Ars Magica (29 page)

He almost laughed. Even when he tried most to be humble, he could not help but be proud. “Your will be done,” he said. No matter to whom he said it.

oOo

This was the summit of the world.

To be chosen in law and by the emperor's will. To rise from prayer in his majesty's chapel, to face the bishops who had led him from Ravenna, to hear them name him elect of God and of holy Church. “
Non sum dignus!
” he cried thrice, with all his heart: “I am not worthy!” But that was ritual, for all the truth of it, and they would not hear him. They bore him into the palace of the Lateran where popes had ruled since the Church was new; they set him on the throne of Sylvester, of Gregory, of Leo who had crowned Charlemagne. They bowed down before him; they laid the world at his feet.

They gave him seven days to learn the taste of it, the sweet and the bitter both, locked like a prisoner in walls as splendid as they were holy. Even in sleep they did not leave him. He was his own no longer. He belonged now, wholly, to Mother Church: her master and her slave, servant of the servants of God.

Then they opened the gates and led him out to face the city of which he was bishop. He had fought one battle against this tide which overwhelmed him, and because they had looked for more resistance, or for none at all, he won it. He was not borne rocking and greensick in a litter. The white mule was old now and going blind, her eyes as moon-pale as her coat, but she could not have borne to pass this honor to another. Richer was at her head, his face as solemn as ever a monk's should be who led the lord pope to his crowning, but his eyes as they met Gerbert's were dancing. Even in the armor of his numbness, Gerbert mustered a small, tight smile.

It was an endless way from the palace of the Lateran to the basilica of Saint Peter, across the breadth of Rome, its ruins and its empty places, its spaces inhabited and uninhabited, its churches, its fora, its hills and its marshy hollows. A mighty press of people followed in his wake, swirled about him, lined the road as he passed. Their acclamations swelled and faded, swelled and faded. But behind him, tirelessly, chanted his priests and his novices. “
Tu es Petrus
,” they sang in the voices of angels.
 
“Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church.”

oOo

Tu es Petrus.

He sat on his throne in shimmering space, robed and vested, anointed, sanctified with prayer. The numbness that had brought him so far, in such unwonted docility, had gone away. And yet the fear had not risen to unman him. It was there, trembling deep within, chilling his hands in the jeweled gloves, but his mind was calm. The beauty of the ancient rite washed over him, clear as water. The world's eyes fixed on him, and he felt the weight and the heat of them, and yet his heart was light, glad; free. He had risen as high as living man could rise, and from that eminence, if he fell, he fell to death and worse than death; and he was not afraid. He had gone too far, flown too high. The lark had spread its wings and seen that, indeed, it was an eagle.

Brother Raymond who was Father Raymond now, lord abbot of Aurillac, would profess no surprise. Bishop Hatto, dead on the road from Rome to Spain, would perhaps have smiled. Master Ibrahim...if he lived still, would he be glad, or not displeased at least, to see his foretelling all fulfilled?
See
, Gerbert would say to him if he could.
I have done my penance. I have wavered in my oath, but I have never forgotten it, nor broken it beyond mending. I remember our dark rose who died for my magic's sake. I honor her memory. If you cannot forgive, will you grant me your goodwill, you who were and are my master and my teacher?

The world's awe beat upon him. The choir's voices rose, piercingly sweet. “Feed My lambs; feed My sheep...”

His body, well instructed, rose even as his deacons came to assist it. One was solemn to grimness. One reminded him of Richer who had vanished among the crowd, but whose awareness was there when Gerbert looked for it, like a spark in the night: decorous face, glinting eyes.

Yes, that was as it should be. Too much solemnity was a poison. Even a pope remained a man, try though his servants would to transform him into an icon.

The magic, numbed and quenched as Gerbert's will and wits had been, had roused with them. In the music and the holiness, the awe, the hunger for magnificence which fed it all, it swelled and bloomed. What had been mere exaltation transmuted into glory. Walls of stone revealed themselves for walls of light. Light blazed within them, human souls laid bare, a field of flames as varied as stars, and more wonderful. There was Richer, a ruddy fire, mage and monk, loyal friend and loyal servant; and a great soaring brilliance that was Otto, mage and emperor, friend and pupil and — yes, in his way, son; and all about them the manifold marvels that were the priests and the bishops, the monks, the nuns, the clerks of all the orders, princes, lords of the city and of the empire, the senate and the people of Rome, all gathered to pay homage to the successor of Peter. And on them, about them, in them, the incalculable splendor that was the mind of God.

Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

Mortal light met the light of power, merged with it, became it: the air of Rome in spring, the portal of Saint Peter's, and the throngs of Rome before it, shouting his praises. Here beyond the dazzle of magic was pure and perfect clarity. He saw their awe of his office, of his vestments, of his face that shone with the light of his power. And he saw what would come after: cold sobriety, memory of rebellion, hatred of the foreigner set over them by a foreign emperor. They were his, and yet they were not. He would have to win them as every great prince must win his people; if he succeeded, they would barely thank him, but if he failed, they would destroy him.

He had fought that fight before. There was no one now to contest his right to fight it. He would enter it; he would win it, or die in the trying.

The deacon with the mischievous eyes — more somber now, in honor of his office — knelt before him. In the man's hands lay the tiara of the Holy See. Neither crown nor miter, not quite a helmet, all white, high and rounded, circled with a coronet of gold. The deacon chanted in a clear strong voice, meeting Gerbert's eyes, making truth of time-smoothed ritual: “Receive this tiara; know that thou art father of princes and kings, ruler of the world, vicar of our savior Jesus Christ.”

Gerbert took the tiara from his hands, held it up. It was not heavy, and yet the weight of the world was in it. Fear swelled anew, mounting into terror.
Drop it. Drop it now, flee, be free!

He drew a breath, which caught, stumbled, steadied. Slowly he set the tiara upon his head. He bowed beneath it; and straightened, stiffening his back, raising his head. It was not pride. It was, when it came to the crux, plain peasant stubbornness. He would not shame his emperor who had laid this on him, nor his Church which had assented to it, nor his God Who had willed it.

The deacon bowed low before him, turned, faced the people of Rome and of the world. “Behold the lord pope, Sylvester, whom Saint Peter has chosen to sit upon his Throne. Long life; long life to the Holy Father!”

“Long life!” they roared back. “Long life! Long life! Long life!”

21.

Night and winter and grey cold rain laid on Rome as near a semblance of peace as it was likely to know. Even its thieves had gone to haven. Its army of priests slept what sleep they might between compline and matins. In the palace of the Lateran, even the kitchens were quiet, the fires banked, the scullions snoring in their corners.

Richer had come from the school before the early dusk, as he often did; for though he had been made its master, he never forgot who was truly his master. Gerbert had been occupied with an embassy from the Rus. Richer, as often, had found his way to the library and settled there.

Tonight, between the warmth of the brazier and the aftereffects of an ambitious working with a handful of his older students, he had fallen asleep over his book, and waked with a start to find the night well advanced. The brazier had died to a few dim coals. His body ached with cold and with lying sprawled over a table.

He groaned as he rose, flexing his aching shoulders. The whole palace slept: he could feel it in his bones. Neither rain nor cold had lightened since he braved them for the warmth of Gerbert's presence. His holiness would be asleep, if he knew what was good for him. Richer did not intend to trouble him. The guards knew the pope's friend, the gangling clown from the school near the great crumbling Colosseum of the pagans. What he taught there was no secret; nor was the Holy Father's part in it. They had a charter from his hand, the seal of holy Church; and never a thing the Curia could do, though its greater fools cited every text and transgression from Exodus to Simon Magus. Sylvester Magus had spoken, and he was the Heir of Peter.

They were calling him
Pontifex Magicus
. A fine title, and fitting, if somewhat sacrilegious.

Richer found his way by magelight, treading softly through the passages. In three years' time, even broken by long stretches when Gerbert was gone, on progress among his people or driven out by rebellious Romans, Richer had grown familiar with this most holy of palaces. The awe had abated a little; he had stopped creeping about in constant dread of breaking something.

He paused. At the end of the corridor, a door was ajar. Light glimmered through it.

His curiosity had restored itself since the treasure of Justinian burned it out of him. Surely there would be no such horror here, in the pope's own palace, lurking in the hall of his throne.

It was, if one insisted on precision, a triclinium, a dining chamber; and in fact the Holy Father presided over feasts there. Yet there also stood the lesser of his thrones, the chair of white marble that had come out of old Rome, on which he was set when he had accepted his election, and from which he received his audiences and took tribute. In that hall of three great bays, adorned with the porphyry of emperors, on which the map of the world lay spread in gold and jewel-colors, the throne was both center and focus. Behind it glowed a wonder of mosaic: Christ sending forth his twelve Apostles, and Peter above them all, seated upon a throne. At the Apostle's feet knelt Charles the Great, receiving from his hand the banner of empire. But before and above the Frankish king knelt the man who had made him emperor, Leo the pope of Rome, and in his hands the Apostle had set the pallium with its blazon of crosses, the mandate of no earthly power but of Christ himself.

Under Leo's feet, wrapped in a scarlet mantle, the pope sat on his throne. Magelight glimmered about him. His chin was in his hand; he seemed deep in thought. He did not acknowledge Richer's coming down the length of the hall; but when the monk had nodded startled greeting to the glint of bronze half-hidden in the mantle and dropped down on the dais, he said, “You're late tonight.”

Richer could not keep from blushing. “I was in your library. I fell asleep.”

“To good purpose, I hope,” said Gerbert.

“Hardly,” Richer muttered. “I must be getting old. I ache in every bone.”

“You? You're the merest pup.”

Richer eyed him a little wildly. “You weren't waiting up for me, were you?”

Gerbert shrugged. “You know how little I sleep. I was contemplating my sins.”

“Sleep would do you more good.”

“Would it?” Gerbert's hand encompassed that whole shadowed hall. “Look at this. It's hubris embodied in metal and stone. And all in honor of a faith that bids us forsake the flesh for the rewards of the spirit.”

“Someone has to rule over that faith. He suffers enough for its sake. Why shouldn't he enjoy a reward or two of the flesh?”

Gerbert smiled wryly. “You should hear the Abbot of Cluny on the subject. If I listened to him, I'd be living in a cave under the Palatine, and subsisting on locusts and wild honey.”

“Do we need another hermit, my lord? I'd rather have you here. It's warmer.”

“And the food is better, besides.” Gerbert sighed and straightened, uncovering the Jinniyah in his lap. She seemed all lifeless tonight, all mute, as if the chair of Peter had robbed her of her power to speak. Gerbert traced a molded ringlet with a finger, and sighed again; but then he smiled. “How fares the Art in Rome,
magister
?”

Richer always twitched when Gerbert called him by that title. But he was inured enough to it by now to answer sensibly. “It fares well,
magister
. We advanced a group of novices to initiates, and an initiate to master. Rabbi Ephraim says that that one will go far. Her magic is merely adequate, but she could teach a stone to sing.”

“Would that happen to be his daughter?” Gerbert asked.

“Well,” said Richer, “no. She has magic enough for three, but she couldn't teach a duck to swim. It's Hathumoda I'm speaking of: the nun from Gandersheim. She wants to go back there. Her abbess is tolerant, she says, and won't forbid her to practice her Art. Or, and that matters more, to teach it.”

“No; that lady would not. She's the emperor's sister, you know. I hear she has a little of the family gift herself.”

“So she does,” said Richer. “But no discipline to go with it. Sister Hathumoda has hopes of altering that.”