Chapter 69: THE CARTULARY OF FROZEN WELCOME
The gates of Rome swallowed them whole, as Aldric had known they would.
Gerold rode beside him, one hand resting on his sword hilt, staring at the ancient stones with the wary respect of a man who had burned too many villages to trust any wall, no matter how holy. The Saxon had grown quiet since the Alps, his eyes tracking every shadow, every robed figure, every dove that burst from a crumbling archway.
“You look like a man expecting an ambush,” Aldric said.
“I am a man expecting an ambush,” Gerold replied. “The only question is who holds the bows.”
Aldric did not answer. The streets of Rome pressed close around them, narrow and winding, filled with the smell of bread and incense and open sewers. Beggars clutched at their stirrups. Priests hurried past with their eyes fixed on the ground. And everywhere, carved into marble and faded paint, were the ghosts of an empire that had once ruled the world—now reduced to a city of relics and whispers.
They were met at the Lateran Palace by a deacon with a face like a closed ledger. He led them through corridors lined with frescoes of saints and martyrs, past chambers where clerks copied letters by candlelight, until they reached a small reception room hung with tapestries depicting the life of Saint Peter.
Pope Leo III stood beside a brazier, warming his hands.
He looked older than Aldric remembered from the reports that reached Aachen. His face was gaunt, his eyes shadowed, and there was a tremor in his fingers that had nothing to do with the cold. The previous year, a mob had dragged him from the Lateran and tried to blind him, accusing him of perjury and fornication. He had escaped to Charlemagne’s camp at Paderborn, throwing himself on the Frankish king’s mercy. Now he was back in Rome, restored by Frankish swords, and the hatred in the city simmered like a pot left too long on the fire.
“Lord Aldric of the Vosges,” Leo said, his voice thin but precise. “The Emperor’s engineer. The man who drains swamps and defeats Avars without leaving his bed.”
Aldric bowed. “Your Holiness flatters me. I am merely a man who prefers his own vineyards to the company of kings.”
“And yet here you are, in the company of a pope.” Leo smiled, and it was not a warm expression. “God has a sense of humor.”
“That is what I fear,” Aldric said.
Leo gestured to a chair, and Aldric sat. Gerold remained standing by the door, his scarred face unreadable. The pope poured two cups of wine from a silver pitcher, and Aldric accepted his with the careful attention of a man who had learned to distrust anything offered by those in power.
“You know why I am here,” Aldric said. “The Emperor wishes to discuss the terms of your restoration. The oaths, the purification, the—” He paused. “The crown.”
“The crown,” Leo repeated, tasting the word. “You speak of it as though it were a poison.”
“I speak of it as though it were a complication,” Aldric said. “And I am a man who has spent his entire life trying to avoid complications.”
Leo studied him for a long moment. “And yet you have come to Rome, to the heart of every complication in Christendom. Either you are a fool, or you are playing a deeper game than you pretend.”
Aldric set down his cup. “I am here because the Emperor commanded it. I am here because my abbess—my former betrothed—sent me with a writ of immunity that remains unsigned. And I am here because the path of least resistance has never once led me home.” He met the pope’s gaze. “So I have stopped trying to find the easy road. I have decided to walk the hard one, and see where it ends.”
Leo nodded slowly. “And where do you believe it will end?”
“I do not know,” Aldric admitted. “But I know what the Emperor wants. He wants you to crown him Imperator Romanorum. He wants the legitimacy of Rome to sanctify his conquests. And he wants it done in such a way that no one can question it.” He leaned forward. “But there are men in this city—and in Constantinople—who will question it. Who will call it a usurpation. Who will say that the Pope of Rome has no authority to bestow a crown that belongs to the Eastern Emperor.”
Leo’s face tightened. “The Empress Irene has blinded her own son. She rules as a woman, which the laws of the Romans forbid. The throne is vacant. It is not usurpation to fill a vacancy.”
“It is not usurpation,” Aldric agreed. “But it is a question of appearances. And appearances are the only currency that matters in this city.”
He reached into his saddlebag and drew out a sheaf of parchment, worn from travel. “I have spent the last month studying the coronation ordines, the Frankish and Roman liturgies, the letters of your predecessors. I have mapped every alliance, every enmity, every man who might raise a sword or a shout of protest. And I have come to a conclusion.”
Leo raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“The coronation cannot happen in Rome,” Aldric said.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the brazier and the distant sound of church bells.
Leo’s face was unreadable. “The Emperor will not hear of it. He has planned this for years. The crown must be bestowed in the city of Saint Peter, before the altar of his tomb. Any other location would diminish its meaning.”
“Any other location would diminish its meaning,” Aldric repeated. “That is what I counted on. But what if the meaning is the very thing that will destroy him?”
He spread the parchments across the table. “Your Holiness, there are factions in this city that would see you dead again. There are Frankish nobles who resent the Emperor’s reliance on clerics. There is the Empress Irene, who has already sent envoys to Aachen, seeking a marriage alliance that would unite the empires—a marriage that would make the coronation unnecessary. And there is the question of the oath.”
Leo’s face paled. “The oath of purification. You know of it.”
“I know that your enemies demand you swear before God and the Franks that you are innocent of the charges they brought against you. I know that such an oath, even if you pass it, will be seen by half of Rome as a concession. And I know that the Emperor, by presiding over that oath, will be seen as a judge over the Papacy—a role that will offend every bishop in Christendom.”
Aldric leaned back. “You asked if I was playing a deeper game. I am. But it is not the game you think.”
Leo’s hand trembled as he reached for his cup. “What game, then?”
“The game of making the crown too heavy to wear,” Aldric said quietly. “The game of making the price so high that the Emperor will finally let me go home.” He paused. “But I am beginning to realize that the price may be higher than I can afford. And that the only way out of this storm is to walk through its center, not around it.”
The door opened, and a clerk entered, bowing low. “Your Holiness, the Emperor’s envoys have arrived. They request an audience.”
Leo looked at Aldric. “It seems your game will have to wait.”
Aldric rose, gathering his parchments. “It has waited this long. A few more hours will not matter.”
He bowed and turned toward the door, but Leo’s voice stopped him.
“Lord Aldric. You spoke of a writ of immunity. An unsigned promise of freedom. What would you do with it, if you had it?”
Aldric did not turn around. “I would go home. I would drink my wine. I would read my books. And I would never again lift a finger to save an empire that does not want to be saved.”
“And yet you are here,” Leo said. “In Rome. At the heart of it all.”
Aldric finally turned, his face weary. “Yes. I am here. And I am beginning to think that I have always been here, no matter how far I ran.”
He walked out into the grey winter light, with Gerold at his side, and the weight of an unfinished writ pressing against his heart like a stone.