4  

Rome

THE vaulted marble interior of the Lateran Palace was deliciously cool after the blistering heat of the Roman streets. As the huge wooden doors of the papal residence swung shut behind him, Anastasius stood blinking, momentarily blinded in the darkness of the Patriarchium. Instinctively, he reached for his father’s hand, then drew back, remembering.

“Stand tall, and do not cling to your father,” his mother had said that morning as she fussed over his attire. “You are twelve now; time enough to learn to play the part of a man.” She tugged firmly on his jeweled belt, pulling it into place. “And look squarely at those who address you. The family name is second to none; you must not appear to be deferential.”

Now, recalling her words, Anastasius drew his shoulders back and lifted his head high. He was small for his age, a continuing source of grief for him, but he tried always to hold himself so as to appear as tall as possible. His eyes began to adjust to the dim light, and he looked around curiously. It was his first visit to the Lateran, the majestic residence of the Pope, and the seat of all power in Rome, and Anastasius was impressed. The interior was enormous, a vast structure containing the archives of the Church and the Treasure Chamber, as well as dozens of oratories, triclinia, and chapels, among them the celebrated private chapel of the Popes, the Sanctum Sanctorum. Before Anastasius, on the wall of the Great Hall, hung a huge tabula mundi, an annotated wall map depicting the world as a flat disk surrounded by oceans. The three continents—Asia, Africa, and Europe—were separated by the great rivers Tanais and Nile as well as the Mediterranean. At the very center of the world was the holy city of Jerusalem, bounded on the east by the terrestrial paradise. Anastasius studied the map, his attention riveted to the large open spaces, mysterious and frightening, at the outmost edges, where the world fell off into darkness.

A man approached, wearing the white silk dalmatic of the members of the papal household. “I give you greeting and the blessing of our Most Holy Father, Pope Paschal,” he said.

“May he live long, that we may continue to prosper from his benevolent guidance,” replied Anastasius’s father.

The required formalities over, both men relaxed.

“Well, Arsenius, how is it with you?” said the man. “You are here to see Theodorus, I suppose?”

Anastasius’s father nodded. “Yes. To arrange the appointment of my nephew Cosmas as arcarius.” Lowering his voice, he added, “The payment was made weeks ago. I cannot think what has delayed the announcement so long.”

“Theodorus has been quite busy of late. There was that nasty dispute, you know, over the possession of the monastery at Farfa. The Holy Father was much displeased with the imperial court’s decision.” Bending close, he added in a conspiratorial whisper, “And even more displeased with Theo for championing the Emperor’s cause. Be prepared: there may be little that Theo can do for you just now.”

“The thought had occurred to me.” Anastasius’s father shrugged. “Nevertheless, Theo is still primicerius, and the payment has been made.”

“We shall see.”

The conversation halted abruptly as a second man, also clad in the white dalmatic, came toward them. Anastasius, standing close by his father’s side, sensed the slight stiffening of his back. “May the blessings of the Holy Father be conferred upon you, Sarpatus,” said his father.

“And on you, my dear Arsenius, and on you,” the man replied. His mouth had an odd twist. “Ah, Lucian,” he said, turning to the first man. “You were so intent on your conversation with Arsenius just now. Have you some interesting news? I should love to hear it.” He yawned elaborately. “Life is so tedious here since the Emperor left.”

“No, Sarpatus, of course not. If I had any news, I should tell you,” Lucian replied nervously. To Anastasius’s father he said, “Well, Arsenius, I must go now. I have duties to attend to.” He bowed, turned on his heel, and quickly walked away.

Sarpatus shook his head. “Lucian has been edgy of late. I wonder why.” He looked pointedly at Anastasius’s father. “Well, well, no matter. I see that you have company today.”

“Yes. May I present my son Anastasius? He is to take the exam to become a lector soon.” Anastasius’s father added with emphasis, “His uncle Theo is especially fond of him; that is why I brought him along with me to our meeting.”

Anastasius bowed. “May you prosper in His Name,” he said formally, as he had been taught.

The man smiled, amusement twisting the corners of his lips even more.

“My! The boy’s Latin is excellent; I congratulate you, Arsenius. He will prove to be an asset to you—unless, of course, he shares his uncle’s deplorable lack of judgment.” He continued, precluding any reply, “Yes, yes, a fine boy. How old is he?” The question was addressed to Anastasius’s father.

Anastasius replied, “I turned twelve just after Advent.”

“Indeed! You look younger.” He patted Anastasius’s head.

A dislike for the stranger rose inside Anastasius. Drawing himself up as tall as possible, he said, “And I think that my uncle’s judgment cannot be so very bad, or else how did he come to be primicerius?”

His father squeezed Anastasius’s arm in warning, but his eyes were mild and there was a hint of a smile on his lips. The stranger stared at Anastasius, something—surprise? anger?—registering in his eyes. Anastasius met his gaze levelly. After a long moment the man broke the gaze and returned his attention to Anastasius’s father.

“Such family loyalty! How touching! Well, well, let us hope that the boy’s thinking proves to be as correct as his Latin.”

A loud noise drew their attention to the far side of the hall as the heavy doors were opened.

“Ah! Here comes the primicerius now. I shall intrude upon you no longer.” Sarpatus bowed elaborately and withdrew.

A hush fell over the assembly as Theodorus entered, accompanied by his son-in-law Leo, recently elevated to the position of nomenclator. He stopped just inside the doors to converse briefly with a few of the clerics and nobles standing nearby. In his ruby silk dalmatic and golden cingulum, Theodorus was by far the most elegantly attired of the group; he loved fine materials and favored a certain ostentation in his dress, a characteristic that Anastasius admired.

Finishing with the formal greetings, Theodorus scanned the hall. Catching sight of Anastasius and his father, he smiled and started across the floor toward them. As he drew closer, he winked at Anastasius, and his right hand moved toward the fold in his dalmatic. Anastasius grinned, for he knew what that meant. Theodorus, who had a love for children, always carried some special treats to hand out. What will it be today? Anastasius wondered, his mouth watering in anticipation. A plump fig, a honeyed filbert, a creamy lump of sweetened almond paste?

Anastasius’s attention was focused so intently on the fold in Theodorus’s dalmatic that at first he did not see the other men. They came up quickly—three of them—from behind; one clapped a hand over Theodorus’s mouth, drawing him backward. Anastasius thought it was some kind of prank. Smiling, he looked at his father for explanation; his heart leapt when he saw the fear in his father’s eyes. He turned back and saw Theodorus struggling to break loose. Theodorus was a big man, but the contest was hopelessly unequal. The men surrounded him, pinning his arms, dragging him down. The front of Theodorus’s ruby dalmatic was torn, the fine silk hanging in jagged ribbons, exposing patches of white skin. One of the attackers entwined his fingers in Theodorus’s thick black hair and wrenched his head back. Anastasius saw a glint of steel. There was a scream, and then Theodorus’s face seemed to explode in a fountain of red. Anastasius flinched as a fine spray hit his face. He reached up, then stared numbly at his hand. It was blood. Across the room someone shouted; Anastasius saw Leo, Theodorus’s son-in-law, disappear beneath a swarm of attackers.

The men released Theodorus, and he fell forward onto his knees. Then he raised his head, and Anastasius screamed in terror. The face was dreadful. Blood poured from the black and empty holes where Theodorus’s eyes had been, streaming from his chin onto his shoulders and chest.

Anastasius buried his face in his father’s side. He felt his father’s large hands on his shoulders and heard his voice, strong and unwavering. “No,” his father said. “You cannot hide, my son.” The hands impelled him, pushing him away, turning him back toward the grisly scene before him.

“Watch,” the voice commanded, “and learn. This is the price exacted for lack of subtlety and art. Theodorus pays now for wearing his loyalty to the Emperor so openly.”

Anastasius stood like a post while the attackers carried Theodorus and Leo to the center of the hall. Several times they stumbled and almost fell on the tile floor, slippery with blood. Theodorus was shouting something, but the words were unintelligible. With his mouth open and moving, his face was even more frightful.

The men forced Theodorus and Leo to their knees and pulled their heads forward. One man raised a long sword over Leo’s neck and with one quick stroke, decapitated him. But Theodorus’s neck was thick, and he continued to struggle; it took three or four sword strokes to cleave his head from his body.

Anastasius saw, for the first time, that the attackers wore the scarlet cross of the papal militia. “Father!” he blurted. “It’s the guards! The guards of the militia!”

“Yes.” He drew Anastasius close.

Anastasius fought against the rise of hysteria. “But why? Why, Father? Why would they do it?”

“They were ordered to.”

“Ordered to?” said Anastasius. He tried to make sense of it. “Who would give such an order?”

“Who? Ah, my son, think.” His father’s face was ashen, but his voice was steady as he replied, “You must learn to think so you will never suffer such a fate. Consider now: Who has the power? Who is capable of giving such an order?”

Anastasius stood speechless, overwhelmed by the enormity of the idea that had begun to break upon him.

“Yes.” His father’s hands were gentle now on Anastasius’s shoulders. “Who else,” he said, “but the Pope?”