The Psalter (30 page)

“Have you read these secrets?”

“Oh yes, Rashid. I have.”

“Tell me what they say.”

“They tell us how to destroy the false Christian religion.”

Rashid lifted the Psalter from his lap and laid it on the table. “Read it to me so I may learn how to wipe out these infidels.”

Sayyid scooped up the book with one arm. “I don’t need to. I already know what it says and so shall you, very soon.”

It was nearly midnight in Paris as they drove up the wide
Boulevard Magenta
through the intersection with
Boulevard de Rochechouart
, passing the Metro then rolling toward
Château Rouge
. The sidewalks were still full of North Africans and West Africans and Arabs who overflowed into the cobblestone streets. Vendors stood on corners, hawking corn on the cob grilled on braziers set in the baskets of metal shopping carts. Drunks huddled together on curbs with large cans of beer, while the occasional beggar squatted against a stone building. Rashid spied a wrinkled man in a
thobe
and short vest, fingering prayer beads and muttering what were surely scriptures from the Qur’an.

Sayyid had ordered Rashid to leave his car near the mosque and drove him here. “You won’t attract attention if you stay in this quarter. Did you bring clothes that are a little more…foreign?”

“Of course.”

“Blend in. This will be your home for awhile.”

“Won’t the police be looking for me?”

“I think not. You weren’t identified. Nevertheless, don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Sayyid pulled onto a narrow unlit side street and double-parked the car. The apartment building was old, not like the upscale Haussmanians or the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings. These apartments had been built in the 1920s and ’30s and were old because they were uncared for like their occupants. Faded paint peeled from the walls in curls and aging shutters had missing slats or hung precariously from a single hinge.

Sayyid led Rashid up a steep, circular stairway one flight then two and three to the top, sixth, floor. He pulled a key from his trousers, slid it in a lock, and turned twice. The latch clicked and the heavy door creaked. Flipping a switch, the single bulb hanging from a wire spread a dim light as dingy as the walls.

“It’s only a studio,” Sayyid said, “but I’ve bought everything you’ll need. Towels are in the bathroom and soap and disposable razors. Sheets and blankets are on the bed, but you’ll have to do your own shopping for food. Do you have money?”

“Some.”

“Here’s five hundred Euros.” Sayyid handed Rashid a stack of small bills.

“Five hundred. How long will I be here? I need to get back to my job in Rome.”

“Perhaps two or three days, but we’ll speak often. We’re going to be allies and I hope good friends because we share a common cause.”

“And the imam, we must help him escape.” Rashid said.

“He won’t be in jail long, so we don’t need to do anything for the moment.”

“How can you foretell these things?”

“Because, dear Rashid, all has been accounted for, nothing left to chance. Now give me your cell phone.” Rashid pulled a black phone from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sayyid, who dropped it on the floor and stomped.

“Hey, what’re you doing?”

Sayyid offered him a shiny silver one. “This one uses a prepaid card, no names, no identification. When you run out of time, buy another card. Use cash.”

“My friends, my contacts, they were programmed in the phone.”

“Don’t call your friends until we’ve finished our mission. Do you understand?”

Rashid nodded. Sayyid was right, although he was galled that this complete stranger gave orders and felt he could somehow replace his master. However, the imam had trusted him enough to give him Rashid’s number. “Just what is the operation?”

“A little more patience. I realize this is hard. Your imam was arrested and you’re forced to listen to someone you’ve never met. But notice I said,
your imam
and not
ours
. He and I follow the same master, but not the same path.”

Rashid thought of the Mahdi, the guided one, the redeemer of Islam, but said nothing.

“Give me a few days and you’ll be able to judge for yourself whether I speak the truth. Until then, trust me because I’m keeping you safe.”

“I suppose I have no choice,” Rashid said with resignation.

“One always has a choice. You can choose to follow the will of your imam or you can turn from the path of righteousness.”

“I’ll give you your few days, then I’ll see for myself.”

Sayyid laughed. “Well spoken. Now tell me, have you been trained?”

“Yes.”

“Completely?”

Rashid answered with confidence, “I can do whatever is required.”

“Then I’ll leave you for tonight. Sleep well and put your mind at ease because we’ll change the world in ways that will astound even the most cynical unbelievers. Good night, Rashid al-Ansar.”

Sayyid drove toward the airport, pleased with himself. The imam would be out of the way for awhile and now he had his most valuable operative under his control. Best of all, he had the Psalter. He steered the rental car with one hand while pulling a white plastic tab from the side pocket of his jacket and sliding it into inserts in the collar of his black shirt.

28
Yokes and Plows

Pope Sergius sat glumly on a cushioned chair, his sagging chins resting on his fist, listening to Benedict and Theophylact recount their heroism in the bloody battle with the Saracens. The
patriarchum
was filled to overflowing. Priests crammed into every corner and deacons lined the walls. Cardinals sat in the center, spellbound by Benedict’s magnetic voice. Sergius, however, listened with increasing skepticism. “So where is the church’s treasure?”

“Alas, Holiness, the wicked Saracens are liars and deceivers. They feigned a parley then attacked, catching us unaware. They have stolen the gold and silver. Our men fought like Romans of old, but the heathens had the superior force. We were lucky to escape with our lives. I know I disobeyed your Holiness, but I hope I’ve redeemed myself with my valor. Had we left unarmed priests to the task, they would have been slaughtered to a man.”

“Yet you have not a single wound between you,” Sergius said.

“The Lord protects the righteous.”

“Is the library saved or lost?” the Pope leaned his aching body forward.

Benedict turned to Theophylact, not knowing what to say. The count only shrugged. “Dear brother, it’s surely safe, for how would they carry all those books? So in the end, we’ve succeeded. We must have, although we had hoped to save our treasure as well. Alas, I fear our beloved brother, Johannes, is dead.”

The assembly gasped in shock.

“He was brought to the battlefield as a hostage, yet he fought them like a lion. Then we lost sight of him.”

“I witnessed the heathens seize him and take him from the field,” Theophylact said. “They surely butchered the poor soul, but he battled courageously. As well as any soldier.”

Priests wept at the loss of their dearest brother; however, Sergius was unconvinced. “Johannes is a cultured man of letters, unskilled in the use of weapons. With what did he fight?”

“He fought with…his bare hands, Holiness, and with…great courage,” Benedict sounded less confident.

“Frail Johannes attacked, on horseback, with no weapon against Saracens armed with swords? Did he strike fear into their hearts by chasing them like a game of tag?”

Benedict searched for a plausible parry to Sergius’ thrust when a shout came from the back of the Papal Palace, “Lies, they’re all lies!” The assembly separated down the middle, opening a pathway from the throne to the door where a dirt-caked Johannes stood with Anastasius at his side. Cheers arose from the assembled clerics and cries of, “He lives,” and, “Our brother’s alive!” filled the great hall while Benedict shrunk and Theophylact glowered.

“As all can see, I wasn’t butchered by Saracens and I assure you I was never taken hostage, nor did anyone seize me on the field of battle. I feel remarkably well for a dead man,” Johannes said. Anger rose like bile in his throat and made him forget how tired he was.

“Brother Johannes,” Benedict said. “Confusion reigns in the heat of battle.” Now Benedict’s voice grew sinister. “It only appeared you were taken captive.”

“Wicked liars!” Johannes walked down the aisle. The much taller Anastasius kept pace with him.

“How dare you call me liar?” Theophylact gripped the hilt of his sword.

“Liar and thief!”

“Calm, dear Brother,” Benedict said. “You’re spent from the battle.”

“What battle?” You were unprovoked yet attacked a lone man who came to trade in good faith.”

Benedict stepped away from the approaching Johannes. “Brethren,” he addressed the congregation, spreading his arms like an orator. “Johannes is addled. He knows not what he says. We fought for our Holy Scriptures, I swear.”

The assembled priests grumbled their doubts. Their murmuring reverberated through the hall.

“You had no intention of trading the gold for the library. You didn’t even bring it.” Turning to Sergius, Johannes said, “They off-loaded the wagons and filled them with rubble. They still have the treasury hidden, likely in Theophylact’s castle.”

The count drew his broad sword over his head and rushed for Johannes. But priests mobbed him, flinging themselves from all sides and disarming him of his blade.

“Thief,” Sergius cried out, lifting his considerable bulk from the chair.

“No, Brother, we sought only to protect the church’s fortune, so we hid it from the vile Saracens who would have surely taken the gold and our library, as well.”

“Did you not say they were the ones who stole the gold?”

Sergius stepped toward Benedict, who backed away, cowering. “Well…I…”

“False priest, liar. Avarice is your sin. You have no truth in you.”

“You hypocrite,” Benedict snarled back, “glutton and drunkard. You would’ve given away our treasure to pagans who desecrate the offerings with their filth.”

Sergius glared at his brother. “Instead, you debase what is holy with your greed. You’re not fit to live in our brotherhood.”

The grumbling of the clerics grew louder, their faces grim as they formed a circle around Benedict. “Wait, you know me,” he said. “I’m the Pope’s own brother, a noble like you.”

“You’re no brother to me.” The ring of brown robes closed smaller, tighter like a noose. They fell upon Benedict and Theophylact, hoisting them aloft. “Cast them out,” Sergius said.

Priests echoed, “Cast them out!” over and over as they passed the two helpless souls over their heads as though they were tossed helplessly on storm-churned waves. The raging current of hands washed them to the door and flung them out on the stone porch. Then, a dozen priests slammed the heavy doors with a resounding clang.

The assembly heaved a collective sigh as if they had relieved themselves from aching bowels. Sergius hugged Johannes as a father would his son and begged him, “Tell us what happened, dear brother.”

The crowd surrounded him pleading, “Give us a true accounting.”

“I’ll reveal everything, but the telling grieves me. The loss is measureless for us all, for the world.”

“You mean our gold and silver?” Sergius said. “Fear not. Theophylact and Benedict will return the lot or I’ll excommunicate them for this foul deed. The treasury will come to its rightful home.”

“Not the
patriarchum’s
treasury. The Saracens took the silver altar over the tomb of the Apostle Peter and all of the gold. Indeed, they pilfered everything of value from the basilica and from the cathedral of Saint Paul as well. I watched them load perhaps three tons of gold and thirty of silver. Father Baraldus is in hot pursuit with troops from the foreign
scholae
and the Jews. Yet the Saracen retreat was swifter than you can imagine. I doubt they can be overtaken. Pray, Brothers, for we need a miracle.”

Pope Sergius felt his knees buckle. Two priests rushed to support his massive weight. Johannes took the Holy Father’s weakened hand. Sergius probed the depths of the
bibliothecarius’
eyes and asked, “Is there yet more?”

“Saints preserve us, the worst hasn’t been told.”

“I must know. Tell me all.”

“They’ve stolen our library, the Scriptures, every document and every page. I was allowed to keep what few I could collect. Everything else is gone.”

“My beautiful music, my compositions. Barbarians would have no use for my music.”

“They’ve taken that as well.”

“No,” the Pope said hoarsely. His eyes bulged and his legs gave way. As he slumped, the priests lowered him to the floor. Convulsing on the cool stone, he gripped his tightening breast with one hand. The other lay lifeless. One side of his face sagged and drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. “No,” he whispered again as his eyes rolled.

“Get him to his bed,” Anastasius said. “He’s afflicted by a seizure.”

Sergius languished unconscious, murmuring incomprehensibly with his half-paralyzed mouth. Doctors from all over Rome went to his bedside. They checked his pulse and measured his breaths, examining and postulating, then consulted even more doctors. The second-century Greek doctor, Claudius Galen, was still the medical authority in Rome, and his treatises were read over and over until a diagnosis was unanimously delivered. His Holiness had fallen victim to evil humors transmitted through the air by unclean barbarians. These foul humors had weakened his
vital spirit
and caused an imbalance of blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm, weakening his heart.

A course of treatment was agreed upon. First, the evil had to be expelled. Thus, a regimen of bloodletting three times a day was prescribed until the poisons had been drained. Then a medicine of herbs would be administered to restore the internal balance of the natural humors. Rabbi Avraham had come at Johannes’ urgent request, accompanied by the finest Jewish doctors, who abhorred Galen’s outdated therapies. Though they already attended most of the nobility and cardinal priests, they were refused admittance by suspicious senior clerics who oversaw the Pope’s treatments.