Pope Joan (42 page)

“Villains! Ghouls! I’m not dead yet!” There was a loud crash, as of something thrown.

Benedict opened the door. Sergius was sitting up in bed, crimson faced with fury. Halfway across the floor, a broken pottery bowl rocked wildly before a group of cringing priests. Sergius had snatched a golden cup from a bedside table and was about to hurl it at the hapless prelates when Benedict hurried over and pulled it from his grasp.

“Now, Brother. You know what the doctors said. You are ill; you must not exert yourself.”

Sergius said accusingly, “I woke to find them anointing me with oil. They were trying to administer unctio extrema.”

The prelates smoothed their robes with ruffled dignity. They appeared to be men of importance; one who wore the pallium of an archbishop said, “We thought it best, in view of His Holiness’s worsening condition—”

“Leave at once!” Benedict interrupted.

Joan was astonished; Benedict must be powerful, indeed, to address an archbishop so uncivilly.

“Take thought, Benedict,” the archbishop warned. “Would you endanger your brother’s immortal soul?”

“Out!” Benedict swung his arms as if driving off a flock of blackbirds. “All of you!”

The prelates retreated hastily, exiting in shared indignation.

Sergius fell back weakly against his pillows. “The pain, Benedict,” he whimpered. “I cannot bear the pain.”

Benedict poured wine from a pitcher beside the bed into the golden cup and put it to Sergius’s lips. “Drink,” he said, “it will ease you.”

Sergius drank thirstily. “More,” he demanded as soon as he had drained it. Benedict poured him a second cup, and then a third. Wine spilled down the sides of Sergius’s mouth. He was small boned but very fat. His countenance was a series of connecting circles: round face connecting to round chin, round eyes centered inside twin rings of flesh.

“Now,” Benedict said, when Sergius’s thirst was quenched, “see what I have done for you, Brother? I have brought someone who can help you. He is John Anglicus, a healer of great repute.”

“Another physician?” Sergius said mistrustfully.

But he made no objection when Joan pulled back the covers to
examine him. She was shocked at his condition. His legs were hugely swollen, the stretched flesh cracked and splitting from the strain. He was afflicted with a serious inflammation of the joints; Joan guessed the cause, but she had to make certain. She checked Sergius’s ears. Sure enough, there they were: the telltale tophi, little chalky excrescences resembling crabs’ eyes whose presence meant only one thing: Sergius was suffering an acute attack of gout. How was it possible that his doctors had not recognized it?

Joan ran her fingertips gently over the red, shiny flesh, feeling for the source of the inflammation.

“At least this one hasn’t the hands of a plowman,” Sergius conceded. It was astonishing he was still lucid, for he burned with fever. Joan felt his pulse, noting as she did the multiple wounds on his arm from repeated bleedings. His heartbeat was weak, and his coloring, now the fit of choler had passed, a sickly bluish white.

Benedicite
, she thought.
No wonder he suffers from thirst. They have bled him within an inch of his life.

She turned to a chamberlain. “Bring water. Quickly.”

She had to reduce the swelling before it killed him. Thank heavens she had brought corm of colchicum. Joan reached into her scrip and withdrew a small square of waxed parchment, unfolding it carefully so as not to spill any of the precious powder. The chamberlain returned with a jug of water. Joan poured some into a goblet, then infused two drams of the powdered root, the recommended dosage. She added clarified honey to mask the bitter taste and a small dose of henbane to make Sergius sleep—for sleep was the best anodyne against pain, and rest the best hope for a cure.

She handed the goblet to Sergius, who gulped it thirstily. “Pah!” He spat it out. “This is water!”

“Drink it,” Joan said firmly.

To her surprise, Sergius acquiesced. “Now what?” he asked after he had drained the cup. “Are you going to purge me?”

“I should have thought you’d had enough of such tortures.”

“You mean to do no more than this?” Benedict challenged. “A simple draft and that is all?”

Joan sighed. She had encountered such reactions before. Common sense and moderation were not appreciated in the art of healing. People demanded more dramatic measures. The more serious the disease, the more violent the cure was expected to be.

“His Holiness is suffering from gout. I have given him colchicum, a known specific for the disease. In a few moments, he will sleep, and,
Deo volente
, the pain and swelling that have afflicted him will recede in a few days’ time.”

As if in demonstration of the truth of what she said, Sergius’s ragged breathing began to ease; he relaxed against the pillows and closed his eyes peacefully.

The door swung open with a bang. In stalked a small, tensely coiled man with a face like that of a bantam cock spoiling for a fight. He brandished a roll of parchment beneath Benedict’s nose. “Here are the papers. All that’s needed is the signature.” By his dress and manner of speech, he appeared to be a merchant.

“Not now, Aio,” Benedict answered.

Aio shook his head fiercely. “No, Benedict, I will not be put off again. All Rome knows the Pope is dangerously ill. What if he dies in the night?”

Joan looked anxiously at Sergius, but he had not heard. He had slipped into a doze.

The man jingled a bag of coins before Benedict’s eyes. “One thousand solidi, as agreed. Have the paper signed, now, and this”—he raised another, smaller bag—“is yours as well.”

Benedict took the parchment to the bed and unrolled it on the sheet. “Sergius?”

“He is sleeping,” Joan protested. “Do not rouse him.”

Benedict ignored her. “Sergius!” He took his brother by the shoulder and shook him roughly.

Sergius’s eyes blinked open. Benedict took a quill from the table beside the bed, dipped it in ink, and wrapped Sergius’s hand around it. “Sign this,” he commanded.

Dazedly, Sergius put the pen to the parchment. His hand shook, spilling the ink onto the parchment in an uneven scrawl. Benedict covered his brother’s hand with his own and helped him trace the papal signature.

From where she stood, Joan saw the paper clearly. It was a
formata
appointing Aio Bishop of Alatri. The contract being made before Joan’s very eyes was a bribe to buy a bishopric!

“Rest you now, brother,” Benedict said, content now he had what he wanted. To Joan he said, “Stay with him.”

Joan nodded. Benedict and Aio exited from the room.

Joan pulled the bedcovers over Sergius, smoothing them gently. Her chin was set in characteristic determination. Clearly, things in the papal palace were very much amiss. Nor were they likely to be righted as long as Sergius lay ill and his venal brother ruled in his stead. Her task was plain: restore the Pope to health, and that as quickly as possible.

F
OR
the next few days, Sergius’s condition remained perilous. The constant chanting of the priests kept him from sound sleep, so at Joan’s insistence their bedside vigil was terminated. Except for one brief excursion to the Schola Anglorum to retrieve more medicines, Joan did not leave Sergius’s side. By day she carefully monitored his condition; by night she slept on a pile of cushions beside the bed.

On the third day, the swelling began to recede, and the skin covering it started to peel. In the evening, Joan woke from a restless sleep to find that Sergius had broken sweat.
Benedicite
, she thought.
The fever has passed.

The next morning he awoke.

“How do you feel?” Joan asked.

“I … don’t know,” he said groggily. “Better, I think.”

“You look a good deal better.” The pinched look was gone, as was the unhealthy blue-gray cast of his skin.

“My legs … they’re crawling!” He began to scratch at them violently.

“The itching is a good sign; it means the life is returning,” Joan said. “But you must not irritate the skin, for there is still a danger of infection.”

He withdrew his hand. But the itching sensation was too strong; a moment later he was clawing at his legs again. Joan administered a dose of henbane to calm him, and again he slept.

When he opened his eyes the next day, he was clearheaded, fully aware of his surroundings.

“The pain—it’s gone!” He looked at his legs. “And the swelling!” The observation animated him; he pulled himself into a sitting position. Spying a chamberlain by the door, he said, “I’m hungry. Bring a raft of bacon and some wine.”

“A plate of greens and a jug of water,” Joan countermanded. The chamberlain hurried off before Sergius could protest.

Sergius’s brows flew up with surprise. “Who are you?”

“My name is John Anglicus.”

“You’re not Roman.”

“I was born in Frankland.”

“The north country!” Sergius’s eyes sharpened. “Is it as barbarous as they say?”

Joan smiled. “There are fewer churches, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why are you called ‘Anglicus,’” Sergius asked, “if you were born in Frankland?” He was astonishingly alert in light of what he had been through.

“My father was English,” Joan explained. “He came to preach the faith among the Saxons.”

“The Saxons?” Sergius frowned. “A godless tribe.”

Mama.
Joan felt the old familiar surge of shame and love. She said, “Most are Christian now—as far as any can be who are brought to the Faith through fire and sword.”

Sergius eyed her sharply. “You do not hold with the Church’s mission to convert the heathen?”

“What value has any pledge exacted by force? Under torture, a person may confess to any number of lies, merely to put an end to pain.”

“Yet our Lord bids us spread the word of God: ‘Go, therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’”

“True,” Joan conceded. “But—” She broke off. She was doing it again—allowing herself to be drawn into imprudent and possibly dangerous debate—this time with the Pope himself!

“Go on,” Sergius prodded.

“Forgive me, Holiness. You are not well.”

“Nor yet too sick for reason,” Sergius replied impatiently. “Go on.”

“Well”—she chose her words carefully—“consider the order of Christ’s commands: teach the nations first, then baptize them. We are not enjoined to bestow the sacrament of baptism before the mind embraces the Faith with rational understanding. First teach, Christ says, then dip.”

Sergius contemplated her with interest. “You reason well. Where were you educated?”

“A Greek by the name of Aesculapius, a man of great learning, tutored me as a child. Later, I was sent to the cathedral school at Dorstadt, and later still to Fulda.”

“Ah, Fulda! I have only recently received a volume from Raban Maur, beautifully illuminated, containing a poem of his own composition
on the Holy Cross of Christ. When I write to thank him, I will tell him of your service to our person.”

She thought she had put Abbot Raban behind her forever; would his tyrannous hatred follow her even here, blighting the new life she had made for herself? “You will not have good report of me from that quarter, I fear.”

“Why is that?”

“The abbot holds obedience to be the greatest of the religious vows. Yet, to me, it has always come the hardest.”

“And your other vows?” Sergius asked sternly. “What of them?”

“I was born into poverty and am accustomed to it. As for chastity”—she kept her voice free of any tinge of irony—“I have always resisted the temptations of women.”

Sergius’s expression softened. “I am glad to hear it. For in this matter, Abbot Raban and I do not agree; of all the religious vows, chastity is surely the greatest and most pleasing to God.”

Joan was surprised that he should think so. The ideal of priestly chastity was far from universally practiced in Rome. It was not at all uncommon for a Roman priest to have a wife, as there was no prohibition against married men entering the priesthood, provided that they agreed to abjure all future conjugal relations—an agreement that predictably was observed more in the breach than in the practice. A wife rarely objected if her husband sought to become a priest, for she shared in the prestige of his position: “Priestess,” the wife of a priest was respectfully titled, or “Deaconess,” if the wife of a deacon. Pope Leo III had been married when he ascended the papal throne, and no one in Rome had thought worse of him for it.

The chamberlain returned with a silver dish of bread and greens that he placed before Sergius, who tore off a chunk of bread and bit into it hungrily. “Now,” he said, “tell me all about you and Raban Maur.”

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