Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [135]
Benedict stood up. “I rejoice to hear it, as does all Rome.” He sounded anything but rejoiceful.
Sergius settled comfortably into the cushioned chair. “What is the case in hand?”
Quickly the notary outlined the details. Mamertus, a wealthy merchant, was suing for permission to renovate the Orphanotrophium, a shelter and school for orphans housed in a decaying structure close by the Lateran. Mamertus proposed to rebuild it entirely and turn it into a hostel for pilgrims.
“The Orphanotrophium,” Sergius mused. “I know the place well; I stayed there some while myself, after my mother died.”
“Holiness, the building is fallen into ruin,” Mamertus said. “It is an eyesore, a blot upon our great city. What I propose will turn it into a palace!”
“What will become of the orphans?” Sergius asked.
Mamertus shrugged. “They can seek charity elsewhere. There are almshouses that will receive them.”
Sergius looked doubtful. “It is a hard thing to be turned out from one’s home.”
“Holiness, this hostelry will be the pride of Rome! Dukes will not scorn to sleep there, nor kings neither!”
“Orphans are no less dear to God than kings. Has Christ not said, ‘Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of God’?”
“Holiness, I beg you to consider. Think what the existence of such an establishment can do for Rome!”
Sergius shook his head. “I will not sanction the destruction of these children’s home. The petition is denied.”
“I protest!” Mamertus said heatedly. “Your brother and I are already agreed upon the arrangement; the compact has been struck, and the payment delivered.”
“Payment?” Sergius arched a brow.
Benedict shook his head at Mamertus in urgent signal.
“I … I”—Mamertus raised his eyes, searching for words—“I made an offering, a most generous offering, at the altar of St. Servatius to speed the success of this enterprise.”
“Then you are blessed,” said Sergius. “Such charity carries its own reward, for you will suffer the less in the life everlasting.”
“But—”
“You have our gratitude, Mamertus, for calling the poor state of repair of the Orphanotrophium to our attention. Restoring it shall become our immediate concern.”
Mamertus’s mouth opened and closed several times like that of a beached fish. With a last glare at Benedict, he stalked from the room.
Sergius winked at Joan, who smiled back.
Benedict caught the exchange. So that’s the weave of the wool, he thought. He chided himself for not having noticed it sooner. It had been a busy season for the pontifical court, the most profitable time of year for Benedict; his time had been so heavily given over to these matters that he had not paid sufficient attention to the degree of sway the little foreign priest had acquired over his brother.
No matter, he told himself. What’s done can be undone. Every man has his weakness. It was just a matter of discovering what that was.
JOAN hurried down the corridor on her way to the triclinium major. As Sergius’s personal physician, she was expected to sup at his table—a privilege that allowed her to keep a close eye on everything the Pope ate and drank. His state of health was still far from robust; overindulgence could well bring on another attack of gout.
“John Anglicus!”
She turned to see Arighis, the vicedominus, or majordomo of the palace, coming toward her.
“A lady in the Trastevere is dangerously ill; you are called upon to attend her.”
Joan sighed. Three times this week she had been called out on such an errand. The news of her cure of Pope Sergius had spread throughout the city. To the great dismay of the members of the physicians’ society, Joan’s services as a healer were suddenly very much in demand.
“Why not send a physician from the schola?” Joan suggested.
Arighis frowned. He was not accustomed to being challenged: as vicedominus, it was his right and his duty to exercise control over all matters relating to the papal household and its staff—a fact that this brash young foreigner did not seem to understand. “I have already committed your services.