Pope Joan (64 page)

Resolutely Joan pushed the thought aside. All her life this woman’s body of hers had been a source of grief and pain, an impediment to
everything she wanted to do and to be. She would not now let it rob her of her life.

She tipped the cup and drank.

Never to do harm. Never to do harm. Never to do harm.

The words burned into her, searing her heart. With a sob, she threw the empty cup to the ground. It rolled away, the last drops streaking an erratic scarlet pattern across the floor.

S
HE
lay in her bed and waited for the ergot to take effect. Time passed, but she felt nothing.
It’s not working
, she thought. She was frightened and at the same time greatly relieved. As she sat up, she was taken by a great fit of trembling. Her whole body shook with uncontrollable spasms. Her heart pounded; when she felt at her wrist, her pulse was wildly erratic.

Pain gripped her. She was stunned by its intensity, like a hot knife plunged into her innards. She rolled her head from side to side, biting her lip to keep from crying out. She dared not risk drawing the attention of the papal household.

The next few hours passed in a kind of haze as Joan moved in and out of consciousness. At one point she must have hallucinated; it seemed to her that her mother sat with her, called her “little quail,” and sang to her in the Old Tongue as she used to, placing cool hands on her fevered brow.

Before dawn she awoke, weak and shaky. For a long while, she lay quite still. Then she slowly began to examine herself. Her pulse was regular, her heartbeat strong, her skin color good. There was no effusion of blood, no sign of any lasting harm.

She had survived the ordeal.

But so had the child within her.

T
HERE
was only one person she could turn to now. When she told Gerold of her condition, he reacted at first with shocked disbelief.

“Great God! … is it possible?”

“Evidently,” Joan said dryly.

He stood for a moment, his gaze fixed and reflective. “Is that why you’ve been ill?”

“Yes.” She did not mention the abortifacient; even Gerold could not be expected to understand that.

He took her in his arms and held her close, cradling her head against his shoulder. For a long moment they remained quite still, silently sharing what was in their hearts.

He said quietly, “Do you remember what I said to you on the day of the flood?”

“We said many things to each other that day,” she replied, but she felt her pulse quicken, for she knew what he meant.

“I said you were my true wife on this earth, and I your true husband.” He put his hand under her chin, raising her eyes to his. “I understand you better than you think, Joan. I know how your heart’s been torn. But now fate has decided things for us. We’ll go away from here and be together as we were meant to.”

She knew he was right. There was nothing else to do. All the roads that had lain before her were narrowed now to a single path. She felt sad and anxious, and at the same time strangely excited.

“We can leave tomorrow,” Gerold said. “Dismiss your chamberlains for the night. Once everyone’s asleep, it shouldn’t be difficult for you to slip out the side door. I’ll be waiting there with women’s garments for you to change into once we’re outside the city walls.”

“Tomorrow!” She had accepted the idea of leaving but had not realized it would be so soon. “But … they’ll come looking for us.”

“By the time they do, we’ll be well away. And they’ll be looking for two men, not a simple pilgrim husband and his wife.”

It was a daring plan, but it could work. Nevertheless, she resisted it. “I can’t leave now. There’s still so much I want to accomplish here, so much that needs doing.”

“I know, my heart,” he said tenderly. “But there’s no other choice; surely you must see that.”

“Wait until after Easter,” she offered. “Then I’ll go with you.”

“Easter! Why, that’s almost a month away! What if someone guesses your condition before then?”

“I’m only four months along. Under these great robes of mine, I can keep the pregnancy hidden for another month.”

Gerold shook his head emphatically. “I can’t let you risk it. You must get away from here now, while there’s still time.”

“No,” she answered with equal conviction. “I won’t leave my people without their Pope on the holiest day of the year.”

She’s frightened and upset
, Gerold thought,
and therefore not thinking clearly.
He would go along with her for the present, having
small choice, but quietly he would make things ready for a quick departure. If at any time danger threatened, he would whisk her away to safety—by force if necessary.

O
N
nox magna
, the Great Night of the Easter celebration, thousands of people crowded in and around the Lateran cathedral to join in the celebration of the paschal vigil, baptism, and mass. The long service began on Saturday evening and would continue into the early hours of Easter morning.

Outside the holy cathedral, Joan lit the paschal candle, then handed it to Desiderius, the archdeacon, who carried it ceremoniously into the darkened church. Joan and the rest of the clergy followed after, chanting the
lumen Christi
, hymn to the light of Christ. Three times the procession paused on its way down the aisle while Desiderius lit the candles of the faithful from the paschal candle. By the time Joan reached the altar, the great nave was ablaze with a thousand tiny flames, their flickering light reflecting dazzlingly off the polished marble of the walls and columns in dramatic representation of the Light brought into the world by Christ.

“Exultet jam angelica turba caelorum. Exultent divina mysteria!”

Joyously, Desiderius began the
Exultet.
The time-honored chant, with its beautiful and striking ancient melody, rang in Joan’s ears with special poignancy.

I will never stand before this altar and hear these sweet sounds again
, she reflected. The thought brought a strong sense of loss. Here, amid this inspiring celebration of redemption and hope, she came closest to experiencing a true faith in God.
“O vere beata nox, quae expoliavit Aegyptios, ditavit Hebraeos! Nox, in qua terrenis caelestia junguntur …”

E
XITING
the cathedral at the conclusion of the mass, Joan saw a man with torn and mud-stained clothes waiting on the steps. Taking him for a beggar, she signaled Victor, the sacellarius, to give him alms.

The man waved off the proffered coins. “I am no alms seeker, Holiness, but a messenger, come with urgent news.”

“Let’s have it then.”

“Emperor Lothar and his army are marching through Paterno. At the rate they are traveling, they will be in Rome in two days’ time.”

A murmur of alarm rose from the prelates standing nearby.

“Cardinal Priest Anastasius rides with him,” the messenger added.

Anastasius! His presence among the imperial entourage was a very bad sign.

“Why do you call him Cardinal Priest?” Joan asked reproachfully. “Anastasius no longer has claim to that title, being excommunicate.”

“Beg pardon, Holiness, but so I heard the Emperor address him.”

This was the worst news of all. The Emperor’s disregard of Leo’s sentence of excommunication was a direct, unmistakable defiance of papal authority. In such a frame of mind, Lothar was capable of anything.

That night, discussing this turn of events, Gerold pressed her again to keep her promise. “I have waited until after Easter, as you wished. You must leave now, before Lothar arrives.”

Joan shook her head. “If the papal throne is vacant when Lothar arrives, he will use his power to have Anastasius elected Pope.”

Gerold had no better liking for the idea of Anastasius as Pope than she did, but her safety was his first concern. He said, “There will always be some reason or other to keep us from leaving, Joan. We cannot delay forever.”

“I will not abuse the people’s trust by leaving them in
his
hands,” she replied stubbornly.

Gerold had an almost irresistible impulse to simply pick her up and carry her off, away from the web of danger that was tightening around her. As if sensing his thoughts, Joan quickly spoke again.

“It’s only a matter of a few days,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “Whatever Lothar’s purpose is in coming, he’s unlikely to stay any longer than he needs to accomplish it. As soon as he’s gone, I’ll leave with you.”

He weighed this for a moment. “And you’ll offer no further argument against leaving?”

“No further argument,” Joan promised.

T
HE
next day, Joan waited on the steps of St. Peter’s while Gerold rode out to greet Lothar. Sentries were posted all along the Leonine Wall to keep watch.

A short time later the cry went up from the wall, “The Emperor has arrived!” Joan ordered the gate of San Peregrinus opened.

Lothar rode in first. Anastasius was at his side, brazenly wearing
the cardinal’s pallium. His high-browed patrician face registered a look of haughty pride.

Joan acted as though she were oblivious to his presence. She waited on the steps for the Emperor to dismount and come to her.

“Be welcome, Majesty, to this Holy City of Rome.” She extended her right hand, the one that bore the papal ring.

Lothar did not kneel but bent stiffly from the waist to kiss the symbol of her spiritual authority.

So far, so good
, she thought.

The first rank of Lothar’s men parted, and she saw Gerold. His face was taut with anger, and around his wrists was a tight cord of rope.

“What is the meaning of this?” Joan demanded. “Why is the superista bound?”

Lothar replied, “He has been arrested on a charge of treason.”

“Treason? The superista is my loyal helpmate. There is no one I trust more.”

Anastasius spoke for the first time. “The treason is not against your throne, Holiness, but the imperial one. Gerold is accused of conspiring to return Rome to Greek control.”

“Nonsense! Who makes such an unfounded charge!”

Daniel rode out from behind Anastasius and fixed Joan with a look of malignant triumph. “I do,” he said.

L
ATER
, in the privacy of her room, Joan bent her mind to the problem, trying to think of a way to respond. It was, she realized, a diabolically clever plot. As Pontiff, she herself could not be put on trial. But Gerold could—and if he was found guilty, she would be implicated as well. The plan had the mark of Anastasius all over it.

Well, he won’t get away with it.
She set her chin defiantly. Let Anastasius do what he could. He would not prevail. She was still Pope, with power and resources of her own.

   29   

T
HE Great Triclinium was a relatively new addition to the Patriarchium, but it was already rich in historical significance. The paint on these walls had only just dried when Lothar’s grandfather Karolus Magnus and Pope Leo III met here with their followers to forge the epic agreement that would raise Karolus from King of France to Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and change the face of the world forever.

The fifty-five years that had passed since then had done nothing to dim the splendor of the hall. Its three large apses were paved with slates of flawless white marble and adorned with finely hewn columns of porphyry carved with decorations of marvelous complexity. Above the marble revetment, the walls were covered with colorful murals depicting the life of the apostle Peter, each drawn with wondrous artistry. But even these marvels were outshone by the great mosaic that rested over the arch of the central apse. In it St. Peter was depicted magnificently enthroned, surrounded by a round saint’s nimbus. To his right knelt Pope Leo and to his left Emperor Karolus, each one’s head surrounded by a square nimbus, the sign of the living—for they had been alive at the time the triclinium was built.

In the front of the hall, Joan and Lothar were ensconced upon two great, jewel-encrusted thrones. They appeared
sedentes pariter
, meaning that they were seated with equal ceremony; the two thrones were carefully placed side by side, level with each other so as not to give an appearance of greater importance to either one. The archbishops, cardinal priests, and abbots of Rome were seated facing them on high-backed chairs of Byzantine design, softly cushioned in green velvet. The other
sacerdotes
, the optimates, and the rest of the leading men of the Franks and Romans stood behind, filling the great hall to capacity.