The Psalter Page 3

  4

  Isabelle

  The old woman was stronger than Mike. She sat on him, pinning his arms to the floor by his wrists while she ground her hips on his groin, making him hard. Tears squirted from his burning eyes and he tried to raise his body, but she was too heavy and the struggle left him breathless. He twisted his slight torso trying to roll over, but she bounced on his belly and he gasped, the wind knocked out.

  Romano felt a soft tapping on his knee. His eyes fluttered open and he strained to focus on the blurry image of two teenage girls in tight jeans and pullover sweaters. They spoke words he didn’t understand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in English wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

  “Are you all right, Father?” one asked in a lilting French accent.

  “Where am I?”

  “We’re at the terminus, Paris.” The priest peered out the train window. A dark blue sign with white print read Gare de Lyon.

  “Merci, Mesdemoiselles,” he managed, red faced. The girls lowered their gaze and scurried for the door, whispering. Romano stretched his aching joints. A sharp pain in his neck made him wince. Fifteen hours in a second-class seat and now he had a crick. Rubbing it with one hand, he slung the backpack over his shoulder, stepped out of the car, and headed for the exit. He looked for the Metro sign, the Parisian subway system.

  Romano changed Metros at Hôtel de Ville then got off at the Rambuteau stop. Concrete stairs led to a pungent mélange of exhaust fumes and unfamiliar odors borne by the damp air; the clanging and banging of city traffic and the cacophony of another workday in Paris. Searching for a familiar landmark, he couldn’t remember how to get to the National Archives and had forgotten to bring a map. He stopped a slender man in a gray business suit to ask for directions. The man listened to his elementary French, pointed and walked away without a word.

  Romano made his way along on the rue Rambuteau, dodging pedestrians who came toward him at fast-forward speed. He crossed the rue des Archives and recognized the Hôtel de Soubise, one of the grandest mansions in the Marais district. Built around an older medieval castle, the newer one had been constructed in the early eighteenth century.

  The mansion became the National Archives after the French Revolution and was a historian’s fantasy world. It housed thousands of historical documents from the fifth century to the twentieth, such as the wills of Louis XIV and Napoleon, the Declaration of Human Rights and the Edict of Nantes. Romano walked down the long courtyard over uneven cobblestones and into the entrance. A young man sat behind a pedestal-type reception desk, his head lowered, studying something beyond the priest’s view. Romano scanned the Rococo foyer waiting to be noticed. The room seemed light and airy despite the heavy stone construction, with tall windows and creamy walls.

  “Excuse me, Father,” the young man said finally looking up.

  “I need to speak with Madame Héber.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Well she’s busy.”

  “It’s important,” Romano said.

  The telephone chimed on Isabelle Héber’s cluttered eighteenth-century desk. She ignored the call, letting it go into voice mail, but the caller kept redialing. Exasperated, she yanked the handset from the cradle, her right index finger pointing to her place on an open page. “Oui,” she exhaled in a loud breath.

  “Doctor Héber, this is the reception desk. A man is here to speak to you.”

  “I told you Eugène, no visitors.”

  “I know Madame, but he’s not any man.” Eugène lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s a priest.”

  Isabelle’s interest was piqued. Why would a priest want to meet with her? She didn’t know any priests except the local curé who kept insisting she return to the church. She had decided she was an atheist while still in high school. Religion never held the slightest interest for her. Science was her faith. Now, whenever she saw Father Demerest at weddings or First Communions, he began with the same reproach, calling her rebellious and proclaiming that God could forgive any transgression except abandoning the Holy Church. He always ended his assaults in tears, begging her to come to confession so she might partake of the Holy Communion. Horror invaded her reflection. Someone has died. “I’ll be right down,” she said into the phone and ran for the stairs.

  Romano gazed at the dark-haired archivist as she dashed down limestone steps, a panicked expression on her face. “What’s happened mon Père,” she cried out as she rushed to his side, grasping his hand. “Is Father ill?”

  Not being a pastoral priest, Romano had forgotten they often delivered tragic news so they could console their parishioners. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. The woman gasped, shrinking. He realized his words were ill-timed. “There’s nothing wrong. This is a professional visit.”

  Isabelle glared at him, straightened herself, and pushed his hand away. “That was cruel, Father.”

  Romano felt foolish. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but I have no experience as a parish priest. I should have…well, I’m truly sorry.”

  Isabelle eyed him. “Well, Father, your remorse appears genuine, but I’m still quite aggravated. How can I help you?”

  Romano glanced at Eugène and back at Isabelle Héber. “Can we speak privately?”

  “I’m very busy, Father. I’m in the middle of an important translation and already past my deadline. You can make an appointment with Eugène. I have a little time next week.”

  Father Romano took Isabelle’s arm and guided her a few feet from the reception desk. “Please, Madame, this is urgent or I wouldn’t ask. A priest was killed for this book,” he held up his small backpack for emphasis, “and I need to know why.”

  Isabelle probed the priest’s face and recognized his desperation and passion. “Alright, Father. I’ll give you five minutes, but no more.” She led him up the limestone steps to her office. Lifting a stack of books from a chair, she motioned for him to sit. Romano sank in the chair and set the backpack on his lap. He unzipped the top and produced a thick, leather-bound book. He offered it with both hands to Isabelle, who pushed aside a pile of papers on her desk. She opened the cover and appeared confused. “Father, this is Latin. You can translate it better than I.”

  The paleographer leaned over the desk and grabbed a pen. He pointed the tip at a space between two lines of Latin text. “Can you make out this minute indentation?”

  “No,” Isabelle said, lowering her face to the page.

  “Use this.” The priest offered his magnifying glass. “The impression was made by a calamus, but it’s in the gap between these two letters, and look at this tiny crease. A stylus scored the paper to mark where a line of text should be, but there’s no text. This ordinary page of Latin prayers was written over an older scroll. This is a palimpsest, Madame.” The priest stared intently at the archivist, expecting his words to have an impact.

  Isabelle Héber furrowed her brow. “Father, there are hundreds of known palimpsests. Scrolls were erased by the thousands for this type of book. It’s not unusual at all.”

  “The palimpsest is not what’s important, but the contents of the original scroll used to make the pages. I believe this was once a first-century document written in Aramaic.” The priest still evoked no response. “The language of Jesus?”

  “And millions of others. You’re surely not suggesting that this is a New Testament scroll,” Isabelle scoffed, “because the scriptures were written in Greek, by Greeks.”

  “We believe the Apostles wrote them in their own language and they were translated into Greek.”

  “What happened to the originals?”

  “The theory is that they were destroyed.”

  “All of them,” Isabelle said cynically, “and not a single survivor?”

  “That’s why this is so important. Scholars have been searching for original scriptures for almost two thousand years. I might have discovered some.”

  “On what do you base that?”r />
  “I used an ultraviolet light to look beneath the Latin and found these three letters.” Romano pulled a small notebook from his backpack. He showed the archivist a page where he had handwritten the Aramaic characters: h, w and +.

  Doctor Héber looked exasperated. “Father, with all due respect, Aramaic was the common language in every country of the Middle East, including parts of India, for over a millennium. So of the thousands upon thousands of documents written during that era, you found a single page with three Aramaic letters and you conclude it must be a New Testament scroll?”

  The paleographer realized how ridiculous he sounded after hearing his suspicions criticized out loud by a PhD who was noted for her expertise in analyzing manuscripts. He grew defensive and pressed his argument. “Listen Doctor,” Romano’s pitch raised a notch. “The Pope’s personal Secretary had an uncommon interest in a certain scribe who made habit of writing over heretical texts. He took this book,” Romano rose from his seat and pointed at the Psalter, “from of the shelves of the Vatican’s Secret Archives. He had no right. If he weren’t a priest, I’d say he stole it. Then he was run down and killed by a man on the FBI’s watch list, and the only object the killer took from his body was this. The Psalter may or may not hide scriptures, but beneath the Medieval Latin is a first-century text that someone wants badly enough to kill for.” The priest glared at the raven-haired archivist breathing hard. Doctor Héber stared back impassively.

  The paleographer, who had been so confident he fled with a valuable relic belonging to the church, had his theory discredited in a single concise sentence. All that he had discovered were three Aramaic letters and nothing to indicate they were part of any Biblical text. And his counter-argument made him sound more like a conspiracy nut than a reputable scholar. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” Father Romano held his hand out for the Psalter.

  “Hold on a minute. I recognize you.” She kept her hands over the prayer book. “You attended one of my seminars, no?”

  “Yes,” Romano said sourly. “Last winter.”

  “Aren’t you the paleographer who had a special interest in a certain scribe you called…?”

  “Giovanni.”

  “Oui, very interesting and remarkable that you can recognize a particular scribe’s handwriting when thousands tried to write exactly alike.”

  “Well, not truly alike. Every region and even each monastery had their own style.”

  “Fascinating and I’m intrigued that you’re able to date a document by the type of calligraphy used during a specific era. I should have thought something technological would be far more precise, like carbon14 dating?”

  “Carbon14 isn’t accurate at all,” Romano said. “It can tell when the animal died, but not when the words were written. These pages were erased and reused. There could be a thousand-year difference between the expunged text and the one copied over it. Analyzing the style of the script can give an exact date. But I know how busy you are, and you were kind to meet with me.” Father Romano held out his hand again.

  “Father, please sit for a moment.” The priest stood immobile for a few seconds, then sank back into the chair. “Listen,” Isabelle said. “I use infrared, x-ray, digital photography, and computers to rediscover damaged or erased texts. I need dictionaries and my knowledge of dead languages to translate manuscripts. I have a mechanical skill. You, on the other hand, examine stylistic nuance and minute differences in handwriting. And from that, you can tell not only when words were written, but by whom. Please forgive me Father…?”

  “Romano, Michael Romano.”

  “I didn’t intend to demean your professional skill. I remember being quite impressed with your credentials. You said someone killed a priest for this book?”

  “Not any priest, the Pope’s Secretary.”

  Isabelle involuntarily made the sign of a cross, even though she no longer believed in God. “Was he a friend?”

  “Yes. Still, I wish I’d known him better, but we shared the same interest in Giovanni, the medieval scribe I told you about. He asked me to find every prayer book in our Archives copied by this scribe. I thought it odd in the beginning, but it became sort of a hobby. We enjoyed long discussions trying to imagine this monk. A few of the parchments weren’t erased well, and some of the original words were visible under ultraviolet or infrared. This one, on the other hand, had been erased exceptionally well.”

  “And you want to read what’s written underneath?” Isabelle Héber spoke more sympathetically.

  “Yes. I’m convinced the Pope’s Secretary was looking for a particular scroll.”

  “You realize, of course, that all New Testament manuscripts were composed in Koine, a dialect of Greek.”

  “But Jesus spoke Aramaic.”

  “You should know that this palimpsest might be anything, so don’t get your hopes up.”

  “You’ll help?” Romano asked hopefully.

  “After the Archive closes. Can you come back at six?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  5

  IsyReADeT

  Father Romano walked down the rue des Francs-Bourgeois through a canyon of chic apartments and private mansions from centuries past in one of Paris’ oldest quarters. He often felt out of place outside the Vatican. But passing trendy boutiques where his reflection gaped back from the windows, an unshaven, heavy-eyed cleric toting a knapsack, he looked more like a hobo than a man of the cloth. Romano noticed pedestrians staring. “Humility,” he muttered to himself.

  His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since he’d left Rome. He searched for a bistro, café, or even a local bar where he could order a quick sandwich, but saw only shops and historic buildings. Wandering out of the chasm of apartments into an open space, he found himself in the seventeenth-century Place des Vosges, Paris’ oldest square. A rectangular brick arcade surrounded the plaza, with pale stone residences above. The Place was the French capital’s first attempt at community housing. Richelieu had lived in number 21, and number 6 housed the Victor Hugo museum. Now, the interior of the square was a green space lined with trees and paths, with a play area in the center. Children ran and squealed as they kicked soccer balls, rode on teeter-totters, and climbed up the slide.

  The aroma of dark coffee floated to Romano’s nose and lured him to bistro tables filling the sidewalk. A few couples sat, chatting while they sipped from demitasses and savored tarts and pastries. Romano found an empty table furthest from the snackers. A graying waiter in dark trousers, white shirt, and a black vest, balancing a small round tray approached. “Good afternoon, Father. May I bring you something to drink?”

  “A Coke and a large glass of water.”

  “Would you like a menu, Father?”

  “What’s the plat du jour?”

  “Poulet rôti or Andouille sausage.”

  “I’ll take the chicken. Could I get fries?”

  “Of course.”

  Romano set his knapsack on a chair and pulled out a note pad and pen. Glancing up, his eyes met the waiter’s, who had not budged. “Yes?”

  “Excuse me, Father, if I’m impolite, but you look terrible. Are you all right?”

  He rubbed the two-day stubble with his hand. “I’ve been traveling. I’m just tired.”

  “We have a bathroom inside if you’d like to wash up. Turn left at the door and down the stairs.”

  The considerate word from the sympathetic waiter cheered Romano a bit. “You’re very kind.” He snatched up the backpack and headed inside, descending narrow, winding steps to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face, he rubbed liquid soap from the dispenser on thick, black whiskers. He pulled a disposable razor from an old leather case and began to scrape away two days’ growth. Patting his cheeks dry with the continuous towel in the white holder, a loud ring startled Romano. His hand groped along the bottom of his pack until he grasped his vibrating phone. “Hello?”

  “Father Romano?” The priest recognized the voice, but couldn’t put it with a fac
e.

  “This is Romano.” He tried not to sound guilty, but the call reminded him he had left the Vatican without permission.

  “Colonelo Del Carlo of the GIS,” the authoritative voice said.

  The priest stuffed his toiletries into the backpack.

  “Father, are you there?”

  Romano trotted up the stairs. “Sorry, Colonelo, the reception is bad. Give me a moment.” Back at his small table, the waiter had already served the cola and water. The priest finished half the tall glass of water in two hurried gulps. “Yes, Colonelo, I’m here.”

  “Father, I need to meet with you right away.”

  “I’m sorry, Colonelo. It’s not possible. I’m,” the priest hesitated, “out of town.”

  “I hate to insist, but I have evidence Father Mackey was killed deliberately.”

  Romano didn’t reply.

  “Did you hear me, Father?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Crime scene investigators found a handwritten note in the assassin’s car, in Latin.” This was the first time Del Carlo used assassin and the word made the priest shudder. “I’m not an expert, Father, but when I was a boy, Mass was celebrated in Latin and I took a few years in high school. I remembered enough to recognize one of the words in the note, Beatus, the same as the title in the Psalter, no?”

  “It’s the same, Colonelo.”

  “I must examine the book immediately. Can you bring it to headquarters?”

  “Impossible. As I said, I’m out of town. I left a Psalter in the antiquities section of the Library in Father Mackey’s brown briefcase.” Father Romano closed his eyes at the quasi-lie. “I’m sure one of the archivists can help you.”