Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [134]
20
IT WAS, Joan came to understand, as if Sergius were two different people—one dissolute, vulgar, and mean, the other cultivated, intelligent, and considerate. She had read of such cases in Celsus: animae divisae, he called them, divided spirits.
So it was with Sergius. But in his case, it was drink that triggered the metamorphosis. Gentle and kind when sober, he became a terror under the influence of wine. The palace servants, always ready to gossip, told Joan that Sergius had once condemned one of them to death merely for failing to deliver his supper in time. He had sobered up in time to stop the execution, but not before the unfortunate man had already been caned and pilloried.
His doctors had not been so far wrong after all, Joan decided: Sergius was possessed, though the demons that drove him were not of the Devil’s making but his own.
Having gotten a glimpse of his better qualities, Joan made it her mission to restore him. She put him on a strict diet of greens and barley water. Sergius grumbled but submitted, fearing a return of pain. When she judged he was ready, Joan instituted a regimen of daily walks in the Lateran garden. In the beginning, he had to be carried there in his chair, three attendants groaning under his weight. The first day he barely managed to hobble a few steps before collapsing into his chair. With Joan’s persistent encouragement, each day he went a little farther; at the end of a month he was able to make a full circuit of the garden. The residual swelling around his joints subsided, and the skin regained a healthy pink color. His eyes lost their puffiness, and as the contours of his face emerged more clearly, Joan could see that he was a much younger man than she had first thought—no more, perhaps, than forty-five or fifty.
“I feel a new man,” Sergius said to Joan one day during their daily stroll. It was spring, and the lilacs were already in bloom, their heady scent perfuming the air.
“No dizziness, no weakness, no pain?” Joan asked.
“None. Truly, God has wrought a miracle.”
“You might say that, Holiness,” Joan said with a sideways smile. “But think what your condition was when God alone was serving as your physician!”
Sergius tweaked Joan’s ear in playful recrimination. “God sent you here to me to effect His miracle!”
They smiled together, liking each other.
This is the moment, Joan thought. “If you truly feel quite well …” She let the words hang, tantalizingly.
“Yes?”
“I was just thinking … the papal court is in session today. Your brother Benedict is presiding in your place as usual. But if you’re feeling strong enough …”
Sergius said irresolutely, “Benedict is accustomed to presiding. Surely there is no need …”
“The people did not choose Benedict for their lord. They need you, Holiness.”
Sergius frowned. There was a long silence.
Joan thought: I spoke too soon, and too boldly.
Sergius said, “You speak truly, John Anglicus. I have been too long neglectful of such matters.” The sadness in his eyes gave his face a look of grave wisdom.
Joan replied gently, “The remedy, my lord, lies in the doing.”
Sergius contemplated this. Then he wheeled abruptly, heading for the garden gate. “Come on, then!” he called back to her. “What are you waiting for?”
Joan hurried after him.
TWO guards leaned against the wall outside the council room, chatting idly. Seeing Sergius, they jumped to attention and pulled the doors open. “His Holiness Pope Sergius, Bishop and Metropolitan of Rome!” one announced in a ringing voice.
Sergius and Joan swept into the room. There was a moment’s astonished silence, followed by a loud scraping of benches as everyone stood respectfully. Everyone, that is, but Benedict, who remained seated in the papal chair with his jaw agape.
“Close your mouth, Brother, unless you mean to catch flies,” Sergius said.
“Holiness! Is this wise?” Benedict exclaimed. “Surely you should not risk your health by observing these proceedings!”
“Thank you, Brother, but I feel quite