The Psalter (5 page)

The waiter set a small basket of sliced baguette on the table with the plate of roast chicken and fries. “Drink some Coke, Father. Cola is good for an upset stomach, although I hate the stuff. It reminds me of the syrup doctors mixed with medicine when I was a boy. Makes me shudder, but my children love it.” The waiter tried to be friendly, but got no response and retreated.

Romano shut his eyes, trying to close his mind to the last two days. His hasty and unauthorized departure would bring consequences. He had stolen a book, one he was charged to protect. Of course, many books in the Archives hadn’t even been catalogued. No one would be the wiser if he chose to keep his indiscretion a secret. But his vows of obedience required him to admit what he had done, and not only in the confessional. Perhaps if he returned to Rome and made a clean breast of it?

Then Romano had Del Carlo to consider. The Curia in Rome might protect him from the colonel, but neither Del Carlo nor Keller would get the Psalter back until he discovered what Giovanni had hidden. He might be denounced yet again, and the Inquisitor could fire him from his job and end his career. They would not, however, take the knowledge that lay beneath the lines of the
Beatus Psalm
, not this time. No one would grind him into submission until he finished the task he had come to Paris to do. He opened his eyes and took a sip of Cola. His appetite returned in a wave, and he poked his fork into a bunch of fries, stuffing them in his mouth.

Romano motioned to the waiter for the check. “You look much better now, Father.” The middle-aged man smiled as he handed the priest the
addition
. “A meal is just what you needed.” Romano offered his credit card, and the waiter swiped the magnetic strip on a hand-held bank card processor.

A Carabinieri lieutenant burst into Del Carlo’s office waving a computer printout and shouted, “We have him!”

“Where is he?”

“In Paris. He used his credit card in the
Place des Vosges
, a bistro in the square.”

The GIS colonel clenched his jaw. “Find out everywhere this priest has been for the last two years: every plane, train, hotel, and restaurant. Who does he know in Paris? And I want it all in an hour.”

“
Si, Colonelo
,” the lieutenant saluted and rushed back out the door.

Del Carlo pressed the intercom on his desk. “
Prego
?” a female voice from the speaker said.

“Call Alitalia. Get me on the next flight to Paris!”

Cardinal Keller was engrossed in a treatise published by a rogue French priest who continued to hold the Tridentine Mass in Latin without permission. Something had to be done, yet the cleric was popular among his parishioners, especially conservatives. The Grand Inquisitor was on the verge of choosing the appropriate rebuke and threat when a rap came from the thick door of his office in the
Palazzo del Sant’Uffizio
. “Yes,” he said, frustrated by the interruption.

A Swiss Guard officer garbed in a blue work uniform with a black beret entered the room. The cardinal didn’t look up. “Captain?”

“We’ve found Father Romano, Eminence.”

The Grand Inquisitor bolted out of his chair. “Where?”

“Paris. We located him through his credit card. Shall I send the Swiss Guard to find him?”

“No. Notify the Archbishop there. Find out where Father Romano goes and who he meets. Most of all, I want to know if he’s coming back.”

“Are you sure, Eminence? He may not wish to return, in which case…”

“Captain, Father Romano is a priest!”

“Forgive me, Eminence. My place is not to question or provoke, only advise. I simply wish to point out that as Vice-Prefect of the Secret Archives, Father Romano has access to the church’s oldest and deepest secrets. Do you want him roaming the streets…unattended?”

The Grand Inquisitor pondered the captain’s observation and replied more deftly. “As I said, Romano’s a priest and feels the full weight of his vows. Nevertheless, find out everyone he has spoken with in Paris and what he has said verbatim, understood?”

“Of course, Eminence.”

Doctor Isabelle Héber waited for the unkempt priest at the entrance to the French National Archives. As he walked with long easy strides through the courtyard, she pictured the American cleric more on a ranch in Montana than hovering over musty manuscripts. That was her province. The priest wasn’t classically handsome. Life had lined and scraped his face into battered good looks.

She unlocked the glass double doors and opened one side so Romano could slip in. “The equipment is ready. Follow me,” she said, leading him up the stairs. “I hope you’re not in a hurry,” she spoke over her shoulder, “because this is a slow process, although a great deal faster than what’s used in the States. We call it
IsyReADeT
.”

“Come again?”

“It’s an acronym for Integrated System for Recovering and Archiving Degraded Texts—
IsyReADeT
. The program isn’t perfected yet. We’re still testing, but I have one of the prototypes.” Isabelle unlocked one of the doors in the corridor and led the priest into a photography studio. A bulky camera that resembled a 1950s Bell & Howell movie projector stood on a tripod. Doctor Héber removed the side cover, exposing a wheel behind the lens that spun different-colored filters into place. “What do you remember from the Archimedes Palimpsest seminar?”

“I am ashamed to say that a lot went over my head. We have a Computer Lab in the Secret Archives, but that’s not my department.”

“Then let me explain how we use digital imaging to uncover the past. Archimedes’ treatises were copied in a codex sometime in the tenth century. Two hundred years later, the pages were erased and reused to write a Byzantine prayer book called the Euchologion. We needed a nondestructive technology to make the prayers disappear so we could read what was underneath. So we take multiple photographs of the same page using different colored filters. With computer software, the color representing the Euchologion is deleted and what’s left is the original text. Even then, not all of it is visible.”

“You said that’s how you used to do it. What do you do now?”

“European libraries and archives are dealing with an overwhelming problem of deteriorating texts. Aside from the damage caused by floods and fire, the iron ink used in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is faded and has often disappeared. And the poor quality paper from the nineteenth century is disintegrating because of high acid content. We had to develop a low-cost method to recover the contents, even if the actual documents couldn’t be saved.”

Isabelle walked to the tripod in the middle of the room. “This type of digital camera is used by American spy satellites and forensic scientists, as well as art museums, to authenticate rare paintings. The camera takes multiple photographs using these different colored filters.” She pointed behind the lens to the wheel holding round disks. It’s linked to our own computer program, so the analysis is done automatically. The system is small, cheap, and simple to use. Put the Psalter on the easel and open it to the page you want deciphered while I set up the computer.” She walked to the monitor. “Are you ready, Father?”

“I suppose.”

Isabelle typed a command on the keyboard, and the camera lit up. The wheel spun until the correct colored filter moved behind the lens. An internal fan began to whir.

“What do we do now?” Father Romano said.

“We wait.”

Romano slid down in his chair, stretching his long legs and crossing them at the ankles.

“Tell me about this Giovanni,” Isabelle was intrigued. “What can you learn about a scribe from his handwriting?”

“Believe it or not, ninth-century scribes were mostly uneducated. Writing was more like painting a small image that happened to be a letter. But this one was different, not just lettered or clever. He had uncommon intelligence even by today’s standards.

6
Johannes Anglicus

Iunius in the Year of Our Lord 843
June

The reek from the wooden bucket gagged the frail youth as he dipped a coarse rag into foul, diluted lye. Its rank odor made him want to retch his meager breakfast. Later in the day, he would notice less. Nevertheless, each new morning found the power of the vapors renewed and filled his head with nauseating stink.

He seemed at an age between a boy and a man, slender with delicate features accentuated by a straight, narrow nose and red curls, yet looked even thinner in a brown robe that was too large. A braided cincture made the cloth billow above and below his waist.

He rolled out a long scroll on rough-hewn planks in the courtyard of the
patriarchum
, the Papal Palace of Pope Gregory IV. Holding the soaked rag over the parchment, he dripped fetid liquid onto the writing. Once a section was sufficiently wet, the novice grabbed a pumice stone and scrubbed. The words blurred, then dissolved into rivulets of black ink.

The boy was disgusted by the destruction and turned away. He gazed instead at the ancient Apostolic Palace and adjoining basilica of Saint John. The palace had originally belonged to a noble family of Roman emperors, the Laterani. Constantine’s wife, Fausta, had given the property to the Emperor as part of her dowry. As a rebuke to the Laterans, who were virulent anti-Christians, Constantine had donated it to Pope Melchiade for his official residence. Now the Laterani legacy was the
patriarchum
, the Papal Palace, capital of all Christendom.

Who invented such a miserable concoction
, the novice mused, shaking his head as he scrubbed
. Surely someone could concoct a less disgusting formula to erase parchment than this unholy stew of urine, limestone, and chicken droppings
. The ink on one portion of the scroll refused to budge. He dabbed more vile juice and rubbed faster with the pumice.

Stubborn, unfaded words mocked his labor. His mind began to translate the text.
And when the tempter came to him, he said, if thou be the Son of God, command that these stones be made bread
. The realization of what he erased struck like lightning, and he gasped. Just then, a loud bang at the end of the worktable jolted him out of his shock and he jumped, startled.

A stout, dour priest with a sparse beard covering a round face had dropped three large scrolls. In a snarl, he said, “All of these must be finished by Vespers or there’ll be hell to pay.”

The novice rushed to the other end of the table and shoved the portly priest aside. He rolled open one of the scrolls. His eyebrows arched in horror. He opened another and slammed his fist. “You ignorant dolt.” The boy spit the words in the priest’s fat face. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

Outrage turned the overseer’s puffy cheeks and tiny ears bright red. Eyes bulging, he struck like a cobra, cuffing the youth’s head and knocking him flat. He grabbed the cowl of the boy’s frock and jerked him up. Other priests looked on, some shocked and others amused, as the fat priest hoisted the novice like a marionette whose legs churned but scarcely touched the ground.

Up the stone steps and into the Lateran, he hauled the youth, parading him down a cool corridor toward the chapel of Saint Sylvester. He dragged him down the
scala pilati
, the Holy Stairs, brought to Rome from Pontius Pilate’s own palace. Jesus himself had sanctified these marble steps when he climbed them to be condemned to the cross by Judea’s Procurator.

Baraldus burst into the
scrinium
, the church archives, with the novice in tow. He cast the boy onto the floor in front of a heavy desk. A tonsured priest peered up from a scroll as he deliberated on the scene. “Well, Father Baraldus, do you have something to tell me?”

Baraldus tried to speak, but only unintelligible grunts came from his mouth as he jabbed his thick finger at the prostrate figure. The stick of a youth swathed in a tent of brown cloth raised himself on one arm, dazed and humiliated. The seated priest rose from his chair and while he seemed rather average when sitting, he was uncommonly tall. He stepped around his desk and lifted the novice from the stone floor, straightening his frock. “Perhaps you can enlighten me, son?”

Father Baraldus, who had recovered his voice, blurted out, “He…he called me a dolt, an ignorant dolt.” The tall priest stared hard at Baraldus who added, “I mean,
primicerius
Anastasius.”

“You need not call me Prefect, Brother. Father Anastasius will suffice.” He turned to the novice, a faint smile on his face. “Is this true? Did you call Father Baraldus an ignorant dolt?” He tried to sound like the arbiter his position as prefect in charge of the archives required, but had difficulty repressing the laugh that struggled to get out.

The boy lowered his head in shame. “What the good father said is true.” Baraldus’ fleshy lips smirked in vindication until the novice added, “and I’m ashamed of my words.” The fat priest’s smile sank into a scowl at the sudden contrition. The youth continued, passion in his voice, “But erasing these scrolls is wrong.”

Baraldus’ scowl reshaped itself into a vengeful sneer. “You see,
primicerius
…I mean Father Anastasius, he’s not repentant. He’s a scoundrel.”

“Patience, Brother. I’m sure you’re right, but let’s investigate our young brother’s zealous impudence.” Anastasius turned his gaze on the novice.

“I didn’t mean to insult Father Baraldus and what I said was sinful, but I was shocked when I read the text I was erasing, and the words just slipped out.”

“You understood the writing?” The prefect gaped at the boy, and Baraldus’ double chin dropped. “Do you realize that the language is a dialect of Ancient Greek?”

“Yes, and I realized too late that I was erasing the Gospel of Matthew.”

Baraldus fell to his knees. “I didn’t know,
primicerius
. I would never…I was following orders.”

“Of course, Brother, my orders.”

Tears began to drip down the corpulent priest’s cheeks. “The boy was right to call me ignorant,” he sobbed. “I’ve destroyed the Word of God.”