The Psalter (25 page)

Ahmad reflected, “So you stayed to protect your sacred books, a noble purpose. And do you wish to fight us for them?”

“If I could, I would,” Johannes blurted out before his mentor was able to stop him. “Alas, we’re not soldiers. We stayed to bar the door to the grotto.”

“Some of your priests fight like soldiers. You, young man, have you the heart of a warrior or do you just puff up your delicate self like a bantam rooster?”

“I apologize for my outburst, but I’m the librarian of the Holy Church and you’re stealing scriptures that I’m charged to protect. Should I not be outraged and fight, though it might cost my life?”

Prince Ahmad nodded. “I suppose I should expect nothing less than your disdain.”

“So will you return our holy books?”

“I fear I cannot. Books are worth their weight in silver, and you possess a vast treasury. I can pay my army for years to come with the price these will fetch.”

“Then let’s bargain for them. Rome has gold. Sell the books back to us.”

“Will you not negotiate for your life instead?”

“These are the true riches of the church,” Johannes said. “Without them, my life is not worth a denier.”

“Then let us discover whether we can strike a deal.”

23
The Bargain

It’s a trap, Holiness.” Sergius’ brother, Benedict, said. “These Godless heathens are nothing more than pirates. Once they get their filthy hands on our gold, why should they give back our holy books? Besides, words can be rewritten, but the church’s treasure is hard earned.”

“I’m so fatigued, I can’t think straight.” Indeed, Pope Sergius’ pallor was gray.

“Send these ignorant unbelievers packing. I wouldn’t pay a single solidi for a room full of books.”

“You would trade the Papal Palace for thirty pieces of silver if it would make you a profit. Do you think I don’t know that you sell holy offices and anything you can get your hands on?” Sergius shouted, then slumped back in his seat, exhausted.

Benedict bowed his head in feigned contrition. “Dear brother, I sought only to make the church powerful, and money is power. We now possess a treasure to match even the Emperor’s.”

“You siphoned much for your own use.”

“Mine aren’t the only desires quenched by pleasures a coin can buy.”

Sergius was weak and ill from a lifetime of overindulgence. He felt weighed down as though the earth pulled at him to join his brethren. The old names called to him again, Pietro di Porca and Hogsmouth. The Pope shrank from their memory. Nevertheless, he sensed his time on earth was short. With his remaining days, he resolved to fight against Hogsmouth and be Sergius to the end, penance for a dissipated life. “There are Holy Scriptures in the library written by the Apostles’ own hands. These must be restored to us, and I won’t allow the church’s music to be lost forever. The profits from your avarice will buy them back.”

“Your stupid songs again,” Bishop Benedict said. “Those insipid tunes are not worth the parchment they’re written on.”

“Out, I say. Get out!” Sergius gasped as he sprang from his chair. “I never want to lay eyes on you again.”

Benedict rushed from the chamber, malice contorting his face.

Anastasius helped Sergius back on the throne. “Holiness, these are neither ignorant nor Godless men, and I believe their leader is an honorable man. Their beliefs are not ours, but their word is sacred to them as our holy oaths are to us.”

“Yet they hold Johannes hostage.”

“Not so. Prince Ahmad offered to release him as well, but Johannes refused to leave. When I left the basilica, he was guarding your music.” Anastasius silently asked God’s forgiveness although it was not a total lie. He had left Johannes inspecting piles of books hauled out of the Grotto, which included Sergius’ compositions.

“Our beloved brother Johannes,” Sergius said. “There is not one so good and refined in all of Christendom.”

“Everyone in Rome shares your opinion, Holiness.”

Bishop Benedict sat astride a warhorse next to Theophylact on the far side of the Tiber behind Hadrian’s sacked and spoiled mausoleum, just out of view of the Sant’Angelo Bridge. He had once again donned a colorful tunic instead of his priest’s robe and covered it with a knight’s hauberk. Theophylact wore a light breastplate, and his head was protected by a mail
coif
that left his face exposed. Behind them was a long column of the count’s men in battle armor, armed to the teeth.

“You were wise to come to me, Uncle. I won’t forget this.”

“I’m certain we can profit one another, but how can you be sure they won’t cross the Vatican Bridge instead?” Benedict said.

Theophylact smirked inwardly. His facinorous uncle had many useful talents, but tactics and reconnaissance were not among them. His were the stratagems of frontal assaults on a woman’s virtue and surrounding an unsuspecting purse. “Nero’s old bridge is the direct route, but they wouldn’t dare haul carts laden with gold and silver over the rickety thing. A breath of wind could knock it down.”

At that moment, Theophylact spied the train of carts in the distance. He recognized Anastasius astride a donkey at the procession’s head, but didn’t recognize the stout priest at his side who looked more like a soldier than a man of God. Priests prodded the oxen with cane rods as the beasts labored under heavy loads, and no men at arms guarded the defenseless clerics.
So much the better
, the count thought to himself.
It would hardly be politic to kill soldiers in the service of the Pope
.

When the last cart lumbered past, he nodded to the officer behind him who waved a banner, and the column of cavalry surged forward, galloping on either side of the heavy carts. Theophylact loped to the head of the wagons to face Anastasius and Baraldus.

“You have no business here, Count,” Baraldus said.

“My business is wherever it may please me, priest.”

Anastasius put a calming hand on the Lombard’s shoulder to entreat his silence. “We’re on an errand in his Holiness’ name. You have no right to stop us.”

“I retain an army,” Theophylact said. “That’s my right, and I’ve been informed of your mission. You’re giving the church’s gold to the heathens.”

Anastasius glowered at Benedict, knowing their betrayal had come from him. “We give nothing. We’re paying the ransom to buy back the church’s dearest possession, our Holy Scriptures.”

“Is this one of the Emperor’s tricks, to bankrupt the
patriarchum
so he can exert his own control?”

Anastasius shouted so the troops might hear, “The Pope has sworn allegiance to Lothair and even you, Theophylact, are his vassal. I do the Pope’s business, and in this matter, you enjoy no standing. So why are you here?”

Theophylact rankled at the Emperor’s man broadcasting the count’s subordination to Lothair. He instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword but caught himself. Instead, he chided Anastasius. “Where is the Emperor? Does he defend the church? No, he languishes at his capitol in Aachen and his few troops hide behind Rome’s very walls.”

“Nevertheless, you didn’t answer my question. What’s your business?”

Theophylact spotted the trap. “Why, dear Father, I’m here to save the church’s wealth, the tithes of its parishioners.”

“You’re here to steal the gold.”

“Not steal, protect.”

“You forget that the Saracens hold our scriptures and a priest hostage.”

“Ah yes, Johannes the
bibliothecarius
. It would be tragic if he were to die by the hands of filthy unbelievers,” he sneered. “Fear not. We’ll save your precious books and the librarian if we can, and Sergius’ treasure in the bargain.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Anastasius said. He turned his head so Theophylact’s men could hear him well. “Anyone who interferes will face excommunication, I swear by the Holy Virgin.” Gasps were heard from the ranks.

Theophylact grabbed for his sword to jerk it from its sheath, but Baraldus leapt from his donkey in the same instant and gripped the count’s hand in his own giant fist. The count struggled to free himself. However, his strength was no match for the powerful Lombard, who crushed Theophylact’s fingers against the hilt, making him wince in pain. Then Baraldus felt a prick at his throat, and warm droplets oozed from the cut.

“Loose him, Brother,” the voice said dispassionately. Benedict held a long dagger.

“Father Baraldus,” Anastasius said, “nothing will be gained by this.” Benedict pressed the point deeper, drawing more blood. Finally, Baraldus loosed the count’s throbbing hand ever so slowly until Theophylact could yank it free.

Rubbing his bruised fist, the count shouted, “Seize the carts,” but not a soldier moved. “I said, seize them!” Soldiers glanced at one another, not knowing what to do.

Benedict remounted and slid his dagger into a sheath underneath his hauberk. He stood in the stirrups and faced the immobile troops. “I’m Benedict, Bishop of Albano, and Pope Sergius’ brother. We’re here to do his will, and the brave Count of Tusculum speaks truly. We shall save our Scriptures and the church’s treasure, and even noble Johannes. No man will face excommunication. You have my sacred vow.”

The soldiers appeared skeptical. They knew Anastasius’ goodness, and Benedict’s reputation for avarice was also well known. Theophylact ordered again, “Commandeer those carts.” This time they drew their swords. Theophylact turned to Anastasius. “As I said, I’m in command here. You and your friend may return to the Lateran and tell my uncle that I have things well in hand.”

Prince Ahmad joined Johannes, who inspected scrolls piled outside Saint Peter’s on the open field. “I’m truly sorry about the library. It must grieve your heart sorely. Our Qur’an holds the words of Allah, and my people would weep and tear out their beards if our holy books were stolen. You store many scriptures here, tens of thousands.”

“They’re not all scriptures, of course. Some are commentaries from the finest scholars, church histories, and even heretical books.”

“What are these heretical books?”

“Scriptures we don’t accept as orthodox.”

“Then why do you keep them? They should be destroyed if they’re false,” the prince shrugged.

“I’m not sure all of them are.”

“They’re either the word of God or they’re not.”

“It’s not quite that easy. After our Messiah was crucified, more than thirty Gospels had been written, and they contradicted each other. One of our early church fathers, Irenaeus, decided there should be only four since there are only four points of the compass and four directions of the wind.”

“Can such a thing be true?”

“I can’t say how he chose them, but that was his justification,” Johannes said.

“Many must have disputed his unscholarly argument.”

“Most Christians at the time thought his claim was absurd and continued to study heretical Gospels for another two hundred years until they were banned.”

“Which of your prophets forbade them?”

Johannes chuckled. “No prophet. It was Roman Emperors Constantine and Theodosius.”

“An emperor ordered which scriptures would be true and which would be false?”

“Theodosius commanded that all outlawed books be destroyed and anyone who possessed them executed. Within a few years, all dissent was crushed.”

“Who wrote these heresies?” the prince asked.

“Early church leaders, followers of the Apostles, perhaps the Apostles themselves.”

“Yet they were destroyed by an emperor? A king may not tell a holy man what is just. How would he know? He’s but a king.”

“Something had to be done,” Johannes said. “Many scriptures were altered by over-zealous monks. Entire books were composed to oppose earlier writings.”

“You mean forged? Blasphemy! By the beard of the Prophet, I don’t understand you Christians. How can you judge what’s true and what is not?”

“That’s why we ordain priests. We study to find the truth.”

“It’s one thing to search for truth in the words of Allah and quite another to seek it out amidst a haystack of lies. Moreover, a Christian must discern which priest speaks falsely and which tells the truth? Your religion is too complicated for a simple man like me.”

Creaking and rumbling reached their ears from the lowland below the Vatican. Prince Ahmad spied the long line of carts with priests walking beside the oxen. They trudged up Vatican Hill led by two armed men of rank. He spoke to Johannes in a suspicious voice. “I said no soldiers.”

Johannes strained his eyes. “There’re only two. Surely that can’t be a threat.” But the priest noticed the knights were nobles and wondered who they might be. “Maybe they’ve come to direct the exchange?” Yet even as he spoke, he didn’t believe his own words.

“Perhaps.” Ahmad turned to his captain and said something in a dialect Johannes didn’t understand, even though he was familiar with many Arabic words. The captain barked orders to his sergeants, who scurried to their troops. The encampment disintegrated into organized chaos as soldiers rushed to their appointed positions.

Standing next to the Prince, Johannes strained his eyes as the wagon train approached. Finally, he made out the two nobles, and a lump grew in his throat.

“I detect trouble in your countenance, priest.”

Johannes turned to face Ahmad. He felt the prince’s dark eyes probing his own as though he was burrowing into his soul. He thought about lying. Certainly it could be no sin to lie to an unbeliever who was intent upon stealing Holy Scriptures or the church’s treasure. Johannes surprised himself as he opened his mouth, only to discover the truth spilling out. “The armed men who lead the wagons are no friends of the church, although one’s a priest. I fear you’ve been betrayed, but I know not how.”

The prince gave a satisfied nod. Then he ordered horses brought to them. “Let’s investigate what deception has been planned.”

Sleek Arabian stallions were led to Ahmad and Johannes. “Join me, priest.”

Johannes looked around, but spied no other troops. “Just the two of us?”

“Your wagons are defended by two warriors, and we also shall be two.”

“You don’t understand. These are devious men. You won’t be safe.”