Sacred Bones. Michael Spring
dorm before dawn, when the city still belonged to the devil, crossed the river, and made my way through the silent streets to the monastery church of Saints Stephen and Silvester. From here, I could watch the Holy Father as he rode to the old Church of Saint Lorenzo. It was here the formal procession began.
The air was nippy. I relaxed my muscles and told myself I wasn’t cold. The pure young voices of the choirboys floated on the morning air, lifting me to a world beyond care. I was about to slip into the church when I heard the distant singing of the Kyrie Eleison. The public seldom joined in, but today was different.
The poor from the hospitals came first, niddle-noddling along the broken streets, holding their painted wooden crosses above their heads. Boys my age came next, followed by the clerical officers and acolytes, the chief officer of the guards, and the regional notaries. Some of them were draped in the silky white robes that Roman officers wore in the days of the Empire.
“Lord have mercy on us,” they sang.
“Lord have mercy on us,” we cried back.
Then I saw him, the Supreme Pontiff, the Nourisher of the One Immaculate Dove, slouching forward on a large brown horse. As he passed by—so close we could almost touch—the mount in front of him stopped to drop a load, and Leo’s horse drew up short. The Pope lurched forward and grabbed the animal’s mane to keep from falling. I saw his small pouting mouth, his thin tight lips, his narrow shoulders. I thought his eyes would be shining with God’s light, but they were black and empty. I expected to behold the power and the glory, but all I saw was an old man clinging to a startled horse.
Suddenly, a gang of ruffians rushed out from the church, brandishing knives and heavy sticks. The crowd screamed and scattered. The Pope’s unarmed guards whirled about on their frightened horses. Leo was seized from his mount and thrown down on the paving stones. No one tried to save him. His face was ripped open. I wanted to wave a sword and shout, “It’s me, Augustus,” but all I did was stand and watch. And then, God forgive me, I wanted to pummel him, too, this man with terror in his eyes, who feared death more than he loved life; I wanted to slam my fist in his face. As his supporters dragged him into the church, I drew a finger through his blood pooling on the paving stones, and wiped it on my lips. Surely I’m damned, I thought. There is no penance great enough for this.
What Leo’s enemies had in store for him I’ll never know, because that same night he was lowered by ropes into the arms of the waiting chamberlain and carried to Saint Peter’s. Two of King Charles’s representatives were in residence there, investigating accusations of adultery and incompetence against the Pope, and one of them set off for Aachen immediately with his wounded charge.
I lay awake that night, among the sleeping boys, struggling with the truth of what I had seen. If the Pope was God’s elect, why had God abandoned him? Was it because Leo had fornicated with the devil?
I awoke, moaning for help. Cocks were crowing. I bolted up and thought, “If Leo’s guards had been armed, he would have been spared. God is our strength and our shield, but it helps to have a sword.”
I lay back, exhausted. I had touched some deep, abiding truth and, cradling it tightly, I fell into a deep, abiding sleep. I was still sleeping when the bells rang for Prime. I dressed quickly and ran to catch up with the others.
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