Pope Joan

By Pablo Zaragoza

In this twelfth century historical tale, Joan, a young girl, rebels at her father's insistence that she marry a fat, ugly oaf. Joan had come to know a young priest, Andrew, and when the time was right – and with his encouragement – they flee the town and travel backroads to various monasteries. Joan soon learns how to wrap her body to disguise her gender, and her contralto voice helps her further to fit in as a male in monasteries where she and Andrew find refuge.

 

While Andrew pursues the world of numbers and accounting, Joan becomes an avid student, learning to love reading and acquiring knowledge, eventually – through a string of circumstances – propelling her to higher and higher offices within the church and finally becoming the first and only female pope.

 

How long does Pope Joan keep her gender a secret?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pablo Zaragoza
• Release date: Mar 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223896951

Book preview

Table of Contents

POPE JOAN

Dedication

Author’s Notes

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

About The Author

Books By Pablo Zaragoza

Copyright

Dedication

To the person who is responsible for my words, that they be spelled and used correctly and that my punctuation is correct: my partner in crime Susan Giffin, my editor in chief. She makes sure that the plot flows and that I don’t change the names of characters mid-story, among myriad other things that make the books turn out right.

To my family who provide a constant source of material.

To the people who read my stories.

Thank you.

A special word of thanks to Heather Kemp, South Africa, for her assistance in editing and proofreading.

Author’s Notes

As I, Joan, sit here in my cell waiting, waiting for men to figure out what to do with me, I take quill, using my own blood as pigment, and write my story to the best of my ability. This dungeon in the Palacio St. Angelo is cold and damp. My only companions are the occasional rats that visit me in the darkness. The poor creatures are as cold and hungry as I am; we share one thing in common—the hatred of men.

I, a woman, rose to power in their little club. I outsmarted them, and they cannot forgive or forget. Those in power will erase me from the pages of history. They will say that I was a myth, a construct created by those who wanted to cripple God’s church on Earth.

Those that will acknowledge that I lived will claim that I am a spawn of the devil, brought into the world to cause confusion and doubt among the faithful. I am none of those things. I am, however, a woman who has spent her time reading, learning, understanding beyond what was allowed of my kind due to the absence of a penis.

I was born a woman, not a beast of burden like most of the women in the eleventh century. We were relegated to sewing, cooking, bearing children, and smiling, constantly smiling. We lived to serve the head of the house and not ourselves. We were to honor and obey, to be kept in ignorance of the written word or the beauty of numbers. Those words were forbidden to us, and I could not tolerate it. I was taller than other girls my age, and my voice was lower in pitch, like a contralto.

My mind wanted to know, to read, to explore the world. That is why I am here in this cell in Palacio St. Angelo while they argue whether or not Clement III is the real pope. Clement was not elected by all the cardinals, but I was elected unanimously because of my superior intellect.

I am getting ahead of my story. All things start at their beginning in a place we call home.

Chapter One

In the year of our Lord 1069, I was born into a Jewish family in Mainz on the Rhine River. Three years prior to my birth, the Gzerto Tatnó, the Rhineland Massacre of Jews, had occurred. Movement against the Jewish people had been brewing for years before this King Robert the Pious of France had decreed that Jews convert or die. This intolerance grew; Richard, Duke of Normandy, and even the Holy Roman Emperor himself had decreed it.

When Urban II called for a Holy War against the Muslims, many believed that they should start with the Jews. My father, a very wise man, decided that before they came knocking at our door and burned us at the stake, conversion was necessary. At the age of eight, my siblings and I and the adults would go to the classes to be baptized and receive communion. Friday nights in the privacy of our home, we would say the Kiddush over the cup of wine:

Abyei erev, va'yehiy voker

And it was evening, and it was morning

Continue aloud:

Yom ha'shishi

Va'yechulu ha'shamayim ve'ha'aretz v'chol tzevaam

Va'yechal Elo-him ba'yom ha'sheviiy melachto asher asa,

va'yishbot ba'yom ha'sheviiy mikol melachto asher asa.

Of the sixth day

And creation of heaven and earth were completed with

all of their array. On the seventh day G-d completed all His creative activity

And He withdrew on the seventh day from the creative activity which He had done.

Va'yevarech Elo-him et yom ha'sheviiy va'yekadesh oto

ki vo shavat mikol melachto asher bara Elo-him laasot."

G-d blessed the seventh day and made it holy,

for on it He abstained from all the creative activity

which G-d had created, to be developed…

My father would pass the wine to each of us, and after we had taken our sips, he would remind us that although on Sunday we went to church, took their wafer, and drank their wine, we were still Jews. He hired a tutor to teach us the ways of the Church to enable us to receive those sacraments.

By the time I had finished my studies and received my first Holy Communion, I began to resent the dual nature of our lives. If the Jew had been waiting for a messiah, and Christ had fulfilled the recruitments of He who will come in the name of the Creator, why had we rejected Him? Did he not fulfill the messianic prophecies? He was a Hebrew (Isaiah 9:6), born in Bethlehem (Micah 5:2) of a virgin (Isaiah 7:14), a prophet akin to Moses (Deuteronomy 18:18), a priest in the order of Melchizedek (Psalm 110:4), a king (Isaiah 11:1–4), and the Son of David (Matthew 22:42) who suffered before entering His glory (Isaiah 53). Why couldn’t my people accept His kingship?

At that time, a thirst took over me, a thirst to read, explore books, and learn, but this was not allowed. A woman was relegated to the home to cook, clean, sew, embroider, and keep her husband happy. I hated the prospect, especially when I turned eleven and my parents began making arrangements for me to marry. Child brides were not uncommon in our Ashkenaz community. Although we had openly converted but secretly kept the covenant of our Jewish ancestors, I would leave my father’s house and be attached to a strange house. This became clear when I first met my husband to be, Wilhelm Steiner, a fat, ill-mannered young man with acne covering his face. He stomped on the floor when he entered our home, demanding to be given refreshment.

He was sixteen years old, dressed in fine clothes and tanned leather riding boots, although a carriage brought him to our house. He left dirt on the carpet in front of the door, stomping his feet, looking around for someone to take his coat. His father followed him inside the house and graciously extended his hand to my father.

My father Albert was a middle-aged man who had traded on the river for most of his life. He was a strong man with broad shoulders and large powerful hands which helped him load and unload merchandise in his warehouse. Men called him Hadov Hadir, The Mighty Bear. Before his conversion, men just called him Bear. I once heard that as a young man, he had wrestled a bear and won. After that, those men respected and feared him. Mama said it was a small bear, no more than two hundred pounds, whose nails had been clipped, and raised as the family pet by his Uncle Abraham.

Mother and Father had been married since she was twelve. She had not had her first visit, as she called it, of her monthly friend when she left her father’s house and lived with his parents.

"He was gentle, our wedding night. After all the ceremony and feasting, he quietly took me to bed. People stood outside singing to us. Our first time together was painful, and I bled a little. You will, too.

When he took the sheets outside in the morning, yelling Mazel tov, it was very embarrassing. As I walked out of the room, people lined the hallway. I felt like a prized cow. Men patted my father on the back like he had done something extraordinary.

My mother had never spoken to me about sex; I guess she was embarrassed about what men and women do in private.

The boy stood there, head held high as he approached my father and extended his hand.

I am Wilhelm, son of Ezekiel Steiner, the brewer. Ezekiel Steiner grabbed Wilhelm by the elbow and forced him to bow.

The boy’s father bent down with him and whispered, This is the Mighty Bear. He owns the docks where we send our beer barrels for export. He is one of the richest and most powerful men in Mainz, you stupid pig. It is an honor to be in his presence.

I overheard this. I had never thought of my father as powerful man, a man of influence. We lived simply enough. Mother washed dishes and cooked the meals. I helped her clean the house and turn over the beds. A house girl named Isabeau helped with the laundry and tended the chickens and the cows, but my mother, sisters Hannah and Sylvia, and I did most of the work.

My sisters were beautiful little girls with blonde pigtails and blue eyes that sparkled whenever they played a trick on someone. They grew to be a fine women, wives, and mothers. I heard from them in this place of misery as I waited for their decision on me. Those ecclesiastical hypocrites. I knew the dirty secrets of the very men who were debating my fate.

I’m getting ahead of myself; anger clouds my mind. I should pray, but what could I say to Jesus? I took on my role to learn and become closer to Him, and now, just like Nero who persecuted the Christians by wrapping them in bloody animal skins and throwing them to wild ravenous dogs, these good men would gladly do the same to me, Ioannes Angelicus of Mainz.

Father took Ezekiel Steiner into his study, leaving the boy waiting outside in the hall where I was hiding in the closet. I had opened the door just a crack to look at this boy who had put on airs in my father’s house. He was sweating profusely, wiping his brow constantly. His hair covering his ears was light brown and greasy. His cheeks had bumps with black and white tops. He would pick his face, and out from these bumps would ooze a creamy material which looked absolutely revolting. His arms were the only thin parts of his body; the rest of him was like a ball with his belly overhanging his belt. I could not believe that my father would want me to marry such a disgusting person who was not only unpleasing to the eye but ill-mannered.

After a long while, the two men came out of my father’s den and shook hands. I knew then that my fate had been sealed and that I would have to spend the rest of my life with this turnip of a man, to look at his disgusting face each morning when I awoke and at night as I went to sleep. I would have to give him children who would be as fat and unruly as he was, obeying someone whom I could not even respect, let alone tolerate.

They left the house, and as they did, Papa said, Come out of the closet, Ioannes.

I stepped out. I could not raise my head. Tears had already started to form and drop onto the floor.

He raised my head and asked, What’s wrong, my child?

You are going to make me marry that pig of a boy, aren’t you?

His father and I have discussed the possibility. It would merge our two businesses and provide us with much if we were to do this.

Papa, I’m I just another commodity, a bolt of cloth, a barrel of cider or beer to be sent down the river, nothing more.

Dear, we have few choices in life. We do things because they are the way things have always been done. The families come together through marriage to make themselves and their children better off. This is how wealth is accumulated, how families grow in power and status, my child.

Papa, did you see that boy? He was fat with bumps on his face, and he smelled of garlic. How could anyone sleep with such a pig? He’s unpleasant to look at, plus he’s ill-mannered. I thought that when I got married, it would be to someone refined who would be pleasing to the eye, at least.

You will meet with this boy once a week for the next year, and then you will marry him. You will live with the Steiner family as their daughter but remember who your family is. If old man Steiner tries to pull a trick on your father, you will see who your real family is.

Papa, please don’t make me do this. He’s a pig.

He looked at me for the longest time, and his eyes started to water. He sat down and put me on his knee, hugged me and folded me in his arms. I have no choice, my love. I owe him a great deal of money, and he is willing to erase the loan if you marry his odious son. It will not happen for a year. In that time, you can change him, like your mother changed me. He will be here almost every day, and you will spend time with him, work on him so his attitude changes.

Papa, it’s not so much the attitude, but his face looks like a mountain range with many snow-capped mountains which if pressed spew out vile, foul-smelling cream.

Yes, certain boys are plagued with this affliction, but it goes away in time. Once they’re married, it clears up, and their faces become normal.

He is so fat, Father, and he smells bad.

You can always get rid of the foul smell with soap, water, and essence of lilacs. My mother made sure that I bathed once a week with copious amounts of scented water.

I smiled at his story, but I did not think it was true. Mother had told me that he was a strong, tall man with a gentle touch, neat well-trimmed beard, never offensive to her nose.

I stood, went to my room, and cried big fat tears. I spent the day and did not come to supper that night. I did not want to marry that oaf, nor did I want to see him again. What could I do? I prayed to the Virgin Mary and asked her to illuminate me, help to see what I needed to do.

That night, in a dream, I saw two men, one smaller than the other, riding on donkeys through a dark forest. When I looked at the face of that young man, I saw myself with short hair in a brown monk’s habit. I knew the Blessed Mother had answered me, but who was the other person riding with me? I did not know, but I did believe there was hope, hope that I would not have to marry that pig, Wilhelm Steiner.

Chapter Two

It became a routine. The piglet would come to our trough each day at noon, sit next to my father at the table, and expect me to serve him.