NEVERTHELESS, THAT STORY had by then been firmly established in the popular mind, and there for centuries it remained. Even Bartolomeo Platina, prefect of the Vatican Library under Sixtus IV (1471–1484), inserts “John VIII” between Leo IV and Benedict III in Lives of the Popes and tells the story in considerable detail. “These things which I relate,” he adds, “are popular reports, but derived from uncertain and obscure authors, which I have therefore inserted briefly and baldly, lest I should seem obstinate and pertinacious by omitting what most people assert … although,” he continues, “what I have related may not be thought altogether incredible.”
At the time of the Reformation, Joan became, of course, an admirable stick with which to beat the Church of Rome. As early as the Council of Constance in 1414–1415, the Bohemian reformer Jan Hus was only too pleased to use her as part of his evidence. Significantly, the Council did not deny it: as the French eighteenth-century historian Jacques Lenfant perceptively pointed out, “if it had not been looked upon at that Time as an undeniable Fact, the Fathers of the Council wou’d not have fail’d either to correct John Hus with some Displeasure, or to have laugh’d and shook their Heads, as … they did presently for less cause.” At the same time, the reference to Joan—Hus, like several other chroniclers of his time, actually calls her Agnes—cannot have endeared him to the Council; but he probably knew by then that he could not escape the stake so felt that he had little to lose.
The Welshman Adam of Usk, who spent four years in Rome from 1402 to 1406, gives an account of the coronation procession from St. Peter’s to the Lateran of Pope Innocent VII in 1404, in the course of which he confirms an interesting detail in Martin’s version:
After turning aside out of abhorrence for Pope Agnes, whose image in stone with her son stands in the straight road near St. Clement’s, the pope, dismounting from his horse, enters the Lateran for his enthronement.
The Basilica of St. John Lateran had been built by Constantine the Great on the site of a first-century cavalry barracks and had immediately become—as it still is today—the cathedral of the pope in his capacity as Bishop of Rome. Since it stands at the opposite end of the city from St. Peter’s, there were frequent processions between the one and the other, passing through the center of Rome by way of the Colosseum and the Basilica of San Clemente. It was probably somewhere near the latter, on the Via San Giovanni in Laterano, that the offending statue stood. We can have no doubt that it existed—it is mentioned in all the old handbooks for pilgrims—though there is a considerable difference of opinion as to the form it actually took. Theodoric of Niem, cofounder of the German College in Rome, reported in about 1414 that the image was of marble and that it “represented the fact as it occurred; that is to say, a woman who was delivered of a child.” Martin Luther, on the other hand, who was in the city toward the end of 1510—and was surprised that the popes should have allowed such an embarrassment in a public place—wrote of “a woman wearing a papal cloak, holding a child and a scepter.” We can take our choice. We shall never know, because the statue—together with the stone and its alliterative inscription—is long gone, almost certainly removed in about 1480 by Pope Sixtus IV, who is said to have had it thrown into the Tiber.
Nor can there be any doubt that the place was regularly avoided by the popes. John Burchard, Bishop of Strasbourg and papal master of ceremonies under Innocent VIII and his two successors, Alexander VI and Pius III, ruefully records how he was brave enough to break tradition:
In going as in returning, [Pope Innocent] came by way of the Colosseum, and that straight road where the image of the female pope is located, in token, it is said, that John VII [sic] gave birth there to a child. For that reason, many say that the popes may never ride on horseback there. And so the Lord Archbishop of Florence … reprimanded me.
But let us return to Adam of Usk:
And there [in the Lateran] he is seated in a chair of porphyry, which is pierced beneath for this purpose, that one of the younger cardinals may make proof of his sex; and then, while a Te Deum is chanted, he is borne to the high altar.
The fullest description of this chaise percée, by means of which the Church made sure that so embarrassing an occurrence should never be repeated, is that given by Felix Haemmerlein (De Nobilitate et Rusticitate Dialogus, c. 1490):
up to the present day the seat is still in the same place and is used at the election of the pope. And in order to demonstrate his worthiness, his testicles are felt by the junior cleric present as testimony of his male sex. When this is found to be so, the person who feels them shouts out in a loud voice, “He has testicles!” And all the clerics present reply, “God be praised!” Then they proceed joyfully to the consecration of the pope-elect.
He specifically confirms that this was because of Pope Joan, pointing out that it was her successor, Benedict III, who set up the pierced chair.
What are we to make of all this? Can we honestly believe that successive popes—they would have included Pope Alexander VI, who is known to have fathered any number of children—would have subjected themselves to such undignified gropings?2 The mists begin to clear when we compare two more fifteenth-century accounts. The first is by an Englishman, William Brewin, who in 1470 compiled a guidebook to the churches of Rome. In the Chapel of St. Savior in St. John Lateran, he tells us,
are two or more chairs of red marble stone, with apertures carved in them, upon which chairs, as I heard, proof is made as to whether the pope is male or not.
The second is once again by Bishop Burchard:
The pope was led to the door of St. Sylvester’s Chapel, near which were placed two plain porphyry seats, in the first of which, from the right of the door, the pope sat, as though lying down; and when he was thus seated, the … prior of the Lateran gave into the pope’s hand a rod, in token of ruling and correction, and the keys of the Basilica and the Lateran Palace, in token of the power of closing and opening, of binding and loosing. The pope then moved to the other chair, from which he handed back the rod and keys.
“Two plain porphyry seats”: these were the so-called sedia curules, which for some four hundred years were used in papal enthronements. One was looted by Napoleon’s army and taken to the Louvre;3 the other remains in Rome, though now in the Vatican Museum, whither it was removed by Pius VI at the end of the eighteenth century. It now stands, unlabeled, in a window recess of the Gabinetto delle Maschere. It has indeed a hole in the seat, cut in the shape of a huge keyhole; more curious, however, is the angle of the back, some forty-five degrees to the vertical. One would indeed sit on it “as though lying down”; it could not possibly serve as a commode. One explanation that has been put forward is that it was originally intended as an obstetric, or “birthing,” chair (“closing and opening, binding and loosing”?) and that it was used in the coronation ceremony to symbolize the Mother Church. It cannot be gainsaid, on the other hand, that it is admirably designed for a diaconal grope; and it is only with considerable reluctance that one turns the idea aside.
The last of the major pieces of evidence in favor of the existence of Pope Joan—or at least of the widespread belief in her legend—is the series of papal busts in the Cathedral of Siena. Their date is uncertain, but the late fourteenth century seems most likely. There are 170 of them, beginning with St. Peter to the right of the crucifix in the center of the apse, and continuing counterclockwise around the building until they end with Pope Lucius III, who died in 1185. Sure enough, Joan was included—in her proper place between Leo IV and Benedict III, her bust carrying the clear inscription JOHANNES VIII, FOEMINA DE ANGLIA. Most regrettably, she is no longer there, Clement VIII having had her removed in about 1600.
What became of the bust is unclear. Cardinal Caesar Baronius, Clement’s librarian, claimed that it was immediately destroyed; but early in the seventeenth century Antoine Pagi, the provincial of the Franciscans in Arles, went to stay at his order’s house in Siena, where he recorded conversations with various priests and churchmen.
According to them, rather than break up the bust it had been decided simply to relabel it. After minor remodeling, it became a portrait of Pope Zachary (741–752), who now appears in the series in his correct chronological position.
WITH SO MUCH conflicting evidence, can we be absolutely sure that Pope Joan never existed? Alas, we can. Two particularly cogent indications emerge, from writings respectively by a patriarch and a pope. The first comes from Photius, Patriarch of Constantinople from 858 to 865, who would therefore have been Joan’s exact contemporary. Photius had no love for Rome, against which indeed he bore a considerable grudge, but he nevertheless specifically refers to “Leo and Benedict, successively great priests of the Roman Church.” Two centuries later, Pope Leo IX (1049–1054) wrote to Patriarch Michael Cerularius:
God forbid that we wish to believe what public opinion does not hesitate to claim has occurred in the Church of Constantinople: namely that in promoting eunuchs indiscriminately against the First Law of the Council of Nicaea, it once raised a woman onto the seat of its pontiff. We regard this crime as so abominable and horrible that although outrage and disgust and brotherly goodwill do not allow us to believe it, nevertheless, reflecting upon your carelessness toward the judgment of Holy Law, we consider that it could have occurred, since even now you indifferently and repeatedly promote eunuchs and those who are weak in some part of their body not only to clerical office, but also to the position of pontiff.
Had Leo ever heard of the existence of Pope Joan, is it likely that he would have laid himself open to the patriarch’s obvious retort? And had the patriarch been aware of her, would he not have so retorted? We can only conclude that in the middle of the eleventh century her legend was unknown in Rome.
There is solid evidence, too. Our most reliable sources record that Leo IV died on July 17, 855, and that Benedict III was consecrated on September 29. We also know that the Emperor Lothair I died in the Ardennes within hours of Benedict’s consecration. Naturally, however, the news took some time to reach Rome, during which denarii were minted there with the words BENEDICT PAPA on one side and HLOTHARIUS IMP PIUS on the reverse. It follows that Benedict could not have succeeded any later than the records state and that there would simply have been no room for Joan.
But perhaps the best argument of all is the sheer improbability of a female pope, a long deception, a hidden pregnancy, a sudden birth in public. Female popes are unlikely enough in the first place, and in real life it is rare indeed for a woman to give birth in the street. Are these events not stretching our credulity just a little too far? Of course they are, yet there is another improbability, almost as great as these, which we are obliged to accept: that this mildly grotesque story was almost universally accepted within the Catholic Church for several centuries, and that poor incautious Joan still has her champions today.4
1. Both these popes existed in their own right. As it was generally agreed that Joan was to be ignored, the numeration was not affected; but the reputation of the admirable John VIII, a ruthless warrior pope who fortified Rome against the Saracens, founded the papal navy, and came to a violent end, beaten to death after an attempt to poison him failed, regrettably suffered: a book was published in 1530 entitled Puerperium Johannis Papae VIII. He deserved better.
2. The Milanese historian Bernardino Coreo certainly thought so. At the close of his eyewitness account of Alexander’s coronation in 1492 he writes, “Finally, when the usual solemnities of the sancta sanctorum ended and the touching of testicles was done, I returned to the palace.”
3. Is it still there? “When we enquired after the one in the Louvre we were told by a representative that the Museum ‘ne conserve pas de trône pontifical.’ ” (Stanford, The She-Pope, p. 50).
4. In the eighteenth century Pope Joan was a popular card game, and as recently as 1972 the legend was the subject of a film starring Liv Ullmann with Trevor Howard and Olivia de Havilland.
CHAPTER VII
Nicholas I and the Pornocracy
(855–964)
Pope Joan was a myth; Pope Benedict III—who, had Joan existed, would have succeeded her—was a nonentity. After Benedict there came a joke, and after that a giant.
The joke was the bid for the Papacy by Anastasius. He was born in about 815 into a distinguished Roman priestly family; his uncle was the highly influential Arsenius, Bishop of Orte. A man of outstanding abilities and culture, Anastasius mastered Greek at an early age and was created cardinal priest by Leo IV in 847 or 848, but almost immediately he quarreled with his benefactor and fled to Aquileia. Leo, who was well aware of his ambitions and saw him as a potential rival, repeatedly summoned him back to Rome; when Anastasius refused, he was successively excommunicated, anathematized, and deposed. On Leo’s death in 855, his successor was duly elected as Benedict III, but Bishop Arsenius, determined that his nephew should be next on the papal throne, seized the Lateran by force, taking Benedict prisoner.
For three days confusion reigned; but it soon became clear that Anastasius lacked any degree of popular support. How, moreover, could any man under sentence of excommunication be made pope? The Bishops of Ostia and Albano, two of the three by whom the pope was traditionally consecrated, could not be induced—even by threats of torture—to perform the ceremony. Benedict was released from his imprisonment and was finally consecrated, Anastasius stripped of his papal insignia and expelled from the Lateran, but Benedict treated him with more leniency than he deserved, simply confining him to the Monastery of Santa Maria in Trastevere.
But Anastasius bounced back. For the three years of Benedict’s pontificate he remained in obscurity; with the accession of Nicholas I, however, his fortunes changed dramatically. He had made a fool of himself, but he remained one of the foremost scholars of his day; and Nicholas, fully aware of his abilities, appointed him first abbot of his monastery and then librarian of the Church—in which position, thanks, presumably, to his knowledge of Greek, he became chief adviser to the Curia on Byzantine affairs.
Nicholas I was an aristocrat and autocrat. For him, the pope was God’s representative here on Earth—and there the matter ended. Emperors might enjoy the privilege of protecting and defending the Church; they had no right to interfere in its affairs. The pope’s authority was absolute; synods were summoned merely to carry out his orders; bishops, archbishops, and even patriarchs were bound to him in loyalty and obedience. When John, Archbishop of Ravenna, got above himself he was called to Rome, excommunicated, and deposed. When Hincmar, Archbishop of Rheims, one of the most powerful churchmen in the empire, dismissed a suffragan bishop and then tried to prevent his appealing to Rome, Nicholas immediately reinstated the bishop; and when Hincmar protested, the pope threatened to forbid him to celebrate Mass. Nicholas also showed his mettle when a synod of Frankish bishops approved the divorce of King Lothair II of Lorraine simply because he wanted to marry his mistress; the pope simply overruled them and ordered Lothair to return to his wife. When the king deserted her a second time, he was excommunicated. The archbishops of Cologne and Trier went to Rome to argue the case; Nicholas excommunicated them too, as accomplices to bigamy. This time it looked as though he might have overreached himself: Lothair’s brother, the Emperor Louis II, marched on Rome, ostensibly to teach him a lesson. The pope, however, called his bluff and refused to budge, and Louis, fuming, was obliged to retreat.
Nicholas’s conception of papal authority extended, it need hardly be said, over the churches of the East. At this time the Patriarch of Constantinople was a eunuch named Ignatius—a blinkered bigot loathed by his flock, which was determined to get rid of him. The leader of that flock was Photius, the most learned scholar of his day, capable of running rings around Ignatius, whose mind was too narrow to encompass any but the simplest theological doctrines. In one particularly successful exercise in patriarch-baiting, Photius even went so far as to propound a new and deeply heretical theory that he had just thought up, according to which man possessed two separate souls, one liable to error, the other
infallible. His dazzling reputation as an intellectual ensured that he was taken seriously by many—including, of course, Ignatius, who should have known better; and after his doctrine had its desired effect by making the patriarch look thoroughly silly he had cheerfully withdrawn it. It was perhaps the only completely satisfactory practical joke in the history of theology, and for that alone Photius deserves our gratitude.
On the Feast of the Epiphany 858, Ignatius unwisely refused the sacrament to the emperor’s uncle, who had forsaken his wife for his daughter-in-law. It took a little time to frame appropriate charges, but by the end of the year the patriarch had been arrested and banished. Photius was his obvious successor. His lay status was unfortunate, but that difficulty was swiftly overcome: within a week he was tonsured, ordained, consecrated, and enthroned. He then wrote to Pope Nicholas in Rome, giving formal notice of his elevation. Although the letter itself was a model of tactful diplomacy, containing not one word against his predecessor, it was accompanied by another, ostensibly from the emperor himself, in which Ignatius was said to have neglected his flock and to have been properly and canonically deposed—both of which claims the pope rightly suspected of being untrue. Nicholas received the Byzantine legates with all due ceremony in the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore but made it clear that he was not prepared to recognize Photius as patriarch without further investigation. He therefore proposed a council of inquiry, to be held the following year in Constantinople, to which he would send two commissioners who would report back to him personally.
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