Pope Joan (44 page)

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.

F
LANKED
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.

A
RRIVING
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.

T
HE
footsteps of the guards retreated down the hall. Joan edged forward 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   

I
T 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.