Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [154]
Everything was in readiness. “Bring the prisoner,” Arighis commanded the guards.
Benedict was marched in. Clothes rumpled, face drawn and ashen from a sleepless night in the dungeon, he anxiously searched the court yard. “Where is Sergius?” he demanded. “Where is my brother?”
“His Holiness cannot be disturbed,” Arighis said.
Benedict whirled on him. “What do you think you are doing, Arighis? You saw my brother last night. He was drunk; he didn’t know what he was saying. Let me talk to him, and you will see: he will reverse the judgment against me.”
“Proceed,” Arighis commanded the guards.
The guards dragged Benedict to the center of the courtyard and forced him to his knees. They grabbed his arms and pulled them across the pedestal of the statue of the she-wolf so his hands rested levelly on the top.
Terror creased Benedict’s face. “No! Stop!” he shouted. Raising his eyes toward the windows of the Patriarchium, he cried out, “Sergius! Sergius! Serg—!”
The sword sliced downward. Benedict screamed as his severed hands dropped to the ground, spurting blood.
The crowd cheered. The swordsman nailed Benedict’s severed hands to the side of the she-wolf. According to ancient custom, they would remain there for one month as a warning to others tempted to the sin of thievery.
Ennodius the physician came forward. Pulling the hot irons from the brazier, he pressed them firmly against Benedict’s bleeding stumps. The smell of burning flesh rose sickeningly in the air. Benedict screamed again and toppled into a faint. Ennodius bent to attend him.
Arighis leaned forward attentively. Most men died after such an injury—if not immediately from shock and pain then shortly afterward from infection or loss of blood. But some of the strongest managed to survive. One saw them on the streets of Rome, their grotesque mutilations revealing the nature of their crimes: severed lips, those who had lied under oath; severed feet, slaves who’d fled their masters; gouged-out eyes, those who had lusted after the wives or daughters of their betters.
The distressing possibility of survival was the reason Arighis had asked Ennodius and not John Anglicus to attend the condemned man, for the skill of the latter might be great enough to save Benedict.
Ennodius stood. “God’s judgment has been rendered,” he announced gravely. “Benedict is dead.”
Christ be praised, Arighis thought. The papacy is safe.
JOAN stood on line in the lavatorium, waiting her turn for the ritual hand washing before mass. Her eyes were swollen and heavy from lack of sleep; all night she had tossed restlessly, her mind filled with thoughts of Gerold. Last night, feelings she believed long buried had resurfaced with an intensity that astonished and frightened her.
Gerold’s return had reawakened the disturbing desires of her youth. What would it be like to live as a woman again? she wondered. She was accustomed to being responsible for herself, to having complete control of her destiny. But by law a wife surrendered her life to her husband. Could she trust any man so far—even Gerold?
Never give yourself to a man. Her mother’s words echoed like warning bells in her mind.
She needed time to sort out the turmoil of emotions in her heart. But time was one thing she didn’t have.
Arighis appeared beside her. “Come,” he said urgently. He pulled her out of line. “His Holiness needs you.”
“Is he ill?” Worriedly, she followed Arighis down the corridor to the papal bedroom. Last night’s rich food and wine had been purged from Sergius’s body, and the strong dose of colchicum Joan had administered should have staved off a return attack of gout.
“He will be if he keeps carrying on as he is.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“Benedict is dead.”
“Dead!”
“The sentence was carried out this morning. He died immediately.”
“Benedicite!” Joan quickened her steps. She could imagine the effect this news would have on Sergius.
Even so, when she saw