diadem,” von Lomello whispered.
Otto had heard the same. The throne rested atop a slab of carved marble, its three visible sides lively with carved reliefs. Men. Horses. A chariot. A two-headed hell-hound. Women holding baskets of flowers. All Roman. Otto had seen other examples of such magnificence in Italy. He took its presence here, in a Christian tomb, as a sign that what he envisioned for his empire was right.
A shield and sword rested to one side. He knew about the shield. Pope Leo himself had consecrated it the day Charlemagne was crowned emperor two hundred years ago, and upon it was emblazoned the royal seal. Otto had seen the symbol on documents in the imperial library.
Otto rose to his feet.
One of the reasons he’d come was for the scepter and crown, expecting nothing to greet him but bones.
But things had changed.
He noticed bound sheets resting on the emperor’s lap. Carefully, he approached the dais and recognized an illuminated parchment, its writing and artwork faded but still legible. He asked, “Can any of you read Latin?”
One of the bishops nodded and Otto motioned for him to approach. Two fingers of the corpse’s gloved left hand pointed to a passage on the page.
The bishop cocked his head and studied. “It’s the Gospel of Mark.”
“Read it.”
“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?”
Otto glared at the corpse. The pope had told him the symbols of Carolus Magnus would be ideal tools for reestablishing the splendor of the Holy Roman Empire. Nothing enwrapped power with greater mystique than the past, and he was staring straight at a glorious past. Einhard had described this man as towering, athletic, massive in shoulder, great-chested like a steed, blue-eyed, tawny of hair, ruddy of countenance, abnormally active, incapable of fatigue, having a spirit of energy and mastership that even when in repose, as now, overawed the timid and the quiescent. He finally understood the truth of those words.
The other purpose of his visit flashed through his mind.
He stared around the crypt.
His grandmother, who’d died a few months ago, told him the story that his grandfather, Otto I, told her. Something only emperors knew. Of how Carolus Magnus had ordered certain things be entombed with him. Many knew of the sword, the shield, and the piece of the True Cross. The passage from Mark, though, was a surprise.
Then he saw it. What he’d truly come for. Resting on a marble table.
He stepped close, handed the torch to von Lomello, and stared at a small volume coated in dust. On its cover was imposed a symbol, one his grandmother had described.
Carefully, he lifted the cover. On the pages he saw symbols, strange drawings, and an indecipherable script.
“What is it, Sire?” von Lomello asked. “What language is that?”
Normally he would not have allowed such an inquiry. Emperors did not accept questions. But the joy of actually finding what his grandmother had told him existed filled him with immeasurable relief. The pope thought crowns and scepters conveyed power, but if his grandmother was to be believed, these strange words and symbols were even more powerful. So he answered the count in the same way she’d answered him.
“It is the language of heaven.”
Malone listened with a skeptical ear.
“It is said Otto cut off the fingernails, removed a tooth, had the tip of the nose replaced with gold, then sealed the tomb.”
“You sound like you don’t believe the story,” he told her.
“That time wasn’t labeled the Dark Ages without reason. Who knows?”
On the last page of the book he noticed the same design that she’d described from the shield in the tomb—a curious combination of the letters K, R, L, S, but with more. He asked her about it.
“That’s the complete signature of Charlemagne,” she said. “The A of Karl is found in the center of the cross. A clerk would add the words left and right. Signum Caroli
Otto had heard the same. The throne rested atop a slab of carved marble, its three visible sides lively with carved reliefs. Men. Horses. A chariot. A two-headed hell-hound. Women holding baskets of flowers. All Roman. Otto had seen other examples of such magnificence in Italy. He took its presence here, in a Christian tomb, as a sign that what he envisioned for his empire was right.
A shield and sword rested to one side. He knew about the shield. Pope Leo himself had consecrated it the day Charlemagne was crowned emperor two hundred years ago, and upon it was emblazoned the royal seal. Otto had seen the symbol on documents in the imperial library.
Otto rose to his feet.
One of the reasons he’d come was for the scepter and crown, expecting nothing to greet him but bones.
But things had changed.
He noticed bound sheets resting on the emperor’s lap. Carefully, he approached the dais and recognized an illuminated parchment, its writing and artwork faded but still legible. He asked, “Can any of you read Latin?”
One of the bishops nodded and Otto motioned for him to approach. Two fingers of the corpse’s gloved left hand pointed to a passage on the page.
The bishop cocked his head and studied. “It’s the Gospel of Mark.”
“Read it.”
“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?”
Otto glared at the corpse. The pope had told him the symbols of Carolus Magnus would be ideal tools for reestablishing the splendor of the Holy Roman Empire. Nothing enwrapped power with greater mystique than the past, and he was staring straight at a glorious past. Einhard had described this man as towering, athletic, massive in shoulder, great-chested like a steed, blue-eyed, tawny of hair, ruddy of countenance, abnormally active, incapable of fatigue, having a spirit of energy and mastership that even when in repose, as now, overawed the timid and the quiescent. He finally understood the truth of those words.
The other purpose of his visit flashed through his mind.
He stared around the crypt.
His grandmother, who’d died a few months ago, told him the story that his grandfather, Otto I, told her. Something only emperors knew. Of how Carolus Magnus had ordered certain things be entombed with him. Many knew of the sword, the shield, and the piece of the True Cross. The passage from Mark, though, was a surprise.
Then he saw it. What he’d truly come for. Resting on a marble table.
He stepped close, handed the torch to von Lomello, and stared at a small volume coated in dust. On its cover was imposed a symbol, one his grandmother had described.
Carefully, he lifted the cover. On the pages he saw symbols, strange drawings, and an indecipherable script.
“What is it, Sire?” von Lomello asked. “What language is that?”
Normally he would not have allowed such an inquiry. Emperors did not accept questions. But the joy of actually finding what his grandmother had told him existed filled him with immeasurable relief. The pope thought crowns and scepters conveyed power, but if his grandmother was to be believed, these strange words and symbols were even more powerful. So he answered the count in the same way she’d answered him.
“It is the language of heaven.”
Malone listened with a skeptical ear.
“It is said Otto cut off the fingernails, removed a tooth, had the tip of the nose replaced with gold, then sealed the tomb.”
“You sound like you don’t believe the story,” he told her.
“That time wasn’t labeled the Dark Ages without reason. Who knows?”
On the last page of the book he noticed the same design that she’d described from the shield in the tomb—a curious combination of the letters K, R, L, S, but with more. He asked her about it.
“That’s the complete signature of Charlemagne,” she said. “The A of Karl is found in the center of the cross. A clerk would add the words left and right. Signum Caroli
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