Pope Joan (43 page)

I
T WAS, Joan came to understand, as if Sergius were two different people—one dissolute, vulgar, and mean, the other cultivated, intelligent, and considerate. She had read of such cases in Celsus:
animae divisae
, he called them, divided spirits.

So it was with Sergius. But in his case, it was drink that triggered the metamorphosis. Gentle and kind when sober, he became a terror under the influence of wine. The palace servants, always ready to gossip, told Joan that Sergius had once condemned one of them to death merely for failing to deliver his supper in time. He had sobered up in time to stop the execution, but not before the unfortunate man had already been caned and pilloried.

His doctors had not been so far wrong after all, Joan decided: Sergius
was
possessed, though the demons that drove him were not of the Devil’s making but his own.

Having gotten a glimpse of his better qualities, Joan made it her mission to restore him. She put him on a strict diet of greens and barley water. Sergius grumbled but submitted, fearing a return of pain. When she judged he was ready, Joan instituted a regimen of daily walks in the Lateran garden. In the beginning, he had to be carried there in his chair, three attendants groaning under his weight. The first day he barely managed to hobble a few steps before collapsing into his chair. With Joan’s persistent encouragement, each day he went a little farther; at the end of a month he was able to make a full circuit of the garden. The residual swelling around his joints subsided, and the skin regained a healthy pink color. His eyes lost their puffiness, and as the contours of his face emerged more clearly, Joan could see that he was a much younger man than she had first thought—no more, perhaps, than forty-five or fifty.

“I feel a new man,” Sergius said to Joan one day during their daily stroll. It was spring, and the lilacs were already in bloom, their heady scent perfuming the air.

“No dizziness, no weakness, no pain?” Joan asked.

“None. Truly, God has wrought a miracle.”

“You might say that, Holiness,” Joan said with a sideways smile. “But think what your condition was when God alone was serving as your physician!”

Sergius tweaked Joan’s ear in playful recrimination. “God sent you here to me to effect His miracle!”

They smiled together, liking each other.

This is the moment
, Joan thought. “If you truly feel quite well …” She let the words hang, tantalizingly.

“Yes?”

“I was just thinking … the papal court is in session today. Your brother Benedict is presiding in your place as usual. But if you’re feeling strong enough …”

Sergius said irresolutely, “Benedict is accustomed to presiding. Surely there is no need …”

“The people did not choose Benedict for their lord. They need you, Holiness.”

Sergius frowned. There was a long silence.

Joan thought:
I spoke too soon, and too boldly.

Sergius said, “You speak truly, John Anglicus. I have been too long neglectful of such matters.” The sadness in his eyes gave his face a look of grave wisdom.

Joan replied gently, “The remedy, my lord, lies in the doing.”

Sergius contemplated this. Then he wheeled abruptly, heading for the garden gate. “Come on, then!” he called back to her. “What are you waiting for?”

Joan hurried after him.

T
WO
guards leaned against the wall outside the council room, chatting idly. Seeing Sergius, they jumped to attention and pulled the doors open. “His Holiness Pope Sergius, Bishop and Metropolitan of Rome!” one announced in a ringing voice.

Sergius and Joan swept into the room. There was a moment’s astonished silence, followed by a loud scraping of benches as everyone stood respectfully. Everyone, that is, but Benedict, who remained seated in the papal chair with his jaw agape.

“Close your mouth, Brother, unless you mean to catch flies,” Sergius said.

“Holiness! Is this wise?” Benedict exclaimed. “Surely you should not risk your health by observing these proceedings!”

“Thank you, Brother, but I feel quite well,” Sergius said. “And I have come not to observe but to preside.”

Benedict stood up. “I rejoice to hear it, as does all Rome.” He sounded anything but rejoiceful.

Sergius settled comfortably into the cushioned chair. “What is the case in hand?”

Quickly the notary outlined the details. Mamertus, a wealthy merchant, was suing for permission to renovate the Orphanotrophium, a shelter and school for orphans housed in a decaying structure close by the Lateran. Mamertus proposed to rebuild it entirely and turn it into a hostel for pilgrims.

“The Orphanotrophium,” Sergius mused. “I know the place well; I stayed there some while myself, after my mother died.”

“Holiness, the building is fallen into ruin,” Mamertus said. “It is an eyesore, a blot upon our great city. What I propose will turn it into a palace!”

“What will become of the orphans?” Sergius asked.

Mamertus shrugged. “They can seek charity elsewhere. There are almshouses that will receive them.”

Sergius looked doubtful. “It is a hard thing to be turned out from one’s home.”

“Holiness, this hostelry will be the pride of Rome! Dukes will not scorn to sleep there, nor kings neither!”

“Orphans are no less dear to God than kings. Has Christ not said, ‘Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of God’?”

“Holiness, I beg you to consider. Think what the existence of such an establishment can do for Rome!”

Sergius shook his head. “I will not sanction the destruction of these children’s home. The petition is denied.”

“I protest!” Mamertus said heatedly. “Your brother and I are already agreed upon the arrangement; the compact has been struck, and the payment delivered.”

“Payment?” Sergius arched a brow.

Benedict shook his head at Mamertus in urgent signal.

“I … I”—Mamertus raised his eyes, searching for words—“I made an offering, a most generous offering, at the altar of St. Servatius to speed the success of this enterprise.”

“Then you are blessed,” said Sergius. “Such charity carries its own reward, for you will suffer the less in the life everlasting.”

“But—”

“You have our gratitude, Mamertus, for calling the poor state of repair of the Orphanotrophium to our attention. Restoring it shall become our immediate concern.”

Mamertus’s mouth opened and closed several times like that of a beached fish. With a last glare at Benedict, he stalked from the room.

Sergius winked at Joan, who smiled back.

Benedict caught the exchange.
So that’s the weave of the wool
, he thought. He chided himself for not having noticed it sooner. It had been a busy season for the pontifical court, the most profitable time of year for Benedict; his time had been so heavily given over to these matters that he had not paid sufficient attention to the degree of sway the little foreign priest had acquired over his brother.

No matter
, he told himself.
What’s done can be undone. Every man has his weakness.
It was just a matter of discovering what that was.

J
OAN
hurried down the corridor on her way to the triclinium major. As Sergius’s personal physician, she was expected to sup at his table—a privilege that allowed her to keep a close eye on everything the Pope ate and drank. His state of health was still far from robust; overindulgence could well bring on another attack of gout.

“John Anglicus!”

She turned to see Arighis, the vicedominus, or majordomo of the palace, coming toward her.

“A lady in the Trastevere is dangerously ill; you are called upon to attend her.”

Joan sighed. Three times this week she had been called out on such an errand. The news of her cure of Pope Sergius had spread throughout the city. To the great dismay of the members of the physicians’ society, Joan’s services as a healer were suddenly very much in demand.

“Why not send a physician from the schola?” Joan suggested.

Arighis frowned. He was not accustomed to being challenged: as vicedominus, it was his right and his duty to exercise control over all matters relating to the papal household and its staff—a fact that this brash young foreigner did not seem to understand. “I have already committed your services.”

Joan bristled at this assertion of authority; as Sergius’s personal
physician, she was not, strictly speaking, under Arighis’s supervision. But the matter was scarcely worth battling over, and an urgent call for help must be answered, however inopportune the moment of its arrival.

“Very well,” Joan agreed, “I’ll get my bag of medicaments.”

A
RRIVING
at the address, Joan found herself before a large residence, styled in the manner of an old Roman
domus.
A servant led her through a series of connecting courtyards and a garden to an interior chamber riotously decorated with brightly colored mosaics, stucco seashells, and fool-the-eye paintings designed to create the illusion of distant vistas and rooms. This fantastical room was suffused with a sweet smell, redolent of ripe apples. At the far side of the room stood a large feather bed, lit round with candles like an altar. In the middle of the bed, a woman was lying languorously.

She was the most beautiful woman Joan had ever seen, more beautiful than Richild, more beautiful even than her mother, Gudrun, whom Joan had believed until this moment to be the loveliest woman in creation.

“I am Marioza.” The woman’s voice was liquid honey.

“L-lady,” Joan stammered, tongue-tied before such perfection. “I am John Anglicus, come in answer to your summons.”

Marioza smiled, pleased with the effect she was having. “Come closer, John Anglicus,” the honey-voice urged. “Or do you mean to examine me from there?”

The sweet-apple scent was stronger by the bed. Joan thought,
I know that scent.
But she could not, for the moment, place it.

Marioza held out a cup of wine. “Won’t you drink my health?”

Politely, Joan drank, draining the cup according to custom. Up close, Marioza was even more beautiful, her skin a flawless ivory, her eyes huge, black-fringed orbs of deepest violet, darkened into ebony by the wide black pupils at the center.

Too wide
, Joan suddenly realized. So great a dilation of the pupils was decidedly abnormal. The clinical observation broke the spell of Marioza’s beauty. “Tell me, lady”—Joan set the cup down—“what ails you?”

“So handsome,” she sighed, “and so businesslike?”

“I wish to help you, lady. What distress has called me to your side so urgently?”

“Since you insist”—Marioza pouted prettily—“it’s my heart.”

An unusual complaint for a woman of her age, Joan thought; Marioza could not be older than twenty-two. Well, such cases were known to occur, children born under an unlucky star with a worm in their hearts, every breath of their short existence a torment and a struggle. But those who suffered from such afflictions did not look like Marioza, whose whole being, apart from those mysteriously dilated pupils, radiated good health.

Joan took up Marioza’s wrist and felt her pulse, finding it strong and regular. She examined Marioza’s hands. The color was good, the tips of the fingers showing pink under the nails. The skin sprang back to the touch without mark or discoloration. Joan examined Marioza’s legs and feet with equal care, again finding no sign of necrosis; everywhere Marioza’s circulation appeared healthy and strong.

Marioza lay back against the pillows, watching through half-lidded eyes. “Looking for my heart?” she teased. “You’ll not find it there, John Anglicus!” She pulled opened her silken bed robe, revealing a pair of flawless ivory breasts.

Benedicite!
Joan thought. This must be the Marioza of legend, the most celebrated hetaera, or courtesan, in all of Rome! It was said that she numbered some of the most important men in the city among her clients.
She is trying to seduce me
, Joan realized. The absurdity of the idea caused her to smile.

Misinterpreting Joan’s smile, Marioza was encouraged. This priest was not going to be so difficult to seduce as Benedict had indicated when he had purchased her services for that purpose. Priest or no, John Anglicus was nevertheless a man, and the man had not been born who could resist her.

With studied disinterest, Joan concentrated on her examination. She probed Marioza’s sides, checking for bruised ribs; the pain from such an injury was often mistaken for a problem of the heart. Marioza did not wince or give any evidence of discomfort.

“What fine hands you have,” she purred, arranging herself so the enticing curves of her body were displayed to advantage. “What fine, strong hands.”

Joan bolted upright. “Satan’s apple!”

How like a priest
, Marioza thought,
to talk high-mindedly of sin at such a moment.
Well, she was no stranger to priests; she knew how to deal with these last-minute crises of conscience.

“Do not suppress your feelings, John, for they are natural and God-given. Is it not written in the Bible: ‘The two shall become one flesh’?” Actually, Marioza was not sure the words came from the Bible, but she thought it likely; they had been told to her, under circumstances very similar to the present, by an archbishop. “Besides,” she added, “no one will ever know what happens here between us, excepting ourselves.”

Joan shook her head vehemently. “That’s not what I meant. The scent in this room—it’s mandragora—sometimes called Satan’s apple.” The yellow fruit was a narcotic; that explained Marioza’s dilated pupils. “But where is the scent coming from?” Joan sniffed a candle near the bed. “What have you done, mixed the juice with candle wax?”

Marioza sighed. She had seen such reactions from virginal young prelates before. Embarrassed and unsure, they kept trying to turn the conversation to safer ground. “Come,” she said, “leave off talk of potions. There are better ways for us to pass the time.” She ran her hand across the front of John Anglicus’s tunic, reaching for his privates.

Anticipating her, Joan jumped back. She snuffed the candle and took Marioza’s hands firmly in her own. “Listen to me, Marioza. The mandragora—you use it for its aphrodisiac qualities, I know. But you must leave off, for its fumes are poison.”