The Psalter Read online

  “Would you destroy priceless histories for mere money?” Johannes raised his voice.

  “The church has just and good reasons to expunge some writings. Come here. I want you to translate a passage.” Anastasius pointed to the scroll on the slanted lectern from which he had been reading. “The first verse.”

  Johannes started slowly so his translation would be precise. “In those days came John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness of Judaea, and saying, repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. The words are from Matthew, the same as the one I erased.”

  “Correct, and your translation is precise, but didn’t you notice something out of place?”

  The novice furrowed his brow. He re-translated the verse in his head, positive he hadn’t erred.

  “Focus on the chapter,” Anastasius said.

  Johannes didn’t understand at first, then his eyes widened as he spotted the omission. “They’re missing.”

  “They?”

  Johannes studied a few moments more. “The first two chapters.”

  “Quite right. You’re not only a linguist, but you know the scriptures.”

  The novice puffed out his chest with pride. He had always been the best student in his classes in Athens. Now, he had received his first words of praise in Rome from the man who was renowned as the Western World’s greatest expert in ancient Greek. Then Johannes appeared confused. “Why would scribes copy Matthew and leave out chapters?” Before the prefect could answer he added, “Are all the scrolls brought to me to erase the same?”

  “Yes.”

  Johannes smirked as he said, “What a colossal blunder.”

  “It was assuredly no mistake. The chapters were left out by design. Do you recall which story they told?”

  Johannes put one hand on his chin, mumbling barely audible words, “The lineage of our Lord and his birth, and Joseph and Mary fleeing to Egypt.”

  “Correct again! But did I hear you recite Matthew from memory?”

  “In a way.”

  “How can one so young quote the scriptures by heart? Is your recollection that prodigious?”

  “It’s not remembering really, more like seeing.”

  “I don’t take your meaning,” Anastasius said.

  “Well, I can’t remember everything. For instance, I couldn’t tell you who sat next to me at Vespers last night or what we ate at the noon meal on Tuesday. But if I’ve read something and need to recall the words, I simply look at the page in my mind.”

  “Indeed, I’ve heard of this thing. A century ago, a monk in the monastery at Monte Cassino was said to possess such a memory, but in truth, I believed the story an exaggeration.”

  “It seems normal to me, yet I realize it’s not. But pray tell, why would anyone care about our Savior’s ancestors?”

  “Some things they didn’t teach you in Athens. The story of the virgin birth shows the divinity of Jesus since God was his father.”

  Johannes looked disappointed. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Perhaps in our world they do, yet it was not always so. These scrolls were no blunder as you presumed, nor were they an accident of overworked scribes. They were created by a group of ancient heretics we call Ebionites, from the Hebrew word ebionim meaning the poor ones. We like to think of them as poor in spirit.”

  “Such a translation is a stretch,” Johannes said. “Even our Lord could be called ebionim, since he was poor as well.”

  Anastasius smiled. “Like you, I think our rendition includes some editorializing and reflects our abhorrence of their heresies.”

  “But look at the writing.” Johannes pointed at the Greek letters. “It’s very old, and if the words were written by Jews, were they not the first Christians, even before gentiles? Could these scrolls be older than our Gospels?”

  “Are you here to convert the primicerius of the archives to this heresy, or do you follow the teachings of the church?”

  The young novice hung his head. “Forgive me, Father. It’s a bad habit I learned in Greece, to argue every point. I swear I’m a faithful follower of the universal church, and I submit to her teachings.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I merely wish to make a point. You may discuss with me what you will in the privacy of my cell, but if you would become a priest in the order of Saint Benedict, I beseech you to suppress your arguments. I assure you that because of your learning and young age, you’ll incur the jealousy of many brothers. Give them no reason to condemn you.”

  Chastened, the novice said, “Of course, Father. Thank you for your counsel.”

  Anastasius waved his arm, motioning to the scrolls and heavy volumes stacked on shelves in the room. “This is the accumulation of the world’s knowledge about our Lord. I have the advantage of access to everything here. Believe me when I say there are few texts, gospel or heresy, that I haven’t read. I know the story of the Ebionites and I, too, wrestle with it. They deny the divinity of Christ yet still claim Him as the Messiah. They reject the virgin birth and avow that Jesus was adopted by God. And there are many other heresies in the scrinium. All of this I keep to myself and I counsel you, Johannes Anglicus, to do the same.”

  “These scrolls of Matthew that we destroy, are they the scriptures of the Ebionites?”

  “Indeed. Now you understand why the account of the virgin birth is missing,” Anastasius said.

  “So that I may know for myself since we’re alone in your cell, did the Ebionites remove the chapters, or did the church add them later?”

  “You must decide for yourself and not even I can tell you, for I don’t know. Perhaps one day, you will be the one who finds the truth.”

  “I?” Johannes arched his eyebrows.

  “Yes, you. I now grasp the depth of your knowledge and I believe you would use such wisdom prudently.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “You may or may not thank me once you hear my request. I want you to assist me in the scrinium, the Holy Archives. You already speak more languages than anyone in Rome. You have a remarkable understanding of the scriptures, and I think you have the good sense to keep your scholarship to yourself. Do I read you rightly?”

  The boy could scarcely believe what he was hearing. The newest of novitiates, he had hoped he might be allowed to study after a few years of menial labor. Yet it had only been a month and he was asked to assist the primicerius of the scrinium in the capital of Christendom. Tears welled up in his eyes, “Of…of course I’ll work for you.”

  “Dear Johannes, I’m not asking you to work for me. I want you to assist me as my secundarius, the vice-prefect.” The boy’s jaw dropped. “You shall take over the task that I now perform. It will be you who decides which texts to expunge, leaving no trace of them, and which to archive for posterity. So consider well, because the responsibility for the destruction of these scrolls shall be yours and yours alone. Is this a commission you can accept?”

  Johannes only now realized what Father Anastasius asked of him. The words would still be erased, but he would be the one to silence their authors, forever. The boy hung his head. “Yes, Father, I’ll do it.”

  7

  Parchment

  October in the Year of Our Lord 843

  Father Baraldus stood at Johannes’ desk tapping his heavy, sandaled foot, occasionally blowing out a breath of exasperation from his round cheeks. “Please, secundarius, the novices have no work. The scribes in the scriptorium will soon be out of parchment and they’ll blame me. You must come to a decision.”

  “Yes, I know.” A stout worktable in the scrinium held two piles of scrolls, a large pyramid-shaped stack and a much smaller one. “But please don’t call me secundarius.”

  “What shall I call you? You’re so young that I’d be embarrassed to call you Father.”

  “Johannes will suffice.”

  “I cannot. You’re a superior and I must show respect for your position, although you’re just a young man, if that. I dub you Brother, for I can think of you as my
younger, most learned brother, but only in private. In public, you’re the secundarius.”

  Johannes rolled his eyes.

  “But please, Brother,” Baraldus said, “we need parchment. We can wait no longer.”

  The red-haired youth resigned himself to the fate of the scrolls. “Very well. Take the large pile.” Baraldus began to scoop up rolls. “Not the small pile.” Johannes cautioned his assistant. The hulking priest let a scroll fall and trotted to the door. He stopped, trying to figure out a way to close it with his arms full.

  “I’ll get it,” Johannes said and rose to shut it himself. He returned to the scrolls still lying on the table. Unrolling one, he scanned the first few lines of a Greek copy of the Gospel of Luke. The author’s name was emblazoned at the top. The earliest scriptures did not include authors’ names, which were only added centuries after the books were written.

  This Greek scroll, like many Bibles before Saint Jerome’s translation into Vulgate Latin, was replete with errors, accidental and intentional. Johannes felt overwhelmed that one of his tasks was to correct the unintended mistakes, but not the ones sanctioned by the church since they represented official doctrine. Now, because of his new position, he needed to know the difference.

  Some inaccuracies were careless mistakes caused by scribes toiling tedious hours more asleep than awake in dim scriptoriums. However, the proclivity of certain priests to alter words intentionally was most disturbing.

  Johannes examined the Greek text, passing his finger underneath the lines until he came to the verse recounting the story of the child Jesus in the Temple. It read, Joseph and his mother marveled at what was said about Him. Something wasn’t quite right. He opened a second scroll written at least a hundred years earlier. It was almost identical, but had no title. He skimmed the chapter until he found the same line, yet it was slightly different. This version began with the words his father instead of Joseph. Obviously, a scribe had removed the words his father in the later edition and replaced them with Joseph. It was a small change, only a few words. Yet like magic, Joseph was no longer Jesus’ father.

  Staring at the stack of scrolls, Johannes didn’t understand the church’s compulsion to alter or forge any part of the scriptures. These earliest versions must be saved, he thought, even if the church wants them destroyed. Otherwise, future generations will have no true record of the Bible. Perhaps one day, he mused, scholars will possess enough knowledge to discern which were truly original scriptures.

  The heavy door squeaked and Baraldus’ face reappeared. “Secund …I mean, Brother Johannes, the tanner is here to speak with you.”

  The young archivist knitted his brows. “I have no appointments today.”

  “I’m sorry, Brother. I sent for him. I wasn’t sure if we’d have enough parchment for the scribes. I don’t blame you. You’re new to the job and it’ll take time to make quicker decisions.”

  “Well, now we have plenty, so send him away.” Johannes’ voice dripped with irritation.

  “Yes, Brother.” Baraldus’ face flushed as he pulled the door closed.

  “No, wait,” Johannes called out. The round Lombard peered through the half-closed entry. “I apologize, Father. You’re quite right. Send the man to me.”

  “But Brother, the skins are on his cart in the courtyard. They’re heavy and they stink.”

  “Of course. Tell him I’m coming.” Johannes realized that Baraldus had found an answer for his latest problem. If he were to hoard scrolls to create a secret archive, there’d be a shortage. The solution was new skins.

  The Jew stood next to his cart pulled by a team of oxen. He wore a maroon knee-length caftan over a brown chemise, and hose covered his legs. Church rules compelled Jews to wear distinctive clothing so they could be easily identified, and often ordered styles to humiliate them. But with his curly black beard draping to his chest and four-pointed cap, the tanner seemed more like a teacher or sage.

  “I’m Johannes,” the secundarius said, still uncomfortable with his priestly appellation. He held out his hand, but the Jew simply bowed.

  “I’m Elchanan HaKodesh.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Now, let’s look at your hides.”

  The Jew eyed the stout Lombard suspiciously. “I was told I would deal with the Vice-Prefect of the scrinium.”

  The boy straightened his new robe and tightened the cincture. “I am the secundarius.” Although he knew he resembled no personage of authority.

  Elchanan turned his suspicious eye to Baraldus who said, “He truly is.” The tanner bowed even lower. “Forgive me, master Vice-Prefect, a natural mistake.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I can hardly believe it myself. Well, then, let’s inspect your stock.”

  The Jew pulled back the corners of hides to reveal the reverse side. “These are lamb skins for the manufacture of vellum, the best quality to make the thinnest, finest paper for the highest works of scholarship.” Johannes nodded his head. The tanner then hefted calfskins, folding the hair side over to expose the hide. “Superior, but not as good as sheepskin, they’re for more common books. I own the largest tanning yard in all of Rome and can provide as much as you desire. If you need even finer skins, I also import from the shores of the Black Sea and Cyrene in North Africa.”

  Johannes smiled. “I’ll take everything you have.”

  Baraldus’ jaw slacked, but the tanner simply shrugged his shoulders. “Young master, this is only a sample of my stock. I could deliver enough hides this very day to fill the scrinium to overflowing. You must tell me what you require and when you’ll need them. We’ll settle on a price, and our contract will be concluded.”

  Baraldus stepped between the tanner and Johannes and said under his breath, “Brother, this is beneath you. Tanning is the lowliest of professions. It’s unseemly for a priest of your rank to bargain like a coarse housewife, and with a Jew, no less. Leave the dealings to me. I might be a dolt in areas of scholarship, but when it comes to animal hides, I’m an expert and can get a respectable price.”

  Johannes placed his hand on Baraldus’ massive shoulder, “Good Brother, did not our Lord wash the feet of his Jewish disciples? You’re right about one thing, though. I may know the scriptures, but I’m the dolt when it comes to bargaining.”

  “Very wise, Brother,” Baraldus said, proud he had made his superior see reason. “How many hides shall I buy?”

  “Begin with a cartload like this each week.”

  “Each week?” The fat priest howled. He lowered his voice to a throaty whisper, “But secundarius, we store ample parchment in the archives, which can be reused. Labor is free and hides cost money. I intended to purchase only enough to fill the temporary shortage, perhaps eight or nine score.”

  “Things change, Father, and I now have need of new parchment. So please conclude our negotiation, then send the tanner to me in my cell.”

  “The Jew…in your cell…in the scrinium? Secundarius, you should not…”

  Johannes said sternly, “Father Baraldus, I want a word with the man in private.”

  Baraldus pointed the way to the vice-prefect’s door as scribes in the scriptorium looked on horrified, some muttering under their breath. Baraldus heard the sound of someone spitting. A glower from the huge priest silenced them and sent their ink-stained hands back to copying. The tanner held his four-sided hat as he peered into the archivist’s cell, ill at ease.

  “Come in.” Johannes stood up from his seat and pointed to the carved backless chair in front of his desk. “Please sit.”

  “I thank the young master,” the tanner said, head bowed but eyes raised suspiciously. “I prefer to stand.”

  “I’ll stand as well, then. I’ve been sitting all day and need a stretch.”

  “I’ve concluded our agreement with Father Baraldus. He’s an expert in the art of the trade and I fear I’ve sliced my profit miserably thin in exchange for exceptional hides. I shall hardly make a denier in the bargain.”

  “I had no idea
my assistant was so shrewd. Perhaps you can compensate for your meager margin with volume.”

  The tanner chuckled politely, then cleared his throat. “Do you wish to enter into some other business arrangement?”

  “No, master tanner, I want to ask a question.” Johannes searched for the most diplomatic words, but found none that would blunt his intent. “You don’t believe Jesus is the Messiah, is that not so?”

  Elchanan HaKodesh passed his cap from hand to hand. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow. “Our Hebrew religion is an ancient one, secundarius.” He bowed his head again, not daring to look up. “Only He Who Cannot Be Named can know if your Lord was the Messiah.”

  “Fear not, Elchanan. I’m aware of your beliefs. Many of my teachers in Athens were of the Jewish faith and men of great wisdom. Your business is safe no matter what you say.”

  “Then you already know we don’t believe Jesus was the Messiah.”

  “Of course. What I wish to understand is why.”

  “Secundarius, I’m not learned in these matters. I keep the law, the High Holy days, and I attend the synagogue on the Sabbath. For a subject such as this, you should consult someone who studies such things.” Elchanan bowed, trying to back away.

  “Wait. Who can I speak to that does study such things?”

  The tanner stopped. He realized he couldn’t politely retreat. “Would it not be unwise for you to be seen consorting with Jews that many Christians believe are the killers of your Christos? And such holy men of my faith consider Christians to be…”

  “Unclean?” Johannes grinned. “Still, I want an answer. It would be better if you could direct me, rather than my having to search for these men by walking the streets of your ghetto.”