The Psalter Page 26

  “How can any of this be good?”

  “Patience, nephew. The Emperor rules still, and he wishes that his influence should take root in the patriarchum. So you’re to be one of the church’s newest cardinal priests.”

  “I’m to be a cardinal?”

  “Yes, and with your own church.”

  “Can this be true?”

  “It’s all arranged.” Arsenius said.

  “What do you mean arranged?” Anastasius looked askance at his uncle.

  “The Emperor will not press for his right to confirm the Pope, and in exchange, you’re to be a cardinal.”

  “So neither did God in his grace choose me nor did I earn the position. My post and my church are an accommodation, purchased for the indulgence of the Emperor.”

  “Why should you care?” Arsenius shrugged. “You deserve San Marcello and much more. Are you not the most brilliant mind in Rome? Haven’t you excelled beyond the greatest expectations, only to be knocked down by these rapacious nobles who play at being priests?”

  “San Marcello, on the Quirinal hill? That’s the other side of Rome. Don’t you see? They scheme to get rid of me, a promotion to get me out of the Papal Palace.”

  “Of course,” the bishop said. “You’re a threat, just as I want you to be. I agreed to San Marcello for a reason. It’s a venerated church in a chic quarter of Rome, the Lata, with aristocrats and wealthy merchants as parishioners. You’re already popular with the commoners, and now you’ll be seen among those who hold sway. You’ll be a powerful voice in the patriarchum.”

  “I’m not displeased uncle, but I would have had it otherwise. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for your intercession.” Anastasius held his uncle’s shoulders a long moment, then kissed his cheeks. Arsenius’ face shone at his nephew’s affection.

  “I bring good news for you also, young Johannes.”

  “For me? Why would the cardinals reward me? It’s well known that I side with Anastasius and John Hymonides and consort with Jews.”

  Bishop Arsenius chuckled. “Too true, and everyone in the Papal Palace shakes their heads in mirth at your ignorance of political wile. Nevertheless, all witnessed your dedication to the library and to Sergius, which was no easy task, and risking your life by remaining with the Saracens to protect our scriptures resounds throughout Rome. More importantly, you’re English and no Roman, so you’re not a threat to the nobles, even if you are a thorn.”

  “You said Anastasius was but one of the new cardinals. Am I to be a cardinal too?”

  “Yes, and none of my doing, although I’m well pleased,” Arsenius said.

  Johannes’ face beamed with excitement. “Which church is to be mine?”

  “No church. You’re to rule over the church’s farm colonies, the domus cultae.”

  “The church’s lands?”

  “Indeed. The Holy See is bankrupt and in desperate need of money. Oh, I’m sure we’ll get something back from Theophylact and Benedict, but I’m just as certain they won’t return it all. Leopards don’t change their spots, although they might be skinned alive.”

  Johannes was downcast. “Then they’ve heard already about the horse collar and plow.”

  “Did you imagine you could keep these things secret?”

  “Long enough figure a way to get them into the hands of the peasants where they’re needed most.”

  “Too late,” Arsenius said. “The church needs the wealth your remarkable inventions can bring. The scriptorium suffers from a critical shortage of parchment, and I’m told you’re an expert in their procurement and manufacturing. Crops and animal husbandry are to be your cathedral, but you shall retain the title bibliothecarius. There’s not much of a library left, and the cardinals agreed unanimously that you should be in charge of what you saved. Now, I would ask you a question and have you search your heart and mind. Isn’t it clear that supporting the Emperor is the only way to loosen Theophylact’s iron grip on the throne of Saint Peter?”

  “It’s one way, I’ll grant you, Bishop, but you want me to side with one master over another, and both pursue their own interests. Only the people wish to serve the church, not control her.”

  “At least, can I count on your loyalty to my nephew?”

  “Anastasius is my mentor, Brother, and even now I think of him as my master. Most of all he’s my friend. How could I ever be disloyal?”

  “That’s all I require of you, Johannes Anglicus.”

  Johannes made his way from the patriarchum in misery. He, too, was being moved out of the Papal Palace, away from his books and scrolls and ink-blackened fingers, everything he loved. He was to be a farmer. Worse, he couldn’t even take pleasure in a day’s hard labor in the field. He would instead be the overseer of the greatest landholder in the world, a sort of Baron in a priest’s robe. The thought made him shiver and he said to himself, This isn’t why I came to Rome. Yet even as the voice in his head faded, another took its place, saying, Learning is learning and not all comes from a book.

  The wide piazza in front of the Colosseum was filled with merchants and artisans, nobles and landowners, even priests. The crowd was abuzz, shouting and laughing as they flocked around the wooden platform that held cowering Saracens stripped to their brown skins except for linen loincloths that provided the barest of modesty. The army was selling slaves. The practice was barbaric to Johannes, even though slavery was acceptable to Bible authors who admonished slaves to obey their masters. Saracens were no better. They took Christians as booty. Children were sold for labor, and the women kept as concubines.

  Johannes found this more revolting even than his new position. The bidding for flesh and the carnival atmosphere made him sick, and he was about to turn away when one of the slaves caught his eye. The naked wretch knelt beside the stage shackled by a heavy iron collar attached to a chain. His hands had been bound behind his back by a leather strap that cut at his wrists. Raising his puffy face, his gaze met Johannes’ for an instant then broke off. “Prince Ahmad,” Johannes whispered, unbelieving.

  Ahmad turned away as far as his chain would allow, shuffling on bloodied knees. Johannes wedged his way through the packed crowd of Romans who were anxious to make a purchase or who simply enjoyed the spectacle of revenge meted out upon the defilers of the basilicas. “Turn away, Father,” the guard said to Johannes who knelt next to Ahmad. “This is no place for you, and these Arabs are a dangerous lot.”

  “I’m just inspecting, sir. I might need a new slave.”

  The guard remembered Johannes from the march through Rome. “Father Johannes, I didn’t recognize you. Of course, take your time, but this is a skinny one. The best are yet to come. We even have cabin boys from the ships who’ve been trained to serve. If you like, I’ll speak to my sergeant. I’m sure he would make a special price for the friend of the illustrious Baraldus.” The guard sauntered off, leaving Johannes with the miserable slave.

  “Are you here to gloat?” Ahmad rasped through a parched throat. “If you have any pity after what I’ve done, leave me to my fate. Allah has chosen my punishment.”

  Johannes placed a hand on the fallen prince’s bare back, but Ahmad recoiled. The priest rose without another word to seek out the guard. “Name your price and bring him to me. I reside in the schola cantorum.”

  “It shall be done, Father,” the guard said.

  Johannes arranged his meager belongings in his new apartment, books and two heretical scrolls, the Gospels of Thomas and Mary, he had retrieved from the papal crypt beneath Saint Peter’s. He was folding his scant extra clothing when a loud rapping came from the heavy wooden door as from the haft of a spear or hilt of a sword.

  “Who is it?” he called out.

  “We’ve brought your slave, Father.”

  Johannes lifted the beam barring the door and it swung open, the bolt having been broken by the Saracens and not yet repaired. Two guards led in Ahmad, who was still shackled by a chain attached to a metal collar. Giving the chain a powerful yank, one of the
soldiers forced him to his knees. “Are you alone, Father?” The guard appeared concerned.

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t have brought this miscreant if I thought you were by yourself. He’s far too dangerous. I can take him back.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Baraldus will join me in the morning. Leave him bound and he can sleep on the stone. He deserves no better.”

  “Very well. Baraldus will have little trouble handling this scrawny one.” The soldiers left with salutes across their breasts, and Johannes replaced the beam after them.

  He retrieved a thin dagger he used to cut meat or break wax seals on letters and hovered over the forlorn prince. “Go on, I beg you,” Ahmad said. “Send me to Allah and end my humiliation.”

  The bibliothecarius stood immobile like a statue until the fallen prince glanced up. Johannes knelt and raised the blade. Ahmad bowed his head once again. The priest sliced the edge across the leather thong that bound his wrists and held a cup to his bleeding lips. “Drink this.”

  “Better to let me die.”

  “Not today.” Johannes pressed the cup to the naked prince’s mouth letting ruby drops wet his cracked and scabbed lips.

  Ahmad clasped the beaker and poured the liquid down his throat, spilling rivulets of wine from the corners of his mouth. “Water,” he pleaded.

  “Finish the wine first and your pain will be eased.” The priest disappeared, then returned with an earthenware pitcher and his own traveling cloak, which he wrapped around the naked Ahmad. He trickled water from the jug into the emptied cup. “I can’t unhook the collar. It’s welded with a rivet.”

  Ahmad quaffed the water. “Another,” he said, and Johannes poured again. This time, the prince sipped and let out a sigh of relief. “Why do you show me this kindness? Do I not deserve your wrath?”

  “It’s for God to judge you, not me. We’re commanded to forgive our enemies, and that I must strive to do, although I confess I wished evil upon you and your men.”

  “Allah heard the prayer and judged us all for my sin. God’s word is his Holy word no matter which prophet writes it. I’ve committed a sacrilege by treating it as mere booty. I know that now and am humbled.”

  “I didn’t find your brother. Did he survive?”

  “He’s not among us. He paid the price for my iniquity and his was the better heart. It’s hard to recognize the justice in Allah’s will.”

  Johannes wrapped his arm around a distraught Ahmad, who recoiled from the priest’s compassion. Then the Prince heaved a woeful sigh and his breaths became softer. “Lie on my pallet,” Johannes said. “I put a sleeping potion in the wine. You’ll feel better on the morrow.”

  “What can you be thinking, Cardinal?” Baraldus scolded. “He might have slit your bony throat. Have I protected you all this time only to watch you take such foolish risks?”

  “Why would he kill me? I saved his life and he showed me a kindness in return. Is that the mark of a murderer?”

  “Any man would kill to escape his prison. Believe me, I’ve seen it.”

  “I’m his only chance, and he knows it,” Johannes said.

  “For what, a life of slavery? No man who falls so far could accept such a fate. If he doesn't harm you today, he might tomorrow.”

  “Well then, you must make sure he doesn’t.”

  “I? What do you mean?”

  “I want you to work for me once more.”

  “As a farmer? No thank you very much,” Baraldus shook his head. “I’m getting old and I just want to get fat again and lazy.”

  “I need you to be primicerius of the church’s farms.”

  “Me, an unlettered Lombard?”

  “You’re an expert at the making of parchment, much better than me. You know farming and can count. Men respect you, and you were born to command. I can’t do without you, and the church needs you. Will you not say yes?”

  Baraldus’ gruff face turned sheepish. “As though I’d refuse you anything, master.”

  “After all these years, can you not call me Johannes and friend?”

  “You’re my friend, but I cannot call you by your name now that you’re a cardinal. It wouldn’t be proper. I’ll call you by what’s seemly and by what you are, my brother and my master.”

  The smithy removed Ahmad’s iron collar, striking off the rivet with a hammer and chisel to Baraldus’ frustrated protests. As they walked toward the Trastevere, the Lombard kept close to the Arab, poking him with his elbow and pointing at his short sword. Johannes only shook his head. Baraldus had his safety at heart, but the bullying seemed unnecessary. Nevertheless, the newest cardinal was not completely sure of the prince, even though he counted himself an excellent judge of character.

  “Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Al-Aghlab,” Avraham stroked his whiskers as he reflected a long while. “Your uncle is Muhammad Abul-Abbas, Emir of Ifriqiya, is that not so?”

  “The same, blessed be his name, although he would rather be known as a jurist and scholar and for the honor he brought our people. I bring my people only shame.”

  “This is a cruel blow to you and to Christians also. Yet who can know the mind of God? He Who Cannot Be Named chose to deliver you into the hands of your enemy. But surrender yourself to His will, for I do not believe He would silence a man such as you forever.”

  “I’m a prisoner, a slave. I have little choice,” Ahmad said bitterly.

  Avraham smiled through his frizzy beard. “We can always choose.”

  Elchanan joined them, and they sat around the large table in the kitchen eating cakes Avraham had baked, as was his daily custom—meditation, he called it—and sipping tea. The Rosh Yeshiva’s son took turns with Baraldus, frowning and glowering at the Saracen slave who was treated as a guest at his father’s table.

  “This is wrong,” Ahmad said, pointing to the buckles on the collar. “They must be in such a place where they can be hitched to a plow or wagon. And the plow’s coulter has to be steel, not merely an iron strip over wood. It will break clearing new land.”

  The corrections were sketched on paper and Elchanan and Baraldus discussed what changes would need to be made as Cardinal Johannes squirmed in his seat. “What’s wrong, young scholar?” Avraham asked. “You wish to add something?”

  “I’m not sure how to say it. It’s not a plan, really, and I don’t know if such an enterprise could be accomplished. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “Just tell us,” Avraham said.

  Johannes pondered what he wanted to say for a moment. “Well, artisans can manufacture the collar and plow, but at considerable expense. Only the church and nobles possess money enough to buy them.”

  “Yes?” Avraham replied, anxious for Johannes to make his point.

  “I had hoped these inventions might help the lot of the poor who till the fields, slaves to their lord, to the land, and to their poverty. They will make their labor easier perhaps, but not their lives. However, if they owned a plow and a horse, they would be masters of their destiny.”

  Baraldus gazed on Johannes as a world-wise father on an idealistic but impractical son. “Where would farmers get enough coins to buy horses and complicated plows? All they own is what’s on their backs, their paltry implements, and such beasts as they can breed. They have no money.”

  Avraham, too, perceived no answer for Johannes’ munificent wish. “Gold and silver are now so rare, it would take two season’s harvest to pay such a price.”

  “I don’t see the problem,” Ahmad said under his breath as though the answer was as plain as the cakes on the table.

  Baraldus glared at the Saracen. “What do you know, pirate? These men are your betters, scholars and writers of books and have the world’s knowledge in their heads.”

  Everyone turned to Ahmad.

  “And you call us barbarians.” Ahmad shook his head. “My people were illuminating manuscripts when yours were drinking from skulls and painting your bodies blue, Lombard.”

  Baraldus leapt fr
om his seat, his ears red.

  “Calm yourself, captain of the city’s defenses.” Avraham made a point of honoring the stout priest in front of Ahmad to sooth his rising bile. “We seek solutions, not quarrels.”

  Ahmad reminded himself, feeling his bruised face and burning wrists, that he was no longer a Prince of Ifriqiya. He was a lowly slave in a hostile land. “Forgive my effrontery. I only meant to say…what baker would not desire to receive double payment for a loaf of bread?”

  Everyone at the table shook their heads, not comprehending, and Baraldus seated himself, just as confused.

  “It’s quite simple. Give the farmers a plow, a collar, and a horse. Then they pay with their crops as they can, but the price is double. If they triple their yield, they could repay the debt in a year. Two years would be easier and they would stockpile more food than they ever had, plus enough to give their lord as rent and still more to sell for cash. Allah forbids the charging of interest, but in his wisdom he did not mention what price may be demanded.”

  All at the table aahed as the concept struck home.

  “On my word,” Ahmad said. “Did you never hear of banking?”

  31

  Council of Laodicia

  Johannes soon understood Leo’s desperate need for money. Theophylact and Benedict had returned but a portion of the church’s treasury, and only on threat of excommunication. However, had the whole sum been recovered, it would not have been nearly enough. Tithes flowed once again into the holy coffers, but they were a fraction of what was needed to finance Leo’s grandiose plans. Emperor Lothair contributed offerings from the imperial treasury to rebuild the devastated Saint Peter’s and Saint Paul’s and for the raising of a larger army to protect Rome. Yet still more was required, much more.