The Psalter Read online

  “The man you seek is the Rosh Yeshiva, a rabbi who’s the wisest in our community. He’s the leader of our Talmudic schools, much like your library. He can answer your questions.”

  “Would you lead me to this man?”

  Elchanon stared long at Johannes “If he agrees to meet with you, and only if he wills it, then I shall send for you.”

  “Who is the man?”

  “He’s my father.”

  Baraldus escorted the Jew to the steps of the palace. He shook his head as he watched him lead his ox cart through the piazza toward the via Papale. “What have I done?”

  A priest in the far corner of the scriptorium wiped spittle from his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. He opened a small square of parchment, dipped his sharpened reed into black ink, and wrote,

  Johannes buys hides from the Jews!

  He folded the sheet in half, then quarters, and slid it inside his wide sleeve, into a pocket.

  8

  Hogsmouth

  Pietro di Porca muttered to himself, “I would never come this way at night,” as he endured whistles and jeers from the perpetual rabble posted outside the Colosseum. He pretended to ignore them as he shuffled past, making for the fashionable row of towers and mansions in the Monti quarter. His young nephew, the Count of Tusculum, had commanded his presence. “How dare he? I’m an Archpriest after all, and the Cardinal Priest of Saint Martins. One doesn’t summon an Archpriest. I do the summoning. The least he could have done was send a litter. These cursed hills are too much.”

  Panting and sweating from his morning exertion, he made the sign of the cross as he passed the church of Saint Peter in Chains. Its beauty was glorious since it had been restored some forty years earlier. Inside its walls, the relic of the chains that had bound Saint Peter when he was a prisoner in Rome was prominently displayed. Today, Pietro felt their weight as he lumbered toward his obligation to his impudent nephew.

  Pietro was, however, more fearful than angry. His arrogant nephew, with his violent temper, commanded the respect of all Roman nobles, especially his many enemies. He was no man to defy and he certainly couldn’t be ignored. Even priests took pause at the mention of his name, Theophylact.

  At least he hadn’t missed Lauds, what some were beginning to call Matins in the vernacular, morning prayers sung at the cockcrow. Lauds was his second favorite ritual after Vespers, but only because he’d never become accustomed to waking barbarically early, even after all his years in the service of the Lord.

  Singing was his passion, and his voice was a miracle from God. By the age of eight, his reputation had reached the ears of Pope Leo, and he sang for him by special request at Saint Peter’s. Alas, others were jealous of his melodious gift and made fun of him, calling him Hogsmouth, an odious nickname that had stuck.

  “This heat and dust is corrosive for the throat,” he said to himself between gasps. “I’ll sound dreadful at Vespers this evening. The only bright note to visiting my nephew is that he employs the finest cook in Rome.” Just thinking about the sweetened meats and pastries he would likely taste at Theophylact’s table made his mouth water.

  Archpriest Pietro trudged up the ancient vicus patricius near top of the Esquiline Hill. He was relieved to be away from the pitiable but treacherous poor and more at ease here where the nobility congregated. The vicus patricius had been an exclusive street even in the time of Nero and now, with the aqueducts broken, the rabble never came around. There was no water. Only patricians had money to cart water up the hill, so the neighborhood had become even more private.

  Nobles kept towers in Rome; the greater the noble, the taller the tower. The Count of Tusculum, being the most powerful of the Roman nobility, although the Crescentii clan vied for the position of preeminence, had the tallest and grandest. The Archpriest rapped on the heavy door.

  The steward of the house swung the door open and beamed at the sweaty, breathless cleric. “Dear Cardinal di Porca, enter and rest your weary bones.”

  Pietro staggered in and was instantly relieved as the chill from the travertine floor radiated up his black robe. “It’s so peaceful here, like our own cathedrals.”

  The steward poked the chubby priest’s middle. “I heard you were coming from the seigneur. The cook is baking the sweetest cakes and most savory pasties. I hope you’re in good appetite.”

  Pietro’s spirits soared. His fatigue disappeared as though he had taken but a few minutes of exercise. “I’m that parched,” he said. “Could I have a goblet of wine?”

  “I’ll bring it to you in the great hall,” the steward chuckled. It’ll soothe your soul. None of the ordinary Tuscan juice, mind. I just received a heady vintage from Aquitania’s King, a gift to the count.” His demeanor turned serious. “Today, you’ll need more than a goblet. I’ll bring an ewer. My lord is wroth, so steel yourself.”

  Pietro’s eyes bulged in anxiety. “Why is he angry?”

  “I know not, but he raves like a madman and throws the furniture. I’m hiding in the kitchen. I hear the bellowing, but not the words.”

  The panicked priest hung his head in gloom until the steward brought the wine and a platter covered with golden-brown tartlets. Pietro filled the goblet from the pitcher and emptied it in two long swallows. He poured again and took another draft. Breathing a deep sigh, his anxiety waned a little. He remembered the tartlets and stuffed one in his mouth. Truly, he thought, Theophylact with his unrefined palate doesn’t deserve such a cook as this Frankish one. There’s not the like in all of Rome. Pope Gregory is far more deserving, although he’s too austere of manner to consider the culinary delights. He bit into another pastry. The intermingling of its sweetness with the tart earthiness of the wine created a sublime mix on his sensitive tongue.

  Just as he began to feel a warm glow, the door burst open and the Count of Tusculum, a youthful giant, roared into the room. “Ah uncle, you’re here. The man I wanted to see.”

  “Yes, nephew. You sent for me, remember?”

  “Of course I do. Do you take me for an idiot?” Theophylact stood next to the Archpriest, waiting for a proper greeting, but Pietro sat frightened, cup in one hand and a tartlet in the other. “Well…?” The count lengthened the word expecting a response. He got none and barked, “Get up you fool and let me kiss you.”

  The priest bolted upright, knocking his chair backward and Theophylact kissed him gruffly on both cheeks. The steward rushed forward, righted Pietro’s chair, and placed a chalice in front of the young patriarch of the Tusculani clan. He started to pour from the pitcher of wine, but Theophylact stopped him with his hand. “Bring me some water.” Appraising the portly priest, he grinned—although no mirth showed on his face otherwise. He patted the Archpriest’s belly. “You don’t put much stock in fasting.”

  “Alas, nephew, I pray often yet receive little inspiration.”

  “Your profession was well chosen then and you’ve gone far, thanks to the patrons who paved the way for your remarkable advancement.”

  Pietro di Porca was not so drunk or panicked that he didn’t notice the count was about to demand something of him. “I hope you’re not implying that my promotions were arranged by the family and not God’s will.”

  Theophylact pierced the priest with a glare of malice. “Don’t feign piety with me, and don’t deceive yourself, either. I receive word of your little vices. You’re an archpriest and cardinal because we nobles wish it so. Give to God what you must, but never forget that your allegiance is to the family and, above all, to me. Gregory forgot his obligation, despite our having made him Pope. Our dealings with him are not finished, however. He’ll pay for his betrayal.”

  The priest was broken. He couldn’t resist. Whatever boon his nephew might ask, he must obey. Nonetheless, he made one last feeble attempt. “Are not the dealings with the Holy Father within the province of Emperor Louis or at least his son, Lothair?”

  “That nest of scorpions? They spend too much time fighting one another to take note of what happens i
n Rome. When Louis divided the empire among his sons, he should have realized he would lose power. Now his eldest, Lothair, fights to get back his own lands. To make matters worse, our Pope ignores us, spending all of his time away from the city, trying to patch up the Imperial mess. No, Uncle. We Romans shall enforce the law, and you’ll help.”

  “I’m not the Pope. What can I do?”

  “When the time comes, you’ll do my bidding, then you will be Rome’s Pontiff. Now, what’s this news about a librarian buying hides from the Jews?”

  “You called me here to talk about animal skins?” The Archpriest’s shoulders slacked and he exhaled a breath of relief. “Nephew, I assure you I know nothing of hides. That’s the province of the Archives.”

  The count glowered. “Well, I suggest you learn.” He pulled a square of parchment from an inside pocket and slapped it on the table.

  Pietro examined the uneven scrawl. Grinning, he said in a wry singsong voice, “You have a spy.”

  “Don’t be naïve. Not a sparrow falls that I don’t know it. However, knowing a thing doesn’t mean controlling it. Why does the library buy from Jews? They’re not members of the tanner’s guild. They’re not even Christians.” Blood percolated into Theophylact’s head and his voice boomed. “They’re the killers of Christ, yet the church puts money in their pockets. I’m the biggest landholder in Rome, all of Italy, and I tithe mightily―as Gregory well knows.”

  And to impress the other nobles, Pietro thought to himself.

  The Count of Tusculum added with spite in his tone, “I own the largest herds of cattle and sheep, yet I’ve not sold a single hide or sheepskin or even meat to the patriarchum.”

  “Be reasonable, nephew,” the Archpriest said. “The Jews make the best parchment. They import the finest skins from North Africa, and they raise their own beasts in the same manner. I’ve seen music written on local skins. It’s coarse and stiff, quite unsuitable, and the guild won’t match the Jews’ prices.”

  Theophylact exploded, slamming his fist on the table. “Quality be damned! If buying’s to be done, it will be from me. Do you understand? I’ve invested a great deal in you and I expect a return.”

  The priest cowered. “I…I hardly know where to begin.” Pietro tried desperately to keep from bursting into tears. “I have no authority in the patriarchum.”

  “Those are the soundest words you’ve spoken this day. Nevertheless, I’ll guide you, uncle, as my father did before me. You need help for this task, and I shall provide it. You have not the skills of wile and cunning that I require, but you’re well placed and can promote someone who does.”

  “Who do you have in mind?” The Archpriest knew Theophylact had many who did his bidding within the walls of the church.

  The count rose to his giant stature and motioned with his hand. The steward who had witnessed all opened a door. Pietro twisted his fat neck and craned to see who his nephew had chosen to do his dirty work. A handsome man with muscular legs in tight hose, wearing a luxuriant caftan robe, pranced in with haughty confidence. Pietro seemed to recognize the smiling dandy as he watched him embrace Theophylact. Then the recognition slapped him. “Benedict,” he choked on the name.

  “Your beloved brother,” Theophylact sniggered.

  “But…but he’s not even a priest.”

  “That’s easily remedied,” Theophylact said, “and you’ll find the way, dear Pietro.”

  Benedict clasped Pietro’s shoulders with his two large hands and kissed him on his cheek. “Dear brother,” he said in a honeyed voice dripping with derision. “Reunited at long last.”

  Although Pietro had not seen his brother in nearly a decade, he had received word of his many scandals. His whoring was renowned throughout Rome, and he was reputed to perform prodigiously in the bedchamber with skillful arts of amour. Even more infamous was his insatiable need for money to finance his philandering life. To satisfy his vast budget, he had plucked several nobles’ wives and daughters, all of whom vied like giddy suitors to shower their families’ wealth on him.

  His despoiling of Roman women, however, had come to an end when he was caught in flagrante delicto with the wife of a Crescentii noble. Set upon by her enraged husband who was armed with an antique glaudius, the short sword of the Roman Legions, he had nearly been skewered. But in his blind fury, the husband missed his thrust and pierced only blankets. Benedict clasped his own dagger, which he had placed under a pillow, as was his custom while in a woman’s bed, and plunged it between the nobleman’s ribs. He had stolen not just the wife’s virtue, but her husband’s life as well.

  Benedict had sought asylum with Theophylact’s father, who thought he might have to turn over his troublesome relative to avoid a blood feud. Instead, he spirited him out of Rome, and Benedict continued his lechery unabated in the Emperor’s Frankish lands. But the humiliation of his rivals now pleased young Theophylact’s sensibilities, and having a vassal who was unprincipled could be put to considerable use in the patriarchum. The time had come to call in Benedict’s debt.

  “Nephew, this is impossible,” Pietro said. “Benedict’s reputation hasn’t been forgotten. The Pope would never let him enter a church, let alone be ordained as a priest. It can’t be done.”

  “It can and will and you’ll do as you’re told. Besides, nothing is so irresistible as the return of a prodigal son. It’s the reassurance of God’s grace. Of course, Benedict must perform an appropriate penance.” The Count of Tusculum laid his hand on Benedict’s shoulder, and Benedict bowed his head deferentially. Theophylact could not help but smirk. Not only would he have a crafty and ruthless vassal strategically placed in the patriarchum, but as a priest, he would be untouchable to the Crescentii clan. Yet his presence in Rome would be an enduring proclamation of their shame. Theophylact laughed aloud, “What a propitious homecoming.”

  9

  The Rosh Yeshiva

  Father Baraldus spread the bundle of clothes on the sleeping pallet in Johannes’s cell. “This is a terrible idea you’ve contrived, and I’m ashamed to be helping you.” A runner had arrived in the afternoon with a message that the Rosh Yeshiva would indeed meet with the secundarius, but their meeting had to be in the Trastavere after dark. The Rosh Yeshiva suggested that Johannes might be wise to dress like a common Roman since a priest in the Jewish ghetto would attract the attention of the entire quarter.

  Johannes rifled through the peasant clothing, which was more tattered rags than an actual costume but nevertheless delighted the youth, who scarcely contained an excited giggle. “These are perfect, Brother, but how did you find them?”

  “I do a bit of trading at the bazaar now and again,” Baraldus admitted. “They’re only rags, but they must do.” Johannes eyed him playfully as though he had committed some minor sin and the fat priest grew defensive. “You had need of them, and trading is in my miserable Lombard blood.”

  Johannes couldn’t hide his pleasure. “And just what did you trade? No, don’t tell me. I asked if you could find some clothes, and I’ll not criticize your methods.” He held up a short tunic with a low collar, which had been dyed blue at one time, but wear and countless launderings had turned the fabric an uneven shade of gray. Then he held short brown trousers to his waist. The legs came to the knee.

  “I hope the boots fit,” Baraldus said. “Your feet are uncommon small and I couldn’t find a cap, so this turban must suffice.” He raised a length of white linen.

  “It’s perfect. I feel like an actor in a play,” Johannes said, enchanted by the outfits.

  Baraldus wrinkled his nose. “A lowly profession indeed. All I found to cover your face was this woolen cloak. It’ll be too warm, but it has a hood. Dress yourself, for the sun sets and a long walk to the ghetto awaits us.”

  “Us? I said nothing about you coming with me.”

  “Brother, you possess powerful knowledge in your young head, but it’s book learning. I’ll wager you know little of the streets after dark. I’ll obey you in all things of the chu
rch, but this is not that.” The stout priest pulled off his brown robe. He was already dressed in peasant clothing. He produced a short sword in a leather scabbard and slid it through his belt.

  “That’s a sword!” Johannes was shocked at the sight of a priest with a weapon.

  “Change your clothes if we’re going,” Baraldus said.

  They would be missed at Vespers and the evening meal, but there was no other option since the walk to the Jewish quarter would take an hour. It was just a league and a half, but the road was straight and paved with flat stones only as far as the Colosseum. Further on, the serpentine streets were broken, rutted, and often muddy, especially near the marshy banks of the Tiber.

  Johannes set forth with Baraldus after the setting of the sun. The walk was easygoing on the via Papale toward the Flavian Amphitheater, now known as the Colosseum. Baraldus set a quick pace despite his girth. They passed the basilicas of Santi Quattro Coronati and San Clemente in no time. “You’re more athletic than I would have thought,” the youth jabbed at his assistant, still piqued the Lombard insisted on coming.

  As they arrived at the sunken Ludus Magnum that once housed Rome’s largest gladiatorial training school, the new secundarius could not help but glance at the sword Baraldus had slid through the leather strap he used as a belt. He was troubled that the priest displayed the weapon openly, even if he was in disguise. Yet as they reached the Colosseum, Johannes understood.

  The grandiose Colosseum, which was once home to the Empire’s bloody entertainment, had become a virtual city within the city. Rome’s poor had converted many of the vaults under the seating to apartments. Shopkeepers and artisans set up businesses to serve the newest denizens. A small brick church had even been built inside the walls, into the very structure, to provide the village’s spiritual needs. The cursed arena was transformed into the local cemetery.

  Outside the walls of the makeshift commune, the resident’s toughs, delinquents, and their admiring adolescent toadies stood near small fires swilling cheap wine from clay cups, laughing and taunting passersby in vulgar argot. Baraldus slid his sword around his middle for the reprobates to behold. Their taunts softened to unintelligible grunts. Johannes was now glad of his company and protection despite earlier protestations. Eyeing his escort with a new appreciation, he couldn’t help himself. “Tell me where you got the sword.”