Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [133]
“A plate of greens and a jug of water,” Joan countermanded. The chamberlain hurried off before Sergius could protest.
Sergius’s brows flew up with surprise. “Who are you?”
“My name is John Anglicus.”
“You’re not Roman.”
“I was born in Frankland.”
“The north country!” Sergius’s eyes sharpened. “Is it as barbarous as they say?”
Joan smiled. “There are fewer churches, if that’s what you mean.”
“Why are you called ‘Anglicus,’” Sergius asked, “if you were born in Frankland?” He was astonishingly alert in light of what he had been through.
“My father was English,” Joan explained. “He came to preach the faith among the Saxons.”
“The Saxons?” Sergius frowned. “A godless tribe.”
Mama. Joan felt the old familiar surge of shame and love. She said, “Most are Christian now—as far as any can be who are brought to the Faith through fire and sword.”
Sergius eyed her sharply. “You do not hold with the Church’s mission to convert the heathen?”
“What value has any pledge exacted by force? Under torture, a person may confess to any number of lies, merely to put an end to pain.”
“Yet our Lord bids us spread the word of God: ‘Go, therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’”
“True,” Joan conceded. “But—” She broke off. She was doing it again—allowing herself to be drawn into imprudent and possibly dangerous debate—this time with the Pope himself!
“Go on,” Sergius prodded.
“Forgive me, Holiness. You are not well.”
“Nor yet too sick for reason,” Sergius replied impatiently. “Go on.”
“Well”—she chose her words carefully—“consider the order of Christ’s commands: teach the nations first, then baptize them. We are not enjoined to bestow the sacrament of baptism before the mind embraces the Faith with rational understanding. First teach, Christ says, then dip.”
Sergius contemplated her with interest. “You reason well. Where were you educated?”
“A Greek by the name of Aesculapius, a man of great learning, tutored me as a child. Later, I was sent to the cathedral school at Dorstadt, and later still to Fulda.”
“Ah, Fulda! I have only recently received a volume from Raban Maur, beautifully illuminated, containing a poem of his own composition on the Holy Cross of Christ. When I write to thank him, I will tell him of your service to our person.”
She thought she had put Abbot Raban behind her forever; would his tyrannous hatred follow her even here, blighting the new life she had made for herself? “You will not have good report of me from that quarter, I fear.”
“Why is that?”
“The abbot holds obedience to be the greatest of the religious vows. Yet, to me, it has always come the hardest.”
“And your other vows?” Sergius asked sternly. “What of them?”
“I was born into poverty and am accustomed to it. As for chastity”—she kept her voice free of any tinge of irony—“I have always resisted the temptations of women.”
Sergius’s expression softened. “I am glad to hear it. For in this matter, Abbot Raban and I do not agree; of all the religious vows, chastity is surely the greatest and most pleasing to God.”
Joan was surprised that he should think so. The ideal of priestly chastity was far from universally practiced in Rome. It was not at all uncommon for a Roman priest to have a wife, as there was no prohibition against married men entering the priesthood, provided that they agreed to abjure all future conjugal relations—an agreement that predictably was observed more in the breach than in the practice. A wife rarely objected if her husband sought to become a priest, for she shared in the prestige of his position: “Priestess,” the wife of a priest was respectfully titled, or “Deaconess,” if the wife of a deacon. Pope Leo III had been married when he ascended the papal throne, and no one in Rome had thought worse of him for it.
The chamberlain returned with a silver dish of bread and greens that he placed before Sergius, who tore off a chunk of