Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [137]
“What fine hands you have,” she purred, arranging herself so the enticing curves of her body were displayed to advantage. “What fine, strong hands.”
Joan bolted upright. “Satan’s apple!”
How like a priest, Marioza thought, to talk high-mindedly of sin at such a moment. Well, she was no stranger to priests; she knew how to deal with these last-minute crises of conscience.
“Do not suppress your feelings, John, for they are natural and God-given. Is it not written in the Bible: ‘The two shall become one flesh’?” Actually, Marioza was not sure the words came from the Bible, but she thought it likely; they had been told to her, under circumstances very similar to the present, by an archbishop. “Besides,” she added, “no one will ever know what happens here between us, excepting ourselves.”
Joan shook her head vehemently. “That’s not what I meant. The scent in this room—it’s mandragora—sometimes called Satan’s apple.” The yellow fruit was a narcotic; that explained Marioza’s dilated pupils. “But where is the scent coming from?” Joan sniffed a candle near the bed. “What have you done, mixed the juice with candle wax?”
Marioza sighed. She had seen such reactions from virginal young prelates before. Embarrassed and unsure, they kept trying to turn the conversation to safer ground. “Come,” she said, “leave off talk of potions. There are better ways for us to pass the time.” She ran her hand across the front of John Anglicus’s tunic, reaching for his privates.
Anticipating her, Joan jumped back. She snuffed the candle and took Marioza’s hands firmly in her own. “Listen to me, Marioza. The mandragora—you use it for its aphrodisiac qualities, I know. But you must leave off, for its fumes are poison.”
Marioza frowned. This was not going according to plan. Somehow she must get the man’s mind off his doctoring.
There were footsteps in the hall below. No time left for persuasion. She grabbed the top of her robe with both hands and rent it with a strong downward pull. “Oh!” she gasped, “a pain comes now! Do but listen!” She clasped Joan’s head and held it firmly to her breast.
Joan tried to pull away, but Marioza held her tight. “Oh, John,” her voice was now pure liquid, “I cannot resist the force of your passion!”
The door burst open. A dozen papal guards stormed into the room and seized Joan, lifting her roughly off the bed.
“Well, Father, this is a strange kind of communion!” the leader of the guards said mockingly.
Joan protested. “This woman is ill; I was called here to physick her.”
The man leered. “Indeed, many’s the woman been cured of barrenness with such remedying.”
There was a burst of raucous laughter. Joan said to Marioza, “Tell them the truth.”
Marioza shrugged, her torn robe slipping from her shoulders. “They saw us. Why try to deny it?”
“Join the ranks, Priest!” jeered one of the guards. “The number of Marioza’s lovers would fill the Colosseum to bursting!”
This was greeted with another explosion of laughter. Marioza joined in with the others.
“Come on, Father.” The leader of the guards took Joan’s arm, propelling her toward the door.
“Where are you taking me?” Joan demanded, though she knew the answer.
“To the Lateran. You’ll answer to the Pope for this.”
Joan wrenched herself from his grasp. To Marioza she said, “I don’t know why you’ve done this, or for whom, but I warn you, Marioza: do not pin your fortunes on the favors of men, for they will prove as fleeting as your beauty.”
Marioza’s laughter died on her lips. “Barbarian!” she spat back contemptuously.
On a tide of laughter, Joan was carried from the room.
FLANKED by the guards, Joan walked in silence through the darkening streets. She could not bring herself to hate Marioza. Joan might have ended as such a one herself had fate not led her down a different path. The streets of Rome were filled with women offering themselves for no more than the price of a meal. Many had first come to the Holy City as pious pilgrims,