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.”
Marioza frowned. This was not going according to plan. Somehow she must get the man’s mind off his doctoring.
There were footsteps in the hall below. No time left for persuasion. She grabbed the top of her robe with both hands and rent it with a strong downward pull. “Oh!” she gasped, “a pain comes now! Do but listen!” She clasped Joan’s head and held it firmly to her breast.
Joan tried to pull away, but Marioza held her tight. “Oh, John,” her voice was now pure liquid, “I cannot resist the force of your passion!”
The door burst open. A dozen papal guards stormed into the room and seized Joan, lifting her roughly off the bed.
“Well, Father, this is a strange kind of communion!” the leader of the guards said mockingly.
Joan protested. “This woman is ill; I was called here to physick her.”
The man leered. “Indeed, many’s the woman been cured of barrenness with such remedying.”
There was a burst of raucous laughter. Joan said to Marioza, “Tell them the truth.”
Marioza shrugged, her torn robe slipping from her shoulders. “They saw us. Why try to deny it?”
“Join the ranks, Priest!” jeered one of the guards. “The number of Marioza’s lovers would fill the Colosseum to bursting!”
This was greeted with another explosion of laughter. Marioza joined in with the others.
“Come on, Father.” The leader of the guards took Joan’s arm, propelling her toward the door.
“Where are you taking me?” Joan demanded, though she knew the answer.
“To the Lateran. You’ll answer to the Pope for this.”
Joan wrenched herself from his grasp. To Marioza she said, “I don’t know why you’ve done this, or for whom, but I warn you, Marioza: do not pin your fortunes on the favors of men, for they will prove as fleeting as your beauty.”
Marioza’s laughter died on her lips. “Barbarian!” she spat back contemptuously.
On a tide of laughter, Joan was carried from the room.
FLANKED by the guards, Joan walked in silence through the darkening streets. She could not bring herself to hate Marioza. Joan might have ended as such a one herself had fate not led her down a different path. The streets of Rome were filled with women offering themselves for no more than the price of a meal. Many had first come to the Holy City as pious pilgrims, even nuns; finding themselves without shelter or the means to buy return passage, they turned to the ready alternative. The clergy thundered against these “handmaids of the Devil” from the safety of their pulpits. Better to die chastely, they said, than live in sin. But they, thought Joan, have never known hunger.
No, Marioza was not to be blamed; she was only a tool. But in whose hands? Who stands to gain by discrediting me? Ennodius and the other members of the physicians’ society were certainly capable of such chicanery. But surely they would aim their efforts at discrediting her medical skill.
If not them, then who? The answer came at once: Benedict. Ever since the business of the Orphanotrophium, he had resented her, jealous of her influence with his brother. The realization heartened her; at least she knew who the enemy was. Nor did she mean to let Benedict get away with this. True, he was Sergius’s brother, but she was his friend; she would make him see the truth.
ARRIVING at the Lateran, Joan was dismayed when the guards marched her straight past the triclinium, where Sergius was dining with the optimates and other high officials of the papal court, down the hall to Benedict’s quarters.
“Well, well. What have we here?” Benedict said mockingly as Joan and the guards entered. “John Anglicus, surrounded by guards like a common thief?” To the leader of the guard he said, “Speak, Tarasius, and tell me the nature of this priest’s crime.”
“My lord, we apprehended him in the rooms of the whore Marioza.”
“Marioza!” Benedict affected a look of grave disapproval.
“We found him in the strumpet’s bed, wrapped in her embrace,” Tarasius added.
“It was a trick,” Joan said. “I was called there on the false pretext that Marioza needed physicking. She knew the guards were coming and clasped me to her bosom just before they entered.”
“You expect me to believe you were overpowered by a woman? For shame, false priest.”
“The shame is yours, Benedict, not mine,” Joan replied hotly. “You contrived the whole affair in order to discredit me. You arranged for Marioza to call me on the pretense of being ill, then sent the guards, knowing they would find us together.”
“I own it readily.”
The admission took Joan aback. “You confess your deceit?”
Benedict took a goblet of wine from a table and sipped from it, savoring the taste. “Knowing you to be unchaste, and not liking to see my brother’s trust in you abused, I sought proof of your perfidy, that is all.”
“I am not unchaste, nor have you any reason to think me so.”
“Not unchaste?” Benedict sneered. “Tell me again how you found him, Tarasius.”
“My lord, he lay with the wanton in her bed, and she was naked in his arms.”
“Tsk, tsk. Think how distressed my brother will be to hear such damning testimony—the more so because of the great trust he has placed in you!”
For the first time Joan realized the seriousness of her situation. “Do not do this,” she said. “Your brother needs me, for he is not yet out of danger. Without proper medical attention, he will suffer another attack—and the next one could kill him.”
“Ennodius will attend my brother from now on,” Benedict replied curtly. “Your sinner’s hands have done harm enough.”
“I do him harm?” Outrage obliterated the last of Joan’s control. “You dare say that—you, who have sacrificed your brother to your own jealousy and greed?”
Wetness slapped her in the face; Benedict had hurled the contents of his cup at her. The strong wine burned her eyes, bringing forth tears; it coursed down her throat, causing her to choke and sputter.
“Take him to the dungeon,” Benedict commanded.
“No!” With a sharp cry, Joan broke from the guards. She had to get to Sergius before Benedict could poison his mind against her. She ran swiftly down the hall toward the triclinium.
“Stop him!” Benedict shouted.
The guards’ footsteps sounded behind her. Joan turned a corner and raced desperately toward the blazing lights of the triclinium.
She was a few yards away when she was tackled and sent sprawling. She struggled to rise, but the guards pinioned her arms and legs. Helpless, she was lifted and borne away.
She was carried down unfamiliar corridors and stairs that descended so steeply and for so long Joan began to wonder if they would ever end. At last the guards drew up before a heavy oak-planked door, barred with iron; they raised the bar and creaked the door open, then set Joan on her feet and thrust her roughly inside. She stumbled into murky darkness and landed with her feet in water. With terrifying solidity, the door slammed shut behind her, and the darkness became absolute.
THE footsteps of the guards retreated down the hall. Joan edged for
ward with arms held out, feeling at the darkness. She reached for her scrip—they had not thought to take it from her, a small blessing. She felt inside, fingering the various packets and vials, recognizing each by its shape and size. At last she found what she was looking for—the box containing her flint and kindling and the small stump of candle she used to warm her potions. She took up the flint and tapped it sharply against the side of the iron box, striking sparks into the dry tinder of straw. In a moment it quickened into flame. She held the candle to the tiny fire until the wick caught and steadied, casting its yellow light around her in a gentle arc.
The light shone precariously in the darkness, revealing flickering shapes and outlines. The dungeon was large, some thirty feet long by twenty feet wide. The walls were fashioned of heavy stone, smeared and darkened with age. From the slipperiness of the floor, Joan guessed it was also made of stone, though it was impossible to be sure, for it was covered with several inches of slimy, stagnant water.
She raised the candle higher, spreading its circle of light. In a far corner a pale shape shimmered into view—a human form, wan and insubstantial as a ghost’s.
I am not alone. Relief flooded her, followed immediately by trepidation. This was, after all, a place of punishment. Was the apparition a madman or a murderer—or perhaps both?
“Dominus tecum,” she said tentatively. The man did not respond. She repeated the greeting in the common tongue, adding, “I am John Anglicus, priest and healer. Is there aught I can do for you, Brother?” The man sat slumped against the wall, arms at his sides, legs spread wide. Joan moved closer. The light of the candle spilled onto the man’s face—but it wasn’t a face, it was a skull, a hideous death’s-head covered with shreds of decaying flesh and hair.
With a cry, Joan turned and ran splashing toward the door. She pounded on the heavy oaken planks. “Let me out!” She knocked and pounded till her knuckles were rubbed raw.
No one replied. No one would come. They were going to leave her here to die alone in the dark.
She wrapped her arms around herself and held on tightly, trying to stop shaking. Gradually, the waves of terror and despair began to subside. Another feeling rose inside her—a stubborn determination to survive, to fight the injustice that had put her here. Her mind, temporarily numbed by fear, once again began to reason. I must not give up hope, she thought resolutely. Sergius will not consign me to this dungeon forever. He’ll be furious at first, when he hears Benedict’s version of what happened with Marioza, but in a few days he’ll calm down and send for me. All I have to do is endure until then.
She began a careful circuit of the dungeon. She came across the remains of three other prisoners, but this time she was prepared, and they were not so frightful as the first, for their bones had long ago been picked clean of flesh. Her exploration also yielded an important discovery: one side of the dungeon was higher than the other; on the elevated side, the foul, slimy water stopped several feet short of the wall, leaving a long strip of dry floor. Against the wall, a discarded woolen cloak lay crumpled, tattered and honeycombed with holes, but still a useful protection against the penetrating chill of the underground chamber. In another corner of the room she made a further find: a straw pallet floating atop the water. The mattress was thick and well made, and so tightly woven that the top had remained dry. Joan dragged it over to the high side of the room and sat down on it, placing the candle beside her. She opened her scrip and took out some hellebore, scattering the poisonous black powder around her in a wide circle, a line of deterrent against rats and other vermin. Then she took out a package of powdered oak bark and another of dried sage; these she crumbled and infused into a small vial of wine mixed with honey. Tipping the vial of precious liquid carefully, she took a deep draft to fortify her against the foul and noxious humors of the place. Then she lay down on the pallet, snuffed the candle, and pulled the tattered cloak up over her.
She lay still in the dark. She had done all she could for the moment. Now she must rest and guard her strength until the time Sergius would send for her.
21
IT WAS the Feast of the Ascension, and the day’s stational service was to be at the titular Church of St. Prassede. Though the sun had only just risen, spectators were already gathering, livening the street outside the Patriarchium with movement and color and chatter.
Soon the great bronze doors to the Patriarchium opened. The first to appear were the acolytes and others in minor clerical orders, walking humbly on foot. These were followed by a group of mounted guards, their sharp eyes raking the crowd for potential troublemakers. Behind them rode the seven regionary deacons and the seven regionary notaries, each preceded by a cleric bearing the banner with the signa of their ecclesiastical region. Then came the archpriest and the primicerius of the defensores, followed by their brethren. Finally Pope Sergius appeared, magnificently attired in a robe of gold and silver, astride a tall roan mare trapped in white silk. Immediately behind rode the optimates, the chief dignitaries of the papal administration, in order of importance: Arighis, the vicedominus, and then the vestiarius, the sacellarius, the arcarius, and the nomenclator.
The long procession crossed the open expanse of the Lateran courtyard and moved out with stately dignity, passing the great bronze statue of a she-wolf, mater romanorum, or mother of the Romans, believed by the ancients to have suckled Romulus and Remus. The statue had occasioned considerable controversy, for there were those who said it was blasphemy for a piece of pagan idolatry to stand before the walls of the papal palace, but others defended it with equal passion, praising its beauty and the excellence of its craftsmanship.
Just beyond the she-wolf, the procession turned north, passing beneath the great arch of the Claudian aqueduct, with its lofty, finely proportioned brickwork, onto the ancient Via Sacra, the sacred road that Popes had traversed for time beyond memory.
Sergius blinked back the piercing rays of the sun. His head ached, and the rhythmic swaying of his horse was making him dizzy; he gripped the reins to steady himself. This, he thought penitently, is the price I pay for gluttony. He had sinned again, gorging himself on rich food and wine. Despising his weakness, Sergius resolved, for the twentieth time that week, to reform.
With a pang of regret, he thought of John Anglicus. He had felt so much better when the foreign priest had been physicking him. But of course there could be no question of having him back, not after what he had done. John Anglicus was a detestable sinner, a priest who had broken the holiest of his vows.
“God bless the Lord Pope!” The cheering crowd brought Sergius’s thoughts back to the present. He made the sign of the cross in blessing, fighting down nausea as the procession moved with stately dignity down the narrow line of the Via Sacra.
They had just passed the monastery of Honorius when the crowd scattered in sudden confusion as a mounted man rode in upon them. Horse and rider had been driven hard; the bay’s mouth was lathered, its sides heaving. The rider’s clothes were torn, his face blackened like a Saracen’s with the mud of the road. He reined in and leapt to the ground in front of the procession.
“How dare you interrupt this sacred procession?” Eustathius, the archpriest, demanded indignantly. “Guards, strip this man and flog him. Fifty strokes will teach him a better respect!”
“He … is coming …” The man was so out of breath that the words were scarcely distinguishable.
“Hold.” Sergius stayed the guards. “Who is coming?”
“Lothar,” the man gasped.
“The Emperor?” Sergius said in astonishment.
The man nodded. “At the head of a large army of Franks. Holiness, he’s sworn a blood revenge against you and this city for the grievance that’s been done him.”
A murmur of dismay came from the crowd.
“Grievance?” For a moment Sergius could not think what this could mean. Then it came to him. “The consecration!”
After Sergius’s election, the city had gone ahead with the consecration ce
remony without waiting for the Emperor’s approval. This was a manifest breach of the charter of 824, which granted Lothar the right of imperial jussio, or ratification of an elected Pope prior to consecration. Nevertheless, the move had been widely applauded, for the people saw it as a proud reassertion of Roman independence from the distant Frankish crown. It was a clear and deliberate slight to Lothar, but as the jussio was more symbolic than substantive—for no Emperor had ever failed to confirm an elected Pope—no one believed Lothar would do much about it.
“Where is the Emperor?” Sergius’s voice was a dry whisper.
“In Viterbo, Holiness.”
Cries of alarm greeted this news. Viterbo was part of the Roman campagna, no more than ten days’ march from Rome.
“My lord, he is a scourge upon the earth.” The man’s tongue was loosed now he had caught his breath. “His soldiers plunder all before them, ransacking the farms, carrying off the livestock, pulling up the vines by their roots. They take what they want, and what they do not want, they burn. Those who get in their way they kill without mercy— women, old men, babes in arms—none are spared. The horror”—his voice cracked—“the horror of it cannot be imagined.”
Terrified and uncertain, the people looked to their Pope. But there was no comfort to be found there. Before the Romans’ horrified eyes, Sergius’s face went slack, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he toppled forward senseless onto his horse.
“O, he is dead!” The cry of lamentation found an echo on a dozen other tongues. Quickly the papal guards surrounded Sergius, plucking him from his horse and bearing him away into the Patriarchium. The rest of the procession followed close behind.
The frightened crowd thronged the courtyard, threatening to break into a dangerous panic. The guards rode in among them with whips and drawn swords, sending them scattering along the narrow, dark streets to the solitary terror of their homes.
ALARM and agitation grew as refugees thronged through the city gates from the surrounding campagna, from Farfa and Narni, Laurentum and Civitavecchia. They came in droves, their meager possessions bundled on their backs, their dead piled in carts. All had similar tales of Frankish depredation and savagery. These terrifying accounts spurred the city’s efforts to strengthen its defenses: day and night the Romans toiled energetically to remove the layers of debris that had accumulated against the city walls over the centuries, making them easier for an enemy to surmount.
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