The Psalter (8 page)

“Alas, nephew, I pray often yet receive little inspiration.”

“Your profession was well chosen then and you’ve gone far, thanks to the patrons who paved the way for your remarkable advancement.”

Pietro di Porca was not so drunk or panicked that he didn’t notice the count was about to demand something of him. “I hope you’re not implying that my promotions were arranged by the family and not God’s will.”

Theophylact pierced the priest with a glare of malice. “Don’t feign piety with me, and don’t deceive yourself, either. I receive word of your little vices. You’re an archpriest and cardinal because we nobles wish it so. Give to God what you must, but never forget that your allegiance is to the family and, above all, to me. Gregory forgot his obligation, despite our having made him Pope. Our dealings with him are not finished, however. He’ll pay for his betrayal.”

The priest was broken. He couldn’t resist. Whatever boon his nephew might ask, he must obey. Nonetheless, he made one last feeble attempt. “Are not the dealings with the Holy Father within the province of Emperor Louis or at least his son, Lothair?”

“That nest of scorpions? They spend too much time fighting one another to take note of what happens in Rome. When Louis divided the empire among his sons, he should have realized he would lose power. Now his eldest, Lothair, fights to get back his own lands. To make matters worse, our Pope ignores us, spending all of his time away from the city, trying to patch up the Imperial mess. No, Uncle. We Romans shall enforce the law, and you’ll help.”

“I’m not the Pope. What can I do?”

“When the time comes, you’ll do my bidding, then you will be Rome’s Pontiff. Now, what’s this news about a librarian buying hides from the Jews?”

“You called me here to talk about animal skins?” The Archpriest’s shoulders slacked and he exhaled a breath of relief. “Nephew, I assure you I know nothing of hides. That’s the province of the Archives.”

The count glowered. “Well, I suggest you learn.” He pulled a square of parchment from an inside pocket and slapped it on the table.

Pietro examined the uneven scrawl. Grinning, he said in a wry singsong voice, “You have a spy.”

“Don’t be naïve. Not a sparrow falls that I don’t know it. However, knowing a thing doesn’t mean controlling it. Why does the library buy from Jews? They’re not members of the tanner’s guild. They’re not even Christians.” Blood percolated into Theophylact’s head and his voice boomed. “They’re the killers of Christ, yet the church puts money in their pockets. I’m the biggest landholder in Rome, all of Italy, and I tithe mightily―as Gregory well knows.”

And to impress the other nobles
, Pietro thought to himself.

The Count of Tusculum added with spite in his tone, “I own the largest herds of cattle and sheep, yet I’ve not sold a single hide or sheepskin or even meat to the
patriarchum
.”

“Be reasonable, nephew,” the Archpriest said. “The Jews make the best parchment. They import the finest skins from North Africa, and they raise their own beasts in the same manner. I’ve seen music written on local skins. It’s coarse and stiff, quite unsuitable, and the guild won’t match the Jews’ prices.”

Theophylact exploded, slamming his fist on the table. “Quality be damned! If buying’s to be done, it will be from me. Do you understand? I’ve invested a great deal in you and I expect a return.”

The priest cowered. “I…I hardly know where to begin.” Pietro tried desperately to keep from bursting into tears. “I have no authority in the
patriarchum
.”

“Those are the soundest words you’ve spoken this day. Nevertheless, I’ll guide you, uncle, as my father did before me. You need help for this task, and I shall provide it. You have not the skills of wile and cunning that I require, but you’re well placed and can promote someone who does.”

“Who do you have in mind?” The Archpriest knew Theophylact had many who did his bidding within the walls of the church.

The count rose to his giant stature and motioned with his hand. The steward who had witnessed all opened a door. Pietro twisted his fat neck and craned to see who his nephew had chosen to do his dirty work. A handsome man with muscular legs in tight hose, wearing a luxuriant caftan robe, pranced in with haughty confidence. Pietro seemed to recognize the smiling dandy as he watched him embrace Theophylact. Then the recognition slapped him. “Benedict,” he choked on the name.

“Your beloved brother,” Theophylact sniggered.

“But…but he’s not even a priest.”

“That’s easily remedied,” Theophylact said, “and you’ll find the way, dear Pietro.”

Benedict clasped Pietro’s shoulders with his two large hands and kissed him on his cheek. “Dear brother,” he said in a honeyed voice dripping with derision. “Reunited at long last.”

Although Pietro had not seen his brother in nearly a decade, he had received word of his many scandals. His whoring was renowned throughout Rome, and he was reputed to perform prodigiously in the bedchamber with skillful arts of amour. Even more infamous was his insatiable need for money to finance his philandering life. To satisfy his vast budget, he had plucked several nobles’ wives and daughters, all of whom vied like giddy suitors to shower their families’ wealth on him.

His despoiling of Roman women, however, had come to an end when he was caught
in flagrante delicto
with the wife of a Crescentii noble. Set upon by her enraged husband who was armed with an antique glaudius, the short sword of the Roman Legions, he had nearly been skewered. But in his blind fury, the husband missed his thrust and pierced only blankets. Benedict clasped his own dagger, which he had placed under a pillow, as was his custom while in a woman’s bed, and plunged it between the nobleman’s ribs. He had stolen not just the wife’s virtue, but her husband’s life as well.

Benedict had sought asylum with Theophylact’s father, who thought he might have to turn over his troublesome relative to avoid a blood feud. Instead, he spirited him out of Rome, and Benedict continued his lechery unabated in the Emperor’s Frankish lands. But the humiliation of his rivals now pleased young Theophylact’s sensibilities, and having a vassal who was unprincipled could be put to considerable use in the
patriarchum
. The time had come to call in Benedict’s debt.

“Nephew, this is impossible,” Pietro said. “Benedict’s reputation hasn’t been forgotten. The Pope would never let him enter a church, let alone be ordained as a priest. It can’t be done.”

“It can and will and you’ll do as you’re told. Besides, nothing is so irresistible as the return of a prodigal son. It’s the reassurance of God’s grace. Of course, Benedict must perform an appropriate penance.” The Count of Tusculum laid his hand on Benedict’s shoulder, and Benedict bowed his head deferentially. Theophylact could not help but smirk. Not only would he have a crafty and ruthless vassal strategically placed in the
patriarchum
, but as a priest, he would be untouchable to the Crescentii clan. Yet his presence in Rome would be an enduring proclamation of their shame. Theophylact laughed aloud, “What a propitious homecoming.”

9
The Rosh Yeshiva

Father Baraldus spread the bundle of clothes on the sleeping pallet in Johannes’s cell. “This is a terrible idea you’ve contrived, and I’m ashamed to be helping you.” A runner had arrived in the afternoon with a message that the Rosh Yeshiva would indeed meet with the
secundarius
, but their meeting had to be in the Trastavere after dark. The Rosh Yeshiva suggested that Johannes might be wise to dress like a common Roman since a priest in the Jewish ghetto would attract the attention of the entire quarter.

Johannes rifled through the peasant clothing, which was more tattered rags than an actual costume but nevertheless delighted the youth, who scarcely contained an excited giggle. “These are perfect, Brother, but how did you find them?”

“I do a bit of trading at the bazaar now and again,” Baraldus admitted. “They’re only rags, but they must do.” Johannes eyed him playfully as though he had committed some minor sin and the fat priest grew defensive. “You had need of them, and trading is in my miserable Lombard blood.”

Johannes couldn’t hide his pleasure. “And just what did you trade? No, don’t tell me. I asked if you could find some clothes, and I’ll not criticize your methods.” He held up a short tunic with a low collar, which had been dyed blue at one time, but wear and countless launderings had turned the fabric an uneven shade of gray. Then he held short brown trousers to his waist. The legs came to the knee.

“I hope the boots fit,” Baraldus said. “Your feet are uncommon small and I couldn’t find a cap, so this turban must suffice.” He raised a length of white linen.

“It’s perfect. I feel like an actor in a play,” Johannes said, enchanted by the outfits.

Baraldus wrinkled his nose. “A lowly profession indeed. All I found to cover your face was this woolen cloak. It’ll be too warm, but it has a hood. Dress yourself, for the sun sets and a long walk to the ghetto awaits us.”

“Us? I said nothing about you coming with me.”

“Brother, you possess powerful knowledge in your young head, but it’s book learning. I’ll wager you know little of the streets after dark. I’ll obey you in all things of the church, but this is not that.” The stout priest pulled off his brown robe. He was already dressed in peasant clothing. He produced a short sword in a leather scabbard and slid it through his belt.

“That’s a sword!” Johannes was shocked at the sight of a priest with a weapon.

“Change your clothes if we’re going,” Baraldus said.

They would be missed at Vespers and the evening meal, but there was no other option since the walk to the Jewish quarter would take an hour. It was just a league and a half, but the road was straight and paved with flat stones only as far as the Colosseum. Further on, the serpentine streets were broken, rutted, and often muddy, especially near the marshy banks of the Tiber.

Johannes set forth with Baraldus after the setting of the sun. The walk was easygoing on the
via Papale
toward the Flavian Amphitheater, now known as the Colosseum. Baraldus set a quick pace despite his girth. They passed the basilicas of Santi Quattro Coronati and San Clemente in no time. “You’re more athletic than I would have thought,” the youth jabbed at his assistant, still piqued the Lombard insisted on coming.

As they arrived at the sunken
Ludus Magnum
that once housed Rome’s largest gladiatorial training school, the new
secundarius
could not help but glance at the sword Baraldus had slid through the leather strap he used as a belt. He was troubled that the priest displayed the weapon openly, even if he was in disguise. Yet as they reached the Colosseum, Johannes understood.

The grandiose Colosseum, which was once home to the Empire’s bloody entertainment, had become a virtual city within the city. Rome’s poor had converted many of the vaults under the seating to apartments. Shopkeepers and artisans set up businesses to serve the newest denizens. A small brick church had even been built inside the walls, into the very structure, to provide the village’s spiritual needs. The cursed arena was transformed into the local cemetery.

Outside the walls of the makeshift commune, the resident’s toughs, delinquents, and their admiring adolescent toadies stood near small fires swilling cheap wine from clay cups, laughing and taunting passersby in vulgar argot. Baraldus slid his sword around his middle for the reprobates to behold. Their taunts softened to unintelligible grunts. Johannes was now glad of his company and protection despite earlier protestations. Eyeing his escort with a new appreciation, he couldn’t help himself. “Tell me where you got the sword.”

“The sword is mine. It has always been mine. I realize we’re required to give up our possessions when we enter the order, but I couldn’t part with it.”

“How came you to possess it?” Father Baraldus’ simple exterior seemed to disguise a hidden past, perhaps as a rogue.

“I wasn’t always a priest and, believe it or not, I wasn’t always fat. My father was a farmer who tilled the land for a manor lord, but I’m the youngest of three brothers. We’re not like the Franks who divide their property amongst sons. The eldest alone inherits. My brother likely tills the fields, though I’ve received no word from him for many years. However, my liege lord looked kindly on me and secured a position in the army, curse him for his generosity. I fought the Norse and Saracens as well, but I’ve had enough of death and killing for ten lifetimes. I left my closest friends on the plains the lords call fields of honor, although there was never any honor in it.”

Baraldus had no end to his surprises. Like a sweet onion, peel a layer and an even more succulent one waits to be explored. “So how did you become a priest?”

“One day I collected my pay, resigned my commission and walked away. I’d thought about quitting after many a bloody battle, but never did. Time overtakes us all, however, and looking around one autumn morn at our drear encampment, I saw only youths like yourself. Those who had joined up with me were dead or retired to a safer profession. So I resolved to seek the path of peace and pray for my comrades, as well as those I sent to their reward. Even so, I cannot part with the sword. It was given to me by my liege lord the day I joined up and reminds me of the man I wish never to be again.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way. Johannes realized he might have the benefit of knowledge from the volumes he had read, but no real comprehension of the pain of losing lifelong friends or the guilt of senseless murder. As he cast a glance at his assistant, he saw him with different eyes. The great hulk of a priest had perhaps little education, but had earned a lifetime of wisdom.

Baraldus knew every narrow lane, alley, and pathway through the ruins. They picked their way around the remnants of the terraced
Elagabalium
, a temple dedicated to Sol Invictus on the Palatine hill, then followed an uneven dirt road between the derelict and crumbling Imperial Palace to the left and the palace of Tiberius perched on a crest to the right. Their roofs had long since caved in, victims of the Goths, Visigoths, and centuries of earthquakes and gravity. Yet the greatest despoilers of the city were the citizens who pilfered valuable veneers of marble and the best quality stone for churches and towers and country villas.