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.”
20
IT 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, head
ing for the garden gate. “Come on, then!” he called back to her. “What are you waiting for?”
Joan hurried after him.
TWO 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.
JOAN 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.”
ARRIVING 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.”
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