The Psalter (31 page)

Johannes found himself idle for the first time in his life. He had no construction to oversee, no library to sort and catalogue. He delivered what canon scriptures he had saved to Anastasius, who had charge of the
scriptorium
, so his scribes might begin their laborious copying. Of course, he had kept the heresies hidden in the papal crypt beneath the basilica. Nevertheless, he was now reduced to a librarian in name only, in charge of perhaps the world’s smallest library.

The basilicas of Saint Peter and Saint Paul were a shambles, stripped of their finery. Tombs were hewn open, and the remains of popes and saints scattered. Altars and niches had been used as privies, and now priests and workmen labored to clean the filth so repairs might begin. How that might happen seemed a mystery. The church found itself destitute and with Sergius lying delirious on his sickbed, no authoritative threat of excommunication could be leveled at Theophylact or Benedict. Nevertheless, the details of their deception had come to light as soldiers in the service of the count repented to parish priests, confessing their part in the profane theft.

Three days had passed, yet Baraldus sent no runner. Johannes made his way to the Trastevere to the house of the Rosh Yeshiva. He carried the odd horse collar that Prince Ahmad said could make him rich, although he had not divined how that might be. A horse pulling a wagon faster than oxen would be a great gift and more efficient for hauling goods. Still, horses were much more expensive, and swifter transport would make no man rich.

“Any word from your son, Elchanan?” Johannes asked at the door before greeting the rabbi.

“And good morning to you, too, Father
bibliothecarius
,” Avraham said, bowing low with a mocking courtly sweep of his arm.

“You’re quite right, my sincere apologies. Good morning, Rosh Yeshiva. How are you today?”

“Come in, come in. I’m eager for news like you. That’s how I am. How’s Sergius?”

“I fear his condition is the same, but those attending him will say nothing. What news from your son?”

“Not so much as a rumor. Still, I have faith that they can handle themselves.”

“Against Saracen cavalry and infantry?”

“A battle is fought in many ways. They will do what they can, but sit you down. Enjoy some tea, and what in heaven’s name is that thing you carry?”

Johannes sat at the long table. He leaned the collar against the wall. “It’s a harness of some sort, for a horse.”

Avraham eyed the object as he poured tea. “For a horse, you say?”

“Yes, and I watched the Saracens use it. They hitched their small Arabians in teams to stout wagons and hauled them away like child’s play. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not been a witness.”

Avraham lifted the collar, turning and examining it at various angles. He placed it on the table and stood back as though he might understand better from a distance. Finally, he put the contraption around his neck and let it rest on his shoulders. Bending over at the waist, he trotted up and down the kitchen, hollering, “clip-clop, clip-clop.”

Johannes stared in shock at first then burst out in laughter as the old rabbi played horsey.

“How simple,” Avraham said. “The collar rests on the beast’s withers and pulls against the sternum instead of bearing on the trachea, so horses can haul great loads without strangling. What a fine gift, a grand improvement over the throat-and-girth harness. You say the Saracens used them to pull their wagons?”

“Yes.”

“How did you come by this one? Did you steal it?” The rabbi feigned an accusatory stare.

“Of course not. It was given to me by their prince. And he said the oddest thing, that it could make me rich.”

Avraham scratched the top of his balding head and knitted his brow while he pondered. “I wonder.” He turned without taking his leave and walked out of the room. Johannes had become accustomed to the rabbi’s odd flights of fancy and simply sipped his tea, waiting for him to return. “Johannes, come here,” Avraham called to the priest.

“Where are you?”

“In my study.”

The priest followed the sound of his voice to a room whose walls were lined with shelves loaded with ancient scrolls and books. The rabbi had rolled out a scroll and traced the sentences with his finger. “I knew I had heard of such a thing although I couldn’t remember where, but it has come back to me.”

“What are you reading?”

“The Roman historian Pliny the Elder. He had a voracious mind.”

“What could a historian possibly say about getting rich with a newfangled type of horse collar?”

“You’ve obviously never been a farmer,” the rabbi said.

“No.”

“Then you can’t be expected to see the possibilities, so let me explain. Oxen are stupid beasts. Two years are required to train a team to the yoke to pull carts and wagons, but more importantly, a plow. Then their working life is only another two years, so farmers must constantly breed and train new teams; and oxen are also slow and plodding. Of course, they have their benefits. Ox meat is delicious. On the other hand, horses last twenty years and can be trained in a few months.”

“That’s certainly more efficient, but how would that make a person rich?”

“Because my learned friend who knows not a whit about agriculture, a horse walks three times faster than an ox, and a horse or team of horses can pull a plow three times faster than oxen.”

Johannes began to catch on. “So a horse would plow more fields in less time and triple the yield.”

“Now you know the potential for such a simple invention. Just one problem remains.”

“That is?”

“A farmer would need to triple the size of his farm.”

Johannes shrugged his shoulders. “Why not clear more land?”

“That’s the answer, of course, but clearing new land is slow and difficult with our light wooden plows, and that’s what made me remember Pliny. Look here.” Avraham pointed to a portion of the scroll. “He describes a heavy plow mounted on wheels in use hundreds of years ago in Gaul.”

“The wheels would certainly make plowing easier because the farmer wouldn’t have to toil to hold it upright.”

“Indeed, but there’s an even greater benefit. With wheels supporting the weight, the plowshare can be raised and lowered to change the depth of the furrow, depending on the crop. Such a plow on wheels could do everything from clearing land to shallow furrows for vegetables.”

Johannes arched his eyebrows. “A new plow pulled by horses? Our poorest people would be awash in food.”

“And in wealth.” Avraham thought for a moment and added, “But you must take care.”

“Why?”

“Wealth is power, and the powerful guard their privileges.”

Not only was there discovery in the visit with Avraham, his words dispensed their usual wisdom. Johannes resolved to build these new rigid collars and heavy plows so they would be available to all, but he dare not do it in the church. That he knew, for word traveled faster in the
patriarchum
than a loosed arrow, and the inventions would fall into the hands of the wealthy while the poor lost their benefit. The librarian who had no library had to find a way to use these marvels for the poor. Still, the greatest landowner in Christendom was the Holy Church and for his church, he would find a way to use the collar and plow to earn back the money that had been lost.

29
Corruption of the Flesh

Johannes inquired daily on the condition of Pope Sergius. Cardinal priests replied in vagaries, saying he was “as well as can be expected,” and “the learned physicians do everything humanly possible,” or “it’s in God’s merciful hands.”

“Is His Holiness getting better or worse?” Johannes demanded, to which he would hear the infuriating reply, “Only God knows. Nevertheless, the physicians are hopeful but cautious.” Johannes deduced from their downcast spirits, however, that Sergius worsened.

Weeks had passed since the Saracens fled with the church’s library, yet still no word from Baraldus. Johannes spent his time in the Jewish quarter with Avraham making drawings from Pliny’s description of a heavy plow on wheels.

They gave the rigid horse collar to artisans: a carpenter, blacksmith, and harness maker to manufacture a copy. Having disassembled the prototype Johannes had provided, each crafted exacting reproductions of their part. The carpenter made a frame of wood. The harness maker copied the leather cover, and the smithy forged metal buckles for the collar to attach to the traces. However, they had not thought about who would assemble the parts. In the end, they took their jealously guarded pieces to the furniture maker, who fashioned padding from flax fibers and straw bound with linen and fitted them together while the others offered unwelcome suggestions.

Johannes and Avraham were walking from the Rosh Yeshiva’s home to the furniture maker to inspect the finished product when a loud commotion came from all around. People fled their homes and workshops to the streets, making for the Ponte Rotto and the city. “They’re coming, they’re coming!” the crowd shouted as they hurried past. Avraham stopped an old woman who tried to keep up with the horde. “Who’s coming, mother?”

“Why, Rabbi,” the woman grinned from ear to ear. “It’s my son and your son, Elchanan. All our sons return in triumph.”

Tears escaped Avraham’s shining eyes, and he grabbed Johannes’ arm for support. Together they merged into the river of Romans rushing down the street and flowing across the bridge.

A long column of horsemen on sleek Arabians had already entered the city through the
San Paolo
gate, followed by the wagons that had left Rome laden with books and gold and silver from Saint Peter’s and Saint Paul’s. Only now, they were filled with naked, pitiful Saracens chained and shackled or bound with leather thongs.

At the head of the convoy rode Baraldus, looking weary and uneasy on his mount with Elchanan by his side, sitting ramrod straight. Next to them was a captain wearing the uniform of the Emperor’s army. The mob surrounded the column, searching for husbands and fathers and sons and brothers. Avraham held his son’s hand as he walked beside his horse, gazing up at him.

“Baraldus, you old warhorse,” Johannes greeted the Lombard. “You look miserable.”

“I hate horses,” he said, “and this beast has thrown me twice. I’m an infantry man, fought on the ground with real men, may God forgive me. I’ve got blisters on my arse the size of walnuts. Here, you ride and I’ll walk.” With that, he hopped off and laced his fingers together so Johannes could climb up.

“You sent no word, nothing. We were worried sick. You might have shown a little consideration.”

Baraldus hung his head. “I had only evil tidings and didn’t want to be the one to tell of our misfortune.”

“But you won. The Saracens are in chains and you recovered what they stole.”

“Nothing of the sort, we lost…everything.”

“I don’t understand. The enemy is defeated and you ride their horses.”

“Oh, I can’t say it even now.” The hulking priest, who sported a steel helm and bronze breast plate over his brown priest’s robe and who had commanded a ragtag army against the Saracens, began to sniffle.

“I suppose I can tell the story best,” Lothair’s captain said. He was bruised about the face and his left arm was supported by a sling. “We first engaged the Saracens as they fled Rome, pillaging and burning villages on their retreat to the port at Ostia. They were the superior force and routed us. Nonetheless, we followed. Like wasps, we stung the stragglers but scarcely slowed them down. They loaded their stolen plunder on ships and set sail while we watched, helpless.”

Elchanan took up the tale, “We arrived only to watch their sails catching the wind.”

“But how did you stop them?” Johannes asked. “Was it our navy?”

Baraldus choked on his words. “God’s own wrath rained down His vengeance.”

Elchanan comforted his new friend with a hand on his stout shoulder. “They sailed out of the harbor, heading south when a great storm descended, tossing their ships like toys. Every ship sunk and not a single one was left afloat. We spent the week gathering survivors along the coast.”

Johannes gasped, “Our library, our treasure, Saint Peter’s silver altar…,”

“At the bottom of the sea in God’s own care.” Baraldus wept.

They walked in silence through the streets of Rome. The crowds cheered the soldiers of the foreign
scholae
and Jewish militia, but insulted the emperor’s troops. “Where were you when they raped our churches? You steal our taxes and leave us defenseless, you defenders of nothing.” However, the mob hurled their worst taunts and jeers at the naked and trembling prisoners shackled in the wagons. They spat on them, threw stones, and drenched them with the contents of their chamber pots.

No one raised a hand to stop the angry Romans who desired nothing less than revenge for the humiliation they and their holy basilicas had endured. Even Johannes, who had not a coldhearted bone in his body, did not raise his voice to calm the people. For the first time in his life, he felt hatred and also thought of revenge.

The Jewish contingent split from the column for the Trastevere to decommission their militia and return to their families. Elchanan HaKodesh took the Lombard’s wide hand in his own, squeezing it with respect and newly felt brotherhood. “Shalom, Baraldus,” he said, feeling the priest’s pain. “If you ever need a man at your side, seek us out and we’ll stand with you.” For his part, Baraldus was still choked up and barely mouthed an inaudible thank you. Then Avraham walked home beside his mounted son, holding his hand.

The column continued until the Emperor’s troops broke off to take the prisoners to the dungeons and seek the comfort of their own barracks. Baraldus and Johannes stayed with the guards of the foreign
scholae
until they, too, dropped off at their neighborhoods after praising a teary-eyed Baraldus. The various militias shrank until only Johannes and the Lombard remained. At last, they made their way in silence up the Caelian hill to the
patriarchum
. The story of the church’s immeasurable loss would be theirs alone to tell.