The Psalter Page 13

  Over the crest of the Caelian hill marched a multitude of commoners garbed in homespun tunics, headed purposefully for the chaotic election. Half an hour passed as thousands pressed around the assembly. A reed of a man who donned ill-fitting rags, a capuchon pulled low over his face, jostled and squeezed between people who grumbled at his rudeness until he forced his way next to Johannes.

  Theophylact seized on the calm to reassert his nomination. “Good people of Rome,” he sounded more uncertain. “A single name has been submitted.” The count pulled a red-faced Pietro forward by his sleeve. “I demand that we elect him and unite Rome.”

  No voices came from the buzzing crowd. Aristocrats and priests alike turned to gauge which way the wind blew with the capricious, dangerous rabble. Anastasius had positioned himself next to Theophylact and raised his hand. The slight man next to Johannes raised his in response. Hands rose at various parts of the sea of commoners, like sentries signaling. Someone nudged Johannes in the ribs and the man next to him muttered, “Deacon John.” Twenty paces away a disembodied voice also said, “Deacon John.” Military Sentries all over repeated, “Deacon John,” louder and louder until the multitude picked up the refrain crying out as one, “Deacon John, Deacon John!”

  The congregation of clergy took up the chant, flooding the air with the name. Nobles hollered “Pietro” in response, but their appeals went unheard, drowned out by the roar of thousands.

  From the rear of the pandemonium, voices shouted, “God bless our pope.” Someone found John Hymonides, and he was lifted upon broad shoulders. Crowds gathered ’round to kiss the hem of his plain brown robe. The swarm of humanity formed into a phalanx with the deacon raised in the center. They sliced forward into the blockade of nobles. Aristocratic clans were split apart as the wedge gained momentum, thrusting to its mark like a slow but unstoppable spear.

  Hogsmouth sobbed on the porch as a glowering Theophylact barred the patriarchum door. He was thrown aside by a torrent of commoners, their human flood bursting in and delivering John to the foot of the papal throne. Turning to the congregation, tears rolled down John’s face and dripped on his robe. The palace filled to overflowing as Rome’s humblest citizens mingled with clerics caught up in the surge.

  Johannes elbowed his way to the front just in time to watch Anastasius raise the golden papal tiara. Gasps from awed parishioners echoed against stone walls as he lowered the crown reverently on his friend’s head. Anastasius took a step back and dropped to his knees. “Your Holiness.” The throng also kneeled and said as one, “God bless Pope John.”

  In mid afternoon near the prayer hour of None, the congregation began to file out of the patriarchum. Johannes felt a nudge from behind. He turned to face two men in cloaks, their hoods pulled low. Their mysterious, dark capuchons reminded Johannes of the angels who had appeared to Lot in the city of Sodom. He recognized the small man who had stood beside him in the courtyard speaking Deacon John’s name, which had started an avalanche of voices. The man raised his bowed head to reveal a frizzy white beard encircling a beaming smile.

  “Rabbi Avraham!”

  “Shhh.” The Rosh Yeshiva put his finger to his lips. “I’m not sure we’re welcome here.” The rabbi’s son, Elchanan, also revealed his face to Johannes.

  “So it was you who worked this miracle,” the priest said.

  “I have long wished to see the inside of the patriarchum.” He flashed his sly grin, “but we played only a small part.”

  “How did you do it in less than a day?”

  “We’re humble Jews, yet have many customers and suppliers in Rome, along with friends who were delighted to help. Nevertheless, this thing could not have been done without your indefatigable and resourceful Baraldus. He procured these marvelous costumes, although how he did it in the middle of the night is truly miraculous. Do I not look like a gentile?”

  “More even than the most pious pilgrim. But how—?”

  “Our people did what we could and it was a great deal, but it would not have been enough. Nonetheless, word spread like wildfire throughout all of Rome. Your Lombard knows every innkeeper, trader, and soldier, as well as most of the merchants in the city. The man is a veritable one-man message service.”

  “Yet I watched Anastasius give a signal and you appeared to repeat it.”

  “That was Baraldus’ idea. We were spread out in the crowd, but a fire needs a spark at just the right time. Your assistant said Anastasius was the only man who would know it and could get access to the dais.”

  “How I can ever repay you?”

  “There’s no need to repay goodness except to pass it on to others, and that I know you shall do.”

  “Thanks to you and Baraldus and God’s own grace, we’ve won.”

  “Have you? Rejoice today and then take care. Be wary of the dangerous days ahead, Scholar. Be neither too sweet unless you would be eaten up nor bitter lest you would be spewed out. Find the middle road. But if you wish to repay a debt, come visit me and eat my cakes.” The Rosh Yeshiva pulled his capuchon low and took his leave with Elchanon at his side.

  Thousands of commoners lazed in the piazza, singing songs and hymns they had committed to memory accompanied by lyres, lutes, and fipple flutes. Crowds formed around impromptu musical ensembles, clapping and dancing. Fires were lit in the late afternoon to warm the winter gathering, giving the wide courtyard the festive atmosphere of a holiday celebration.

  Johannes walked among the crowd, smiling as he basked in the fraternity of people who rejoiced in a new pope who had sprung from their own humble masses. Passing from group to group, he nodded to calls of, “Bless you, Father,” or, “God bless the Holy Church,” or, “Bless Pope John Hymonides.” Winds of change blew in Rome, and ordinary citizens refreshed themselves in its cleanness.

  The Lamps had been lit in the Papal Palace when Johannes made his lighthearted way to the patriarcum’s Basilica for evening prayers. Pietro di Porca, the vicedominus and Archdeacon, who descended from patrician families, were absent from Vespers, as were the obedientiary officers. It seemed an obvious slight to John and a rebellion against the changing of the guard, but that would change as time passed. If not, John could appoint an administration of his own.

  Johannes took his place next to Anastasius, who showed only the slightest hint of a conspiratorial grin before they fell comfortably into the first of four psalms of Vespers. The secundarius recited automatically, his mind wandering. He would insist that Anastasius and Baraldus relate every detail of their parts in the magnificent coup. They finished the kyrie eleison and had just begun the Christie eleison when a low-pitched rumble invaded his reverie. Thunder, he wondered as it reverberated closer. No, he realized. Hooves.

  Shrill screams and the clanging of battle cleaved the peace outside. The basilica doors burst open and warhorses charged into God’s house. Hooves clattered on pavement stones, flinging priests hither and fro. Theophylact led troops, swinging his broad sword as panicked clerics scattered. He spurred his charger into the central nave, galloping up its length to the altar while foot soldiers with long pikes rushed behind and herded priests to the outer walls of the basilica.

  The mounted Count pinned Pope John to the altar with his charger. It snorted white spume on John’s face and robe. John tried to flee, but the well-trained warhorse lunged and blocked his escape. Theophylact dismounted, death blazing in his eyes, his blade gripped at his side. Discerning his master’s step out of one fiery eye, the giant horse clopped backward, relinquishing the attack to the count. Theophylact seized Pope John by the collar of his habit and dragged him to the ground. “So you would be pope, would you?” Venom dripped from his words. “You son of a whore from the filthy streets.” He raised his broad sword high over his head. Pope John stared, unflinching, into the count’s murderous eyes.

  “Stop!” The shrill voice from the back of the basilica. “Please, nephew, I beg you.” Pietro di Porca wrung his soft hands at the entrance. He stood sandwiched between vicedominus Ad
rian and Archdeacon Nicholas. They had accompanied the small army to the patriarchum.

  Theophylact’s lethal trance was broken, and he came to himself. He scanned the basilica. Priests and soldiers alike stared, aghast, at the scene. Even nobles shook their heads in horror. Johannes thought Hogsmouth had won a reprieve for John until he heard his voice say, “Do it outside.”

  “Seize him,” the count said. Two sergeants grabbed Pope John by his arms and dragged him behind Theophylact down the nave. The foot soldiers, all of common stock, watched as horrified as the priests.

  A young soldier holding a pike to Johannes’ chest, mouth agape at the Pope’s humiliation, lowered it unwittingly. Johannes leapt over the shaft and charged forward to block Theophylact’s retreat. “Enough,” he barked in the count’s face with his youth’s green voice. “How dare you touch His Holiness?”

  Taken aback at this affront for but an instant, Theophylact struck the secundarius with the hilt of his sword, knocking him to the floor. “The next one who tries to stop me will feel the bite of my blade,” he said. He motioned the sergeants forward but Johannes, hunched over and spitting blood, threatened Hogsmouth, “Pietro, if you allow this, then, by the saints, there’ll be no music archive.”

  “I can do nothing. It’s the will of God,” Hogsmouth said.

  “Then I swear I will never teach you harmonies and I will discredit your music with every stroke of my pen. Your songs will be ill regarded and forgotten before you’re even dust in the grave.” Johannes’ icy glare pierced the Archpriest’s soft exterior.

  “I am to be the rightful Pope, and I will order you.”

  “If you can do naught, so too can I do nothing. I will be a humble priest or even a layman. That you cannot stop. But you won’t have your music, and I’ll write of the wicked pope who murdered a pope to seize his crown. Your legacy will be most foul and your songs will be unsung and forgotten, I swear.”

  Noble cardinals who hated Pietro’s songs smirked. Common priests, aghast at the sacrilege of the holy patriarchum defiled by blood and armed troops, murmured in agreement. Even the soldiers, fearful for their immortal souls, nodded hopefully.

  Hogsmouth grasped that if he allowed John Hymonides to be slaughtered, his papacy would indeed be stained: power without authority. Worse, he would be forever beholden to Theophylact. He had but one chance to free himself from his nephew’s rapacious bullying, and it was now. “If I spare John’s life, will you obey me?”

  Johannes glanced at Anastasius, but found no advice in his gaze. He turned to Pope John Hymonides and detected no fear, but also no counsel. “I’ll do whatever you bid.”

  Hogsmouth’s voice trembled as he spoke to his nephew. “Release him, I beg you.”

  Theophylact was furious. “I give the orders here!”

  Pietro’s trembling turned to resolve and his quivering voice congealed to ice. “No, nephew, in the Holy See, it is I who command.”

  “You, Hogsmouth, dare to defy me?”

  “I’m grateful for your assistance, Uncle. Nonetheless, in the patriarchum, I sit on the throne. I order you on pain of your everlasting soul to release Deacon John.” Pietro added with cruel glee, “Unless you fear neither God nor excommunication in front of these assembled witnesses.” The tide had turned and Pietro, ever the politician, sensed it. “Any man, be he noble or common, who harms a priest or a hair on Deacon John’s head will be excommunicated and face damnation in Satan’s Hell.” Soldiers lowered their pikes and nobles slid swords into scabbards. Fearful whispers filled the church, and Pietro knew they would obey him.

  Theophylact fumed, but his rage waned as the assembly obeyed Hogsmouth. “I will not see this false pope, who would purloin Saint Peter’s throne, set free to work his wickedness.”

  Archpriest Pietro grasped that his nephew had left an opening for compromise, and he would give him an accommodation so he might leave with some scrap of honor. “So he shall not. I order that henceforth, Deacon John shall be banished to the monastery at Monte Cassino far from Rome, where he will serve God and not his own ambition.”

  Theophylact spoke politic for the crowd, “Then we are satisfied that justice has been done. Release the prisoner.” The assembly heaved a collective sigh. “I will not leave, however, until the rightful pope has been crowned.”

  Johannes, still bleeding and dabbing at his mouth with his sleeve, intervened indignantly. “The Pope may not be consecrated until he’s been confirmed by Lothair. It’s the Emperor’s lawful right.”

  The count’s hackles raised at the priest’s continued impudence. “Lothair is not here and I’ll permit no further mischief. I demand the Pope be consecrated now! I will deal with Lothair.”

  “As you wish nephew,” Pietro di Porca said. “Surely the Emperor will understand that in this state of rebellion, an immediate consecration is necessary.” He sauntered to the church altar, glancing left and right at his brethren, a gloating smile on his double-chinned face. He turned to the assembly, smug and satisfied that his lifetime ambition had been realized.

  The vicedominus hurried forward to pick up the conical tiara that had been knocked to the ground and placed it without hesitation or pomp on Hogsmouth’s head. There were no cheers, no prayers of thanksgiving, and no psalms recited. Priests, nobles, and soldiers alike felt somehow defiled.

  Pope Hogsmouth rose imperiously from the throne of Christendom. “I will no longer be Pietro de Porca, for no pope is worthy of the Apostle Peter’s name. Nor shall I suffer further the indignity of being called Hogsmouth. I henceforth take the name Sergius after an illustrious and pious pope, and I shall be the second of that name.”

  It had never been done before, that a Pope changed his name to call himself by that of another. Many of the priests who witnessed the night’s violence grasped the irony that Pope Sergius II took the name of a Syrian who had purchased the papacy for one hundred pounds of gold. Few knew, however, save Hogsmouth, that the first Sergius had likewise been raised and trained in the schola cantorum.

  17

  1969 Citroën

  Colonelo Del Carlo and Capitaine Desmoulins had forbidden Father Romano from leaving Paris without their express permission. As he sat in the emergency room lobby while the Hébers were being examined, the priest brooded over the last twenty-four hours that had dismantled his quiet life of refuge in the Holy Church. Why did I take the Psalter, he asked himself. All of this could have been avoided.

  Well, not all. The Pope’s trusted Secretary and his confessor would still be dead, murdered by some arcane group. And these unknown assassins would still be after the Psalter, which was in reality a great deal more than a mere prayer book. Nevertheless, the Hébers would not have been assaulted and the Archive receptionist would still be alive. So what did he have to show for the last forty-eight hours? A ruined career, a sore groin, and the sole responsibility for the theft of the most valuable manuscript in Christendom. It seemed a ruinous way to learn the virtues of obedience.

  Nevertheless, Romano was sick of obedience, at least the kind that turned otherwise intelligent people into simpletons as their ideology trumped intellect, and the librarian felt no better than they. He was one of few with unlimited access to hidden writings in the Secret Archives, and he was tired of hiding knowledge that should belong to the world so they could judge for themselves. Two billion Christians echoed the official creed, but hardly a soul raised a voice for the suppressed writings, at least until Giovanni.

  Romano sat in a plastic chair, head bowed. A hand patted his shoulder. “Are you in pain?” Pascal leaned over, purplish blotches spotting his cheek where he’d been struck.

  “My groin aches a little.”

  The corners of the linguist’s mouth curled up in an impish grin. “They don’t make bandages for such an injury.”

  The priest’s face turned from self-pity to concern. “How’s Isabelle?”

  “Concussion, but the doctors say she’ll be fine.”

  “I was shocked to see her get u
p after the blow she took. I’ve seen football players sidelined by less.”

  “My daughter possesses remarkable willpower. Of course, there’s a fine line between willpower and stubbornness, and Isabelle lives on the edge, a family curse, I fear. They’re keeping her for the night as a precaution. She made the mistake of telling them she’d been knocked unconscious. I told the doctor our attacker hit like a little girl. I think he believed me because he’s letting me go home. Let’s get out of here before they change their minds.”

  Pascal poured an infusion of herb tea into china cups that made the apartment smell like a summer garden while the priest righted overturned furniture. “Leave it for tomorrow. I’ll call the cleaning lady in the morning.” He glanced at his watch. “I suppose it is morning. The sun will be up in an hour or so. Drink some rose tea. I brew this for Isabelle when she suffers from cramps. She would berate me if she knew I told you. Perhaps the herbs will help; it’s in the same general area, no?”

  Pascal’s jests made brightened Romano’s spirits a bit, although a foreboding still enveloped him like a cheerless fog. The tea relaxed the spasms in his nether region in a way the ibuprofen did not. “I’ve made a mess of this,” he said in a piteous voice.

  The retired professor rose from the overstuffed chair to sit beside the heartsick priest. “This isn’t a tragedy of your making. Sometimes when one rushes to great heights, every setback seems like the end of the world. Your scholarship and intuition led you to uncover the most significant scriptures in two thousand years. How can it be, how did you put it, a mess?”

  “If I hadn’t taken the book, none of this would have happened. Now it’s lost forever.”

  “Had you not brought the Psalter to Isabelle, you might never have uncovered the text, and the words are not quite lost.” Romano looked at him, not comprehending, as Pascal pulled folded sheets of paper from the side pocket of his cardigan. “I took the liberty of copying the photograph to recheck some of the more obscure words. It’s Aramaic, an exact copy, but I can translate for you.” The smile on the professor’s face grew larger.