Pope Joan (7 page)

Aesculapius asked, “What other knowledge have you gained?”

“I can read, sir, and write a little. My brother Matthew taught me when I was small.” From the corner of her eye Joan saw her father’s start of anger.

“Show me.” Aesculapius opened the Bible, searched for a passage, then held the book out to her, marking the place with his finger. It was the parable of the mustard seed from the Gospel of St. Luke. She began to read, stumbling at first over some of the Latin words—it had been a while since she had read from the book:
“Quomodo assimilabimus regnum Dei aut in qua parabola ponemus illud?”
— “Unto what is the kingdom of God like? And whereunto shall I resemble it?” She continued without hesitation until the end: “Then he said, It is like a grain of mustard seed which a man took, and cast
into his garden, and it grew, and waxed a great tree, and the fowls of the air lodged in the branches of it.”

She stopped reading. In the silence that followed she could hear the soft rustle of the autumn breeze passing through the thatching on the roof.

Aesculapius said quietly, “And do you understand the meaning of what you have read?”

“I think so.”

“Explain it to me.”

“It means that faith is like a mustard seed. You plant it in your heart, just like a seed is planted in a garden. If you cultivate the seed, it will grow into a beautiful tree. If you cultivate your faith, you will gain the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Aesculapius tugged at his beard. He gave no indication of whether he approved of what she had said. Had she given the wrong interpretation?

“Or—” She had another idea.

Aesculapius’s eyebrows went up. “Yes?”

“It could mean that
the Church
is like a seed. The Church started small, growing in darkness, cared for only by Christ and the Twelve Apostles, but it grew into a huge tree, a tree that shades the whole world.”

“And the birds who nest in its branches?” Aesculapius asked.

She thought quickly. “They are the faithful, who find salvation in the Church, just as birds find protection in the branches of the tree.”

Aesculapius’s expression was unreadable. Again he tugged solemnly at his beard. Joan decided to give it one more try.

“Also …” She reasoned it out slowly as she spoke. “The mustard seed
could
represent Christ. Christ was like a seed when he was buried in the earth, and like a tree when he was resurrected and rose toward Heaven.”

Aesculapius turned to the canon. “You heard?”

The canon’s face twitched. “She is only a girl. I am sure she did not mean to presume …”

“The seed as faith, as the Church, as Christ,” said Aesculapius.
“Allegoria, moralis, anagoge.
A classic threefold scriptural exegesis. Rather simply expressed, of course, but still, as complete an interpretation as that of the great Gregory himself. And that without any formal
education! Astonishing! The child demonstrates an extraordinary intelligence. I will undertake to tutor her.”

Joan was dazed. Was she dreaming? She was afraid to let herself believe this was actually happening.

“Not, of course, at the schola,” Aesculapius continued, “for that would not be permitted. I will arrange to come here once a week. And I will provide books for her to study in between.”

The canon was displeased. This was not the outcome he had envisioned. “That’s all very well,” he said testily. “But what about the boy?”

“Ah, the boy? I’m afraid he shows no promise as a scholar. With further training, he might qualify as a country priest. The law requires only that they read and write, and know the correct form of the sacraments. But I should look no further than that. The schola is not for him.”

“I can scarcely credit my ears! You will undertake to teach the girl, but not the boy?”

Aesculapius shrugged. “One has talent; the other has not. There can be no other consideration.”

“A woman as scholar!” The canon was indignant. “She to study the sacred texts while her brother is ignored? I will not permit it. Either you teach both or neither.”

Joan held her breath. Surely she could not have come this close only to have it taken away. She started to recite a prayer under her breath, then stopped. Perhaps God would not approve. She reached under her tunic and gripped the medallion of St. Catherine.
She
would understand.
Please
, she prayed silently.
Help me to have this. I will make a fine offering to you. Only please let me have this.

Aesculapius looked impatient. “I have told you the boy has no aptitude for study. To tutor him would be a waste of time.”

“Then it is settled,” said the canon angrily. Joan watched, disbelieving, as he rose from his chair.

“A moment,” said Aesculapius. “I see you are fixed in your intention.”

“I am.”

“Very well. The girl shows every sign of a prodigious intellect. She could accomplish much with the proper education. I cannot let such an opportunity pass. Since you insist, I will tutor them both.”

Joan let her breath out in a rush. “Thank you,” she said, as much to St. Catherine as to Aesculapius. It was all she could do to keep her voice steady. “I will work to be deserving.”

Aesculapius looked at her, his eyes filled with a penetrating intelligence.
Like a fire from within
, Joan thought. A fire that would light the weeks and months ahead.

“Indeed you will,” he said. Underneath the thick, white beard there was the trace of a smile. “Oh yes, indeed you will.”

   4   

Rome

T
HE vaulted marble interior of the Lateran Palace was deliciously cool after the blistering heat of the Roman streets. As the huge wooden doors of the papal residence swung shut behind him, Anastasius stood blinking, momentarily blinded in the darkness of the Patriarchium. Instinctively, he reached for his father’s hand, then drew back, remembering.

“Stand tall, and do not cling to your father,” his mother had said that morning as she fussed over his attire. “You are twelve now; time enough to learn to play the part of a man.” She tugged firmly on his jeweled belt, pulling it into place. “And look squarely at those who address you. The family name is second to none; you must not appear to be deferential.”

Now, recalling her words, Anastasius drew his shoulders back and lifted his head high. He was small for his age, a continuing source of grief for him, but he tried always to hold himself so as to appear as tall as possible. His eyes began to adjust to the dim light, and he looked around curiously. It was his first visit to the Lateran, the majestic residence of the Pope, and the seat of all power in Rome, and Anastasius was impressed. The interior was enormous, a vast structure containing the archives of the Church and the Treasure Chamber, as well as dozens of oratories, triclinia, and chapels, among them the celebrated private chapel of the Popes, the Sanctum Sanctorum. Before Anastasius, on the wall of the Great Hall, hung a huge
tabula mundi
, an annotated wall map depicting the world as a flat disk surrounded by oceans. The three continents—Asia, Africa, and Europe—were separated by the great rivers Tanais and Nile as well as the Mediterranean. At the very center of the world was the holy city of Jerusalem, bounded on the east by the terrestrial paradise. Anastasius studied the map, his attention riveted to the large open spaces,
mysterious and frightening, at the outmost edges, where the world fell off into darkness.

A man approached, wearing the white silk dalmatic of the members of the papal household. “I give you greeting and the blessing of our Most Holy Father, Pope Paschal,” he said.

“May he live long, that we may continue to prosper from his benevolent guidance,” replied Anastasius’s father.

The required formalities over, both men relaxed.

“Well, Arsenius, how is it with you?” said the man. “You are here to see Theodorus, I suppose?”

Anastasius’s father nodded. “Yes. To arrange the appointment of my nephew Cosmas as
arcarius.”
Lowering his voice, he added, “The payment was made weeks ago. I cannot think what has delayed the announcement so long.”

“Theodorus has been quite busy of late. There was that nasty dispute, you know, over the possession of the monastery at Farfa. The Holy Father was much displeased with the imperial court’s decision.” Bending close, he added in a conspiratorial whisper, “And even more displeased with Theo for championing the Emperor’s cause. Be prepared: there may be little that Theo can do for you just now.”

“The thought had occurred to me.” Anastasius’s father shrugged. “Nevertheless, Theo is still
primicerius
, and the payment has been made.”

“We shall see.”

The conversation halted abruptly as a second man, also clad in the white dalmatic, came toward them. Anastasius, standing close by his father’s side, sensed the slight stiffening of his back. “May the blessings of the Holy Father be conferred upon you, Sarpatus,” said his father.

“And on you, my dear Arsenius, and on you,” the man replied. His mouth had an odd twist. “Ah, Lucian,” he said, turning to the first man. “You were so intent on your conversation with Arsenius just now. Have you some interesting news? I should love to hear it.” He yawned elaborately. “Life is so tedious here since the Emperor left.”

“No, Sarpatus, of course not. If I had any news, I should tell you,” Lucian replied nervously. To Anastasius’s father he said, “Well, Arsenius, I must go now. I have duties to attend to.” He bowed, turned on his heel, and quickly walked away.

Sarpatus shook his head. “Lucian has been edgy of late. I wonder why.” He looked pointedly at Anastasius’s father. “Well, well, no matter. I see that you have company today.”

“Yes. May I present my son Anastasius? He is to take the exam to become a
lector
soon.” Anastasius’s father added with emphasis, “His uncle Theo is especially fond of him; that is why I brought him along with me to our meeting.”

Anastasius bowed. “May you prosper in His Name,” he said formally, as he had been taught.

The man smiled, amusement twisting the corners of his lips even more.

“My! The boy’s Latin is excellent; I congratulate you, Arsenius. He will prove to be an asset to you—unless, of course, he shares his uncle’s deplorable lack of judgment.” He continued, precluding any reply, “Yes, yes, a fine boy. How old is he?” The question was addressed to Anastasius’s father.

Anastasius replied, “I turned twelve just after Advent.”

“Indeed! You look younger.” He patted Anastasius’s head.

A dislike for the stranger rose inside Anastasius. Drawing himself up as tall as possible, he said, “And I think that my uncle’s judgment cannot be so very bad, or else how did he come to be primicerius?”

His father squeezed Anastasius’s arm in warning, but his eyes were mild and there was a hint of a smile on his lips. The stranger stared at Anastasius, something—surprise? anger?—registering in his eyes. Anastasius met his gaze levelly. After a long moment the man broke the gaze and returned his attention to Anastasius’s father.

“Such family loyalty! How touching! Well, well, let us hope that the boy’s thinking proves to be as correct as his Latin.”

A loud noise drew their attention to the far side of the hall as the heavy doors were opened.

“Ah! Here comes the primicerius now. I shall intrude upon you no longer.” Sarpatus bowed elaborately and withdrew.

A hush fell over the assembly as Theodorus entered, accompanied by his son-in-law Leo, recently elevated to the position of nomenclator. He stopped just inside the doors to converse briefly with a few of the clerics and nobles standing nearby. In his ruby silk dalmatic and golden cingulum, Theodorus was by far the most elegantly attired of the group; he loved fine materials and favored a certain ostentation in his dress, a characteristic that Anastasius admired.

Finishing with the formal greetings, Theodorus scanned the hall. Catching sight of Anastasius and his father, he smiled and started across the floor toward them. As he drew closer, he winked at Anastasius, and his right hand moved toward the fold in his dalmatic. Anastasius grinned, for he knew what that meant. Theodorus, who had a love for children, always carried some special treats to hand out.
What will it be today?
Anastasius wondered, his mouth watering in anticipation.
A plump fig, a honeyed filbert, a creamy lump of sweetened almond paste?