The Psalter (2 page)

“Father Romano, are you on the line?”

“Sorry, Eminence. How may I be of assistance?”

“This is urgent, so I’ll get to the point. I understand you’re a paleographer?”

“Actually, Eminence, I’m now a librarian in the Secret Archives, but I once taught paleography at the Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies.” Romano tried to be humble yet concise. If the Grand Inquisitor knew he had taught paleography, he had access to his personnel file. Romano felt sick.

“Of course. You’re Vice-Prefect of the Archives and before that you were the Director of the school of paleography. I’m told you’re the foremost paleographer in the church. Are you expert enough to date a first-century manuscript and confirm its authenticity?” The Grand Inquisitor sounded impatient.

“Provided the script is Latin, Greek, or Syriac.” Romano heaved a sigh of relief. He was wanted for his expertise rather than some new transgression.

“My car will pick you up in ten minutes. Can you be ready?”

“Certainly Eminence. Do I need—” The line clicked dead.

Romano opened his tiny closet and slid hanging trousers aside. He eyed his soutane thinking he should put it on to meet the Grand Inquisitor. Many in the Vatican favored the soutane or cassock, especially the traditional or ambitious. Romano was neither. But after his first promotion, he had been advised to wear one. So he bought the thing, tried it on, and took it off. He hadn’t worn it since. It seemed pretentious. He pulled down his
tenue de ville
, what Italians called the clergyman, an ordinary black suit, cleric’s shirt, and collar. He started to reach for his navy hooded sweatshirt. After all, the clock glowed three a.m. Instead, he slid his arms into the suit jacket, a concession to propriety.

He stepped out of his apartment building into the chilly rain. An official Vatican Mercedes S600 sat idling at the curb. The driver hopped out and opened the rear door. Romano climbed inside, expecting to meet the Grand Inquisitor. The back seat was empty. The car sped off, exiting Vatican City, crossing the Tiber, and into the rain-soaked streets of Rome.

“Are you picking up Cardinal Keller?” Romano asked the driver.

“I’m sorry, Father. I have no instructions to pick up anyone else.”

The priest felt his pulse quicken as the car dashed toward the city center. The opportunity to examine a first-century manuscript was extraordinary, and if this one turned out to be Christian, it was unheard of. No Christian text of any kind existed from the time of Jesus. In fact, no Christian scriptures existed from any part of the first century. A few papyrus fragments from the mid- to late-second century had survived, but that was all. The rest, both canon and non-canon, had been written in the third century or later. And one of the earliest fragments, Egerton 2, was disturbingly different from the Gospels.

Fantasies of discovery were playing in the priest’s imagination when the driver stopped in front of
Carabinieri
headquarters. “Why are we stopping here?” Romano asked.

“This is where I was instructed to take you, Father.”

Two uniformed
Carabinieri
, Rome’s military police, chatted behind a plexiglass window in the entry. Romano spoke into a round, metal intercom, “Father Michael Romano.”

“They’re waiting for you, Father,” one said. An electronic lock clicked and Romano pushed on the heavy door. One of the officers led him to an elevator and pressed the button for the second floor. They exited the lift and walked down the hall to a door labeled
Sala Conferenze
. The officer rapped twice, opened the door and waved the priest through with a gesture of his hand.

Romano hesitated a moment, gathering his thoughts as his mind flashed a warning. He was about to face the Grand Inquisitor. He rubbed his chin, feeling the coarse stubble on his angular jaw. He hadn’t shaved. Not long ago, he had submitted multiple requests for an interview at the
Palazzo del Sant’Uffizio
, Inquisition headquarters, and was ignored. Then he had been forced to submit without a chance to defend his work. Yet tonight, his oppressor needed his help. Romano bristled. Sure, he feared the Grand Inquisitor. No, that wasn’t quite true. He had never met the man, but he resented his absolute power, the power over his life. “Thank you, officer,” he nodded to the
Carabiniere
. He gathered himself up to his six-foot height and stepped into the room.

“Ah, Father Romano, how gracious of you to come so quickly.” A man in his mid sixties with gray hair topped by a scarlet zucchetto and wearing a black soutane with a red sash, rose from the table. Smiling, he stepped gracefully toward Romano and offered his hand. As Romano kissed the cardinal’s ring, he couldn’t help but notice the charm displayed by the man who had sounded so abrupt half an hour earlier.

“Your Eminence,” the priest replied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, at last.”

“Nonsense, Father. The honor is mine. Let me introduce you to
Generale
Giudici,
Comandante
of the
Carabinieri
in Rome.”

“I apologize for summoning you at this ungodly hour, Father,” said the General, an overweight man also in his sixties whose tailored uniform couldn’t disguise his girth. A younger man in his mid forties with a powerful build rose at the same time.

“May I present
Colonelo
Del Carlo,” the cardinal continued, “commander of the
Gruppo Intervento Speciale
.” Romano knew all about the GIS as did everyone in Italy. The Italian press had mentioned them every day since the September 11 attack on New York’s Twin Towers. They were the
Carabinieri’s
elite counter-terrorism unit.

Colonelo
Del Carlo pushed an old floppy briefcase in front of the priest. “This is why we need your expertise, Father. If you could identify the evidence in the briefcase, perhaps we’ll discover something to help our case.”

“Evidence of what?”

Del Carlo and
Generale
Giudici turned their questioning gazes on Cardinal Keller. “Father Romano has been given no details gentlemen,” the Grand Inquisitor said. “I thought it prudent not to mention the accident.”

Del Carlo took command of the conversation. “Do you know Father James Mackey?” The colonel’s demeanor turned somber.

“Of course,” Romano said. “The Pope’s Secretary.” They weren’t merely close friends, but confessor and penitent as well, and Mackey was a compassionate counselor, if sometimes brusque. They also shared an interest in the writing style of a particular medieval scribe Father Romano had nicknamed Giovanni. He didn’t know the scribe’s actual name, of course, but he had seen enough of the monk’s ninth-century texts to recognize his handwriting. Giovanni had been a most prolific scribe. Mackey had been a frequent visitor to the Secret Archives and often asked Romano’s professional opinion about Giovanni’s manuscripts.

“Father Mackey has been in an accident,” the colonel continued.

“Is he all right?” Alarm shook Romano’s voice.

“Father Mackey is dead.”

Romano made the sign of the cross. “But I just—”

“He was killed by a hit and run driver. We haven’t determined for sure whether it was intentional. You were going to say, Father?”

“Nothing, only…surely it had to be an accident.”

“Even so, leaving the scene is a crime.”

“He had this briefcase with him? Is the manuscript inside?” Romano’s voice had an inflection of astonishment.

“Does that surprise you?”

“We never let scrolls out of the Secret Archives. Well, perhaps on rare occasions for an exhibition or special event, but only with the Library Prefect’s permission and written consent from the Office of His Holiness.”

“You received no such authorization?”

“Not from the Archives. One could have come from the Library, but I’m sure their rules are the same.”

The cardinal interrupted. “Surely, Father Romano, the Pope’s personal Secretary might have had permission.”

“Of course Eminence.” The priest acquiesced more than agreed. However, Romano thought that even had permission been granted, he would have been informed. He knew all six of the other librarians in the Archives, and as Assistant Archivist, he was in charge. Besides, Mackey himself would have said something.

Romano sensed Del Carlo’s eyes on him. He met their gaze, then the colonel turned toward Cardinal Keller. “Perhaps your Eminence could provide us a copy of an authorization.”

Keller smiled thinly. “I’ll try to locate it.”

Romano returned to the subject of the manuscript, impatient to examine the contents. “Did you recover the manuscript from the accident,
Colonelo
?”

“In a way. Perhaps I should tell you what we know.”

The Grand Inquisitor added, “You understand, of course, that anything disclosed here must remain within these walls unless you receive instructions from me.” The cardinal’s charm was replaced by the same stern insistence Romano had detected earlier. Romano chafed but replied with the slightest nuance of a smile.

“A car with Vatican license plates struck and killed Father Mackey,” Del Carlo said. “Then the driver stole the briefcase you see on the table. We have witnesses.”

Romano was dumbfounded. “You can’t believe one of the clergy committed the crime?”

“Of course not, Father.” Del Carlo had reassurance in his voice. “The man wasn’t even Catholic.”

“You know who did this?”

“Yes. Regrettably, the suspect lost control of his car while being pursued and crashed into a garbage truck. He died instantly. That’s where we recovered the manuscript.” The colonel hesitated for a moment, gauging the priest, then said, “Father, have you heard of the Children of the Book?”

“Don’t you mean the People of the Book,” Romano said. “What Muslims call Jews and Christians?”

Del Carlo scanned an Interpol computer printout. “No, our intelligence says Children of the Book.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“They’re a sort of messianic sect on the Iran, Iraq border.”

“Christians or Muslims?”

“I’m not sure. They’re a mysterious group in an area with a number of small, unusual religions.” Del Carlo looked down at the printout again. “The same general area as Mandeans and Manicheans.”

“Of course. Very ancient religions. Saint Augustine was Manichean until he converted.”

“The man who ran over the Pope’s Secretary comes from the region and he’s on the FBI’s watch list.”

“A terrorist?”

“Perhaps.” Del Carlo said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You think terrorists wanted Father Mackey dead? Why?”

“That’s what I’m trying to determine. What we would like to know is the value of the manuscript and any other details you can provide, and I should like to find out why a foreigner was driving an official Vatican car.”
Colonelo
Del Carlo flashed a look at Cardinal Keller. The Grand Inquisitor stared straight ahead.

“Do you need any special equipment to examine the manuscript?” the colonel asked.

Romano pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket. “I’m a paleographer. This is all I need.”

“Excuse me, Father,” Del Carlo said. “What is a paleographer?”

“A handwriting expert.”

“Like personality assessments when you apply for a job?”

“Not at all. We analyze ancient scripts, handwriting if you will, to date manuscripts by the style used during a particular era.” Romano pulled the heavy briefcase toward him and opened the flap. As he slid out the thick volume, his heart sank. He didn’t need to look at the pages to see they weren’t from the first century. The book was a codex, bound in a style common to the Middle Ages. He lifted the cracked leather cover. The text was Latin from the latter part of the ninth century.

“Well?” The Grand Inquisitor said, leaning forward, staring hard into Romano’s eyes.

The priest couldn’t hide his disappointment. He replied acerbically without thinking. “Eminence, this is a common prayer book.”

“Are you certain? Look closer.”

Romano scanned the front side of the first page known as the
recto,
studying the text below the
rubric
, or title. It read
Beatus
. Then something did catch his eye. The scribe who copied this book was without a doubt Giovanni, the same Giovanni he had discussed many times with Father Mackey. Something else caught his eye as well, faint and nearly invisible impressions. Romano turned the page, stopping to examine a few words with the magnifying glass.

“It’s an early medieval prayer book called a Psalter
.
” The priest explained to
Colonelo
Del Carlo and
Generale
Giudici that a Psalter was in essence a handwritten book of the Psalms, but often included canticles, a list of saints, prayers, and a calendar. “It’s not from the first century, not even close. Psalters were medieval bestsellers. Every noble lady wanted one. We have hundreds, maybe thousands, in the Vatican Library in excellent condition. This is ninth-century Latin, very common. Did you look at it, Eminence?” Romano asked the Grand Inquisitor, a hint of condescension in his voice. He didn’t mention Giovanni. That was his little secret, and secrets prompted questions. Romano didn’t want any inquiries from the Grand Inquisitor, especially about Giovanni.

Cardinal Keller’s face flushed as he marched around the table, pushing his way past Romano. He read out loud, seeming to ponder each word, “
beatus vir qui non abiit in consilio impiorum
…blessed is the man who hath not walked in the counsel of the ungodly.” He flipped a page and then another, faster and faster. Romano wanted to stop him. He almost did. After all, it was still a twelve-hundred-year old-antique. Keller regained his composure, straightened himself, and muttered, “Killed for an ordinary prayer book.”

Del Carlo broke the awkward moment. “How would you value this Psalter, Father Romano?”

“I’m no appraiser, but I’ve seen Psalters in this condition sell on the Internet for ten or fifteen thousand dollars, perhaps as much as twenty. Regrettably, rare document dealers buy them to remove the bindings so they can turn individual pages into framed artwork. They make more money that way. Printed pages sell for four or five hundred dollars. Illustrated pages go for three or four thousand, the finest as high as ten, but that’s rare. Still, this is no priceless text.”