The Psalter Read online

  Anastasius’ eyes fixed on the stain on Baraldus’ sword. “I was within a hair’s width of having my head chopped off,” Johannes said, “had it not been for Baraldus. He bested two of them and sent the third packing.”

  The secundarius crossed himself. “God forgive me, they were but boys and stood not a chance against an old hand.”

  “So they’re here,” Anastasius said, wide eyed.

  “The scouts reconnoiter,” Baraldus replied. “The main force will not be far behind. We must get to the protection of the walls.”

  Johannes shook his head.

  “Can you not make him see reason?” The Lombard entreated Anastasius.

  “I’ve tried to no avail.”

  “At least take my sword.” Baraldus held out the weapon to Johannes.

  “That will be of little use to such as me. Keep it and take Anastasius with you.”

  Anastasius shrugged his shoulders. “I’m staying, too.”

  “You’re both lunatics,” Baraldus said. “Bar the entrance and the door to the grotto, then hide yourselves. Defenseless as you are, your only protection will be stealth.”

  Baraldus turned to leave, but Johannes caught his sleeve. “Thank you for my life.”

  “I fear it has been for naught.” The Lombard choked on his words then he fled across the portico.

  Prince Ahmad crouched over the headless body, the scout at his side. “You say a mere priest bested you?”

  “He wielded his sword like a master. I never saw such a display.”

  The prince mocked the soldier. “Then let us pray we don’t meet the Pope.” He rose and spoke familiarly with his captain. “Send riders down every street and behind every building. I don’t want any surprises from the rear, like Porto.”

  “Your will be done, Lord.” The captain raised his arms and horsemen split from the column, galloping down the side streets.

  Ahmad marched up the street at the head of his army. He alone wore no armor. His khuff, a knee-high leather stocking, cinched loose pantaloons, and a red sash wound around his short tunic, accentuating a thin frame. An open, sleeveless robe hung to his calves and billowed in the breeze. His head was wrapped in a turban of yellow and blue linen, the end of the material falling to his shoulders. Climbing the steps to the basilica, he twisted and pulled the iron ring on the door. “Break it down,” he commanded.

  The heavy oak doors burst as the battering ram tore hinges from the wall. They fell inward and crashed on the pavement stones. Ahmad raised his eyes to the high ceilings and was taken aback by the splendid architecture. A shiver from the chill inside scurried up his back, and he shuddered. The church is beautiful, he thought, but its heaviness is so unlike the airiness of a mosque and it oppresses my heart. His superstitious troops tiptoed in, speaking in muffled whispers.

  One spied the Altar of Saint Peter. “Silver,” he cried, “and gold!” Men rushed forward, passing Ahmad on either side as a river torrent is split by a single stone. The prince only smiled and continued his silent inspection of the holiest church in the empire of Christ. “We have found what we sought, Captain.” The captain who followed grinned in response, showing his relief.

  Arab, Berber, and Turkish soldiers pried golden plates from the walls. They used axes and spears as levers to strip silver sheets from the doors. A golden balustrade was torn from a stone staircase it had adorned for five hundred years.

  Thirty men pounded on Peter’s altar with the hilts of their swords. They levered with spears, but the structure didn’t budge. Frustrated and overwhelmed by greed, they led in six mounts and lashed ropes to the saddles. They tied the other ends around the altar. The horses slipped and stumbled to their knees on the slick stone as riders whipped their rumps. A loud crack echoed off the walls as the altar tilted and crashed to the floor.

  Anastasius and Johannes huddled together as the destruction above assaulted their ears. “We must find somewhere to hide,” Anastasius said.

  “I’ve prepared a place at the back.” Johannes led him to the far recesses of the grotto.

  “In a tomb?” Anastasius rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t worry. Whoever was here is long gone, taken to the catacombs. It’s almost empty.”

  “Almost?”

  Johannes forced a smile. “This is where I hide the heretical books I want to archive.”

  Anastasius shook his head. “I should have guessed when you said you were setting up shop here.”

  Johannes had stashed a pile of scrolls and stacks of papyrus codices in the rear of the stone sarcophagus. “I didn’t know how long I’d be here so I stored jugs of water, bread, and a straw mattress.”

  “But how can we close the tomb from the inside?”

  “Baraldus has seen to that. He greased the edges with lard and oil. Look, the stone moves easily.” They climbed in and slid the cover nearly in place, leaving a crack so they could listen to the bedlam above. A loud crash from the ceiling sent plaster raining down on the tomb. The whole chamber shook.

  “They’ve knocked something large to the floor,” Anastasius said, peering out the crack.

  “Perhaps God struck them down,” Johannes said hopefully.

  “More likely the altar. They’re after gold and silver.” As he spoke, a thunderous boom resounded from the far end of the cavernous grotto, then another and another. “They’ve found the Door of Death.” They guided the stone cover to its final place and all turned black inside the stifling tomb.

  Saracens rampaged through the underground papal cemetery. They pried stone covers from sarcophagi, searching for plunder. Anastasius and Johannes could only wait as the tide of grave robbers drew nearer. The pandemonium seemed to subside, however. “They’ll find nothing of value in the tombs,” Johannes whispered. “The only jewelry the Popes possess is the ring of the fisherman, and it’s taken from their fingers upon their death and broken. That’s why I chose a tomb at the back. They’ll tire of their labor when they find only rotting bones for their trouble.”

  “I would never have thought of that.”

  “It was Baraldus’ idea, not mine.”

  The Arab captain left the frustrated troops as they desecrated tomb after tomb, finding only moldering robes and old bones. He pulled a codex from a pile and opened the cover. The writing was foreign and incomprehensible, so he cast it back. Lifting a large scroll, he slid off the leather sheath and rolled it open. The script was the same, and he threw it on the pile as well. He walked deep into the grotto and struck the side of a sarcophagus with the hilt of his sword. A hollow ring resonated from within the crypt. When he reached the wall at the farthest end, he turned to retrace his steps then stopped. “Sergeant,” he said.

  “Yes sir,” one of the men answered.

  “All of these books, take them out.”

  “Sir?” The sergeant looked dumbfounded at his commander.

  “Don’t question me. Follow my orders.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, the sergeant barked orders to men who began hauling books up the stone steps. Then the captain’s trained military mind processed something out of place. He cocked his head, trying to focus on what it was. He returned to the rear of the grotto and scanned the scene until his eye caught what seemed impossible. A tomb seeped a viscous liquid down the side. He rubbed the fluid between a thumb and forefinger, and raised his hand to his nose. Lamp oil, he thought to himself, and the putrid smell of animal fat. “Filthy Christians,” he said and turned, but stopped in his tracks.

  He spun and shoved at the stone lid with a great heave. The cover slid and fell to the floor with an earsplitting crack, fracturing into pieces. Two brown-clad priests crouched inside, surrounded by books and scrolls. “Out,” he said in Greek. As the pair rose slowly, the crowd of Saracens at the other side of the mausoleum edged closer, swords at the ready. Then they burst into laughter.

  “Our books!” Johannes cried out in Latin. He turned to the captain and said in Greek, “You’re stealing our scriptures.” The captain poked
the point of his sword into the priest’s ribs, “Up the stairs.”

  “Hold your tongue, Johannes,” Anastasius whispered harshly. “If we can gain any mercy it’ll be by our wits, not your hasty words.”

  The Saracen officer pricked Anastasius’ back with his blade. “Silence, priest!”

  Prince Ahmad collapsed on Saint Peter’s throne. He surveyed the looting of the basilica with satisfaction, but was mostly relieved. He had barely been able to control his men. In truth, they weren’t his men, he contemplated. More a loose confederation of mercenaries, warring tribes and religious sects who hated one another almost as much as they hated Christians.

  Ahmad ibn Muhammad descended from a long line of scholarly emirs, the dynasty of the Aghlabids, who followed the Hanafi law, the most tolerant of Sunni Islam. The Aghlabids sought to bring peace and unification to all Ifriqiya. But while Ahmad’s family taught tolerance for others, his men were mercenaries and only had respect for their own sect and for gold. Many of them were followers of the Fatamid dynasty that sought to overthrow Ahmad’s uncle and impose their rigid brand of Islamic law.

  This was an uneasy alliance of warriors that Ahmad led into battle unified by two things, money and land. The Crown Prince held them together, as did his uncle, by conquest and spoils. I’m a scholar, the prince thought while sitting on Peter’s ancient wooden chair. Must I waste my mind on incessant stratagems for raids and plunder?

  Troops glanced up from their pillaging to mock the two priests as they were marched at swordpoint toward the seated Crown Prince. “Kneel before the Prince,” the captain barked. He seized Anastasius by his collar and jerked him to his knees. The Saracen ranks cheered. Johannes dropped at the same time, hoping to escape the abuse, but received a boot between his shoulder blades anyway. “On your face, infidel,” the captain bellowed.

  “Well, well, what have we here? Two priests? I hope they’re unarmed, Captain. Otherwise my whole army might be in danger.” The troops’ faces went sour at the insult. They grumbled and returned to their burglary.

  “My lord,” the captain bowed his head. “They were hiding in the tombs below.”

  Prince Ahmad’s eyes narrowed. “Are you spies?”

  Johannes looked up at the Arab seated on the throne of the Apostle and his mouth gaped. “You’re sitting on…”

  Anastasius pushed Johannes’ head to the floor, silencing him. “My lord, my brother is young and knows not respect for his betters. Forgive him, I beg you.”

  “One can learn much from the impudence of the young. I wish to hear what you would say, priest. What’s so important that you would risk your miserable life to address a prince of Islam thus?”

  “I’m sorry, Sire,” Johannes could scarcely contain his outrage. “But you’re sitting on one of our most sacred relics, the throne of the Apostle.”

  Ahmad sprang from the chair. “This old wooden seat is the famous throne of Saint Peter?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Upon my word, I’m the one who should ask for forgiveness. A man should not desecrate another’s sacred things.”

  Johannes’ outrage was replaced by the observation that he was prostrated before a thoughtful man. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, yet you defile our holiest church and plunder its sacred treasures.”

  Ahmad laughed. “Sacred to whom? The church was not built by Peter, but a Roman emperor, and a bloodthirsty one at that. And you adorn this holy place with graven images. Is that not a sin even according to your own scriptures?”

  “You’ve read the Bible?”

  “Not all. Now, I’ve answered your questions. I should like an answer to mine. Are you here to spy on us, perhaps our troop strength or our tactics?”

  “No, my lord,” Anastasius said. “You can see we’re priests. We remained behind because we’re librarians.”

  Ahmad reflected, “So you stayed to protect your sacred books, a noble purpose. And do you wish to fight us for them?”

  “If I could, I would,” Johannes blurted out before his mentor was able to stop him. “Alas, we’re not soldiers. We stayed to bar the door to the grotto.”

  “Some of your priests fight like soldiers. You, young man, have you the heart of a warrior or do you just puff up your delicate self like a bantam rooster?”

  “I apologize for my outburst, but I’m the librarian of the Holy Church and you’re stealing scriptures that I’m charged to protect. Should I not be outraged and fight, though it might cost my life?”

  Prince Ahmad nodded. “I suppose I should expect nothing less than your disdain.”

  “So will you return our holy books?”

  “I fear I cannot. Books are worth their weight in silver, and you possess a vast treasury. I can pay my army for years to come with the price these will fetch.”

  “Then let’s bargain for them. Rome has gold. Sell the books back to us.”

  “Will you not negotiate for your life instead?”

  “These are the true riches of the church,” Johannes said. “Without them, my life is not worth a denier.”

  “Then let us discover whether we can strike a deal.”

  23

  The Bargain

  It’s a trap, Holiness.” Sergius’ brother, Benedict, said. “These Godless heathens are nothing more than pirates. Once they get their filthy hands on our gold, why should they give back our holy books? Besides, words can be rewritten, but the church’s treasure is hard earned.”

  “I’m so fatigued, I can’t think straight.” Indeed, Pope Sergius’ pallor was gray.

  “Send these ignorant unbelievers packing. I wouldn’t pay a single solidi for a room full of books.”

  “You would trade the Papal Palace for thirty pieces of silver if it would make you a profit. Do you think I don’t know that you sell holy offices and anything you can get your hands on?” Sergius shouted, then slumped back in his seat, exhausted.

  Benedict bowed his head in feigned contrition. “Dear brother, I sought only to make the church powerful, and money is power. We now possess a treasure to match even the Emperor’s.”

  “You siphoned much for your own use.”

  “Mine aren’t the only desires quenched by pleasures a coin can buy.”

  Sergius was weak and ill from a lifetime of overindulgence. He felt weighed down as though the earth pulled at him to join his brethren. The old names called to him again, Pietro di Porca and Hogsmouth. The Pope shrank from their memory. Nevertheless, he sensed his time on earth was short. With his remaining days, he resolved to fight against Hogsmouth and be Sergius to the end, penance for a dissipated life. “There are Holy Scriptures in the library written by the Apostles’ own hands. These must be restored to us, and I won’t allow the church’s music to be lost forever. The profits from your avarice will buy them back.”

  “Your stupid songs again,” Bishop Benedict said. “Those insipid tunes are not worth the parchment they’re written on.”

  “Out, I say. Get out!” Sergius gasped as he sprang from his chair. “I never want to lay eyes on you again.”

  Benedict rushed from the chamber, malice contorting his face.

  Anastasius helped Sergius back on the throne. “Holiness, these are neither ignorant nor Godless men, and I believe their leader is an honorable man. Their beliefs are not ours, but their word is sacred to them as our holy oaths are to us.”

  “Yet they hold Johannes hostage.”

  “Not so. Prince Ahmad offered to release him as well, but Johannes refused to leave. When I left the basilica, he was guarding your music.” Anastasius silently asked God’s forgiveness although it was not a total lie. He had left Johannes inspecting piles of books hauled out of the Grotto, which included Sergius’ compositions.

  “Our beloved brother Johannes,” Sergius said. “There is not one so good and refined in all of Christendom.”

  “Everyone in Rome shares your opinion, Holiness.”

  Bishop Benedict sat astride a warhorse next to Theophylact on the far side o
f the Tiber behind Hadrian’s sacked and spoiled mausoleum, just out of view of the Sant’Angelo Bridge. He had once again donned a colorful tunic instead of his priest’s robe and covered it with a knight’s hauberk. Theophylact wore a light breastplate, and his head was protected by a mail coif that left his face exposed. Behind them was a long column of the count’s men in battle armor, armed to the teeth.

  “You were wise to come to me, Uncle. I won’t forget this.”

  “I’m certain we can profit one another, but how can you be sure they won’t cross the Vatican Bridge instead?” Benedict said.

  Theophylact smirked inwardly. His facinorous uncle had many useful talents, but tactics and reconnaissance were not among them. His were the stratagems of frontal assaults on a woman’s virtue and surrounding an unsuspecting purse. “Nero’s old bridge is the direct route, but they wouldn’t dare haul carts laden with gold and silver over the rickety thing. A breath of wind could knock it down.”

  At that moment, Theophylact spied the train of carts in the distance. He recognized Anastasius astride a donkey at the procession’s head, but didn’t recognize the stout priest at his side who looked more like a soldier than a man of God. Priests prodded the oxen with cane rods as the beasts labored under heavy loads, and no men at arms guarded the defenseless clerics. So much the better, the count thought to himself. It would hardly be politic to kill soldiers in the service of the Pope.

  When the last cart lumbered past, he nodded to the officer behind him who waved a banner, and the column of cavalry surged forward, galloping on either side of the heavy carts. Theophylact loped to the head of the wagons to face Anastasius and Baraldus.

  “You have no business here, Count,” Baraldus said.

  “My business is wherever it may please me, priest.”

  Anastasius put a calming hand on the Lombard’s shoulder to entreat his silence. “We’re on an errand in his Holiness’ name. You have no right to stop us.”

  “I retain an army,” Theophylact said. “That’s my right, and I’ve been informed of your mission. You’re giving the church’s gold to the heathens.”