Pope Joan (65 page)

When everyone was in place, Gerold was led in by Lothar’s men, hands still bound before him. Joan’s lips tightened as she saw dark bruises on his face and neck; obviously he had been beaten.

Lothar addressed Daniel. “Come forward, Magister Militum, and speak your accusation so all may hear.”

Daniel said, “I overheard the superista tell Pope John that Rome should form an alliance with the Greeks in order to rid the city of Frankish domination.”

“Liar!” Gerold growled, and was immediately rewarded with a hard cuff from one of his guards.

“Stand off!” Joan spoke sharply to the guard. To Gerold she said, “You deny these charges, Superista?”

“I do. They are false and wicked lies.”

Joan took a deep breath. She must take the plunge now, or not at all. Speaking loudly so all could hear, she said, “I confirm the superista’s testimony.”

There was a shocked murmur from the assembled prelates. By responding in this way, Pope John had turned himself from judge to accused, in effect putting himself on trial along with Gerold.

Paschal, the primicerius, interjected soberly, “Holiness, the accusation is not for you to support or deny. Remember the words of the great Karolus:
Judicare non audemos.
You are not on trial here, nor can you be judged by any earthly court.”

“I know that, Paschal. But I am prepared to answer these charges of my own free will, in order to free men’s minds from any unjust suspicion.” She nodded to Florentinus, the vestiarius. Following their prearranged signal, he immediately came forward bearing a large volume, magnificently bound—the gospel-book, containing the holy word of the apostles John, Luke, Mark, and Matthew. Joan clasped the book reverently. In a ringing voice she declared, “Upon these sacred gospels, wherein the Word of God is revealed, I swear before God and St. Peter that such a conversation never took place. If I am not speaking truth, may God strike me where I stand.”

The dramatic gesture appeared to have worked. During the awed silence that followed, no one moved or spoke.

Then Anastasius stepped forward, taking up a position beside Daniel. “I offer myself as
sacraméntale
for this man,” he declared boldly.

Joan’s heart sank. Anastasius had responded with a perfect counterthrust. He had invoked the law of
conjuratio
, according to which guilt or innocence was proved by whichever side in a dispute was able
to amass the greatest number of
sacramentales
, or oath helpers, to support his sworn word.

Quick to take measure of the situation, Arsenius rose from his seat and joined his son. One by one, others slowly came forward to stand with them. Jordanes, the secundicerius, who had opposed Joan in the matter of the school for women, was among them. So was Victor, the sacellarius.

Ruefully Joan recalled Gerold’s repeated words of caution to her to take things slowly and be more politic with her opponents. In her eagerness to get things done, she had not paid sufficient heed to his advice.

Now the reckoning was come.

“I will serve as sacramentale for the superista.” A voice sounded clearly from the rear of the assembly.

Joan and the others turned to see Radoin, second in command of the papal guard, shouldering his way through the crowd. Staunchly he stood beside Gerold. His action emboldened others; in short order Juvianus, the head steward, came forward, followed by the cardinal priests Joseph and Theodore and six of the
suburbican
bishops, as well as several dozen of the lesser clergy who, being closer to the people, could better appreciate what Joan had done for them. The rest of the assembly held back, unwilling to commit themselves.

When all who wished to had come forward, the count was made: fifty-three men on Gerold’s side and seventy-four on Daniel’s.

Lothar cleared his throat. “God’s judgment is here made manifest. Stand forth, Superista, to receive your sentence.”

The guards started toward Gerold, but he shook them off. “The charge is false, no matter how many choose to perjure themselves by supporting it. I claim the right of ordeal.”

Joan drew her breath in sharply. Here, in the southern part of the Empire, the ordeal was by fire, not water. An accused man had to walk barefoot over a twenty-foot row of white-hot plowshares. If he made it over, he was judged innocent. But very few people survived the ordeal.

Across the room, Gerold’s eyes blazed an urgent message at Joan:
Do not try to stop me.

He intended to sacrifice himself for her. If he made it over the coals, his innocence—and hers—would be proven. But he would probably die in the proving.

Just like Hrotrud
, Joan thought. The memory of the village midwife’s grisly death brought a sudden flash of inspiration.

She said, “Before proceeding further, there are some questions I would like to put to the magister militum.”

“Questions?” Lothar frowned.

Anastasius protested. “This is highly irregular. If the superista wishes to undergo the ordeal, that is his right. Or does His Holiness doubt the workings of divine justice?”

Joan responded evenly, “Not at all. Neither do I scorn the workings of God-given reason. What harm can there be in asking a few questions?”

Unable to think of a reasonable reply, Anastasius shrugged and fell silent. But his face registered his vexation.

Joan’s brow furrowed as she concentrated on recalling Cicero’s six evidentiary questions.

Quis.

“Who,” she asked Daniel, “apart from you, was witness to this alleged conversation?”

“No one,” he replied. “But the testimony of these sacramentales is surety for my word.”

Joan went on to the next question.

Quomodo.

“How did you come to overhear so private a conversation?”

Daniel hesitated only a moment before replying. “I was passing by the triclinium on my way to the dormitory. Seeing the door standing open, I went to close it. That’s when I heard the superista talking.”

Ubi.

“Where was the superista standing at the time?”

“Before the throne.”

“About where he is now?”

“Yes.”

Quando.

“When did this happen?”

Daniel pulled nervously on the neck of his tunic. The questions were coming so fast he had no time to think. “Aah … on the Feast of St. Agatha.”

Quid.

“What exactly did you overhear?”

“I have already told the court that.”

“Were those the superista’s actual words, or an approximate rendering of the conversation?”

Daniel smirked. Did Pope John think he was stupid enough to fall into so obvious a trap? He said firmly, “I reported the superista’s words exactly as he spoke them.”

Joan sat forward on the papal throne. “Let me see if I have understood you correctly, Daniel. According to your testimony, on the Feast of St. Agatha you stood outside the door of the triclinium and heard every word of a conversation in which the superista told me that Rome should form an alliance with the Greeks.”

“Correct,” Daniel said.

Joan turned to Gerold. “Where were you on the Feast of St. Agatha, Superista?” she asked.

Gerold answered, “I was in Tivoli, finishing the work on the Marcian aqueduct.”

“Are there any who can bear witness to that?”

“Dozens of men labored beside me all day long. They can all testify to my whereabouts that day.”

“How do you explain this, Magister Militum?” Joan asked Daniel. “Surely a man cannot be in two places at once?”

Daniel was now looking decidedly pale. “Ah … ah…,” he stammered, desperately seeking a reply.

“Might you be mistaken about the date, Magister Militum?” Anastasius prompted. “After all these months, so small a detail might well be difficult to recall.”

Daniel seized the proffered chance. “Yes, yes. Now I think back, it happened earlier than that—on the Feast of St. Ambrose, not St. Agatha. A thoughtless mistake.”

“Where there is one mistake, there may be others,” Joan responded. “Let us return to your testimony. You say you heard every word that was spoken while you were standing outside the door?”

“Yes,” Daniel answered slowly, mistrustful now.

“You have sharp ears, Magister Militum. Please demonstrate this extraordinary acuity for us by repeating this feat.”

“What?” Daniel was completely at a loss.

“Go stand outside the door, as you were before. The superista will speak a few words. When you come back, tell us what he said.”

“What kind of trumpery is this?” Anastasius objected hotly.

Lothar looked at Joan disapprovingly. “Surely, Holiness, the use of jongleur’s tricks undermines the gravity of these proceedings.”

“Majesty,” Joan replied, “what I have in mind is no trick, but a test. If Daniel is telling the truth, he should be able to hear the superista as well now as he did then.”

“My liege, I protest!” Anastasius said. “Such a thing is contrary to all the customary proofs of law”

Lothar considered the matter. Anastasius was right; the use of evidence to prove or disprove an accusation was a strange and novel idea. On the other hand, Lothar had no reason to believe Daniel was lying. No doubt he would pass Pope John’s unusual “test”—and that would lend greater credence to his testimony. Too much rested on the outcome of this trial for there to be any question afterward as to its fairness.

Lothar waved his hand imperiously. “Let the test proceed.”

Reluctantly Daniel crossed the length of the great hall and stood on the other side of the door.

Joan put a finger to her lips, signaling Gerold to keep silent.
“Ratio in lege summa justitia est,”
she said in a high, clear voice. “Reason is the highest justice in law.” She nodded to the guard at the door. “Bring Daniel back.

“Well,” she asked when he stood before her again. “What did you hear?”

Daniel groped for a likely answer. “The superista repeated his protestation of innocence.”

Those who had come forward to stand witness for him cried out in shocked dismay. Anastasius turned away in disappointment. Lothar’s perpetual dark frown deepened even more.

Joan said, “Those are not the words that were spoken. And it was not the superista but I who spoke them.”

Cornered, Daniel burst out angrily, “What difference does it make if I actually overheard the conversation or not? Your actions have demonstrated your true sympathies! Did you not ordain the Greek Nicephorus as bishop?”

“Ah!” Joan said. “That brings us to the last of the questions:
Cur.
Why? Why did you make false report of such a conversation to the Emperor? You were not motivated by truth, Daniel, but by envy— because your own son was passed over for the position Nicephorus received!”

“Shame!” a voice shouted from the crowd, and was quickly echoed by others. “Traitor!” “Liar!” “Rogue!” Even Daniel’s own sacramentales joined in the torrent of abuse, eager to dissociate themselves from him now.

Joan raised a hand, silencing the assembly. Expectantly they waited for her to pronounce sentence against Daniel. For so serious a crime, the punishment would surely be very great: first the tongue that had uttered the treasonous lie would be cut out, then Daniel would probably be drawn and quartered.

Joan had no inclination to exact so terrible a price. She had accomplished what she wanted, which was to vindicate Gerold. There was no need to take Daniel’s life; he was an unpleasant little man, spiteful and covetous, but no worse or more wicked than others she had known. And, Joan was certain, in this instance he had been little more than a tool in Anastasius’s hands.

“Magister Militum Daniel,” she said gravely. “From this moment forward, you are stripped of your title with all its lands and privileges. You will leave Rome today and remain forever banished from the Holy City and its sacred shrines.”

The crowd was hushed by this astonishing display of
caritas.
Eustathius, the archpriest, seized the moment. “Praise be to God and St. Peter, Prince of the Apostles, through whom the truth has been made manifest! And long life to our Lord and Supreme Pontiff, Pope John!”

“Long life!” the others shouted. The sound echoed off the walls of the room, shaking the lamps in their silver cressets.

“W
HAT
did you expect?” Arsenius paced the floor of his room agitatedly in front of his son, who was seated at ease on one of the divans. “Pope John may be guileless, but he’s no fool. You underestimated him.”

“True,” Anastasius conceded. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m back in Rome—with the full support of the Emperor and his troops.”

Arsenius stopped pacing. “What do you mean by that?” he asked sharply.

“I mean, Father, that I am now in a position to take what we could not win by election.”

Arsenius stared. “Take the throne by force of arms?
Now?”

“Why not?”

“You’ve been away too long, my son. You don’t know how things stand here. It’s true Pope John has made enemies, but there are many who support him.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Be patient. Return to Frankland, trim your sails, and wait.”

“For what?”

“For the winds of fortune to change.”

“When will that happen? I have waited long enough to claim what is mine by right!”

“There is danger in moving too precipitously. Remember what happened to John the Deacon.”

John the Deacon had been the opposing candidate in the election that had raised Sergius to the papal throne. After the election, the disappointed John had marched to the Patriarchium with a large group of armed retainers and forcibly occupied the throne. But the princes of the city rallied against him; within hours the Patriarchium was retaken and John deposed. The next day, Sergius was ceremoniously ordained as Pope—and John’s severed head rested atop a pike in the Lateran courtyard.

“That won’t happen to me, Father,” Anastasius said confidently. “I’ve thought about this very carefully. God knows I’ve had time for thinking, stranded all these years in that alien backwater.”

Arsenius felt the sting of his son’s unspoken rebuke. “What exactly do you propose?”