The Psalter Page 25

  “I suppose I can tell the story best,” Lothair’s captain said. He was bruised about the face and his left arm was supported by a sling. “We first engaged the Saracens as they fled Rome, pillaging and burning villages on their retreat to the port at Ostia. They were the superior force and routed us. Nonetheless, we followed. Like wasps, we stung the stragglers but scarcely slowed them down. They loaded their stolen plunder on ships and set sail while we watched, helpless.”

  Elchanan took up the tale, “We arrived only to watch their sails catching the wind.”

  “But how did you stop them?” Johannes asked. “Was it our navy?”

  Baraldus choked on his words. “God’s own wrath rained down His vengeance.”

  Elchanan comforted his new friend with a hand on his stout shoulder. “They sailed out of the harbor, heading south when a great storm descended, tossing their ships like toys. Every ship sunk and not a single one was left afloat. We spent the week gathering survivors along the coast.”

  Johannes gasped, “Our library, our treasure, Saint Peter’s silver altar…,”

  “At the bottom of the sea in God’s own care.” Baraldus wept.

  They walked in silence through the streets of Rome. The crowds cheered the soldiers of the foreign scholae and Jewish militia, but insulted the emperor’s troops. “Where were you when they raped our churches? You steal our taxes and leave us defenseless, you defenders of nothing.” However, the mob hurled their worst taunts and jeers at the naked and trembling prisoners shackled in the wagons. They spat on them, threw stones, and drenched them with the contents of their chamber pots.

  No one raised a hand to stop the angry Romans who desired nothing less than revenge for the humiliation they and their holy basilicas had endured. Even Johannes, who had not a coldhearted bone in his body, did not raise his voice to calm the people. For the first time in his life, he felt hatred and also thought of revenge.

  The Jewish contingent split from the column for the Trastevere to decommission their militia and return to their families. Elchanan HaKodesh took the Lombard’s wide hand in his own, squeezing it with respect and newly felt brotherhood. “Shalom, Baraldus,” he said, feeling the priest’s pain. “If you ever need a man at your side, seek us out and we’ll stand with you.” For his part, Baraldus was still choked up and barely mouthed an inaudible thank you. Then Avraham walked home beside his mounted son, holding his hand.

  The column continued until the Emperor’s troops broke off to take the prisoners to the dungeons and seek the comfort of their own barracks. Baraldus and Johannes stayed with the guards of the foreign scholae until they, too, dropped off at their neighborhoods after praising a teary-eyed Baraldus. The various militias shrank until only Johannes and the Lombard remained. At last, they made their way in silence up the Caelian hill to the patriarchum. The story of the church’s immeasurable loss would be theirs alone to tell.

  “His Holiness has been asking for you,” Archdeacon Nicholas impressed on Johannes outside Sergius’ apartment. His blue eyes were moist and reddened. “You must go to his side at once. The physicians say he has little time left.” Johannes turned to the door, and the elderly deacon grabbed his arm. “Sergius was such fun when we were boys. We played and laughed together. He was my favorite, you know.”

  “Favorite?”

  “Like Sergius, I’m Tusculani. Pietro is my cousin. I beg you, for his sake and mine, don’t tell him the tragic news. Let him leave this life of sorrows with one less pain.”

  Sergius’ eyes fluttered as the librarian closed the door behind two aged physicians in black robes who shook their heads as they exited. “Who is it?” he whispered through his sagging mouth. “Have you found the bibliothecarius?”

  “It is I, Holiness. Johannes.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Sergius’ voice trembled. “Draw closer so I may gaze upon you.”

  Johannes dragged a stool to the Pope’s bedside. He was horrified by the hollow face that stared back, one side sagging. “I’m here, Holy Father.”

  “Good Brother Johannes. I couldn’t rest ’til I saw you again. Did the army rescue my music? I know you at least will tell me the truth. They’re all liars here and speak in riddles.”

  Johannes couldn’t bring himself to look Sergius in the eyes. “Yes, Holiness, brave Baraldus defeated the Saracens and brought everything back to its rightful home.”

  Sergius’ dull eyes brightened until he read the librarian’s face then he sighed. “That’s good,” he said, understanding the lie. “Then hear my confession.”

  “Holy Father, you need a proper confessor. I’m not…”

  “I haven’t been a good pope,” Sergius whispered.

  “Nonsense.”

  “You needn’t protest. I know what I am.” His whisper grew slow and halting and he gasped for air between words. “I strived to be Sergius. Alas, I knew I was just Hogsmouth. Yet I tried to be good at the end. Can you see that?”

  “You were brave, valiant. You stood up to the most powerful man in the land, that villain Theophylact, and defeated him by God’s grace and the power of your will.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “The church will tell the story for a thousand years.”

  Sergius’ eyes grew wide as though he saw something in the distance. “I just wanted make music, but they wouldn’t let me.”

  “It was the most beautiful music.”

  “Do you remember my songs?”

  “Of course, Holiness. Am I not your own bibliothecarius?”

  “Will you sing one?” Sergius’ faint whisper weakened still.

  Johannes thought for a moment and began, “O admirabile Veneris ydolum….”

  Pietro’s mouth shaped some of the words until it could not. His contorted face relaxed, returning to its natural shape as he drifted from the physical world into oblivion. He languished for months, drifting in and out of consciousness until a frigid January morning when his breath fled with his soul for the very last time.

  The body of the Pope should have lain in state at Saint Peter’s like the popes before him, and that would have been Sergius’ fondest desire. However, the basilica was a desecrated ruin. Thus, he rested on a bier in the cathedral of Saint John Lateran’s next to the Papal Palace while the Duchy of Rome, indeed all Christians, wondered when His Holiness would be interred. At length, they begged that he be buried or at least moved to another place so they might celebrate mass without suffering from the putrid stench. Despite the unguents and oils mixed with ground coriander seed and wreaths of mint covering Sergius’ robed hulk, citizens avoided the patriarchum’s basilica, choosing to frequent the other churches.

  Weeks turned into a month and one month became six, yet still Sergius lay rotting in his place of honor. Suspicious whispers raced on the wind. It was rumored that a Saracen magician had cast a spell upon the Pope’s body and try as they might, no one could move him. Rome grew anxious and grumbled for a Holy Father. Nevertheless, one could not be elected until Sergius was buried. Christendom held its collective breath as the faithful waited for a new Vicar of Christ.

  There was, however, no magician’s spell. The truth was found in politics. Anastasius wrote of Sergius’ death to Lothair, as was his duty, and to his uncle Arsenius. Then he sent a letter secretly to Deacon John Hymonides, still in exile in Monte Cassino, writing his histories and plays. He suspected some new stratagem from the nobles although he wasn’t able pry a word from the cardinal priests.

  He also complained that the church had been beggared. Worse, farmers’ rents were doubled by Benedict, who continued to rule the Papal Palace in the absence of a Pope. Not a single cardinal dared oppose the Bishop of Albano who sold indulgences to any and all for a price. The patriarchum had become a common marketplace, with sins forgiven or church offices bought for a few coins or many.

  For farmers who tilled the Apostolic farms and sharecroppers who toiled on the nobles’ demesnes, life was a horror. Crops lost much of their value, and a copper piece w
as the rarest thing in the land. Artisans were forced to barter goods for food to survive since no money was to be found. Anastasius didn’t know, however, that the Papal Palace was closely watched by Theophylact’s spies, who intercepted all dispatches. Nothing escaped the Duchy that was not read first by the count or Benedict. Anastasius’ letters never left Rome.

  July was hot, and sunset came as a welcome relief. Johannes walked in the cooling air from the Vatican to the Caelian Hill to sup with his old mentor in Anastasius’ tiny apartment in the scriptorium next to the Papal Palace. He had come to inquire what news might be had since there was naught but wild speculation in the remote Vatican.

  They should have eaten in the refectory with the other brothers of their Benedictine order, but the hall was empty. The reek of Sergius’ body had infected every hall in the patriarchum. Cardinal priests and bishops of noble birth took to eating their evening meals in the airy dining room atop Zacharias’ tower to find relief from the oppressive smell and to parley in secret.

  “They’re planning their next move,” Anastasius said. “I listen to them disputing and laughing while they dine up there.”

  Johannes walked to the narrow slit of a window to peer out. The tower was just across the alley from the scriptorium. The racket from the top sounded more like a boisterous banquet for a foreign dignitary than a serene evening meal for holy fathers.

  Anastasius watched him at the window. “Believe me, they have no intention of allowing another election upset. I’d give anything to know what scheme they’re hatching up there.”

  “Surely the people will elect Deacon John again and Theophylact wouldn’t dare overthrow him a second time.”

  “Don’t count on it. The Emperor will demand that his own man be pope. If another is elected, Lothair could care less what happens.”

  “Are you still his man?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You do not wish to be the Holy Father?”

  “Of course not,” Anastasius said.

  “Truly?”

  “It’s my uncle’s fondest wish and the Emperor’s demand, but I harbor no such desire, although it may be the only way.”

  The knock on the apartment door startled Johannes and Anastasius and they looked at one another blankly, wondering who would be calling at this hour.

  “Uncle!” Anastasius was flabbergasted at the unannounced visit. “Come in and rest yourself. Did you just arrive from Orta? Why didn’t you write you were coming?” Anastasius kissed his uncle’s cheeks and helped him with the traveling satchel draped across his shoulder.

  “Didn’t you receive my letters?” Bishop Arsenius looked perplexed.

  “I’ve received nothing, and what about mine?” Anastasius was equally confounded.

  “You wrote to me?”

  “Of course and to the Emperor as well, the very day His Holiness passed to his reward.”

  “Those scoundrels,” the bishop said disgusted. “Up to their old tricks, and has Sergius not yet been buried as the rumors say?”

  Anastasius shrugged. “No, and all of Rome wonders.”

  “They’ll stop at nothing. Well I have a little surprise for them.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It can mean only one thing, and I’ll get to the bottom of it.” Arsenius stormed out of the scriptorium, Anastasius and Johannes in tow. He marched across the alley to the tower. Soldiers bearing the crest of the Count of Tusculum guarded the doors. When the three priests tried to enter, their way was barred. “What’s this?” Arsenius boomed in a throaty bass voice.

  “I’m sorry, Father.” One of the guards recoiled at the bishop’s commanding tone, then recovered and replied, “Cardinal priests and bishops are conferring. No one may enter, orders.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “My Lord Theophylact’s,” he said.

  “You dolt,” Arsenius was vexed. “I’m a Bishop, Arsenius of Orta, and I’m here to speak with my brethren. You’re on church property. If you wish to guard something, retire to Theophylact’s den of thieves and guard that.” Arsenius shoved the soldier aside, and the three priests passed by.

  They climbed the rectangular stairway that abutted the plastered walls and entered the banquet hall through an arched doorway. The scene looked like an ancient Roman Bacchanalia, with clerics reclining on couches as they were served succulent dishes by slave boys and youths sent forcibly into the priesthood by their parents.

  The animated diners grew silent and every eye turned to the three, as though they had been caught in some off-color jest. At the far end of the hall at the head table, Benedict stood glaring at Johannes and Anastasius. “How dare you…I mean Bishop Arsenius, I didn’t recognize you. What a pleasant surprise, but this assembly is for the cardinals and bishops and your nephew and Johannes are not…”

  “They’re with me.” There was no polite tact in Arsenius’ voice.

  “Of course, Bishop, come in and welcome.”

  “That’s my intent, welcome or not.”

  “Dear Bishop, your ire is misplaced here. Are we not a fraternity of love?”

  “Don’t bandy words with me, Benedict. I know who you are. Why is Sergius not buried?”

  “We thought to wait until Saint Peter’s was in a better state of repair so we…”

  “Yes, yes out with it, so you could what?”

  Benedict’s words stumbled out, “Well, perhaps you know that the Saracens stole…”

  “I’ve heard all; too much, in fact.” Arsenius turned left and right to address the reclining governors of Christ’s church. “Does Theophylact’s puppy speak for you all? Is there not a voice amongst you except his?”

  Cardinals and bishops sat up on their couches, yet no one answered.

  “Dear Arsenius, you have no call for this reproof,” Benedict said.

  The Bishop of Orta narrowed his eyes. “Very well, Benedict.” Arsenius curled his lip. “Since all are mute save you, when’s the election?”

  Benedict looked to his brethren, pleading voicelessly for their support. “As I said, the Saracens attacked us and His Holiness died from the shock. We’ve been left without a pope in our greatest hour of need and…”

  Arsenius recognized the elderly man in the seat of honor next to Benedict, hanging his head in shame and squirming more than most. He wore a robe of white cloth. “In heaven’s name, what have you done?” He said. Then his voice thundered, “What have you done?”

  Benedict was no longer politic. “Are you a man of God or the Emperor’s?”

  “I’m a priest, you scoundrel, yet I owe to Caesar what is his, as the Bible commands. By what right have you named a pope without a lawful election?”

  “Lawful, you say? Where was the Emperor when the Saracens attacked Rome and stole our holy treasures and our scriptures? Where was the law then?” The cardinals grumbled their agreement. “And where is he now? It’s been six months and we’ve heard nothing yet the church is a pauper.”

  Arsenius’ face flushed with fury. “If you’re in need of donations, the church’s money lies in Theophylact’s coffers as you well know, Benedict, you thief.”

  “How dare you call me a thief? I’m a Roman of noble blood and answer to no foreigner.”

  “You answer to the Emperor.” The Bishop of Orta pulled a folded page from inside his sleeve and held it high. “This is a decree from Lothair, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, to whom you owe lawful allegiance.” Arsenius shook the sheet and it unfolded for all to see. “It names me, Bishop of Orta, as the Roman missi. I’m the Emperors’ representative at the patriarchum. When you address me, you’re speaking to Lothair. The Emperor has arrived.”

  Benedict’s mouth gaped in fear. The elderly man in papal robes next to him shot up from his seat. “I didn’t want to do it, Brother Arsenius. I refused the nomination just as I have in the past, but they were going to name Benedict, and I couldn’t let that happen. I had to agree.”

  “I do know you Leo, Cardinal Priest of the San
ti Quattro Coronati. We’ve been friends for many long years. You were wrong to break the law, and you’d be wise to submit to the will of the Emperor. His will shall be done and his rights defended.”

  Leo’s shoulders slacked, and he lowered his eyes to the floor. “You speak truly. It’s for Lothair to confirm me and if he chooses otherwise, I shall step down.”

  30

  Cardinal of the Domus Cultae

  Though they call him pope, there was no lawful election and no confirmation,” Bishop Arsenius told his nephew. Johannes scarcely believed what he was hearing as they stood together in the scriptorium among scribes who labored to copy what had been left to Johannes by Ahmad. Stacks of parchment lined the walls, and priests hauled in piles of blank sheets, seeking out empty nooks in which to cram even more.

  “So Leo is not the Pope. We’ve won,” Anastasius said.

  Bishop Arsenius shook his head. “Leo shall be Pope.”

  “Uncle, I don’t understand.”

  “The people have waited for a pontiff for half a year and must wait no longer. Lothair believes the church cannot survive another scandal like the overthrow of John Hymonides, and I agree.”

  Anastasius grew agitated. “What could be worse than denying Romans their vote?”

  “Civil war, and in such a fight, Lothair finds himself in a weakened position. Not only does he face Saracens to the south and Vikings in the north, Romans still blame him for the desecration of Saint Peter’s and Paul’s. They feel no love for the Emperor just now, and he would change that before he exerts his will. Leo is an old man and won’t be pope long. Besides, if he does a bad job, Lothair can claim his authority was usurped and unseat him.”

  “Politics and, once again, the people lose.”

  “What’s all this nonsense about the people? Can you not grasp, nephew, that they will never hold any real power?”

  “Isn’t that why the Constitution was written? So ordinary citizens might choose their own Holy Father?”

  “Of course not. Pope Stephen had no authority to end elections as they have always been. His decree simply handed the Papacy to the Roman nobility. But commoners don’t speak with one voice, so they could never choose a pope. If they tried, Theophylact wouldn’t allow it, and if Theophylact failed, Lothair wouldn’t allow it. The papacy is money and power. So forget this nonsense. Besides, I bring good tidings for you.”