throne. “Let me see if I have understood you correctly, Daniel. According to your testimony, on the Feast of St. Agatha you stood outside the door of the triclinium and heard every word of a conversation in which the superista told me that Rome should form an alliance with the Greeks.”

“Correct,” Daniel said.

Joan turned to Gerold. “Where were you on the Feast of St. Agatha, Superista?” she asked.

Gerold answered, “I was in Tivoli, finishing the work on the Marcian aqueduct.”

“Are there any who can bear witness to that?”

“Dozens of men labored beside me all day long. They can all testify to my whereabouts that day.”

“How do you explain this, Magister Militum?” Joan asked Daniel. “Surely a man cannot be in two places at once?”

Daniel was now looking decidedly pale. “Ah … ah…,” he stammered, desperately seeking a reply.

“Might you be mistaken about the date, Magister Militum?” Anastasius prompted. “After all these months, so small a detail might well be difficult to recall.”

Daniel seized the proffered chance. “Yes, yes. Now I think back, it happened earlier than that—on the Feast of St. Ambrose, not St. Agatha. A thoughtless mistake.”

“Where there is one mistake, there may be others,” Joan responded. “Let us return to your testimony. You say you heard every word that was spoken while you were standing outside the door?”

“Yes,” Daniel answered slowly, mistrustful now.

“You have sharp ears, Magister Militum. Please demonstrate this extraordinary acuity for us by repeating this feat.”

“What?” Daniel was completely at a loss.

“Go stand outside the door, as you were before. The superista will speak a few words. When you come back, tell us what he said.”

“What kind of trumpery is this?” Anastasius objected hotly.

Lothar looked at Joan disapprovingly. “Surely, Holiness, the use of jongleur’s tricks undermines the gravity of these proceedings.”

“Majesty,” Joan replied, “what I have in mind is no trick, but a test. If Daniel is telling the truth, he should be able to hear the superista as well now as he did then.”

“My liege, I protest!” Anastasius said. “Such a thing is contrary to all the customary proofs of law”

Lothar considered the matter. Anastasius was right; the use of evidence to prove or disprove an accusation was a strange and novel idea. On the other hand, Lothar had no reason to believe Daniel was lying. No doubt he would pass Pope John’s unusual “test”—and that would lend greater credence to his testimony. Too much rested on the outcome of this trial for there to be any question afterward as to its fairness.

Lothar waved his hand imperiously. “Let the test proceed.”

Reluctantly Daniel crossed the length of the great hall and stood on the other side of the door.

Joan put a finger to her lips, signaling Gerold to keep silent. “Ratio in lege summa justitia est,” she said in a high, clear voice. “Reason is the highest justice in law.” She nodded to the guard at the door. “Bring Daniel back.

“Well,” she asked when he stood before her again. “What did you hear?”

Daniel groped for a likely answer. “The superista repeated his protestation of innocence.”

Those who had come forward to stand witness for him cried out in shocked dismay. Anastasius turned away in disappointment. Lothar’s perpetual dark frown deepened even more.

Joan said, “Those are not the words that were spoken. And it was not the superista but I who spoke them.”

Cornered, Daniel burst out angrily, “What difference does it make if I actually overheard the conversation or not? Your actions have demonstrated your true sympathies! Did you not ordain the Greek Nicephorus as bishop?”

“Ah!” Joan said. “That brings us to the last of the questions: Cur. Why? Why did you make false report of such a conversation to the Emperor? You were not motivated by truth, Daniel, but by envy— because your own son was passed over for the position Nicephorus received!”

“Shame!” a voice shouted from the crowd, and was quickly echoed by others. “Traitor!” “Liar!” “Rogue!” Even Daniel’s own sacramentales joined in the torrent of abuse, eager to dissociate themselves from him now.

Joan raised a hand, silencing the assembly. Expectantly they waited for her to pronounce sentence against Daniel. For so serious a crime, the punishment would surely be very great: first the tongue that had uttered the treasonous lie would be cut out, then Daniel would probably be drawn and quartered.

Joan had no inclination to exact so terrible a price. She had accomplished what she wanted, which was to vindicate Gerold. There was no need to take Daniel’s life; he was an unpleasant little man, spiteful and covetous, but no worse or more wicked than others she had known. And, Joan was certain, in this instance he had been little more than a tool in Anastasius’s hands.

“Magister Militum Daniel,” she said gravely. “From this moment forward, you are stripped of your title with all its lands and privileges. You will leave Rome today and remain forever banished from the Holy City and its sacred shrines.”

The crowd was hushed by this astonishing display of caritas. Eustathius, the archpriest, seized the moment. “Praise be to God and St. Peter, Prince of the Apostles, through whom the truth has been made manifest! And long life to our Lord and Supreme Pontiff, Pope John!”

“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 there before—respect.

He put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Trust me, Father. I will make you proud, I promise.”

THE Holy Day of Rogation was a fixed feast, invariably celebrated on April 25. Like so many other of the fixed feasts—the Feast of Oblation, the Feast of St. Peter’s Chair, the ember weeks, Christ Mass—the roots of its celebration could be traced all the way back to pagan times. In ancient Rome, April 25 was the date of the Robigalia, the heathen festival honoring Robigo, God of Frost, who just at this season could visit great damage on the budding fruits of the earth if not placated with gifts and offerings. Robigalia was a joyous festival, involving a lively procession through the city into the cornfields, where animals were reverently sacrificed, followed by races and games and other forms of merriment in the open fields of the campagna. Rather than try to suppress this time-honored tradition, which would only alienate those they sought to win to the True Faith, the early Popes wisely chose to keep the festival but give it a more Christian character. The procession on the Holy Day of Rogation still went to the cornfields, but it stopped first at St. Peter’s Basilica, where a solemn mass was celebrated to honor God and implore, through the intercession of the saints, His blessing on the harvest.

The weather had cooperated with the occasion. The sky above was blue as new-dyed cloth and clear of any trace of cloud; the sun sparkled a golden light on the trees and houses, its heat relieved by a welcome touch of coolness from a northerly breeze.

Joan rode in the middle of the procession behind the acolytes and defensores, who went on foot, and the seven regionary deacons, who were mounted. Behind her rode the optimates and other dignitaries of the Apostolic Palace. As the long line with its colorful signs and banners moved through the Lateran courtyard, past the bronze statue of the mater romanorum, she shifted uncomfortably on her white palfrey; the saddle must have been badly fitted, for already her back hurt with a dull but painful ache that came and went at intervals.

Gerold was ranging back and forth along the side of the procession with the other guards. Now he drew up beside her, tall and breathtakingly handsome in his guard’s uniform.

“Are you well?” he asked anxiously. “You look pale.”

She smiled at him, drawing strength from his nearness. “I’m fine.”

The long procession turned onto the Via Sacra, and Joan was immediately greeted with a roar of acclamation. Aware of the threat that the presence of Lothar and his army represented, the people had turned out in record numbers to demonstrate their love and support of their Lord Pope. They thronged the road to a depth of twenty feet and more on either side, cheering and calling out blessings, so the guards were forced to keep pushing them back in order for the procession to move through. If Lothar required any proof of Joan’s popularity with the people, he had it there.

Chanting and waving incense, the acolytes made their way down the ancient street, traveled by the Popes since time beyond memory. The pace was even slower than usual, for there were a great many petitioners stationed along the route, and, as was the custom, the procession stopped frequently so Joan could hear them. At one of the stops, an old woman with gray hair and a scarred face flung herself on the ground before Joan.

“Forgive me, Holy Father,” the woman pleaded, “forgive the wrong I’ve done you!”

“Rise, good mother, and be comforted,” Joan replied. “You’ve done me no injury I know of.”

“Am I so changed you do not even know me?”

Something in the ravaged face raised imploringly to hers struck a sudden chord of recognition.

“Marioza?” Joan exclaimed. The famous courtesan had aged thirty years since Joan last saw her. “Great God, what has happened to you?”

Ruefully Marioza raised a hand to her scarred face. “The marks of a knife. A parting gift from a jealous lover.”

“Deus misereatur!”

Marioza said bitterly, “Do not pin your fortunes on the favors of men, you once told me. Well, you were right. The love of men has proved my ruin. It’s my punishment—God’s punishment for the evil trick I played upon you. Forgive me, Lord Father, or else I am damned forever!”

Joan made the sign of blessing over her. “I forgive you willingly, with my whole heart.”

Marioza clutched Joan’s hand and kissed it. The people nearby cheered their approval.

The procession moved on. As they were passing the Church of St. Clement, Joan heard a sudden commotion off to the left. A group of ruffians at the rear of the crowd were jeering and throwing stones at the procession. One struck her horse on the neck, and it reared wildly, slamming Joan against the saddle. A jolt of pain shot through her. Stunned and breathless, she clung to the golden trappings as the deacons hurried to her side.

GEROLD spied the group of troublemakers before anyone else. He turned his horse and was riding in after them before the first volley of rocks even left their hands.

Seeing him come, the ruffians ran off. Gerold spurred after them. Before the steps of the Church of St. Clement, the men abruptly wheeled, pulled weapons from the hidden folds of their garments, and came at Gerold.

Gerold drew his sword, signaling urgently to the guards following him. But there was no answering call, no sound of hooves drumming up behind. He was alone when the men surrounded him in a jabbing, thrusting swarm. Gerold wielded his sword with economical skill, making each blow count; he injured four of his assailants, taking only a single knife wound in his thigh before they dragged him from his horse. He let himself go limp, feigning insensibility, but kept a tight hand on his sword hilt.

No sooner had he hit the ground than he sprang back to his feet, sword in hand. With a cry of surprise, the nearest attacker came at him with drawn sword; Gerold moved sideways, wrong-stepping him, and when the man faltered, Gerold brought his sword down on his arm. The man dropped, his half-severed arm spurting blood. Several others came at him, but now Gerold heard the shouts of his guard approaching from behind. Another moment and help would be at hand. Keeping his sword before him, Gerold backed away, keeping a wary eye on his ambushers.

The dagger took him from behind, slipping between his ribs with noiseless stealth, like a thief into a sanctuary. Before he was aware of what had happened, his knees buckled and he folded softly to the ground, marveling even as he did that he felt no pain, only the warm blood streaming down his back.

Above him he heard fresh sounds of shouting and clashing steel. The guards had arrived and were fighting off the attackers. I must join them, Gerold thought and went to reach for his sword on the ground beside him, but he could not stir a hand.

CATCHING her breath, Joan looked up and saw Gerold turn aside in pursuit of the rock throwers. She saw the other guards start to follow him, only to be checked by a group of men standing among the crowd on that side of the road; the group closed together, blocking the way as if acting on some unseen signal.

It’s a trap! Joan realized. Frantically she cried warning, but her words were drowned in the noise and confusion of the crowd. She spurred her horse to go to Gerold, but the deacons kept tight hold of the bridle.

“Let go! Let go!” she shouted, but they held on, not trusting the horse. Helplessly Joan watched the ruffians surround Gerold, saw their hands reach up to grab him, clutching at his belt, his tunic, his arms, dragging him from his horse. She saw a last bright glint of red hair as he disappeared beneath the swirling crowd.

She slid off the horse and ran, shoving her way through the group of milling, frightened acolytes. By the time she reached the side of the road, the crowd was already parting, making way for the guards, who came toward her bearing Gerold’s limp body.

They set him on the ground, and she knelt beside him. Blood was trickling in a thin froth from one corner of his mouth. Quickly she removed the long rectangle of the pallium from around her neck, wadded it, and pressed hard against the wound in his back, trying to staunch the flow of blood. No use; within minutes the thick fabric was soaked through.

Their eyes met in a look that was deeply intimate, a look of love and painful understanding. Fear gripped Joan, fear like she had never known before. “No!” she cried, and clasped him in her arms, as if by sheer physical closeness she could stave off the inevitable. “Don’t die, Gerold. Don’t leave me here all alone.”

His hand groped the air. She took it in hers, and his lips moved in a smile. “My pearl,” he said. His voice was very faint, as if speaking from a long distance away.

“Hold on, Gerold, hold on,” she said tautly. “We’ll take you back to the Patriarchium; we’ll—”

She sensed his going even before she heard the death rattle and felt his body grow heavy in her arms. She crouched over him, stroking his hair, his face. He lay still and peaceful, lips parted, eyes fixed blindly on the sky.

It was impossible that he was gone. Even now his spirit might be nearby. She raised her head and looked around her. If he were somewhere near, there would be a sign. If he were anywhere, he would let her know.

She saw nothing, sensed nothing. In her arms lay a corpse with his face.

“He is gone to God,” Desiderius, the archdeacon, said.

She did not move. As long as she kept hold of him, he was not entirely gone, a part of him was still with her.

Desiderius took her arm. “Let us carry him to the church.”

Numbly she heard and understood. He must not lie here in the street, open to the gaze of curious strangers. She must see him honored with all the proper rites and dignities; it was all that was left her to do for him now.

She laid him down gently, to keep from hurting him, then closed his staring eyes and crossed his arms on his chest so the guards could bear him away with dignity.

As she went to stand, she was taken with a pain so violent it doubled her over, and she fell to the ground gasping. Her body heaved with great spasms over which she had no control. She felt an enormous pressure, as if a weight had been dropped on her; the pressure moved lower until she felt it would surely split her apart.

The child. It’s coming.

“Gerold!” The word shuddered into a terrible groan of pain. Gerold could not help her now. She was alone.

“Deus Misereatur!” Desiderius exclaimed. “The Lord Pope is possessed of the Devil!”

People screamed and wept, cast into an extremity of terror.

Aurianos, the chief exorcist, hurried forward. Sprinkling Joan with holy water, he intoned solemnly, “Exorcizo te, immundissime spiritus, omnis incursio adversarii, omne phantasma …”

All eyes were fixed on Joan, watching for the evil spirit to issue forth from her mouth or ear.

She screamed as with one last, agonizing pain the pressure inside suddenly gave way, spilling forth from her in a great red effusion.

The voice of Aurianos cut off abruptly, followed by a long, appalled silence.

Beneath the hem of Joan’s voluminous white robes, dyed now with her blood, there appeared the tiny blue body of a premature infant.

Desiderius was the first to react. “A miracle!” he shouted, dropping to his knees.

“Witchcraft,” cried another. Everyone crossed themselves.

The people pressed forward to see what had happened, pushing and shoving and climbing over one another’s backs to get a better view.

“Stay back!” the deacons shouted, wielding their crucifixes like clubs to keep the unruly crowd at bay. Fighting broke out up and down the long line of the procession. The guards rushed in, shouting rough commands.

Joan heard it all as if from a distance. Lying on the street in a pool of her own blood, she was suddenly suffused with a transcendent sense of peace. The street, the people, the colorful banners of the procession glowed in her mind with a strange brightness, like threads in an enormous tapestry whose pattern she only now discerned.

Her spirit swelled within her, filling the emptiness inside. She was bathed in a great and illuminating light. Faith and doubt, will and desire, heart and head—at long last she saw and understood that all were one, and that One was God.

The light grew stronger. Smilingly she went toward it as the sounds and colors of the world dimmed into invisibility, like the moon with the coming of dawn.