Pope Joan

by Donna Woolfolk Cross

  Aesculapius’s words had turned a light on in her soul. Perhaps tomorrow I can speak to him, she thought. Perhaps I will have a chance to show him I can read.

  The prospect was so pleasing that she could not let go of it. She did not fall asleep until dawn.

  EARLY the next morning, her mother sent Joan into the woods to gather beechnuts and acorns as fodder for the pigs. Anxious to return to the house and Aesculapius, Joan hurried to complete the chore. But the ground of the autumn forest was thick with fallen leaves, and the nuts were hard to find; she could not go back until the wicker basket was full.

  By the time she returned, Aesculapius was readying to leave.

  “Ah, but I had hoped you would do us the honor of dining with us again,” said the canon. “I was interested in your ideas on the mystery of the Triune Oneness and would like to discuss the subject further.”

  “You are kind, but I must be in Mainz this evening. The bishop expects me, and I am eager to take up my new duties.”

  “Of course, of course.” After a pause the canon added, “But you do remember our conversation about the boy. Will you stay to observe his lesson?”

  “It is the least I can do for so generous a host,” Aesculapius said with studied politeness.

  Joan took up her sewing and stationed herself in a chair a short distance apart, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, so her father would not send her away.

  She need not have worried. The canon’s attention was focused entirely on John. Hoping to impress Aesculapius with the extent of his son’s learning, he began the lesson by questioning John on the rules of grammar following Donatus. This was a mistake, for grammar was John’s weakest subject. Predictably, he performed dismally, confusing the ablative with the dative case, botching his verbs, and in the end showing himself utterly unable to parse a sentence correctly. Aesculapius listened solemnly, the line of a frown creasing his forehead.

  Red-faced with embarrassment, the canon retreated to safer ground. He began with the great Alcuin’s catechism of riddles, in which John had been thoroughly drilled. John made it through the first part of the catechism well enough:

  “What is a year?”

  “A cart with four wheels.”

  “What horses pull it?”

  “The sun and the moon.”

  “How many palaces has it?”

  “Twelve.”

  Pleased with this small success, the canon moved on to more difficult parts of the catechism. Joan feared what was coming, for she saw that John was now in a state of near panic.

  “What is life?”

  “The joy of the blessed, the sorrow of the sad, and … and …” John broke off.

  Aesculapius shifted in his chair. Joan closed her eyes, concentrating on the words, willing John to utter them.

  “Yes?” prodded the canon. “And what?”

  John’s face lit with inspiration. “And a search for death!”

  The canon nodded curtly. “And what is death?”

  Stricken, John stared at his father like a netted deer who sees at last the approach of the huntsman.

  “What is death?” repeated the canon.

  It was no use. The near miss on the last question and his father’s mounting displeasure destroyed the last of John’s composure. He could no longer remember anything. His face crumpled; Joan saw that he was going to cry. Her father glared at him. Aesculapius looked on with pitying eyes.

  She could stand it no longer. Her brother’s distress, her father’s anger, the intolerable humiliation before the eyes of Aesculapius overwhelmed her. Before she knew what she was doing, she burst out: “An inevitable happening, an uncertain pilgrimage, the tears of the living, the thief of man.”

  Her words struck the others like a thunderbolt. All three looked up at once, their faces registering a range of emotions. On John’s there was chagrin, on her father’s outrage, on Aesculapius’s astonishment. The canon found his voice first.

  “What insolence is this?” he demanded. Then, remembering Aesculapius, he said, “Were it not for the presence of our guest, you would be given a proper thrashing right now. As it is, your punishment will have to wait. Be gone from my sight.”

  Joan rose from her chair, fighting for control until she reached the door of the grubenhaus and pulled it shut behind her. Then she ran, as fast and hard as she could, all the way to the bracken at the edge of the forest, where she threw herself down on the ground.

  She thought she would burst with pain. To have been disgraced before the eyes of the one person she had most wanted to impress! It isn’t fair. John didn’t know the answer, and I did. Why shouldn’t I give it?

  For a long time she sat watching the lengthening shadows of the trees. A robin fluttered to the ground nearby and began to peck in the bracken, hunting for worms. It found one and, puffing out its chest, strutted in a little circle, displaying its prize. Like me, she thought with wry recognition. All puffed with pride over what I’ve done. She knew pridefulness was a sin—she had been chastised for it often enough—yet she could not help the way she felt. I am smarter than John. Why should he be able to study and learn and not me?

  The robin flew off. Joan watched it become a distant flutter of color among the trees. She fingered the medal of St. Catherine that hung around her neck and thought of Matthew. He would have sat with her, talked with her, explained things so she could understand. She missed him so much.

  You murdered your brother, Father had said. A sick feeling rose in her throat as she remembered. Still her spirit rebelled. She was prideful, wanting more than God intended for a woman. But why would God punish Matthew for her sin? It didn’t make sense.

  What was it in her that would not let go of her impossible dreams? Everyone told her that her desire to learn was unnatural. Yet she thirsted for knowledge, yearned to explore the larger world of ideas and opportunities that was open to people of learning. The other girls in the village had no such interest. They were content to sit through mass without understanding a single word. They accepted what they were told and did not look further. They dreamed of a good husband, by which they meant a man who would treat them kindly and not beat them, and a workable piece of soil; they had no desire ever to go beyond the safe, familiar world of the village. They were as inexplicable to Joan as she was to them.

  Why am I different? she wondered. What is wrong with me?

  Footsteps sounded beside her, and a hand touched her shoulder. It was John.

  He said sulkily, “Father sent me. He wants to see you.”

  Joan took his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t have done it. You’re only a girl.”

  This was hard to take, but she owed him an apology for shaming him before their guest.

  “I was wrong. Forgive me.”

  He tried to maintain his pose of wounded virtue but could not. “All right, I forgive you,” he relented. “At least Father isn’t angry at me anymore. Now—well, come and see for yourself.”

  He pulled her up from the damp ground and helped her dust off the clinging pieces of bracken. Holding hands, they walked back toward the cottage.

  At the door, John ushered Joan in ahead of him. “Go on,” he said. “It’s you they want to see.”

  They? Joan wondered what he meant, but she could not ask, for she was already facing her father and Aesculapius, who waited before the hearth fire.

  She approached and stood submissively before them. Her father had a peculiar look on his face, as if he had swallowed something sour. He grunted and motioned her toward Aesculapius, who beckoned to her. Taking her hands in his, Aesculapius fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “You know Latin?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How do you come by this knowledge?”

  “I listened, sir, whenever my brother had his lessons.” She could imagine her father’s reaction to this information. She dropped her eyes. “I know that I should not have done so.”

  Aesculapius asked, “What oth
er knowledge have you gained?”

  “I can read, sir, and write a little. My brother Matthew taught me when I was small.” From the corner of her eye Joan saw her father’s start of anger.

  “Show me.” Aesculapius opened the Bible, searched for a passage, then held the book out to her, marking the place with his finger. It was the parable of the mustard seed from the Gospel of St. Luke. She began to read, stumbling at first over some of the Latin words—it had been a while since she had read from the book: “Quomodo assimilabimus regnum Dei aut in qua parabola ponemus illud?”— “Unto what is the kingdom of God like? And whereunto shall I resemble it?” She continued without hesitation until the end: “Then he said, It is like a grain of mustard seed which a man took, and cast into his garden, and it grew, and waxed a great tree, and the fowls of the air lodged in the branches of it.”

  She stopped reading. In the silence that followed she could hear the soft rustle of the autumn breeze passing through the thatching on the roof.

  Aesculapius said quietly, “And do you understand the meaning of what you have read?”

  “I think so.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “It means that faith is like a mustard seed. You plant it in your heart, just like a seed is planted in a garden. If you cultivate the seed, it will grow into a beautiful tree. If you cultivate your faith, you will gain the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  Aesculapius tugged at his beard. He gave no indication of whether he approved of what she had said. Had she given the wrong interpretation?

  “Or—” She had another idea.

  Aesculapius’s eyebrows went up. “Yes?”

  “It could mean that the Church is like a seed. The Church started small, growing in darkness, cared for only by Christ and the Twelve Apostles, but it grew into a huge tree, a tree that shades the whole world.”

  “And the birds who nest in its branches?” Aesculapius asked.

  She thought quickly. “They are the faithful, who find salvation in the Church, just as birds find protection in the branches of the tree.”

  Aesculapius’s expression was unreadable. Again he tugged solemnly at his beard. Joan decided to give it one more try.

  “Also …” She reasoned it out slowly as she spoke. “The mustard seed could represent Christ. Christ was like a seed when he was buried in the earth, and like a tree when he was resurrected and rose toward Heaven.”

  Aesculapius turned to the canon. “You heard?”

  The canon’s face twitched. “She is only a girl. I am sure she did not mean to presume …”

  “The seed as faith, as the Church, as Christ,” said Aesculapius. “Allegoria, moralis, anagoge. A classic threefold scriptural exegesis. Rather simply expressed, of course, but still, as complete an interpretation as that of the great Gregory himself. And that without any formal education! Astonishing! The child demonstrates an extraordinary intelligence. I will undertake to tutor her.”

  Joan was dazed. Was she dreaming? She was afraid to let herself believe this was actually happening.

  “Not, of course, at the schola,” Aesculapius continued, “for that would not be permitted. I will arrange to come here once a week. And I will provide books for her to study in between.”

  The canon was displeased. This was not the outcome he had envisioned. “That’s all very well,” he said testily. “But what about the boy?”

  “Ah, the boy? I’m afraid he shows no promise as a scholar. With further training, he might qualify as a country priest. The law requires only that they read and write, and know the correct form of the sacraments. But I should look no further than that. The schola is not for him.”

  “I can scarcely credit my ears! You will undertake to teach the girl, but not the boy?”

  Aesculapius shrugged. “One has talent; the other has not. There can be no other consideration.”

  “A woman as scholar!” The canon was indignant. “She to study the sacred texts while her brother is ignored? I will not permit it. Either you teach both or neither.”

  Joan held her breath. Surely she could not have come this close only to have it taken away. She started to recite a prayer under her breath, then stopped. Perhaps God would not approve. She reached under her tunic and gripped the medallion of St. Catherine. She would understand. Please, she prayed silently. Help me to have this. I will make a fine offering to you. Only please let me have this.

  Aesculapius looked impatient. “I have told you the boy has no aptitude for study. To tutor him would be a waste of time.”

  “Then it is settled,” said the canon angrily. Joan watched, disbelieving, as he rose from his chair.

  “A moment,” said Aesculapius. “I see you are fixed in your intention.”

  “I am.”

  “Very well. The girl shows every sign of a prodigious intellect. She could accomplish much with the proper education. I cannot let such an opportunity pass. Since you insist, I will tutor them both.”

  Joan let her breath out in a rush. “Thank you,” she said, as much to St. Catherine as to Aesculapius. It was all she could do to keep her voice steady. “I will work to be deserving.”

  Aesculapius looked at her, his eyes filled with a penetrating intelligence. Like a fire from within, Joan thought. A fire that would light the weeks and months ahead.

  “Indeed you will,” he said. Underneath the thick, white beard there was the trace of a smile. “Oh yes, indeed you will.”

  4

  Rome

  THE vaulted marble interior of the Lateran Palace was deliciously cool after the blistering heat of the Roman streets. As the huge wooden doors of the papal residence swung shut behind him, Anastasius stood blinking, momentarily blinded in the darkness of the Patriarchium. Instinctively, he reached for his father’s hand, then drew back, remembering.

  “Stand tall, and do not cling to your father,” his mother had said that morning as she fussed over his attire. “You are twelve now; time enough to learn to play the part of a man.” She tugged firmly on his jeweled belt, pulling it into place. “And look squarely at those who address you. The family name is second to none; you must not appear to be deferential.”

  Now, recalling her words, Anastasius drew his shoulders back and lifted his head high. He was small for his age, a continuing source of grief for him, but he tried always to hold himself so as to appear as tall as possible. His eyes began to adjust to the dim light, and he looked around curiously. It was his first visit to the Lateran, the majestic residence of the Pope, and the seat of all power in Rome, and Anastasius was impressed. The interior was enormous, a vast structure containing the archives of the Church and the Treasure Chamber, as well as dozens of oratories, triclinia, and chapels, among them the celebrated private chapel of the Popes, the Sanctum Sanctorum. Before Anastasius, on the wall of the Great Hall, hung a huge tabula mundi, an annotated wall map depicting the world as a flat disk surrounded by oceans. The three continents—Asia, Africa, and Europe—were separated by the great rivers Tanais and Nile as well as the Mediterranean. At the very center of the world was the holy city of Jerusalem, bounded on the east by the terrestrial paradise. Anastasius studied the map, his attention riveted to the large open spaces, mysterious and frightening, at the outmost edges, where the world fell off into darkness.

  A man approached, wearing the white silk dalmatic of the members of the papal household. “I give you greeting and the blessing of our Most Holy Father, Pope Paschal,” he said.

  “May he live long, that we may continue to prosper from his benevolent guidance,” replied Anastasius’s father.

  The required formalities over, both men relaxed.

  “Well, Arsenius, how is it with you?” said the man. “You are here to see Theodorus, I suppose?”

  Anastasius’s father nodded. “Yes. To arrange the appointment of my nephew Cosmas as arcarius.” Lowering his voice, he added, “The payment was made weeks ago. I cannot think what has delayed the announcement so long.”

  “Theodorus has b
een quite busy of late. There was that nasty dispute, you know, over the possession of the monastery at Farfa. The Holy Father was much displeased with the imperial court’s decision.” Bending close, he added in a conspiratorial whisper, “And even more displeased with Theo for championing the Emperor’s cause. Be prepared: there may be little that Theo can do for you just now.”

  “The thought had occurred to me.” Anastasius’s father shrugged. “Nevertheless, Theo is still primicerius, and the payment has been made.”

  “We shall see.”

  The conversation halted abruptly as a second man, also clad in the white dalmatic, came toward them. Anastasius, standing close by his father’s side, sensed the slight stiffening of his back. “May the blessings of the Holy Father be conferred upon you, Sarpatus,” said his father.

  “And on you, my dear Arsenius, and on you,” the man replied. His mouth had an odd twist. “Ah, Lucian,” he said, turning to the first man. “You were so intent on your conversation with Arsenius just now. Have you some interesting news? I should love to hear it.” He yawned elaborately. “Life is so tedious here since the Emperor left.”

  “No, Sarpatus, of course not. If I had any news, I should tell you,” Lucian replied nervously. To Anastasius’s father he said, “Well, Arsenius, I must go now. I have duties to attend to.” He bowed, turned on his heel, and quickly walked away.

  Sarpatus shook his head. “Lucian has been edgy of late. I wonder why.” He looked pointedly at Anastasius’s father. “Well, well, no matter. I see that you have company today.”

  “Yes. May I present my son Anastasius? He is to take the exam to become a lector soon.” Anastasius’s father added with emphasis, “His uncle Theo is especially fond of him; that is why I brought him along with me to our meeting.”

  Anastasius bowed. “May you prosper in His Name,” he said formally, as he had been taught.

  The man smiled, amusement twisting the corners of his lips even more.

  “My! The boy’s Latin is excellent; I congratulate you, Arsenius. He will prove to be an asset to you—unless, of course, he shares his uncle’s deplorable lack of judgment.” He continued, precluding any reply, “Yes, yes, a fine boy. How old is he?” The question was addressed to Anastasius’s father.