The Psalter Read online

  Johannes pushed up a wide sleeve to reveal fresh wounds from razor incisions. “The dunces.”

  “Do you also practice the healing arts, young scholar?” Sergius slurred his words.

  “Of course not, but anyone with eyes can diagnose what ails you.”

  “Is my death at hand?” Sergius began to weep.

  “Hardly, and you have no time for this foolishness.” Johannes turned to the slave boy and handed him the goblet. “Take away the wine and meat. Every scrap of food, out!”

  Hogsmouth pleaded, “It’s my only relief from this agony.”

  “Listen to me, Holiness. The strong drink and rich foods cause your distress. You suffer from a malady of indulgence, the gout.”

  “Impossible. That’s the sickness of the wealthy and idle.”

  “There’s no time to dispute. Set your drunkenness aside if you can and listen.” Johannes held Sergius by the cloth of his surplice as he explained that Louis scourged the land, making for Rome to dethrone him.

  Hogsmouth sobered, realizing he was in mortal danger. “What must I do?” He shivered.

  The Crescentii, Pierleone, Frangipani and the other aristocratic families gathered up their households and bolted for their country castles or to relatives in the south, leaving Rome undefended. The Count of Tusculum had thought of opposing Lothair once and for all. But with his allies deserting en masse, there was no possibility of a practicable resistance, let alone victory. In the end, he, too, fled to his castle in Tusculum on the northern edge of the extinct Alban volcano.

  The patrician clergy also took flight with their families. Benedict abandoned the patriarchum to seek Theophylact’s protection. Only common and foreign priests were left with the exception of Sergius, who was bedridden.

  Louis crossed the Tiber north of Rome on the Milvian Bridge. Marching south on the via Flaminia, the Frankish army punished Roman citizens as they fled the city, hacking the men and children to death and raping women, young and old. Prince Louis rode ahead of the macabre scene on his steaming charger, clad in gleaming armor like an avenging angel.

  Poor civilians, taxed heavily for protection, received none. They took the brunt of the villainous attack as is common in every war, no matter how righteous. Fires broke out along the road, set by the arsonist army. Johannes tracked Louis’ advance from the aerial banquet hall by the plumes of smoke creeping ever closer.

  He clambered down the steps of Zacharias’ Tower and crossed the alley into the Lateran Palace to give an account to Sergius and what was left of the clergy, which included Anastasius. Doors were barred from the inside with stout wooden beams. “Louis makes for the Flamina gate and will be here before midday prayers,” he reported between breaths.

  Sergius had recovered somewhat from his debilitating gout thanks to an enforced regime of cherries and tea, but paced gingerly on painful ankles. Even in his terror, he was lucid enough to realize his life depended on Lothair and Louis’ pleasure. “We must send soldiers to man the battlements,” he said to Anastasius.

  “Holiness, few men at arms are left in the city. I ordered the gates shut and barricaded. The Aurelian walls are strong and will keep Louis at bay for a while, but if he lays siege, he’ll breach them soon enough. Little can be done to stop him.”

  Sergius sobbed, then shouted at Anastasius, “You’re the emperor’s man. Don’t deny it. You and your uncle Arsenius do his bidding. Go parley with Louis. Make him listen to reason. Tell him I’ll excommunicate him and his whole vile family!”

  “I doubt if Louis would heed my words or anyone else’s. Lothair seeks vengeance, not accommodation.”

  “I order you to meet with him. Do something, for mercy’s sake.”

  Anastasius sought Johannes’ gaze. “Any suggestions, friend?”

  “There are few chess pieces left on the board. Nevertheless, if you would plead with the prince, you won’t be alone. I shall go with you.”

  The streets were empty, the shops shuttered and locked. Even the rowdy inns which never closed were shut up tight. An eerie quiet hung over the city as the two priests made their way through deserted neighborhoods. The hooligans and their sycophants, troublesome fixtures outside the Colosseum, were nowhere to be found.

  Crossing the ox pasture which had once been the Forum, they turned north following the bourgeois via Lata until it became the long and straight via Flaminia. At last, the Aurelian wall came into view. Only a few soldiers still manned the ramparts at the Flaminian gate. They were supported by commoners, armored in dented helms and worn leather jerkins. One without rank, who seemed to be acting as sergeant, addressed the pair as they approached. “Hold, good priests. You shouldn’t be here. Get yourselves to a church for the emperor’s army arrives to lay siege.”

  Anastasius called up to the acting officer, “Nay, protector of Rome. We act on orders from His Holiness to treat with Louis.”

  “Madness, folly,” the soldier said. “And with what will you bargain?”

  “With God’s good word.”

  The acting sergeant burst into a hearty laugh. “Then come up and welcome, priests, for you’re even more foolhardy than we few.”

  They watched together in silence as Louis rode at the head of a column of despoilers flying military banners. The sun glinted from polished breastplates and pikes. Helmets shined like halos in the distance.

  Prince Louis halted a hundred paces from the wall. He held up his gauntlet, signaling the army to hold while he rode forward, an armored captain on either side. Looking up at the paltry defenders, he mocked, “Why, good Anastasius, I see you’re protected by the city’s elite guard.”

  “There are none braver, majesty.” He bowed his head to the prince in obeisance.

  “At least one is left in the city who respects his liege Lord.”

  “More than one, sire. All are not of the same mind.”

  “Like Lot, God’s one servant in Sodom, looking for a few righteous souls are you?” Louis smiled, pleased with his allusion.

  “Many here bow to the Emperor’s rule, yet your men slaughter everyone, making no distinction.”

  Louis’ smirk turned to a scowl. “All of Rome will pay for this treasonous pretender to the papacy.”

  “Even the Emperor’s faithful servants?”

  Louis was chastened. “Perhaps my men were overzealous in meting out Lothair’s judgment.”

  “Murder is foul no matter what you call it.”

  “Tread softly, priest. I give you that we have exacted vengeance, but on my lord’s orders. Soldiers are soldiers and once loosed follow their bloodlust. At the end, they mind their master. Whom do you obey?”

  “His Holiness.”

  “And who might he be, John Hymonides or Hogsmouth? Lothair has not confirmed anyone, thus I know of no pope.”

  “Let’s not dispute like enemies, Louis, for we’re not. Instead, why don’t we treat to the satisfaction of your father and my emperor?”

  “Then open the gates so we may speak with no wall between us.”

  “So your men can ravage Rome as they did the countryside? I will not aid you in committing unspeakable sins.”

  “Have you the courage then to meet me on the plain undefended?”

  “Unarmed I am, but not defenseless. God protects me.”

  The poorly clad guards lifted the heavy beam out of the sockets and opened the gate, letting four pass through the walls of the city. The self-appointed sergeant and a soldier acted as honor guard, leading Anastasius and Johannes. Wooden folding chairs were unpacked and set in the open field, and Lothair’s and Louis’ standards flapped in the warm breeze.

  Louis saluted the sergeant. “Tell me, soldier, how would you fight me with your dozen men?” he chided.

  Redfaced, the soldier stammered in unlettered, vulgar Italian, “We have only a handful posted at every gate, but in truth I…I know not sire. Nevertheless, my duty is to defend the city.”

  “Yet the lords and officers, even your comrades, abandon their posts, do
they not?”

  “That’s their affair, Majesty,” he said. His voice held no hint of disrespect.

  Louis turned to his captains. “I could vanquish the Norse and the Saracens with a company of men such as this. Attend to their needs, the best wine and provisions, and for mercy sake, find them some proper armor.” Louis bowed to the sergeant. “What’s your name?”

  “Pelas, sire.”

  “A Greek? Well, Pelas, if you tire of your post, I would commission you as an officer in my army and welcome your comrades also.”

  Louis poured the wine as he spoke familiarly with Anastasius. “Who’s your young companion?”

  “May I present Father Johannes Anglicus.”

  “The English priest who clipped Theophylact’s rooster tail and saved Deacon John’s life?” Louis roared with mirth. “In truth, I’m amazed that Rome’s greatest heroes are the most unlikely. You’re nothing like the songs. Why, you’re not much more than a boy. Is it all a fantasy?”

  Johannes blushed while Anastasius defended his friend. “The lyrics might exaggerate Johannes’ physical stature, I’ll grant, but the deed is true.”

  “Then all the more heroic. You have my respect, young Father.” Louis nodded his head. “Well, now, Anastasius, to business. You and your uncle Arsenius are friends to the Emperor and me. So how do we right this wrong?”

  “Lothair’s claim is just, and a great injustice was done to him and to John Hymonides as well. The good Deacon was elected by Rome’s commoners, who defied the nobles, even Theophylact. Yet you would punish those very people. I thought you sought justice for your father?”

  “You cut to the quick.”

  “One pope has already been deposed, and you would upend another. The Holy Church must know some peace, as should the guiltless of Rome.”

  “And my father is owed respect for his rights. As for me, I would smite these Roman nobles who thumb their noses at their liege lords. I cannot and will not leave without satisfaction.”

  “If I may, sire,” Johannes said. “You have already exacted a bloody price. Surely the emperor would be content with the payment. But if you seek the obeisance of the church and nobility, have Sergius, who springs from noble blood, crown you king of Italy with his own hand. Then Theophylact and the nobles would not dare deny your right as their lawful lord. Sergius shall swear allegiance to Lothair, and you will have procured all with your army. The victory and the fame will be yours.”

  The Prince regent pondered the idea for a moment. “I believe my father would be satisfied. Yes, by the saints, if all will submit, the empire would be pleased.” Louis grew solemn. “But we desire a pope the emperor can wholeheartedly embrace. We want you, Anastasius.”

  “I’m young, your majesty, only thirty and seven years. Sergius is old and ill and will not be long on Christ’s throne. Then I shall stand for the Holy Chair.”

  “I demand John Hymonides’ freedom. Sergius must agree to that too.” Louis turned to Johannes. “Your reputation as a scholar is well earned, Johannes, as is your bravery. I would be gratified if I could count on your loyalty.”

  “Sire, my fealty was never in question. It’s to God first, and then the Emperor and you.”

  “Perhaps one day we may even be friends, you and I.”

  The 15th Day of Iunius in the Year of Our Lord 844

  Sergius hastened by litter under the cover of darkness to Saint Peter’s Basilica. He snuck into the church while Louis’ army slept in their encampment below the Vatican on Nero’s plain. He only half-believed his life might be spared. Ordering the entrance shut and barred, he shivered as he waited for the appointed hour of the coronation.

  A sharp banging of metal on the wooden doors of the basilica, like the hilt of a sword hammering, reverberated off the stone walls. Sergius fairly jumped out of his kidskin boots. He whimpered through a crack, “Who seeks to enter God’s holy house?”

  A furious, disembodied voice replied. “Louis, son of Emperor Lothair, your lawful lord. Open, I command in his name and mine!”

  Sergius cowered. “The doors will open only if you mean the church no harm.”

  “You will come to no harm by my hand if you do what was agreed. But if you would be Pope and have me spare your miserable life, open up!”

  Louis was crowned that warm June day by Sergius’ own hand, and the Emperor’s right to confirm the Pontiff according to the constitution was restored. The incredulous aristocracy returned to the city to find it saved. They gave all the credit to Sergius, whose reputation as the most skillful negotiator in Rome soared. Even Theophylact gained a grudging respect for his uncle and no longer called him Hogsmouth in public. But among the common people, the shopkeepers, artisans, farmers, and in the Jewish ghetto of the Trastevere, the names Johannes Anglicus and Anastasius were revered as much as the loss of Pope John Hymonides was mourned.

  21

  Saracens

  August was a month of celebration. With the hay cutting finished and the harvest of wheat, oats and barley well underway under the hot summer sun, granaries filled faster this year than most. Aged Romans remembered the famine years of seven hundred ninety-two and -three during the reign of Charlemagne, when Romans starved. However, these were fat days with plentiful rain and abundant crops.

  The opening festival was the feast of Saint Peter in Chains. Priests held special masses to venerate Christendom’s first pope, and the city buzzed as people filed out of hundreds of churches and made their way to merchants’ stalls to buy provisions, then off to the fairs which had sprung up all over Rome. Farmers who tilled the church’s farms or the nobility’s demesnes brought crops they grew in their spare time to sell for hard cash.

  The theater, nearly dead during the dark ages, had been resurrected in the simple but poignant passion plays performed in the squares. A new play authored by exiled Deacon John Hymonides, who some still called the true Pope, was popular among the populace. In his seclusion in the monastery at Monte Cassino, John had developed a passion for the written word and added short plays to his repertoire of histories and commentaries.

  Acrobats leaped and tumbled, and jongleurs sang tales of epic battles, holy saints, and legendary lovers for a few bronze coins. Most Romans, however, clamored to hear stories of the humble English priest, a meek but wise scholar, who had bested Rome’s powerful count unarmed and alone, saving the life of the beloved Deacon John. The following days celebrated Saints Eusebius, Irenaeus, the Virgin Mother, Pope Sixtus II, and various minor saints. Thus, for ten days, Rome bustled with fairs and fêtes. Children kicked balls fashioned from inflated pigs’ bladders, shot marbles, or jousted on hand-made hobbyhorses with toy lances whose tips were capped with tiny windmills that spun in the breeze. Men swilled cheap wine as they played bocce, which had become a Roman obsession.

  This festival day, the tenth of August, was perhaps the most sacred to Johannes: the feast of Saint Lawrence. In the year of our Lord two hundred fifty-eight, Pope Sixtus II and two of his deacons were beheaded by order of Emperor Valerian. Then four more deacons were executed, which left Lawrence, the last of seven, as the city’s senior cleric.

  Rome’s prefect ordered the confiscation of the outlawed church’s treasures. Lawrence begged to be allowed three days to collect them. But instead of submitting to Rome’s demand, he distributed what monies were left to the needy and spirited away the archives, which included the names of church leaders and their congregations. At the appointed time, Lawrence appeared before the prefect, bringing with him Rome’s poor and sick, whereupon he announced that these were the true riches of the church.

  A furious prefect ordered Lawrence’s body chained to a gridiron and roasted over a flame. Now, six hundred years later, the instrument of his execution, the very gridiron, lay in the basilica of San Lorenzo, which was erected over the martyr’s tomb. Ever after, Saint Lawrence would be revered as the giver of alms and keeper of the church’s treasures. However, Johannes venerated the martyr for his supreme sacrifice to save the chu
rch’s library. For him, the Deacon would always be Saint Lawrence the Librarian.

  Alone in the Lateran basilica after Matins, he said a special prayer to the saint, beseeching his wisdom in the completion of the new library, which was nearly finished. He was interrupted by a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Anastasius?”

  “Forgive me, Brother. I would not interrupt your prayers, but I must speak to you. Can you meet with me in my cell?”

  “I’ve just finished and nothing awaits me but more filing in the library.”

  They left together through the arcade, walked down the steps and into the scrinium. Anastasius closed the door to the chamber and pulled a folded scrap of parchment from his wide sleeve.

  “What is it?” Johannes said.

  “A letter from Deacon John. Read.”

  Johannes glanced at the salutation and skimmed the script written in the style of the monastery at Monte Cassino. It appeared that John had become friends with the Abbott, which explained how he was able to send out his writings. Arriving at the body of the letter, he saw the emergency and read aloud for emphasis.

  Our Abbott received an alarming communiqué from Count Adelbert of Corsica. A Saracen force captured the naval base at Misenum in the Bay of Naples. Their fleet numbering seventy-three ships carrying five-hundred horses and eleven hundred foot soldiers is anchored at the mouth of the Tiber even as I write. It can only mean that they will make for Rome.

  God bless and protect you. Can you send more Greek histories?

  John Hymonides

  Johannes’ jaw dropped. “But the schola cantorum, Saint Peter’s, all of the Vatican, we’re unprotected. The Aurelian walls only surround Rome and not us. We must send for help. Can Lothair get here in time?”

  “If the Arabs plan to attack, we have just days, a week at most. It will take a rider that long just to reach Lothair’s capitol in Aachen. I sent riders to alert the Emperor’s garrisons, but they’re few in number, no match for a force this size. ”

  “Theophylact then. Surely, he can field an army.”