The Psalter Read online

  Anastasius glowered at Benedict, knowing their betrayal had come from him. “We give nothing. We’re paying the ransom to buy back the church’s dearest possession, our Holy Scriptures.”

  “Is this one of the Emperor’s tricks, to bankrupt the patriarchum so he can exert his own control?”

  Anastasius shouted so the troops might hear, “The Pope has sworn allegiance to Lothair and even you, Theophylact, are his vassal. I do the Pope’s business, and in this matter, you enjoy no standing. So why are you here?”

  Theophylact rankled at the Emperor’s man broadcasting the count’s subordination to Lothair. He instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword but caught himself. Instead, he chided Anastasius. “Where is the Emperor? Does he defend the church? No, he languishes at his capitol in Aachen and his few troops hide behind Rome’s very walls.”

  “Nevertheless, you didn’t answer my question. What’s your business?”

  Theophylact spotted the trap. “Why, dear Father, I’m here to save the church’s wealth, the tithes of its parishioners.”

  “You’re here to steal the gold.”

  “Not steal, protect.”

  “You forget that the Saracens hold our scriptures and a priest hostage.”

  “Ah yes, Johannes the bibliothecarius. It would be tragic if he were to die by the hands of filthy unbelievers,” he sneered. “Fear not. We’ll save your precious books and the librarian if we can, and Sergius’ treasure in the bargain.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Anastasius said. He turned his head so Theophylact’s men could hear him well. “Anyone who interferes will face excommunication, I swear by the Holy Virgin.” Gasps were heard from the ranks.

  Theophylact grabbed for his sword to jerk it from its sheath, but Baraldus leapt from his donkey in the same instant and gripped the count’s hand in his own giant fist. The count struggled to free himself. However, his strength was no match for the powerful Lombard, who crushed Theophylact’s fingers against the hilt, making him wince in pain. Then Baraldus felt a prick at his throat, and warm droplets oozed from the cut.

  “Loose him, Brother,” the voice said dispassionately. Benedict held a long dagger.

  “Father Baraldus,” Anastasius said, “nothing will be gained by this.” Benedict pressed the point deeper, drawing more blood. Finally, Baraldus loosed the count’s throbbing hand ever so slowly until Theophylact could yank it free.

  Rubbing his bruised fist, the count shouted, “Seize the carts,” but not a soldier moved. “I said, seize them!” Soldiers glanced at one another, not knowing what to do.

  Benedict remounted and slid his dagger into a sheath underneath his hauberk. He stood in the stirrups and faced the immobile troops. “I’m Benedict, Bishop of Albano, and Pope Sergius’ brother. We’re here to do his will, and the brave Count of Tusculum speaks truly. We shall save our Scriptures and the church’s treasure, and even noble Johannes. No man will face excommunication. You have my sacred vow.”

  The soldiers appeared skeptical. They knew Anastasius’ goodness, and Benedict’s reputation for avarice was also well known. Theophylact ordered again, “Commandeer those carts.” This time they drew their swords. Theophylact turned to Anastasius. “As I said, I’m in command here. You and your friend may return to the Lateran and tell my uncle that I have things well in hand.”

  Prince Ahmad joined Johannes, who inspected scrolls piled outside Saint Peter’s on the open field. “I’m truly sorry about the library. It must grieve your heart sorely. Our Qur’an holds the words of Allah, and my people would weep and tear out their beards if our holy books were stolen. You store many scriptures here, tens of thousands.”

  “They’re not all scriptures, of course. Some are commentaries from the finest scholars, church histories, and even heretical books.”

  “What are these heretical books?”

  “Scriptures we don’t accept as orthodox.”

  “Then why do you keep them? They should be destroyed if they’re false,” the prince shrugged.

  “I’m not sure all of them are.”

  “They’re either the word of God or they’re not.”

  “It’s not quite that easy. After our Messiah was crucified, more than thirty Gospels had been written, and they contradicted each other. One of our early church fathers, Irenaeus, decided there should be only four since there are only four points of the compass and four directions of the wind.”

  “Can such a thing be true?”

  “I can’t say how he chose them, but that was his justification,” Johannes said.

  “Many must have disputed his unscholarly argument.”

  “Most Christians at the time thought his claim was absurd and continued to study heretical Gospels for another two hundred years until they were banned.”

  “Which of your prophets forbade them?”

  Johannes chuckled. “No prophet. It was Roman Emperors Constantine and Theodosius.”

  “An emperor ordered which scriptures would be true and which would be false?”

  “Theodosius commanded that all outlawed books be destroyed and anyone who possessed them executed. Within a few years, all dissent was crushed.”

  “Who wrote these heresies?” the prince asked.

  “Early church leaders, followers of the Apostles, perhaps the Apostles themselves.”

  “Yet they were destroyed by an emperor? A king may not tell a holy man what is just. How would he know? He’s but a king.”

  “Something had to be done,” Johannes said. “Many scriptures were altered by over-zealous monks. Entire books were composed to oppose earlier writings.”

  “You mean forged? Blasphemy! By the beard of the Prophet, I don’t understand you Christians. How can you judge what’s true and what is not?”

  “That’s why we ordain priests. We study to find the truth.”

  “It’s one thing to search for truth in the words of Allah and quite another to seek it out amidst a haystack of lies. Moreover, a Christian must discern which priest speaks falsely and which tells the truth? Your religion is too complicated for a simple man like me.”

  Creaking and rumbling reached their ears from the lowland below the Vatican. Prince Ahmad spied the long line of carts with priests walking beside the oxen. They trudged up Vatican Hill led by two armed men of rank. He spoke to Johannes in a suspicious voice. “I said no soldiers.”

  Johannes strained his eyes. “There’re only two. Surely that can’t be a threat.” But the priest noticed the knights were nobles and wondered who they might be. “Maybe they’ve come to direct the exchange?” Yet even as he spoke, he didn’t believe his own words.

  “Perhaps.” Ahmad turned to his captain and said something in a dialect Johannes didn’t understand, even though he was familiar with many Arabic words. The captain barked orders to his sergeants, who scurried to their troops. The encampment disintegrated into organized chaos as soldiers rushed to their appointed positions.

  Standing next to the Prince, Johannes strained his eyes as the wagon train approached. Finally, he made out the two nobles, and a lump grew in his throat.

  “I detect trouble in your countenance, priest.”

  Johannes turned to face Ahmad. He felt the prince’s dark eyes probing his own as though he was burrowing into his soul. He thought about lying. Certainly it could be no sin to lie to an unbeliever who was intent upon stealing Holy Scriptures or the church’s treasure. Johannes surprised himself as he opened his mouth, only to discover the truth spilling out. “The armed men who lead the wagons are no friends of the church, although one’s a priest. I fear you’ve been betrayed, but I know not how.”

  The prince gave a satisfied nod. Then he ordered horses brought to them. “Let’s investigate what deception has been planned.”

  Sleek Arabian stallions were led to Ahmad and Johannes. “Join me, priest.”

  Johannes looked around, but spied no other troops. “Just the two of us?”

  “Your wagons are defended by
two warriors, and we also shall be two.”

  “You don’t understand. These are devious men. You won’t be safe.”

  “This is a war. No one is safe in a war. Allah will either protect me or require my death. His will be done. Shall we?” Ahmad motioned down the Vatican Hill toward the column, and they trotted off.

  Theophylact held up his hand to halt the slow-moving carts as Ahmad and Johannes reined in their smaller horses. Benedict’s eyes narrowed as he peered down on Johannes from his massive charger and addressed him in Latin. “Are you here to interpret, bibliothecarius, or have you converted to Islam?”

  “I still wear my priestly garments, yet you don a knight’s armor,” Johannes said. “Which are you?”

  Ahmad interrupted the exchange, speaking in perfect Latin, which caused Benedict’s mouth to gape. “The priest is here in good faith to reclaim the Christian scriptures. Are you?”

  “Enough.” Theophylact halted the verbal joust. “We’re here to trade. We brought your gold, as you see. Where are the books?”

  “They lie in the courtyard of your great church in plain sight, but I don’t see any gold, only carts. I would first have evidence that you bring what was promised.”

  “And I must confirm that our Holy Scriptures are undefiled.” The count smiled shrewdly.

  “There’s no obstacle, sir. By the prophet, I swear the writings are undamaged. You may enter the Vatican freely and take your priests with you to verify the truth of my words.”

  “And fall into a trap? No, thank you. Bring them here.”

  “The books are there just as the Prince says,” Johannes said. “I have the prince’s word the exchange may be done in peace. No one will be molested.”

  “You believe a common thief?”

  Ahmad eyes flashed. “I demanded that no soldiers come, yet you are here. Do you think I need to set a trap for priests? What game do you play? I have no wagons to haul your books. If you want them, you must take them from where they lie. First, you will pay the price. I’m not here to haggle.”

  Theophylact dug spurs into his charger’s flanks. The warhorse leapt forward as the count drew his sword and swung it down on the prince’s head. Ahmad loosed his scimitar in a flash from the sheath on his back and deflected the heavy blow with an earsplitting ring as the count’s warhorse charged by.

  Theophylact reined to the side, but the charger was no match for the smaller, nimble Arabian, and Ahmad was on his heels, closing. He extended his scimitar to deliver a slicing coup de grâce when the sword flew from his hand. Benedict had struck the blade in mid-blow and turned backward in the saddle as he passed. He sliced at Ahmad’s throat. The prince ducked as the steel whistled by. The turban flew from his head.

  Reining his stallion hard, the prince faced three columns of armored cavalry charging up Vatican Hill from both flanks and the middle. Theophylact and Benedict had turned their mounts and attacked ahead of the mounted troops. Ahmad’s blade lay on the ground, out of reach. Blood flowed from his brow.

  They’ll be on him in an instant, Johannes said inwardly. “Flee!” he shouted. The prince wiped blood from his eyes and looked frantically for an escape. He swayed on his mount and seemed addled. At the last moment, Johannes wrested the reins from his hands and tugged. His stallion lurched sideways in a big crow hop. Ahmad held on to the saddle with all his might, rocking back and forth.

  Johannes led Ahmad’s mount by the reins and raced for the protection of Saint Peter’s. Looking behind, Theophylact and Benedict rode just ahead of their cavalry in full attack. He put distance between them on the faster Arabians, but the prince slumped in his saddle. He could not hold on much longer and if he fell, they’d be lost. Approaching the Vatican, columns of Saracen riders galloped from behind the buildings, passing them on either side, followed by a horde of infantry shouting and waving axes and scimitars. Ahmad’s captain flew by, his angry eyes flashing as he looked at the bloody prince. He turned toward the immediate threat and spurred his mount, racing to his place at the head of his men.

  The air split with the clanging of steel and horses screaming as the two armies crashed headlong into one another. The horrible sound pierced Johannes’ ears as he reined in the wild-eyed mounts in front of Saint Peter’s. He leapt to the ground just in time to catch Ahmad, who fell but clung to his horse’s neck. Johannes pulled Ahmad’s arm over his shoulder and they stumbled up the basilica steps into the coolness of the Narthex, where he laid the Saracen prince gently down.

  Johannes tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his brown robe and dabbed at the livid gash above the prince’s eyebrow. Ahmad opened his eyes and whispered, “Priest, you’re a wonder.” Then he closed his eyes and sank into unconsciousness.

  24

  Sacrilege

  Johannes fetched a sleeping pallet from one of the sexton’s cells. He lay Ahmad down and covered him with blankets. The prince had lost much blood and shivered as warmth drained from his body. Finding a needle and thread, Johannes had lowered his hand to stitch the livid gash that stretched from eyebrow to temple when the sound of boots running across the stone pavement caught his attention.

  “Will he live?” Ahmad’s captain panted as he knelt beside Johannes.

  “The wound is not lethal, but it’s to the bone and must be cleaned and closed.”

  “Shall I hold him?” the captain asked.

  “I’ve numbed the gash with an unguent of opium. With luck, I’ll finish before he regains consciousness.” Johannes noticed a tear in the corner of the captain’s eye. “I know you love your prince. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

  “He’s not just my prince. He’s my brother.”

  “Fear not. I’m no doctor, but I’ve sewn many a cut, although few so deep as this.” Johannes drew the needle to the brow to sew the first stitch as a hand grabbed his wrist.

  Ahmad did not open his eyes and spoke hoarsely. “Was there a battle, Captain?”

  “Yes Prince, but not much of one.”

  “And the gold?”

  “Please, Brother, let the priest attend to your wound then we can talk.”

  “Captain?”

  “It was a ruse. The carts were filled with stones and branches. The priests ran as soon as you were attacked. Then the cavalry came from their concealment and chased you up the hill. They would have caught you, too, if not for the priest.”

  Ahmad opened his eyes and cast them on Johannes. “Go on.”

  “We engaged them hard, although ours was the smaller force. When they saw we wouldn’t run, they were the ones who cowered. They fled like women.”

  “Dead and wounded?”

  “A few minor wounds, a drunken Turk fell from his horse and broke an arm, and a Berber’s horse bit a sergeant in the arse.” The captain tried to make his brother laugh, but Ahmad didn’t even grin, so he continued, “As I said, it wasn’t much of a fight. They were probably an expeditionary force. A larger army may attack in the morning.”

  “Very wise, Captain, and what do you think, Priest? You saved my life although I’m your enemy. Could I trust you to tell me the truth?”

  “I didn’t do it for you. I wanted to save our scriptures.”

  “Again, you speak without deceit. Will they attack tomorrow?”

  Johannes hung his head to hide the misery that overwhelmed him.

  “I think not,” the Prince of Ifriqiya said. “These men had no intention of rescuing your holy books, did they?”

  “The force was led by Count Theophylact and the knight at his side was a priest although he debases our order. Land and money are their business. I fear it was only a show, and the church has lost.”

  Ahmad put his hand on Johannes’ arm to comfort him; however, the librarian felt little. “Perhaps things will not be as bad as you think. After all, I owe you my life. Attend to my wound and then we can talk. And priest, make the stitches small.”

  “I can ease only some of the pain. Are you so vain that you’re worried how the scar will look?”
/>   “I’m the leader of men. Many have had battle wounds stitched. This is my first. I want them to witness that pain is nothing to me so sew the stitches small, very small.”

  “As you wish.”

  Saint Peter’s Basilica looked more like a ruin than the holiest church in the world. Saracen soldiers and Turkish mercenaries camped on the stone floor, their fires burning in every niche and filling the building with acrid smoke. They spoke in muffled voices, and their hollow laughter echoed off sad, bare walls. Johannes tucked blankets around the prince, avoiding the accusing eyes of his enemies.

  Ahmad’s younger brother had returned after seeing to the men and knelt next to Johannes, inspecting Ahmad’s flushed face. “Will he be able to travel?”

  “He’s running a fever. He may have an infection.”

  “What can you do?”

  “Nothing for the moment. We must let him sleep.”

  “Do what you can for we leave at first light.”

  “Ahmad needs rest if he’s to recover.”

  “I have to think of the troops now. We must escape before your armies regroup.”

  Johannes awakened with a start. He had drifted into an uneasy sleep on the chill basilica floor, watching Ahmad’s face contort in pain and then ease. Having mixed a draught of opium and mandrake dissolved in wine to make him sleep, he was stunned to find the pallet empty. Forcing his stiff cold bones to rise, he found himself alone in the church. A commotion of shouting men came from outside.

  Ahmad barked orders to the men who hitched horses to wagons abandoned by Theophylact. They had draped some kind of strange collar Johannes had never seen around the horses’ necks, and lashed the collar to the wagons.Troops scrambled atop the carts, emptying branches, straw, and rubble. A group of Berber mercenaries grabbed handfuls of books and tossed them irreverently into an emptied wagon. Ahmad shouted an incomprehensible order, obviously a rebuke. The Berbers shrugged their shoulders and sat on the end of the wagon.