Pope Joan (63 page)

“It is.”

“The man’s a Greek!” Daniel protested.

“Why should that matter?”

“So important a position must go to a Roman.”

Joan sighed inwardly. It was true that her predecessors had used the episcopacy as a political tool, distributing bishoprics among the noble Roman families like so many choice plums. Joan disagreed with this practice, for it had resulted in a great number of
episcopi agraphici
—illiterate bishops, who had spawned all kinds of ignorance and superstition. How, after all, could a bishop correctly interpret the word of God to his flock if he could not even read it?

“So important a position,” she replied equably, “should go to the person best qualified. Nicephorus is a man of learning and piety. He will make a fine bishop.”

“You would think so, being yourself a foreigner.” Daniel deliberately used the insulting term
barbarus
rather than the more neutral
peregrinus.

There was an audible intake of breath from the others in the room.

Joan looked Daniel straight in the eye. “This has nothing to do
with Nicephorus,” she said. “You are guided by selfish motives, Daniel, for you want your own son Peter to be bishop.”

“Well, why not?” Daniel said defensively. “Peter is well suited for the position by virtue of family and birth.”

“But not by ability,” Joan said bluntly.

Daniel’s mouth gaped in astonishment. “You dare … you dare … my son—”

“Your son,” Joan interrupted, “reads equally well from a lectionary placed right side up or upside down, for he knows no Latin. He has committed to memory the few scriptural passages he knows. The people deserve better. And in Nicephorus they shall have it!”

Daniel drew himself up, stiffly offended. “Mark my words, Holiness: you have not heard the end of this!”

And with that he turned and left.

Joan thought,
He will go straight to Arsenius, who will no doubt find some way to make further trouble.
About one thing Daniel was certainly right; she had not heard the end of this.

Suddenly she was inexpressibly weary. The air in the windowless room seemed to close in upon her; she felt queasy and faint. She tugged on her pallium, pulling it away from her neck.

“The lord superista,” Juvianus announced.

Gerold! Joan’s spirits rose. They had not spoken since the day of their rescue. She had hoped he would come today, though at the same time she feared their meeting. Aware of the watchful eyes of the others, Joan kept her face impassive.

Then Gerold entered, and her treacherous heart leapt at the sight of him. The flickering lamplight played across his features, illuminating the handsomely chiseled angles of his brow and cheekbone. He returned her gaze; their eyes locked in silent communication, and for a brief moment they were quite alone in the midst of that great company.

He came forward and knelt before the throne.

“Rise, Superista,” she said. Did she imagine it, or was her voice somewhat unsteady? “This day your head is crowned with honor. All Rome is indebted to you.”

“I thank you, Holiness.”

“Tonight we will celebrate your great accomplishment with a feast. You shall sit at my table in the place of honor.”

“Alas, I regret that I will not be able to attend. I leave Rome today.”

“Leave Rome?” She was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Now that the great work with which you charged me is complete, I am resigning as superista. Prince Siconulf has asked me to return to Benevento to resume command of his armies—and I have accepted the post.”

Joan kept her rigid posture on the throne, but her hands gripped the arms. “You can’t do that,” she answered brusquely. “I won’t permit it.”

The assembled prelates raised their eyebrows. True, it was unusual to resign so prestigious a post, but Gerold was a free Frank, at liberty to commit his services wherever he chose.

“In helping Siconulf,” Gerold answered reasonably, “I will be continuing to serve Rome’s interests as well, for Siconulf’s territories provide a strong Christian bulwark against the Longobards and Saracens.”

Joan set her mouth firmly. Turning to the others, she commanded, “Leave us.”

Juvianus and the rest exchanged surprised glances, then exited the room with a flurry of respectful obeisances.

“Was that wise?” Gerold asked after they had gone. “Now their suspicions may be aroused.”

“I had to talk to you alone,” she replied urgently. “Leave Rome? What on earth can you be thinking of? No matter, I won’t allow it. Let Siconulf find someone else to lead his armies. I need you here, with me.”

“Oh, my pearl.” His voice was a caress. “Look at us—we cannot so much as look at each other without betraying how we feel. A single unwary glance, a careless word, and your life could be forfeit! I
must
go, can’t you see?”

Joan knew what he was saying, even knew he was right in a way. But it didn’t matter. The prospect of his leaving filled her with dismay. Gerold was the one person who truly knew her, the only one upon whom she could absolutely depend.

She said, “Without you, I’d be utterly alone. I don’t think I could bear it.”

“You are stronger than you know.”

“No,” she said. She rose from the throne to go to him and swayed as a strong wave of dizziness swept her.

Instantly Gerold was at her side. He took her arm, supporting her. “You’re ill!”

“No, no. Just … overtired.”

“You’ve been working too hard. You need rest. Come, I’ll help you to your quarters.”

She gripped him fiercely. “Promise me you won’t go until we’ve had a chance to talk again.”

“Of course I won’t leave.” His eyes were filled with concern. “Not until you’re feeling quite well again.”

J
OAN
lay on her bed in the quiet of her room.
Am I truly ill?
she wondered.
If so, I must discover the cause and treat it quickly before Ennodius and the other physicians of the schola get wind of it.

She applied her mind to the problem, putting questions to herself as if she were her own patient.

When did the first symptoms begin?

Now she thought about it, she had not felt well for several weeks.

What are the symptoms?

Fatigue. Lack of appetite. A feeling of bloatedness. Queasiness, especially upon first arising …

Sudden terror struck her.

Desperately she thought back, trying to recall the time of her last monthly bleeding. Two months ago, perhaps three. She had been so busy, she had paid no attention.

All the symptoms fit, but there was one way to be certain. She leaned over and picked up the bedpan that rested on the floor beside her bed.

A short while later, she set it down again with shaking hands.

The evidence was unmistakable. She was with child.

A
NASTASIUS
pulled off his velvet buskins and leaned back comfortably on the divan.
A good day
, he thought, pleased with himself.
Yes, it’s been a very good day.
This morning he had shone at the imperial court, impressing Lothar and his entire retinue with his wisdom and learning.

The Emperor had asked his opinion of
De corpore et sanguine Domini
, the treatise that was causing such a stir among the country’s theologians. Written by Paschasius Radbertus, Abbot of Corbie, the
treatise advanced the daring theory that the Eucharist contained the true Body and true Blood of Christ the Savior—not His symbolic but his actual, historic flesh: “that which was born of Mary, suffered on the cross, and rose from the tomb.”

“What do you think, Cardinal Anastasius?” Lothar inquired of him. “Is the sacred Host Christ’s Body in mystery, or in truth?”

Anastasius was ready with an answer. “In mystery, my liege. For it can be shown that Christ has two distinct bodies: the first born of Mary, the second represented symbolically in the Eucharist.
‘Hoc est corpus meum,’
Jesus said of the bread and wine at the Last Supper. ‘This is my body’
But he was still present bodily with his disciples when he said it.
So clearly He must have meant the words in a figurative sense.”

So clever was this argument that when he’d finished speaking, all had applauded him. The Emperor had lauded him as “another Alcuin.” Plucking several hairs from his beard, he had presented them to Anastasius—a gesture of highest honor among these strange, barbarian people.

Anastasius smiled, reliving the pleasure of the moment. He poured wine from the pitcher on the table beside him into a silver cup, then picked up the parchment scroll containing the latest letter from his father. He broke the wax seal and unrolled the fine white vellum. His eyes scanned the scroll, reading with eager interest. He stopped at the report of the theft of the corpses of Ss. Marcellinus and Peter from their cemetery.

Not that the taking of saints’ bodies from their tombs was unusual; Christian sanctuaries all over the world constantly clamored for these holy relics in order to attract throngs of the faithful with the promise of miracles. For centuries the practical-minded Romans had made capital out of this foreign obsession with relics by conducting a regular trade in them. The countless pilgrims who swarmed to the Holy City were willing to dole out substantial sums for a finger of St. Damian, a collarbone of St. Anthony, or an eyelash of St. Sabina.

But the bodies of Ss. Marcellinus and Peter had not been sold; they had been stolen, dragged ignominiously from their graves at night and smuggled out of the city.
Furta sacra
—the theft of sacred things—such crimes were called. They had to be stopped, for they robbed the city of its greatest treasures.

“After this disgraceful theft,” his father wrote, “we asked Pope John to double the number of guards posted in the churchyards and
cemeteries. But he refuses. He says men are better employed in the service of the living than the dead.”

Anastasius knew that John had put great numbers of the papal militia to work building schools, hospices, and houses of refuge. He had devoted his time and attention—and the greater part of the papal finances—to such secular projects, while the city’s churches were left to languish. His own father’s church had not received so much as a single golden lamp or silver candelabrum since John had taken office. Yet Rome’s innumerable cathedrals, oratories, baptisteries, and chapels were her claim to glory. If they were not constantly embellished and improved, Rome could not hope to compete with the splendor of her eastern rival, Constantinople, which now brazenly called itself New Rome.

If—no, Anastasius corrected himself—
when
he was Pope, things would be different. He would lead Rome back to the days of her greatness. Under his solicitous patronage, her churches would once again gleam with fabulous riches, more resplendent than even the finest palaces of Byzantium. This, he knew, was the great work that God had put him on this earth to do.

He returned to reading his father’s letter, but with diminishing interest, for the last part was taken up with items of minor importance: the list of names of those to be ordained at the coming Easter ceremonies had finally been published; his cousin Cosmas had married again, this time to a widowed deaconess; a certain Daniel, magister militum, was greatly aggrieved because his son had been passed over for a bishopric in favor of a Greek.

Anastasius sat up. A Greek to be bishop! His father seemed to regard the move as just another example of Pope John’s regrettable lack of
romanità.
Was it possible that he had completely overlooked the possibilities of the situation?

This
, Anastasius thought with mounting excitement,
is the chance for which I’ve been waiting.
At long last, fortune had delivered opportunity into his hands.

He rose quickly and went to his desk. Taking up a quill, he began to write. “Dear Father. Waste no time upon receiving this letter, but send the magister militum Daniel here to me at once.”

J
OAN
paced the floor of the papal bedroom.
How
, she asked herself,
could I have been so blind?
It had simply not occurred to her that she
could be pregnant. After all, she was over forty-one, well past the normal time for childbearing.

But Mama was older still when she quickened with child for the last time.

And died in the birthing.

Never give yourself to a man.

Fear, cold and unreasoning, gripped Joan’s heart. She struggled to calm herself. After all, what had happened to Mama might not happen to her. She was strong and healthy; she had a good chance of surviving childbirth. But even if she did, what then? In the watchful beehive that was the Patriarchium, there was no way to keep her labor and delivery secret, no way to hide the child when it came. Her womanhood would surely be discovered.

What kind of death would be considered sufficient punishment for such a crime? It was certain to be terrible. They might put her eyes out with red-hot irons and flay her to the bone. Or she might be slowly dismembered, then burned while still alive. Some such hideous end was inevitable when this child came.

If it came …

She put both hands on her abdomen; there was no hint of movement from the babe growing within. The thread of life was as yet wound very thin; it would not take much to break it.

She went to the locked chest where she kept her medicaments. She had transferred them from her herbarium soon after her consecration; they were easier to hand here and safer against theft. Her hands ranged among the various vials and bottles until she found what she was looking for. With swift skill, she infused a measure of ergot into a cup of strong wine. In small doses, it was a beneficial medicine; in larger doses, it could induce abortion—though it didn’t always work and was not without serious risk to the woman taking it.

What other choice did she have? If she did not end this pregnancy, she would face a death far more horrible.

She lifted the cup to her lips.

The words of Hippocrates came unbidden to her mind:
The medical art is a sacred trust. A physician should use his skill to help the sick according to his ability and judgment, but absolutely never to do harm.