Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [132]
“His Holiness is suffering from gout. I have given him colchicum, a known specific for the disease. In a few moments, he will sleep, and, Deo volente, the pain and swelling that have afflicted him will recede in a few days’ time.”
As if in demonstration of the truth of what she said, Sergius’s ragged breathing began to ease; he relaxed against the pillows and closed his eyes peacefully.
The door swung open with a bang. In stalked a small, tensely coiled man with a face like that of a bantam cock spoiling for a fight. He brandished a roll of parchment beneath Benedict’s nose. “Here are the papers. All that’s needed is the signature.” By his dress and manner of speech, he appeared to be a merchant.
“Not now, Aio,” Benedict answered.
Aio shook his head fiercely. “No, Benedict, I will not be put off again. All Rome knows the Pope is dangerously ill. What if he dies in the night?”
Joan looked anxiously at Sergius, but he had not heard. He had slipped into a doze.
The man jingled a bag of coins before Benedict’s eyes. “One thousand solidi, as agreed. Have the paper signed, now, and this”—he raised another, smaller bag—“is yours as well.”
Benedict took the parchment to the bed and unrolled it on the sheet. “Sergius?”
“He is sleeping,” Joan protested. “Do not rouse him.”
Benedict ignored her. “Sergius!” He took his brother by the shoulder and shook him roughly.
Sergius’s eyes blinked open. Benedict took a quill from the table beside the bed, dipped it in ink, and wrapped Sergius’s hand around it. “Sign this,” he commanded.
Dazedly, Sergius put the pen to the parchment. His hand shook, spilling the ink onto the parchment in an uneven scrawl. Benedict covered his brother’s hand with his own and helped him trace the papal signature.
From where she stood, Joan saw the paper clearly. It was a formata appointing Aio Bishop of Alatri. The contract being made before Joan’s very eyes was a bribe to buy a bishopric!
“Rest you now, brother,” Benedict said, content now he had what he wanted. To Joan he said, “Stay with him.”
Joan nodded. Benedict and Aio exited from the room.
Joan pulled the bedcovers over Sergius, smoothing them gently. Her chin was set in characteristic determination. Clearly, things in the papal palace were very much amiss. Nor were they likely to be righted as long as Sergius lay ill and his venal brother ruled in his stead. Her task was plain: restore the Pope to health, and that as quickly as possible.
FOR the next few days, Sergius’s condition remained perilous. The constant chanting of the priests kept him from sound sleep, so at Joan’s insistence their bedside vigil was terminated. Except for one brief excursion to the Schola Anglorum to retrieve more medicines, Joan did not leave Sergius’s side. By day she carefully monitored his condition; by night she slept on a pile of cushions beside the bed.
On the third day, the swelling began to recede, and the skin covering it started to peel. In the evening, Joan woke from a restless sleep to find that Sergius had broken sweat. Benedicite, she thought. The fever has passed.
The next morning he awoke.
“How do you feel?” Joan asked.
“I … don’t know,” he said groggily. “Better, I think.”
“You look a good deal better.” The pinched look was gone, as was the unhealthy blue-gray cast of his skin.
“My legs … they’re crawling!” He began to scratch at them violently.
“The itching is a good sign; it means the life is returning,” Joan said. “But you must not irritate the skin, for there is still a danger of infection.”
He withdrew his hand. But the itching sensation was too strong; a moment later he was clawing at his legs again. Joan administered a dose of henbane to calm him, and again he slept.
When he opened his eyes the next day, he was clearheaded, fully aware of his surroundings.
“The pain—it’s gone!” He looked at his legs. “And the swelling!” The observation animated him; he pulled