Servant of the Servants of God

by Ryan F. Love

“For the stones themselves, execrating such a monstrosity, then cried out with their own voice by knocking against each other, that they would more willingly suffer spontaneous ruin, than that the Roman Church should remain depressed by so great a scandal.”

– Philippe Labbe and Gabriel Cossart

Sacrosancta concilia ad Regiam editionem exacta, 1632

The angry ground stopped the prelate’s quill. He had no means of protecting himself and hugged his scroll to the lectern while the earth shook. Each seated man leapt from his chair except Pope Formosus, whose long-dead corpse slid to the basilica’s stone—an indignity that wrenched the prelate’s heart, but His Holiness would denounce any man who rushed to Formosus. The violent shaking jolted the former Pope over the floor, leaving putrid smudges of black on the marble.

A roar impelled the prelate to turn, and he saw fragments explode from the last of the nave’s roof, smashing against the pews and the floor. Then blocks of wall ripped free until whole sections tumbled onto debris as the shaking quieted, then stopped. The prelate clutched the lectern and waited for the apse to collapse, too, and destroy them all, but the silence held. Slowly, he stood upright.

Bishops and cardinals emerged from beneath their chairs. Some coughed out dust; all stared. It was January, 897 Anno Domini, and the Archbasilica of Saint John Lateran was gone.

The prelate crossed himself. He muttered a prayer that only he and God could hear: Kyrie eleison. Dimitte peccatum nostrum magnum. Lord have mercy. Forgive our great sin.

God had condemned the synod. The prelate and every sane man knew it. In a world still governed by faith or by reason, they would immediately adjourn to flee to their homes.

In this world, the prelate knelt to pick up his quill. Likewise, the young deacon charged with steadying and speaking for Pope Formosus lofted the robed body back into its chair. When the blackened head lolled to one shoulder, the deacon straightened it and, fearing it would tumble again, kept his hands an inch away on either side until its stability satisfied. He wiped putrescence from his hands onto a cloth and glanced nervously, along with the rest of the court, toward the Papal throne. His Holiness was angry. His Holiness had been angry for some time, and the earthquake and destruction changed nothing.

Pope Stephen VI’s jaw shrank into his face so that his hard eyes protruded farther. Lest he appear weak, the Pope alone of the assembly would not cover his nose, though Formosus had been dead seven months before His Holiness had ordered the corpse dug up. The throne was large for Stephen’s stature, but the gold robes and Papal crown make any man formidable, as the prelate knew well. 

Last April, the cardinals had elected Boniface VI solely to quell factional violence in the streets. He had twice been defrocked for immorality, but seated on the throne in the Papal vestments, he became Servant of the Servants of God. The prelate served him as he would have St. Gregory or St. Peter himself. Boniface tended St. Peter’s Church for 15 days until he died. The prelate gave no credence to rumors that Lambert, Duke of Spoleto plotted the murder, nor to whispers his ally Pope Stephen VI had been party to it.

“Prothonotary,” the Pope commanded. “Read back the question.”

The prelate bowed his head. As he held up his scroll, the Bishop of Fossombrone stood to speak. “Your Holiness … there must be other matters of greater concern to God.” He gestured toward the collapsed nave. They could all see clouds where the vaulted roof had been, and the Papal Court murmured agreement. The deacon forced to represent Formosus watched hopefully from behind the cadaver’s seat. For one moment, the prelate looked to Formosus, whom he had known.

Pope Stephen’s hard eyes had not shifted. “Justice will not be delayed,” he said. “Prothonotary, the question!”

No one else would voice objections. The thing would proceed.

The prelate cleared his throat. He read back, “Were you not already a bishop, and thus forbidden under canon law to also become Bishop of Rome?”

The corpse’s jaw hung slack. The deacon behind it said nothing.

“Formosus!” Pope Stephen shouted. Rage darkened his face, brought forth veins in his neck. “Being Bishop of Porto, why did you, with great ambition, usurp this See of the Apostle?” 

As the pope’s nasal scream echoed through the apse, the prelate dutifully transcribed it. The deacon trembled, uncertain whether the madman on the throne would punish silence or a defense more harshly. 

For the Pope was a madman. In vain, the prelate had tried to find a reasonable aim for this court, religious or political, but then God himself had destroyed the basilica and still the Pope demanded this abomination.

His Holiness rose. “Formosus, I find you guilty of perjury, usurpation and treason against the Holy Church!”

Desperate for release, the bishops and cardinals nodded their accord. The deacon stammered, “I accept your judgment.” Pope Stephen glowered, his face purple and red.

“Your Holiness,” the prelate asked, “what sentence shall I record?”

The Pope approached his predecessor, footsteps sounding on the marble until his face came within inches of the gaping eye sockets. He said, “You shall be recorded as an anti-pope. All your ordinations and acts are invalid.” He spat on the ruined face, watched the saliva drip to its chin, then turned to the prelate. “Strip him of his vestments,” Pope Stephen VI ordered. “Cut off the middle fingers from his right hand and hurl his body into the Tiber.” The Pope strode out. The bishops and cardinals followed, the deacon trailing behind. 

Two Papal guards flanked Formosus, watching the prelate for a command. He looked to the gray sky through the ruined roof. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in cœlo, et in terra. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

One time, a year ago in the Castel Sant’Angelo, the prelate had spoken to Pope Formosus alone. His Holiness had refused to crown the boy Lambert of Spoleto as Holy Roman Emperor; Ageltrude, Lambert’s mother and Regent for the young duke, imprisoned the Pope below the fortress. Ageltrude sent the prelate into the cell to talk and record the words Formosus spoke. She might have hoped her adversary would relent; she might have hoped Formosus would slip and speak words justifying his imprisonment. The prelate had not concerned himself with the Spoletan’s motives. Illis reddite igitur quae sunt Caesaris Caesari. Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.

When the guard had bolted the door behind the prelate, he saw Pope Formosus seated on a bench in a simple tunic. Uncharacteristic white stubble dotted his chin. Though Formosus had the wrinkles of 80 years, his face was usually clean shaven, almost boyish. One small shock of hair remained on the front of his bald head, which he bowed in greeting as the prelate descended the steps. His Holiness had been permitted to retain his ring, and the prelate knelt to kiss it.

“Ageltrude and Lambert have sent you?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.” Pope Formosus gestured that he could rise, and the prelate continued. “They ask if you have changed your mind, and they bid me record your answer.”

“My answer is unchanged. I will not crown him.” Discussing the fate of an empire, Formosus spoke with the placid inflection with which he might bless a family meal.

 “They bid me warn you that they will not release you. The Lady Ageltrude says their men have sealed the gates of Rome and you can expect no help from Arnulf.”

 “We shall see what God intends,” the Pope answered, “and what Arnulf and his army intend.” He rubbed the back of his scalp a moment while the prelate waited, then returned his hand to the bench.

“Is that the entirety of your answer, Your Holiness?”

“It is. You may go. But if you and I might speak freely to one another, with only God to hear, we might say more.” Seeing the prelate hesitate, he added, “You need not be concerned. We will say nothing of interest to Ageltrude.” He gestured to the bench beside him. The prelate thought a moment longer, then sat. His Holiness studied the steps rising to his cell door. 

Formosus asked, “When did you come first to Rome?”

“As a boy, to help my father sell his wares. He was a potter in Ostia. I came to live here after I took holy orders, in the Year of Our Lord 889.”

“You aided His Holiness the Pope, may he rest in peace, in distributing food to the poor.”

“During the famine. Yes, Your Holiness.”

“You have always been capable,” Formosus said, “which is why you rose from your birth. My predecessor saw your capability. So did I, and so does Ageltrude. Whoever succeeds me will see it, too.” He turned. The prelate had never sat so closely to His Holiness the Pope, and he struggled not to avert his eyes. “Tell me, young prothonotary. What is it that you want?”

“To serve God.” The Pope waited, his creased, still-boyish face calm. “Truly, Your Holiness, I want no favors. Only to serve God. I want nothing more.”

“That is a rarity.” Not knowing how to respond, the prelate held his silence until Pope Formosus spoke again. “You disapprove of me.”

 “Your Holiness, I would never—”

“Of my politics. Not my faith, but my politics. My involvement in the affairs of kings.”

The prelate looked to his sandals.

“It is alright. Speak your heart.”

“The Church is founded on faith,” the prelate said. “The sacraments, Mass, prayers. These are our concerns.”

“Food is an earthly concern. You were elevated because of your administrative skill during a famine, not your prayers.”

“That is different. It is only right to tend our flock. Christ shared the loaves and fishes. He did not concern himself with crowns for kings.” He had said too much. The prelate glanced at the Pope’s face, which had not changed, and again looked away. “Please forgive me, Your Holiness.”

“I have been locked in this cellar for three days. Spoken words will not offend me. Will you pour water for me, my son?”

A pitcher and clay cup sat by the base of the steps. The prelate carried them to the bench and filled the cup.

“Thank you,” Pope Formosus said. He drank.

“I pray for you, Your Holiness.” 

“And for Lambert and Ageltrude, I do not doubt,” His Holiness said. “You are a pious man. If through your service you rise, you would say it is merely God’s will. You leave the politics to God; you serve. It is your way.”

He paused, but the prelate did not reply.

Formosus drank more water and continued. “Lambert’s father invaded the Papal States, when you were still a boy. He allied with the Saracens.”

“I know it.”

“Lambert still holds territory wrongly taken. He and Ageltrude do not repent. They hold me in this cell and demand I anoint him Holy Roman Emperor. They hope I wash my hands of all of this.” He dripped the last of the cup’s contents onto his palm and rubbed his hands together. “That is all it would require: a pledge not to protest or interfere. It is easiest to give them what they ask. By this time tomorrow, I might give the people the sacrament in St. John Lateran, and you are right, of course. The sacraments, Mass, prayers. Souls. These are our concerns. I could tend to them again, tomorrow. I need only bow my head and leave the politics to God and kings.”

The prelate had heard His Holiness at Mass and in the streets of Rome for five years. His was an aged, fatherly voice that invited confidence. Seated beside him in the cell, the prelate felt the urge to confess something, some burdening sin he could not articulate.

 “I did not take holy orders to be a prisoner,” the Pope went on. “I was named Servant of the Servants of God. I might be that, if only I exchange a crown for my freedom. For a week or a month or a year, I might be the Pope, a bishop, a priest. And then Lambert and Ageltrude would ask something of me, and I would have to do it. It would not end with the crown. It would not end with me. To whom would they give the key to St. Peter’s Church when I die?” 

Both men sat quietly for a time. Formosus shook his head. “No. I cannot crown Lambert.”

“If you favor Arnulf, as they say,” the prelate asked, “would a German prince be any more trustworthy?”

Formosus smiled. “It is a rare man who will decline power. But men’s common ambition does not make them all the same. There are lesser evils; there are greater evils. With care, one might find a kind of balance, keep one’s footing. Or one might try to avoid them all equally, just as one might serve them all equally. But silence is not godliness, my son.” He stood. “You will want to return to Ageltrude and Lambert. They will expect my answer.”

The prelate hesitated. He longed, again, to confess that sin he could not name. Words for his guilt would not come, so he knelt, deeply, and kissed his Pope’s ring. 

The prelate felt a touch on his right shoulder and looked up. Formosus held his right hand above the prelate, the middle three fingers upright and together. “My blessing upon you, prothonotary. In nominee Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” As he spoke, the three fingers formed the cross over the kneeling prelate. “Go with God.”

Formosus died before that year’s grapes formed on the vines. He was buried in Papal robes befitting his dignity. His enemies, Lambert and Ageltrude, engineered the accession of Pope Stephen VI, whose men dragged Formosus’s body from the earth. It lay on the marble floor of St. John Lateran with two guards flanking it, awaiting the prelate’s order.

He gave the nod.

They ripped Pope Formosus’s vestments, so the corpse lay on the marble in its dirty tunic. One guard took hold of the right arm, stretching it away from the body. The other brought his sword down swiftly on the Pope’s shrunken hand. He sheathed the blade and turned to the prelate.

“Do you require anything more, Father?”

The prelate made a small shake of his head.

The guards departed, stepping carefully around the rubble of the basilica. The prelate studied the broken stone and wood. Some statuary had shattered. Near him, the altar remained intact, and so did the throne from which Pope Stephen VI had interrogated a cadaver, now supine and mutilated on the floor.

They were alone.

The prelate knelt beside Formosus. He could recognize the features, the lonely shock of hair. He laid hold of the dead arms, crossing them over the chest. The severed fingers remained on the marble. He drew a cloth from within his robes. Gently, the prelate wrapped the three fingers that had blessed him in the Castel Sant’Angelo and placed them beneath the folded arms.

Before an hour passed, he would give another nod. His servants would cast the corpse into the river in accordance with His Holiness’s will.

About the author

Ryan F. Love teaches high school English in the Finger Lakes region of New York, where he earned a B.A. in English from Alfred University. He and his wife live in a Victorian with pairs of daughters and beagles. The Copperfield Review featured his first published short story in December 2020. Since then, his short fiction has appeared in journals including Blue Lake Review, L’Esprit Literary Review, and The Blue Mountain Review. He is currently seeking publication of his historical fiction novel The Ghosts on the Glass, which follows the career of nineteenth century spirit photographer William Mumler. www.ryanflovewriter.com 

About the illustration

The illustration is Pope Formosus and Stephen VI, 1870, by Jean-Paul Laurens. In the public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.