The Psalter Page 32

  Outside, Baraldus grabbed burning tables and beams piled in front of the entrance, mindless of his blackened hands. He lifted them effortlessly and heaved them aside like so many sticks. “Master, master,” he cried. “Hold on, I’m coming.” Grabbing the last burning timber wedged against the entry, he hoisted it on his shoulder, stumbling away as it burned into his robe and singed his ear and tonsured hair.

  Ahmad flung open the door. Johanna lay naked on the floor. He was taken aback for the briefest of moments, then stripped his cloak and wrapped it around her. Lifting her, he fled the smoke filled room. “Anastasius,” she whimpered. “Anastasius.”

  Baraldus dropped the heavy timber and stormed into the building as flames clambered up walls, devouring beams and lapping at the joists. Lifting the excommunicated cardinal, he flung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and lumbered out as the burning roof crashed to the ground.

  A gale from the coast blew hard on Rome, warming as it passed over land. Gusts rushed up Vatican Hill and flowed down into the Borgo, fanning the flames like a bellows. Sparks and smoldering straw from thatched roofs filled the sky, settling on other roofs and igniting them. Extreme heat from burning buildings ignited the structures next to them, and within minutes, the Borgo was aflame.

  “We must get across the Tiber or we’ll be roasted alive,” Baraldus shouted to Ahmad. But streets and alleys were filled with a frantic mob carrying small bundles or children in their arms, packed together, shoving and grasping, inching toward the river and the safety of Rome. Burning debris rained down upon them. Horses bolted wild-eyed, crashing the carts they pulled into buildings and galloping through the throng. Freed cattle, smelling the water yet having no path to escape, gored and trampled the fallen. Sheep and lambs bleated in terror, their frightened cries adding to the cacophony of the horror stricken.

  “No,” Ahmad said. “It’s folly to fight a panicked herd. The wind blows from the west so let’s head south to the Trastevere.”

  Anastasius coughed nonstop but walked under his own power as they shoved their way across the powerful torrent of frenzied people. Johanna begged to be let down between hacking and gasps for air and Baraldus pleaded to carry her, but Ahmad would have none of it. He carried her in his arms, holding his cloak around her. Stout Baraldus led the group, plowing his way like a rolling boulder into one river of souls after another. He shouldered and pushed people aside, creating a brief space that slammed shut the moment they bowled through. The river of humanity flowed slower the further south they drew, and rivulets of people split off from the surge, scattering into side streets. At long last, they made their way to the narrow alleys of the Trastevere.

  The Rosh Yeshiva stood outside his home with his son as Jews filled the streets, watching flames from the Borgo burn toward the Tiber. Avraham strained his eyes, then recognized the singed, soot-stained quartet as they rounded the corner. He rushed forward with Elchanan at his side. “Get to my house,” he shouted and led them to his door.

  Elchanan fetched the doctor, who ordered draughts of wine into which he mixed a brownish powder. “Parthenium,” he said. “You call it feverfew. It’ll dull the pain and open the airways.” Then he tossed hot stones on the fire. “We must steam the smoke from your lungs, or you’ll get an infection.” Avraham whispered something into the doctor’s ear, and the physician arched an eyebrow adding, “I’ll put you in different rooms so I can attend you separately.” Ahmad’s normally inscrutable face heaved a sigh of relief.

  Avraham put Anastasius in a pantry and Ahmad carried Johannes to a closet. The doctor used tongs to set searing stones on large, earthenware platters in each room. Towels and a bowl of cool water were brought, and he showed them how to ladle a bit of liquid on the rock to make steam. “You must breathe in the vapor. It won’t be easy—inhale and spit. Now strip.”

  In the kitchen, Baraldus was bare to the waist and winced as the doctor applied cold compresses to his scorched and blistered hands. Yet as each wave of pain descended, he clenched his square, Lombard jaw. “I’ll give you something for your discomfort, but you’ll suffer for awhile. How did you get such burns? Were you playing with the fire?”

  The slave Ahmad smoothed the back of Baldurus’s singed, tonsured hair. “If not for the priest, who has the heart of the greatest warrior I have ever known, the others wouldn’t be here.”

  A single tear escaped the corner of the Lombard’s eye, but he sniffed and caught the rest.

  Avraham led Ahmad into his study while the doctor attended Baraldus. “So you know?”

  “I know.”

  “You were right to come here.”

  “I knew not where else to go,” the onetime prince said.

  Benedict, the Bishop of Albano, stood alone on Rome’s side of the Tiber, a smug look on his face as stampeding refugees poured over the Sant’Angelo Bridge. Pope Leo arrived with the patriarchum’s cardinals in attendance. He braced himself in the superheated wind as fire raced toward the river from the opposite shore. “Those poor souls,” he lamented as the newly homeless sought refuge.

  “Poor souls?” Benedict said. “They’re foreigners and have no place here. Their shamble of a ghetto might have burned down the whole city. Let them return to Lothair for assistance and see how he likes hosting this rabble. Still, perhaps two of our problems have been eliminated.”

  Leo looked at Benedict, puzzled. “Let us remember the parable of the Good Samaritan brother, when only a foreigner would help. They deserve our pity and our blessing, not our scorn.” Leo raised the simple wooden cross he wore on a chain around his neck and held it high for all to gaze upon, to give them hope in their hour of need. He held the crucifix aloft until after Lauds when the sun, a dull orange ball, rose over the hill, until the raging inferno reached the river and burned itself out.

  Baraldus, though badly blistered and scorched, would no longer suffer the messy emulsion of opium, hemlock, and lard daubed on his hands. “I’ll not stay another minute,” he griped, recoiling from the doctor’s ministering. “A cup of wine yields more relief and my greasy robe will be the cleaner.”

  “Please, primicerius Baraldus,” the doctor said. “Your hands are charred. If scar tissue forms, it’ll be painful and you may lose the use of some fingers.”

  “Balderdash. I’m no scribe that has need of fingers, only these great fists.” He held up two blackened claws and started for the door.

  “Please,” Johanna said as she slouched in a wooden chair, hacking and spitting up darkened spittle into a crockery bowl, “at least take some medicine with you.”

  “What work can I do with my hands dripping with this muck?” He fled outside.

  Ahmad could only shake his head in disgust. “To think this priest once commanded soldiers. Give me the crock. I’ll make sure he lathers up, no matter how loud he bellows.” The slave followed the Lombard out of the Rosh Yeshiva’s house and into the streets of the Trastavere.

  Johanna looked dejected as she heaved long sighs that brought on fits of coughing. Anastasius seemed less affected and, while his lungs were burned and painful, the doctor did not fear for his condition. He was healing and his phlegm was clear. Johanna, however, spit blackish green gobs and the physician feared that she had an infection, and peripleumonia was deadly.

  The doctor took Avraham aside and handed him a pouch with dried herbs that smelled of mint. “Pennyroyal,” he said. “Make an infusion with four leaves and have her drink three times a day, but no more. Beware,” the doctor put his hand on the Rosh Yeshiva’s shoulder, “the medicine is poison. If she’s still ill five days hence, you may give her no more, for the cure will kill her.”

  Johanna’s condition indeed worsened. Within two days, she had developed a fever and sweat drenched her bedclothes. Avraham made a pallet for her in his study, and she lay there, delirious. Anastasius refused to leave her side. He placed cold compresses on her brow and patted her hand, assuring her that she’d soon be well.

  Yet even in her delirium Joha
nna thought only of Anastasius and begged him to get away. “Theophylact and Benedict will stop at nothing. You must flee Rome.”

  “Soon my love, never fear.” But he had no intention of abandoning her.

  Anastasius communicated secretly with his uncle Arsenius, dispatching letters with Ahmad since he dare not risk sending Baraldus, who was well known as Johanna’s primicerius. He pleaded for a meeting but his uncle was intransigent, demanding that he depart from Rome before he was undone. Anastasius was just as insistent. Finally, Arsenius agreed to meet clandestinely within the walls of the Colosseum where priests and soldiers seldom ventured, fearing the rabble of the makeshift city. As further insurance, Arsenius chose the tranquil hour of Lauds when the noble cardinals were heavy-eyed and the soldiers fast asleep.

  They met in the deep shadows under an arch in the arcade. “This time,” Arsenius said, “you have a real chance of being elected. Even if you’re not, you’re still young and the cardinals must give you a position of authority inside the patriarchum. Lothair will accept nothing less. Until that day, you must stay out of the Roman diocese. Leo has hardened his heart against you and Benedict and Theophylact would see you dead.”

  “Uncle, I’m begging you, I need to remain in Rome.”

  “You make no sense,” Arsenius shook his head. “Death and destruction await you here. Why is it so urgent to stay where you can’t even show your face? Chiusi is a beautiful city and you’re a cardinal there. Enjoy the Tuscan sun until I send for you.”

  Anastasius searched for a reasonable argument but found none, and the more he disputed, the more dumbfounded Arsenius became. “Leave now, nephew,” Arsenius said. “The sun will rise soon. You take foolish risks for naught.”

  Despite the danger from every quarter, Anastasius could only think about how to remain in the city. He dared not tell his uncle the truth, and without the truth, his arguments sounded feeble. He couldn’t leave, he wouldn’t. Yet his very presence at Avraham’s home brought danger not only to him and the Rosh Yeshiva, but Johanna as well. Sooner or later, Theophylact would search the Trastavere.

  Tiny droplets covered Johanna’s face and her red hair was plastered to her forehead, but her breaths came soft and even. “She’s worse,” Anastasius was panicked.

  “No. She’s better. The fever has broken and her body cools. Thank goodness because I dare not give her more medicine. Nevertheless, she’s weak and needs time to recover from the illness—and the cure as well.”

  “I’ll stay with her.”

  “No,” Johanna’s voice was but a whisper. She searched for his hand with her own.

  Anastasius found hers and cradled it between his two. “I’m here, darling, and here I’ll stay.”

  “Talk to him, Avraham. I have not the strength.”

  The Rosh Yeshiva spoke softly, mindful of Johanna’s fragile state. “Theophylact’s men have been here already and they watch the house. How you got by them is a miracle, but you can’t remain here. You’re only safe in the protection of Louis’ Empire.”

  “How can I escape with soldiers outside?”

  “All has been accounted for,” Avraham said.

  At sundown Friday, Jews ceased their work on the plows and collars, restoration of the basilicas, tanning, and all their labors to observe the Sabbath. The next morning they came from throughout the ghetto to attend services at the synagogue. A cantor began singing hymns praising God. Rabbis wearing prayer shawls recited Psalms and chanted prayers. Avraham took the Torah from the ark, and men approached one at a time to read from the scroll.

  Finally, Avraham HaKodesh delivered his sermon, which was uncharacteristically short, and the faithful wondered. Then nodding at the front row, he ended the services chanting, “The Lord bless you and keep you! The Lord let his face shine upon you and be gracious to you! The Lord look kindly upon you and give you peace!”

  As the congregation filed out of the synagogue, it was enlarged by three unusual-looking Jews even though they wore the mandated dress: hose, caftans and four-pointed hats. One was dark, another stout, and the last uncommonly tall. The three elbowed their way to the middle of the crowd, heads down as they passed Theophylact’s troops who spied on the Rosh Yeshiva’s house. Then they made their way across the Rotto Bridge, heading north to the Vatican, where the wall was unfinished with many gaps remaining and no gates or guards to pass.

  38

  Children of the Book

  I told you that you were wasting your time.” Pascal shook his head in disgust as he and Isabelle and Romano sat on Belvedere lounge chairs in the lobby of their hotel on the via della Conciliazione in the district that once was the ancient Borgo.

  “It’s not the end,” Romano said, “just a setback.”

  “There’s only one solution. If you want no interference, take the books out of the Vatican. You should bring them to Paris, out of Italy completely. France doesn’t tolerate censorship, and we could translate and publish them before anyone was the wiser.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? You said you had access to many more Psalters. Let’s get them out of here before the Grand Inquisitor finds them.”

  “Look, Pascal, for what it’s worth, I agree. I made the same arguments to my cardinal, but he won’t allow it. He thinks it’s too dangerous. You and Isabelle, more than anyone, must realize he’s right.”

  “Of course, but it’s worth the risk. You thought so, too, when you brought the book to Paris. Are you going to let some silly rules stop you now? They didn’t before.”

  “Using one’s own judgment, however flawed, is quite different than defying an order.”

  “So you’re going to do nothing?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just need to find a secure place before I start over,” Romano said.

  “Bah! So Keller can take our work away again and hide everything in the bottomless pit under the Vatican? No, thank you. I’m going upstairs to pack.”

  “Don’t leave like this.”

  Pascal turned back to the priest. “I don’t blame you. You went ten rounds, but remember Jacob and the Angel? You can’t win. The best you can do is to hang on and get hurt in the process. Think of your career. You almost ruined your life.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “I’m not chiding you. I mean it sincerely. Truth be told, I enjoyed the fight, reminds me of my younger quixotic days. However, I’ve seen the church in action, very slow action. I hope I’m still alive to see how this ends, but I do need to get back to Paris.”

  “You can wait one more day. His Holiness will celebrate a special Mass at Saint Peter’s tomorrow for Ash Wednesday, and I brought invitations for the both of you, reserved seats up front.”

  Pascal couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Reserved seats for a heretical Jew and an atheist? That’s rich. How did you arrange it?”

  “I didn’t. Cardinal Keller did.”

  Pascal arched an eyebrow. “The Grand Inquisitor?”

  “The Defender of the Faith, and yes, I think it’s his way of apologizing.”

  “Isn’t Ash Wednesday the first day of Lent, a day of repentance? Is the good cardinal sending us a message?” Pascal grimaced.

  “Now you’re being cynical.”

  “Perhaps I can watch one more chapter unfold before I go home, but I still need to pack. I’ll see you at Saint Peter’s tomorrow and, regardless of the reason, thank the cardinal for me. But I warn you, I’ll give up nothing for Lent, and don’t expect any repentance. I like my sins just as they are.” Pascal shook Romano’s hand and headed for the elevator.

  Isabelle leaned forward in the Belvedere chair. “You don’t believe Keller was apologizing.”

  “I do, and I hope he’s sending a message, also,” Romano said.

  “What kind of message?”

  “That your work in the Vatican is appreciated and perhaps things will change, even if change is slow.”

  “Father’s right. You are an optimist.”

  “
Hardly. I have inside information, shall we say.”

  Isabelle looked hopeful. “You mean Keller might let us go back to work?”

  “Not exactly, at least not for awhile.”

  “Well, what then?”

  Romano tried to avoid answering.

  “Tell me what you mean, Michael.”

  “I’m not sure how to say this, or even if I should.”

  “Don’t leave me hanging.”

  “Where do I begin? I never expected to amount to much in the church. I’ve always been a loner, ambitious about my work but not political, and I don’t belong to any insider groups. Not great qualities for success.”

  “You have been successful, and on your own merits.”

  “I don’t believe that’s true.” Romano shook his head.

  “How can you think otherwise?”

  “Like I said, inside information. You’ll think I’m weird if I tell you everything, but the church has a mystical side not often seen by the public. So let me say that some influential people seem to have a good deal of confidence in me.”

  “Of course they do. You’re a courageous scholar.” Isabelle praised the man she had come to adore.

  “It’s not my work they admire.”

  Isabelle took Romano’s hand. She didn’t understand his commitment to the priesthood, but sensed a man in pain. He started to return her affection, then pulled back his hand. “I’m not trying to seduce you, Michael. Can’t a priest be friends with a woman?”

  “We are friends.”

  “So why are you frightened? Is it me, or women in general?”

  “It’s not you.” Romano lowered his eyes. “I’m afraid of me.”

  Rashid passed groups of Pakistanis peddling umbrellas to tourists outside Rome’s Termini Train Station. They didn’t bother to solicit him as he entered the glass door to take a shortcut through the mall, facing the platforms. The hair on the back of his neck tickled as he passed the boutiques. Stopping at a fashionable men’s shop, he pretended to gaze at suits in the window while glancing side to side. He recognized the uneasiness of being followed, but nothing seemed out of place. People waited for trains, shoppers browsed or sipped coffees. Nevertheless, the feeling was oppressive.