The Psalter Read online

  “Are you suggesting Jewish butchers killed him?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, but look at the facts. Eugène was bound and placed on his back, the prescribed position for slaughtering animals, according to Jewish law. Then they cut his jugulars and he bled to death—or rather, he was bled. What I suggest is that the men who murdered him were familiar with traditional methods of sacrificial slaughter. They didn’t do it quite right, however. They were supposed to sever his trachea and esophagus, leaving the spinal cord intact. Maybe they were squeamish?”

  “What do you mean, sacrifice?”

  “If I understand correctly, a priest was murdered for a religious book, and now it’s been stolen. The killers bled Eugène to death like a lamb on an altar. This might be a religious killing.”

  Pascal now had the GIS Colonel’s attention. “I want to speak more about this, this…”

  “Sacrifice.”

  “Yes. But first, can I talk with you in private, Father?” Del Carlo nodded to Capitaine Desmoulins, who opened the door and ushered everyone out. Pascal cast an encouraging glance at the priest as he helped his daughter. Romano acknowledged him with a nod and half-smile.

  The librarian knew Colonel Del Carlo was about to chew him out. Sure, he felt culpable, but also defensive, and he bridled as he anticipated the reproach. He had the same feeling as a child waiting for a beating, guilty but still prepared to defend himself. Nevertheless, it was a rebuke that didn’t come.

  “Listen, Father…”

  “Call me Mike.”

  “Okay, Mike. I told you in Rome I trusted you. God help me, I still do, although I don’t know why. It should be obvious now that this is an organized group that will stop at nothing. Another man is dead, and they’ve taken what they were after.”

  “Do you still believe these people, the Children of the Book, are behind it?” Romano asked the colonel.

  “They’re my only lead. I’ve sent inquiries to Washington. Unfortunately, we’ve lost the one piece of evidence we had, and I discover the book is more valuable than we thought. How would you value the Psalter now?”

  The priest didn’t hesitate. “Priceless.”

  “Theft might be a motive. The black market for rare documents is voracious.”

  “No one else understood what the Psalter actually was. I only discovered the truth tonight.”

  “Maybe the Pope’s Secretary guessed, and perhaps he took it from the Vatican to verify what he suspected, just as you did.”

  “He certainly had the same interest in certain prayer books produced by one scribe in particular.”

  “Since we no longer have the evidence, perhaps you can tell me what the professor meant by what you discovered underneath, and why the book is priceless.” Del Carlo retrieved a notepad from his suit jacket pocket.

  Romano explained the theory that the Gospels had been originally composed in Aramaic, the dialect of Jesus and the Apostles, and translated later into Greek, and that none of the Aramaic scriptures had ever been discovered. However, the Psalter had been copied over an erased page of parchment, and the original text was the only first-century scripture in existence written in the language of the Son of God. Thus, the document was likely the most valuable in the world, and no price could be placed on it.

  Colonelo Del Carlo listened intently while he scratched notes. He stopped the priest at a pause in his explanation. “What did the page say, Father?”

  Romano thought for a moment. “It said the Apostle Thomas was Jesus’ twin brother.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “I work in the Secret Archives, Colonelo. I’ve heard that and much more. To think those words were written by Christians; moreover, to suspect they might be true.”

  Del Carlo thought for a long moment. “Father, have you considered that perhaps these men were hired to steal the book, not for the monetary value, but because of what the text reveals—or more to the point, to keep it from being revealed?”

  The vice-prefect of the Secret Archives had tried not to think about it, but the very suspicion had crept into his mind. “As I told you, the only other person who might have guessed the book contained a concealed text was the Pope’s own Secretary.”

  “Who paid with his life. How would Father Mackey have known this prayer book held hidden scriptures?”

  The librarian explained about the ninth-century monk who worked in the scriptorium as a scribe, whose prayer books always seemed to be written over erased heretical scrolls; the monk whose unique calligraphy was out of place among the scribes in Rome; the monk he had nicknamed Giovanni.

  “You’re an American, Father. What’s the English translation for Giovanni?”

  “John, or in Latin, we say Johannes.”

  “What can you tell me about this monk?”

  “Not much, but some things I can guess at. He lived during a turbulent, violent era in Rome’s history, the church’s history.”

  13

  Hall of Blasphemy

  November in the Year of Our Lord 843

  What can you be thinking, Johannes, to go out in the middle of the night to the Jewish quarter?” Anastasius was red-faced despite the chill in his cell that the brazier could not drive out. “Not only is it dangerous, you were seen.”

  “Baraldus was right. We were being watched,” Johannes said more to himself, but loud enough for the Archive primicerius to hear.

  “Of course you’re watched. This is not some monastery in the countryside. We’re in the patriarchum, the capitol of Christendom, where Pope Gregory rules and many are impatient to unseat him. You were missed at Vespers, and I listened to more than one whisper that you were half asleep at Lauds. Everyone spies on everyone.”

  Johannes grew defensive. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I simply wished to speak to the head of the Jewish school. You sound as though I’ve committed some iniquity.”

  Anastasius softened his voice, trying to maintain composure. “War is about to erupt, and we have few allies. I chose you to be my secundarius not just because of your intellect but your independence, as well. You’re a foreigner and owe no allegiance to any family, but you’ve displayed a famine of intelligence and copious independence.”

  Johannes tried to defend himself to the man he had come to admire more than anyone on earth. “I know the Emperor fights his brothers in a civil war, but I’ve heard it’s over. And everyone knows the Norse attack Normandy, Francia, and Germania, while the Saracens occupy Sicily and Brindisi in the south. They’ve taken Messina, but the battles are far from here.”

  “Can you be so thickheaded?” Anastasius said, exasperated. “It’s not Vikings or Arabs we must fear.”

  Johannes realized he didn’t understand what his master was trying to tell him and bowed his head at his ignorance. The librarian rose and placed a comforting hand on the young priest’s tonsured red hair, then walked to the warmth of the brazier and pulled his shawl around. “Forgive me, brother,” Anastasius said with his back turned.

  “Help me to understand.”

  The Librarian returned to his desk. “War is being waged right under your nose, my friend.”

  A theological battle?”

  “It’s the theology of power. Alas, Pope Gregory is not long for the throne of Saint Peter. He’s getting older, and the vultures gather. I believe the masters of Rome will not let him rule much longer. The pendulum of sovereignty swings in another direction.”

  The young priest was shocked at the implication. “You can’t be saying someone would dare lift a hand against the Holy Father?”

  “It has happened before. Nevertheless, whether some pretender to the Apostle’s throne takes Gregory’s life or he passes naturally, many wish to seize the papal crown. Listen to me for I shall need of your brain if we’re to survive the firestorm that’s sure to come.”

  Johannes dragged his chair across the cold tiles, close to his master’s desk, and gazed into the librarian’s tired eyes. He couldn’t help but admire the c
hiseled, handsome face that might have adorned any grand palace, but chose to shine for the church.

  “The princes of the city are angry with Gregory, believing he spends too much time pandering to Emperor Lothair. Gregory named many Franks as bishops instead of Romans, and they try to impose the Emperor’s will in the Papal Palace. Rome’s aristocracy may fight each other to the death on most issues, but they’re unified in their resolve to take back the Papacy, by force if necessary.”

  Johannes was aghast. “How is this possible? The Constitutio Romana of 824 gives all Romans, ordinary citizens as well as nobles, equal voice in the election of the pope. Then the pope-elect must swear an oath of allegiance to the Emperor before he can ascend the throne of Saint Peter.”

  “You studied law as well as the scriptures. The constitution was meant to end the domination of the Roman gentry over the papacy, but Lothair has not kept his eye on the Holy See. He spends all his time trying to save his own empire from his greedy brothers who covet his lands and would put him in his grave if they could. And Roman aristocrats grow bold in the Emperor’s absence.”

  “You, too, are from a noble house, are you not?”

  “True, and my clan traces our ancestors further than most of these rascals who invent absurd genealogies all the way to Romulus and Remus. We’re an international family, having relations throughout the empire. I, too, could have been a prince of the city, more powerful even than Theophylact. But because of my family’s foreign influence, we’re mistrusted. The Roman nobles suspect we support Emperor Lothair.”

  “Do you?”

  A shadow flitted at the door, which was ajar. Anastasius crept across the room and jerked it open. No one was outside, so he pushed it shut and slid the bolt. “What words are spoken here are for your ears alone. You realize we’re forbidden to discuss the successor to the Pope while he still lives, on pain of excommunication?”

  “Of course. Pope Boniface’s decree.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m about to do. If you feel compelled to leave, I’ll understand and harbor no ill feelings. Should you choose to stay, I require your oath that you’ll repeat what you hear to no living soul.”

  “You need not my vow. Nevertheless I swear.”

  “I knew I could count on you, so listen well. Three powers desire the papacy, and two will usurp it for their own ends. Emperor Lothair holds the lawful authority, but the reality of his power is far less than he would wish. Nonetheless, his is the only army large enough to protect us from foreign invaders, especially the Saracens. Alas, he’s been too busy fighting his own brothers to give the heathens much thought.”

  “A family feud.” Johannes said.

  “Siblings waging war to fight for their birthright. When Lothair’s father died, he claimed the whole Empire, even though his father had divided the land amongst all of the brothers. So Lothair’s brothers combined forces and defeated him. Lothair was left with only the Kingdom of Italy and the title of Holy Roman Emperor. He has authority over Rome, but his power has been greatly weakened.”

  “Then, legally, Lothair rules the church and the Roman nobles as well. No one can question his sovereignty.”

  “The right to rule comes with an obligation to defend. While Lothair and his brothers are squabbling over their inheritance, the Saracens have met little resistance and conquered not only Sicily, but also have a foothold on the mainland. Many feel the Emperor cannot be counted on to defend Rome. The most radical families believe he relinquished his right to rule us.”

  Johannes began to view the conflict clearly. “Of course the nobles would love nothing more than to rule the church and Rome. Do they think they can do a better job protecting the city? They’ve lost every campaign against the Arabs.”

  “The fight is not about who is better able to defend. That’s an excuse offered by both sides. It’s about who rules the land and the church and the wealth they yield.”

  “You said three factions. Who’s the third?”

  “Why, the people themselves.”

  “The people?” Johannes was incredulous. “How can commoners organize to back a single candidate, one who could win? Romans argue about everything, even the time of day. Neither do they have the slightest influence in the patriarchum.”

  “We must help them. The papacy was not meant to be a mere pawn of influential families, no matter how royal. The church is for all, not just the gentry.”

  Johannes saw by his sternly set jaw that the librarian had conceived more than just a philosophy; he had a mission. “Do the people support a candidate for the next pope?”

  “They do. A man low of birth yet noble of intellect, much like you. Godly in spirit, he’s a deacon of the church, Deacon John Hymonides.”

  Johannes knew the deacon from his days as an acolyte scrubbing parchment. He appeared every morning in front of the Lateran Palace in a plain brown frock, distributing bread and meat to the poor. The church’s policy was to distribute a loaf, a cup of meat and two cups of wine to but one hundred of the city’s unfortunates, a fraction of those in need.

  Johannes marveled how the good Deacon devised ways to divide food to serve many more than the pittance of one hundred. He was reminded of Jesus feeding five thousand from five loaves of bread and two fish. Some of Rome’s destitute were given meat and others bread, depending upon their need. The loaves were torn in half and little wine was dispensed. Many a morning Johannes had spied Baraldus leaving after Matins, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with small casks only to return with bread and vegetables which were added to the provisions. Johannes suspected that at the bidding of Deacon John, Baraldus traded wine in the village for food, of which the piteous unfortunates had greater need. “Of course,” Johannes said realizing the obvious choice, “such a man would make the perfect pope; a Holy Father from the people and for the people.”

  “But like the people, John will need all the help we can give.”

  “So who will be the Nobles’ candidate?”

  Anastasius sighed heavily, “Alas, Archpriest Pietro di Porca.”

  “Hogsmouth? You can’t be serious. He cares for nothing except singing and his stomach. Who would cast their lot behind such a man?”

  “Don’t underestimate Pietro. He’s shrewd and conniving. He was not promoted to Archpriest for his voice alone. More importantly, he’s Theophylact’s man and commoners recognize him. Why do you think he performs in the piazzas and churches all over Rome? The man is vain of course, but he publicizes his name since he knows well that the next pope needs at least some support from the commoners.” Anastasius rubbed his eyes. “Now my young friend, I must attend to many things, so tell me why you’re buying skins from the Jews when we keep ample parchment in the scrinium.”

  “But who will be the Emperor’s candidate?” Johannes edged forward in his chair.

  “The Emperor chose me.”

  “You? What was all this talk about a pope for the people? Weren’t you serious?”

  “Of course I was. I am! I just don’t think they can win, not yet. We will try, but we cannot win.”

  “Are you saying you would hand over the papacy to the Emperor to wrest it from the Roman nobles?” Johannes grinned.

  “It’s not my idea, but my uncle’s, Bishop Arsenius. If we can’t deliver Christ’s church to the citizens in a single decisive blow, then we must wage a war of attrition and weaken these greedy families.”

  “Your uncle’s a wise man,” Johannes said. “When faced with two devils, let them fight each other. Perhaps once they’re both weakened, we can win.”

  “Exactly what my uncle said, but I pray his plan won’t be necessary, for I don’t desire to sit on Saint Peter’s throne. I weary of the politics of the obedientiary officers who attend his Holiness and administer the will of the church. Leave me to my books. Now, what about the parchment?”

  Johannes stammered. “I…well…”

  “Out with it, Brother.”

  “I want to build an archive.”

  “
An archive?” Anastasius laughed. “Is that all? This is an archive. Why would you rebuild what already exists?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I wish to make…a secret archive.”

  Anastasius frowned and eyed his assistant with suspicion. “What do you mean secret?”

  “Writings of history, philosophy, mathematics, and other works must not be destroyed. We’re obliterating thousands of years of knowledge.”

  “Such literature is of great value, I grant you. I myself kept scrolls from being turned into prayer books for scarcely literate priests and nobles who play at piety. But there’s no need to keep them secret, and what do you mean by other works?”

  “Alright, I think it’s wrong to destroy scriptures just because they’re judged heresies.”

  “You don’t agree with the Holy Father, who said such works are sacrilege and words of the Devil who would plant tares to deceive the faithful?”

  “I don’t know, but that’s not the point.”

  “So tell me, Johannes Anglicus, what is the point?”

  He reflected for a moment, not because he was uncertain in his conviction but rather, he wanted to say what he meant. “I was studying a text, scriptures on the finest vellum written by an unknown author. Half the pages had been ripped out. I had almost resigned to give the damaged book to my assistant to erase when my eyes chanced on a passage. Mary was speaking to the disciples. At first I believed it must be Jesus’ mother. Then I read that the Apostle Peter called her sister and I realized he was referring to Mary Magdalene.” Anastasius nodded his head. “Well who cares which Mary, but I thought, what if I destroyed the true words of Mary Magdalene or worse, the Holy Virgin? Would that not be a bigger sin than disobeying the church? I couldn’t bring myself to destroy the text.” Johannes bowed his head as he admitted his disobedience. “I’m afraid I possess quite a large pile of similar scrolls and codices.”

  Anastasius leaned on his forearms halfway across his desk. “So you wish to save them.”

  “The church believes they’re heresy since many of the books contradict our doctrines of faith, but we must consider the historical value. And God forgive me, what if some are faithful records of Our Lord and his Apostles. So I thought…”