Resurrection

“It scarcely needs painstaking refutation today, for not only contemporary evidence for a female pope at any of the dates suggested for her reign, but the known facts of the respective periods make it impossible to fit one. The origin of the story, however, has never been satisfactorily explained.” – Oxford Dictionary of Popes


I loved her but all I could do was watch as they killed her mercilessly.

I’m a coward of course. I should have joined her on her painful passing to the Almighty; should have declared my undying love to those in attendance; should have been dragged after the horse, been flogged alongside her, and then, in true Biblical fashion, stoned to death. They destroyed her body so fully and with such meticulousness it was almost unbelievable; it was true religious justice for one so far out of her place.

If only they had done as good a job with her name.

She had asked me to promise her that if she was ever found out to claim no knowledge of her deceit. As her faithful companion, suspicion would surely fall on me at such a time. When all was abruptly revealed, she caught my gaze with such a firmness that I was frozen in place like a tree. Unable to flee, unable to speak, tied to the ground. The strong wind hardly moved me.

In that silent gaze she spoke volumes. She conveyed her love for me; her appreciation of our long partnership; her pride in me; her fearlessness for what would come next; her faith in God who had made her such a strong person. Most importantly she also pleaded with me to watch after our child.

I first had met Joan in Athens. She had traveled there from Limoges as a promising young acolyte. She was twenty and no one had any idea she was a woman. Her body was less curvaceous and less soft than that of the women I knew in Athens so her disguise was easily accomplished. Though now I wonder how I could have been so easily fooled by such a stunningly beautiful woman.

Where she was promising, I was sent to the seminary as the black sheep of my family. My father was a wealthy trader in Athens. His ships traveled to Asia Minor, Palestine and Egypt bringing rare goods to the city and on into Europe. My expertise was in wasting my father’s wealth on wine, women and high living. I knew nothing much about the Bible and had been chastised for poor church attendance on many occasions. So, vindictively, my father condemned me to the one vocation in the entire world that I would hate: the sober and contemplative life of a priest.

At the cursed seminary, Joan and I met and became fast friends; though to me she was known as John the Frenchman. I had no idea myself, so convincing was her façade. She never risked revealing her true identity to anyone; she avoided running with the other young men by remaining deep in study at all times. This was rewarded of course by her superiors; a true devotee to the Lord unlike the rest of us.

I don’t know why but a year into our training she told me the truth. Perhaps she understood that since I hated the church and my father I wouldn’t turn her in. Maybe she had begun to fall in love with such a wretched soul. I think it was a little of both. A secret can eat you up if not shared. And hers was the greatest, destined to become even greater.

So I became her companion and support and she lent me some of her resolve. I thrived under her wing and it wasn’t long before we were both off to Rome to continue our indoctrination. We both dreamed of changing the church and to do so we needed to reach as high as we could.

One day, Joan admitted to me that she wanted to be pope. I laughed loudly. It seemed preposterous but with her you had to believe she could do it. And, despite the laughter, I did.

We were together for fifteen years before she was elected bishop, then cardinal and then another five before she was named Pope John the Eleventh. All along I was her trusted assistant, helping her to navigate the corridors of power in Rome. She took pains to make me think that I been instrumental in her rise to the Papacy, that without me she would be merely another maid. She would have been listening to sermons in a dusty village church not delivering them to kings in their gilded halls.

In the end it was my desires that ruined her. I pleaded with her to make love to me. Our love had never carried us that far but I wanted that experience with her above all else; I had never made love to someone I actually loved. We knew this was dangerous, mortally so given her position, but in the end it was unavoidable. It was amazing that she could be both pope and a caring lover. Could a male pope have done as much?

Before that day I lamented that our relationship was never complete without the physical expression of our love. Now it will never be complete unless it comes in the next life. I will never see the summer sun on her wrinkled face or know the deep attachment of decades in one person’s company. On my darkest days, I wonder if it was worth it.

She had told me about the child many months earlier but swore to me that she could hide the signs and maintain her busy schedule. God had other ideas it seems. Why did He betray her, His chosen and sole representative on earth?

In terms of pure talent and conviction, no other priest or bishop even came close. They all hated her of course and could have destroyed her in an instant had they known the truth: that she was more like the towering figure of Mary Magdalene and less like St. Peter. Her ability to safely navigate this hateful men’s world was her greatest gift. Only five years into her term and so many Christians already called her history’s greatest pope.

The child was born instantly and easily as she mounted her beloved white horse, Shadow. It tumbled out from between her legs, the blood staining the horse’s side red. Amazingly the child fell softly to the ground as if carried by hidden angels. It started to cry as soon as it came to earth.

Joan fell back off the horse next to the child, so shocked was she by the amazing moment. The two of us were the only ones who viewed the birth that way. Joan reached out and touched the child’s face before it was snatched away by members of the procession; I kept the child in sight. They treated it well enough, cleaning off the blood and wrapping it in warm robes; it was amazing that childless men could be so delicate and caring in an act they had probably never experienced. Perhaps they longed for children of their own.

The bishops in attendance were not impressed. They quickly conclaved to react to this threat to their authority. A female pope? What would the people think of them? Of their divine power? That they could have been fooled so easily did not sit well with God’s representatives on earth. She would have to be punished severely and this story concealed. The church must retain its credibility with the masses above all else.

So they tortured her as I watched. They had faithful Shadow drag her about the road. They whipped her for an eternity. They would likely have crucified her much like their Roman predecessors had she not evacuated her body after so much suffering. She was dead before they stoned her, they who were without sin.

She had gone where they had no power. Where another force kept watch, made rules and exercised power over creation. She would be happier there she had always told me.

A local family was given the child to raise. I stayed close, the church having relieved me of my duties due to my closeness to the imposter. They never imagined the child could be mine and assumed I was as fooled as the rest. The child was a beautiful girl. Had it been a boy, they might have absorbed him into their secret society. But the church was no place for a girl.

Now when she is old enough, I will tell my daughter about her mother. The immaculate name of Pope Joan will live on, I swear.