The Psalter Page 27

  Pope Leo committed to the diocese, to the clergy, and to God that the most sacred site in Roman Catholicism, Saint Peter’s Basilica, would be grander and richer than ever. Moreover, he vowed that such a sacrilege would never happen again. Thus, he embarked upon a construction the likes of which Rome had not seen since the third century. Leo resolved to build a colossal wall to surround the rural Vatican and enclose it within the confines of the city.

  Workers would have to be fed, artisans paid, and raw materials purchased. While all Christendom would contribute, a large portion of the monies had to come from the patriarchum’s farm colonies, from Johannes. Rome’s youngest cardinal priest felt the pressure. Planning daily with Elchanan, Baraldus, and Ahmad, it was clear that a virtual army of laborers would be needed and there was not nearly enough land under cultivation to feed them and their families.

  Baraldus was a natural commander, and he viewed the farms as a battlefield to attack strategically. He divided the workers into two teams, with the stouter men clearing the woods and breaking virgin ground with the revolutionary plows drawn by stronger, albeit slower, oxen. The second team cultivated farmland with less powerful but faster horses, turning the soil with incredible speed and finishing in a third of the normal time. Then they joined the crew clearing and sowing yet more land. The work progressed at an ambitious pace, and Johannes had already planned a fall crop.

  Elchanan managed the supply line, overseeing Jewish artisans in the production of the rigid horse collars and heavy plows on wheels. Ahmad adeptly controlled the money, disbursing payments to craftsmen and horse breeders. He also oversaw the distribution of equipment to unbelieving farmers who marveled that they were simply given a plow, a horse, and a collar. All they had to do in exchange was to make their mark on a piece of parchment with words they could neither read nor understand. They grasped, however, that upon a handshake and an oath, they would own their tools and become their own men.

  After months of working around the clock, weary Johannes found himself missing his mentor and fellow bibliophile, Anastasius. May was already hot, yet just enough rain had fallen and the crops ripened. Hay cutting would begin in four or five weeks, and he would have no time at all until the harvest was finished and the wheat, barley, and oats stored in the granaries. So in the evening, at the hour between last light and dusk when the shadows were longest, he left his labors and crossed the Tiber on the Sant’Angelo Bridge, traveling near the river through Rome’s most populated quarter, the campus martius.

  Since the barbarian invasions had cut the city’s aqueducts, many commoners were forced to move from the hills to the river’s edge. Artisans and merchants followed to serve the new residents. The campus martius swelled further with pilgrims longing to pray at Saint Peter’s, pilgrims who had brought money from the four corners of the earth. Poor shopkeepers and relic hawkers were only too happy to help them lighten their purses.

  Bishop Arsenius had been shrewd in choosing San Marcello for his nephew. While the church’s governors in the patriarchum thought they were rid of the troublesome Emperor’s man, in reality, Cardinal Anastasius was now the pastor of Rome’s most populous parish and to its wealthiest citizens, voting citizens. Johannes turned north on the fashionable via Lata to visit his friend, an ancient scroll of the heretical Gospel of Thomas tucked under his arm. A theological discussion is what I need to distract myself from this bone-tiring work, he thought.

  “I agree with you. Nothing in Matthew, Mark, or Luke says Jesus was anything but a mortal man,” Anastasius said as they sipped sweetened wine. They sat by the narrow window digesting their dinner, hoping for a breath of a breeze. The Gospel of John makes the difference.”

  “But why was John added to the Bible and not the Gospel of Thomas?”

  “Because Jesus would have been different.” Anastasius tapped on the open scroll for emphasis

  “My point exactly.” Johannes leaned forward, his eyes bright, driving home his line of reasoning. “Not only were parts of the Bible forged or altered to promote a particular belief like the virgin birth chapters in Matthew, books were cobbled together for the same effect. Had John not been added, Jesus wouldn’t be God. If Thomas had been the fourth book, Jesus would have been only a man with a twin brother who God adopted.

  “Yes, but John was chosen and not Thomas.”

  “Obviously.” Johannes rolled his eyes. “And other books were rejected, and not because they didn’t deserve to be included?”

  “But why do you keep mentioning Thomas?”

  “Look at the handwriting. The book was written at the same time as John, after Jesus’ generation and yet another had passed. Both books must have been authored by someone other than the two apostles. One wanted Jesus to be a God and the other believed he was a mere man. My point is that neither Jesus nor the Apostles decided our beliefs; rather it was anonymous men propagandizing their own beliefs. Finally, Roman emperors used their power to decree our doctrines just as an Emperor and Theophylact now fight to impose their requirements on the church.”

  Anastasius squirmed, uncomfortably. “Are you suggesting that our church isn’t legitimate because Jesus isn’t God?”

  “No, I’m saying that the truth matters and I don’t know what the truth is. This I do know: Thomas and the suppressed books must be preserved until someone with more knowledge than you or I can understand them. Until then, we have to resist the efforts of the Empire or the nobility or even church leaders to use our faith for their own interests.”

  The two cardinals leaned back in their chairs, pondering and perspiring as the still heat chafed. Johannes hiked his priestly frock above his knees to cool his slender legs. “I need to use the privy,” he announced, but took several moments to pull himself from the comfort of the chair.

  Anastasius was grateful for his onetime protégé, a mind that matched his own even at his young age. An educated and cultured foreigner, the Englishman viewed everything from a different perspective. His Greek schooling had taught him to view historical events as clashes of opposing ideas rather than battles between good and evil. The pastor of San Marcello heard a table rattle. The legs scraped along the stone floor. “Light a candle, Johannes. It’s dark out there,” he called but received no reply. “Are you all—”

  His words were silenced in mid-utterance as his voice was squeezed from his throat. He tried to slip a finger underneath the leather thong wrapped around his neck, but the attacker jerked tighter still. Frantic, Anastasius clawed at the garrote, standing and spinning, driving backward with all his dissipating might, crashing their bodies against tables and chairs and slamming into the wall. The thong loosened for an instant and he squeezed two fingers through and pulled the strap away from his constricted neck. Not enough; he was losing consciousness. With a last, desperate effort, he flung himself to the center of the room, tumbled over a toppled chair and crashed to the floor. The faceless killer held his grip, squeezing tighter as peace descended on the cardinal and he floated away.

  Anastasius’ chest inflated in a sudden great heave and he gulped for breath like a baby’s first taste of air. Blood flowed once again to his brain, flooding in spurts that pounded in his temples. His unwilling eyes opened and a muffled distant sound grew louder, calling, “Oh come back. Come back to me.”

  Johannes held Anastasius’ head in his lap, rocking back and forth and sobbing until he looked down at dazed eyes staring up. “Thank you God. Thank you.” He smothered the face with kisses.

  “Oh my aching head.” Anastasius rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands. “What happened?”

  “He tried to kill you,” Johannes said.

  “Who?” He looked over at a body lying in a pool of blood, a dining knife thrust in the throat. Pulling himself up on trembling knees, Johannes supported him as they wobbled away from the corpse. “I need to lie down.”

  “We can’t stay here. There might be more of them.” Johannes led him out the door, looking left and right and straining his eyes in t
he darkness.

  “Where’re you taking me?”

  “To the schola cantorum.”

  “I don’t think I can make it,” Anastasius said.

  “Lean on me. It’s downhill.”

  The exertion and air revived Anastasius and after fifty paces, he walked under his own power although he had not completely regained his sense of balance and leaned on the bibliothecarius’ shoulder. Each person they encountered in the narrow streets seemed suspicious, and Johannes followed their every move until they disappeared around a corner or moved to a safe distance.

  They neared the schola cantorum and Anastasius began to tremble. Johannes wrapped his arm around his friend. “I need to get you into bed.” He pushed open the door to the schola and pulled his mentor through. Leading him to the bedroom, he laid Anastasius on his own pallet and covered him with a blanket.

  The room was warm and stuffy, yet Anastasius shivered. “I’m so cold.” His teeth rattled.

  Johannes lifted the covers and slid in, rubbing him all over, trying to pass heat from his body to his friend’s. It seemed to be working. The shivering subsided and Anastasius relaxed. His breathing came easier and he sighed in relief. “You saved my life tonight.”

  “I killed a man.” Johannes’ lip quivered.

  “You had no choice.”

  “I could have hit him or struck him with something, but I stabbed him without thinking. No, that’s a lie. I thought he was killing you and I wanted to hurt him, kill him.” Tears flowed from Johannes’ reddened eyes, and he began to weep.

  “You did what you had to do.”

  “Thou shalt not kill.”

  “You took a life to save one, mine. The scales are balanced.”

  Johannes weeping grew into sobs. “Oh, I don’t care. What would I do if I lost you?”

  Anastasius turned on his side and pulled his young friend close, holding his body tight with one hand, wiping the tears with the other. “Please don’t cry. You committed no sin.”

  Johannes reached out his own hand, touching his companion’s cheek with his fingers, and gazed into his eyes. “To lose your dear words, I simply couldn’t bear it.” Unthinking, he pressed his lips to his friend’s, kissing him softly at first, then harder.

  Anastasius recoiled.

  “I’m sorry,” the young priest said, realizing what he had done.

  He tried to push away but Anastasius held him close. “I share the same desire although I can’t explain it. Some priests in our brotherhood consort with men. I’ve never felt such yearning, not before I met you or even after. Only with you have I craved these things. I try to resist, but cannot.”

  Johannes pulled Anastasius to him, kissing with closed lips at first, but opening them finally to his friend. They held each other close until Anastasius bowed his head. “I can’t. I want to. God forgive me, I do. I desire a part of you more than anything on earth…but I don’t wish to be with a man.”

  Johannes gazed on his friend’s sweet face; however, Anastasius would not meet his eyes. “Can’t you love me for who I am?”

  “I do, but I don’t want to make carnal love with you.”

  “Is it my body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let God’s true creation be revealed.” Johannes rose up to his knees and untied the cincture binding his robe. He slid it over his head and pulled off his linen shift. “Let this robe never come between us. Can you not at least look at me?”

  Anastasius raised his eyes, and his mouth gaped. “Oh my God!”

  Johannes broke into sobs once again. “I should’ve told you. I never meant to deceive. I wanted to learn and it’s forbidden for us and I…”

  “You’re a woman!”

  “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Forgive you? I love you.” Anastasius kissed her passionately, uninhibited. He laid her down on the pallet. Gazing into her eyes, the cardinal rolled on top, spreading her thighs, touching the sweetness of her soft skin. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Of course you do. I’m Johanna. Joan, not John.”

  “Who would believe it?” Anastasius said smiling, fulfilled, even amused at the idea. “A woman cardinal.”

  “Oh dear heart, I never meant for it to go this far. I wanted to learn what I could, only a year or two, then I planned to leave. But I received interesting jobs and I believed the church needed me and what I did was important.”

  Anastasius laughed. “Let me see,” he said. “The woman Junia was a priest during Saint Paul’s time, a bishop even, and many argued that Mary Magdalen was an Apostle. In fact, the scriptures call her the Apostle to the Apostles. Of course, Bishop Theodora was a woman and Priscilla a priest who worked with Saint Paul, and Paul tells us Phoebe was a deacon. You might be on solid ground.”

  “You’re teasing me.” Johanna poked Anastasius.

  “The early church had many female priests, but oh yes, I remember now: the popes put an end to it. Women were forbidden to hold the priesthood in the fourth century at the Council of Laodicia. Then the Council of Chalcedon forbade women under the age of forty from being deacons. That rule is quite confusing because anyone holding the title of deacon has the right to be a priest as well. On the other hand, I haven’t heard of any women deacons lately.”

  Johanna wasn’t nearly as amused as Anastasius. She shook her head as he continued his reflection while they lay in each other’s arms. “In truth, one might argue there’s no legitimate prohibition against women being priests. All the same, I don’t think I’d advertise it just yet.”

  “If only I had been born a man.”

  “And where would that leave me? I thought I had become a Sodomite. How did you keep it hidden all these years?”

  “The worst was my monthly cycle. Thank heaven I worked alone most of the time, but hiding the evidence was a chore. I was sick every month believing I might be discovered.”

  “We’ve all been fools. How did we ever believe such beauty as yours could be a man?”

  “Oh, sweet Anastasius, what am I to do?”

  “Do? You’re to do nothing and say nothing. You’re right. The church needs you, and I need you. Now that I’ve found you, I’ll never let you go.”

  “What if I’m discovered?”

  “You guarded your secret these many years and I believe God will protect you just as he has seen fit thus far. I swear I’ll find a way for us to be together, every second of every day.”

  “Oh no, impossible. You must flee today.”

  “Leave? What are you saying? Don’t you love me?”

  “More than my own life and that’s why you need to go.” Johanna caressed Anastasius’ cheek with her palm. “Don’t you understand? Who do you think tried to kill you tonight?”

  “I don’t know, a thief perhaps. Rome has many poor and destitute.”

  “Did you not see the assassin’s clothes? He was no pauper. This is Theophylact’s doing, and likely the cur, Benedict. They don’t intend to allow the Emperor’s power to grow in the Papal Palace. And now they have you where they want you, isolated at San Marcello, where you’re an easy target.”

  “Uncle Arsenius supports the Emperor as well. Will they not try to kill him? I can’t leave him unprotected.”

  “They wouldn’t dare touch the Emperor’s missi at Leo’s palace and risk Lothair’s wrath. You have no such protection. They’ve seen to that. You must flee. I’ll be your eyes and ears in the patriarchum. When it’s safe, I’ll know. Then we can be together.”

  Anastasius grabbed his beloved Johanna’s hands and pulled her close. “What am I to do without you?”

  “You’re to get you out of Rome, far from Theophylact’s reach. Make for the border of the Frankish country where Lothair can protect you. I’ll come to you, but first, I must farm the apostolic lands and earn the money Leo needs for his wall. Until then, you’re to stay alive and love me as I love you.”

  32

  Heresies

  Isabelle Héber scanned the images on her c
omputer screen at the desk provided for her in the Vatican Library. Father Sabella had been more than accommodating and supplied her with everything she required. He avoided her at first, but once he discovered she would be deciphering early Biblical scriptures, the librarian in him overcame his suspicion of an outsider, and a woman to boot. He even acquired the habit of hovering around her desk while she installed her equipment. She explained everything to him solicitously at first, but lately had to shoo him away to get her work done.

  Isabelle had purchased a digital-imaging software program used mostly by professional photographers and graphic artists. However, finding a digital document camera had been difficult. In the end she bought the best camera she could find in Rome and added a macro lens and colored filters.

  Photographs were easily downloaded from the camera to the computer, and a colleague had emailed her a dictionary of first-century Aramaic that interpreted the words she uncovered. Pages had just begun to appear when the doorknob turned and the hinges creaked. “Please Father Sabella,” she said, “I’m at a critical point…”

  “Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

  Isabelle jerked around to the welcome sound of Michael Romano’s voice, then her jaw dropped. “Oh my God, what did you do to your eye?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Romano countered. “This was done to me.”

  “By who?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  Isabelle’s intuition told her the priest’s black eye had something to do with the men who had attacked them in Paris. “Does your shiner have anything to do with a raid on terrorists in Normandy?”

  “How did you hear about that?”

  “So I’m right?”

  “I promised not to say.”

  “You just did. Anyway, it’s not much of a secret since every newspaper and TV station is running the story. But what would Arabs want with Psalters?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” Romano said. “I feel like I should, but I can’t put my finger on it.”