The Psalter Read online

  “The sword is mine. It has always been mine. I realize we’re required to give up our possessions when we enter the order, but I couldn’t part with it.”

  “How came you to possess it?” Father Baraldus’ simple exterior seemed to disguise a hidden past, perhaps as a rogue.

  “I wasn’t always a priest and, believe it or not, I wasn’t always fat. My father was a farmer who tilled the land for a manor lord, but I’m the youngest of three brothers. We’re not like the Franks who divide their property amongst sons. The eldest alone inherits. My brother likely tills the fields, though I’ve received no word from him for many years. However, my liege lord looked kindly on me and secured a position in the army, curse him for his generosity. I fought the Norse and Saracens as well, but I’ve had enough of death and killing for ten lifetimes. I left my closest friends on the plains the lords call fields of honor, although there was never any honor in it.”

  Baraldus had no end to his surprises. Like a sweet onion, peel a layer and an even more succulent one waits to be explored. “So how did you become a priest?”

  “One day I collected my pay, resigned my commission and walked away. I’d thought about quitting after many a bloody battle, but never did. Time overtakes us all, however, and looking around one autumn morn at our drear encampment, I saw only youths like yourself. Those who had joined up with me were dead or retired to a safer profession. So I resolved to seek the path of peace and pray for my comrades, as well as those I sent to their reward. Even so, I cannot part with the sword. It was given to me by my liege lord the day I joined up and reminds me of the man I wish never to be again.”

  They walked in silence the rest of the way. Johannes realized he might have the benefit of knowledge from the volumes he had read, but no real comprehension of the pain of losing lifelong friends or the guilt of senseless murder. As he cast a glance at his assistant, he saw him with different eyes. The great hulk of a priest had perhaps little education, but had earned a lifetime of wisdom.

  Baraldus knew every narrow lane, alley, and pathway through the ruins. They picked their way around the remnants of the terraced Elagabalium, a temple dedicated to Sol Invictus on the Palatine hill, then followed an uneven dirt road between the derelict and crumbling Imperial Palace to the left and the palace of Tiberius perched on a crest to the right. Their roofs had long since caved in, victims of the Goths, Visigoths, and centuries of earthquakes and gravity. Yet the greatest despoilers of the city were the citizens who pilfered valuable veneers of marble and the best quality stone for churches and towers and country villas.

  They arrived at the crumbling Aemilius Bridge, which needed serious repair although engineers with such skills were no longer left in the shrinking city, and crossed the Tiber into the Trastevere. Johannes pulled a small shred of parchment from his cloak to reread the directions. Passing the stone synagogue, which was much larger than he had imagined, they arrived at a house with a low roof and walls of long, narrow Roman brick. Baraldus knocked on the heavy door. No one called out from inside to inquire about the identity of the visitors before a bolt slid and iron hinges creaked.

  “Do you admit any stranger to your home, old man?” Baraldus was trying to be kind in his brusque way by warning the wizened, bent man who opened the door.

  A smile beamed from beneath a tousle of long, frizzy white beard. “Greetings to you also Baraldus.” The fat priest’s mouth gaped as the man added, “You’re no stranger to me since my son, Elchanan, gave good account of you.” Then turning to Johannes he said, “And you must be the young scholar.”

  “We might be anyone, a thief or, worse, an assassin,” Baraldus scolded.

  “And yet you’re not. You are who you are.” The Rosh Yeshiva’s smile infected Johannes, who returned a sincere grin. “I’m just about to enjoy tea and cakes. I’d be honored if you’d join me.” Wrapped in a tasseled black shawl, his head covered with a white linen cloth, he led them from the foyer into a dining area adjoining the kitchen. The smell of pastry filled the warm, cozy room. The young priest heard a growl from Baraldus’ belly, and his own stomach answered sympathetically. “Have I not prophesied hungry travelers, although Pope Gregory’s patriarchum is not that far?”

  “We forgot to eat, in our haste,” Johannes said.

  “Many hunger for knowledge, but learning doesn’t satisfy the needs of the flesh,” the old man quipped. “Come, sit and have a bite. I made these myself.” A platter with brown flat cakes lay on a long table, and wisps of steam rose from a crockery pot. Johannes sat at the end of a bench, but Baraldus remained standing. “Sit, good Father,” the Rosh Yeshiva said. “You’ve earned your rest and restoration.”

  “Thank you, sir, but maybe I’ll stand watch outside.”

  “Fear not. Our quarter, while poor, is quite safe.”

  “Sit, Brother, and be at ease,” Johannes said.

  Baraldus looked sheepish. “Theological discussions make my head spin. I get enough at the patriarchum. Now, if you were going to talk about farms or hides or even soldiering, I might have something to say. So I think I’ll poke around outside, just to make sure.”

  “You cannot leave without accepting some small hospitality.” The Rosh Yeshiva pleaded with the stout priest. “Take a few cakes. I would be shamed if you did not.” Baraldus scooped up two handfuls and fled outside.

  “I’m sorry for my brother. He’s not discourteous, it’s just—”

  “You need not apologize. Each man does what he thinks is for the greatest good. There are blessings in all of our deeds. My deed for today is my cakes. Some might regard them as small and insignificant, but they nourish you and your colleague, and that gives me pleasure. However, I’m the one who should beg forgiveness since I know your names, yet you don’t know mine. I am Rabbi Avraham HaKodesh, the Rosh Yeshiva for all of Rome.”

  Together they ate cakes and sipped chamomile tea while the rabbi explained he was not unlike the Librarian of the Catholic Church. “As Rosh Yeshiva, I’m the academic leader of the school of Talmudic study, an ancient tradition whose origins come from the council of seventy-one Jewish sages who once ruled the Jewish people. It’s my task to try to understand the will of He Who Cannot Be Named through His Law so we may lead righteous lives.”

  Johannes listened to Avraham’s patient explanation. “Christians believe we’re no longer subject to the law.”

  “Can something God gave us be so insignificant? Did not your own Messiah say, Until heaven and earth pass away, not the smallest letter or the smallest part of a letter will pass from the law?” Rabbi Avraham stared long at the young priest, then beamed again, brightening the room. “Yet heaven and earth are still here. Trying to understand the mind of the almighty is the holiest thing we can endeavor, and the law is our direct link to Him. If we could only fathom the tiniest sliver of the mind of God…but then, who can comprehend the mind of God?” The rabbi shrugged. “Nevertheless, I’ve dedicated my life to trying, but you didn’t come here to discuss the law. You want to talk about the Messiah.”

  Johannes explained his job at the patriarchum; that he had been charged with erasing writings considered heretical as well as works of scholarship, so the church might save money by reusing the parchment.

  “A heavy load indeed for such a young mind,” the rabbi said.

  “I don’t agree with everything I’m required to do.”

  “To judge whether one’s decisions are God’s will or men’s is one of the most difficult. I’m always suspicious of those who believe they have the answer.”

  “Our holy councils decided which scriptures are canon and which are heretical. Yet each one of these writings was authored by men who believed they were doing God’s will. I also wish to do God’s will. I realize that Jews don’t believe in Jesus and I need to understand why.”

  Avraham whistled a long sigh. “Jews and Christians come from the same belief in He Who Cannot Be Named, yet the chasm between us is the Messiah. But of which Messiah do you speak?”

/>   The question took Johannes by surprise. “Why, Jesus of Nazareth, of course. I’ve heard of none other.”

  “Truly, because dozens of Messiahs materialized before Jesus and after. There was Judas son of Ezekias, and the illustrious Shim’on bar Kochba, and Simon of Peraea just four years before Jesus. I can think of at least fifty Messiahs, and I’m quite sure many more names have been lost to history. Every time we Jews are sore oppressed, a new Messiah appears.”

  “So tell me, why do Christians believe Jesus was the Messiah, yet Jews do not?”

  “Is that truly your question?”

  Johannes looked perplexed.

  “I think you’re really asking how one makes a judgment, which are true scriptures and which are not, for that’s the basis of our beliefs. And for that, I cannot counsel you. Our Torah has never changed. Books have never been added or deleted, nor have our scriptures ever been altered. Yet you’re required to make such a choice. I’ve never been asked to render this kind of judgment and, truth be told, I could not. How does one presume to play God?

  Johannes thought to reply, but, staring at the learned Rosh Yeshiva, he realized he would not receive that which he sought. The profound burden must be his alone. Avraham uncharacteristically held out his hands, taking the priest’s between his own. “I’m sure we shall meet again. I will watch for you.” He paused, probing the depths of Johannes’ eyes. “Your church doesn’t know everything about you, do they?” The young priest pulled his hands back, but Avraham consoled him in a soothing voice. “You need not fear me. Little escapes old men’s eyes, especially for those of us who can see beyond our differences.”

  Johannes Anglicus stepped into the night, his head filled with the rabbi’s words. Passing from the light of the cozy home into the moonless darkness, he stumbled around, arms outstretched, calling Baraldus’ name. The toe of his soft leather boot struck an upended cobble and he fell to his knees, wincing in pain. A hand grabbed his shoulder and he jerked away in fear. “Peace, Brother. It is I, Baraldus.”

  “Where were you?”

  “It’s a good thing I decided to guard the door. We’ve been followed. By who, I know not.”

  Rabbi Avraham had not meant to scare the young priest. He had only wanted to convey that he would be a refuge if the youth ever had need. I bungled that, he thought to himself. Ah well, Johannes has bigger challenges facing him than my ill-timed words. He mouthed a soft prayer, “May He Who Cannot Be Named protect and guide this young seeker. His need will be great.”

  He fetched a small tripod and copper bowl from a cupboard and placed them on the kitchen table. He filled the vessel with water from the crockery teapot and watched as the ripples smoothed. Reflections from the flame of an oil lamp danced on the water’s surface. Avraham took a deep breath and exhaled. He relaxed his bent frame and calmed his mind. He formed the images of three Hebraic letters in his mind, וֹ הּ וֹ. Their edges grew more and more distinct. Seeing them clearly, he transferred their image into the bowl and stared as he spoke their names silently. Over and over he chanted, just one of the seventy-two names of God.

  10

  Pascal

  Doctor Isabelle Héber laid the page-size photograph on a rectangular table in the Archive laboratory. Father Romano leaned over the image and traced the line of text with his finger from right to left. He felt a sense of awe as he always did when reading words not read for hundreds or even a thousand years. The author, though dead for centuries, seemed to be able to reach across time to speak to him personally.

  “Translate it for me.” Isabelle said.

  Romano shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t read Aramaic. The script is my specialty for dating purposes, and I can tell you that this handwriting style was in use in Palestine around fifty A.D., but it’s Greek to me.” Romano smiled apologetically, hoping his play on words would amuse the archivist. “We learn Latin because it’s the language of the church. Some of us study Greek since it’s the language of the New Testament, but never Aramaic. Semitic tongues are a stretch for those of us with European linguistic backgrounds.”

  Isabelle snatched up the photograph and walked to her desk. She slid it inside a manila envelope. “Grab your backpack, Father.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I can’t translate the text and neither can you, but I know someone who can.”

  Isabelle led the priest out of her office and switched the light off. The low heels of her black pumps clicked as she glided down the staircase. Romano struggled to keep up. She paused at the glass doors to enter the alarm code. Pushing Romano out, she slid the key in the lock and turned counterclockwise. She laced her arm through the priest’s and dragged him into the damp night air. Romano felt uncomfortable at first, walking arm-in-arm in public, then he relaxed.

  Even though it was close to eight o’clock, pedestrians filled the streets, window shopping, pushing strollers, or carrying plastic sacks of groceries. Isabelle passed a Metro station, but continued on. “Couldn’t we take the subway,” Romano said.

  “It’s not far. Just a few more blocks.” The archivist turned down a narrow side street. She tapped on metal buttons attached to a stone façade, and the heavy oak door clicked. The long entry led to a winding, wooden staircase, and Isabelle began to climb.

  “Hasn’t anyone in Paris heard of elevators?” The priest sounded exasperated. Isabelle laughed, and her intelligent face brightened. She’s quite pretty, Romano thought.

  “The Marais is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Paris, the old Jewish quarter. Buildings had no elevators in the seventeenth century and the stairwells are so narrow, there’s no space to retrofit them. I’m sure you can manage a few steps.” The few steps turned into four flights. Breathing hard behind the slight and nimble archivist, Romano watched her insert a key in the door. “Is this your apartment?”

  “Yes and no. I just live here.”

  “Is that you, chérie?” a male voice called from inside.

  “Your husband?” Romano arched an eyebrow.

  “I’m not married.”

  Wafting savory aromas engulfed the priest and his stomach growled. He hadn’t quite recovered from his extended fast, even though he had eaten a late lunch.

  Isabelle hung her coat in the entry closet. “Oui, Papa and I’ve brought a guest. I hope you made enough for three.” She turned to Romano, “He always makes enough for six.”

  An elderly man with a lean face and longish gray curls peered from around a corner at the end of the hall. He wore an apron over a tan cardigan and sported a yarmulke. “Ah, mon Père.” His face lightened. “Welcome.” The man stepped forward and offered his hand. Romano grasped a handful of potholder. The man laughed as he pulled off the padded glove. “I’m Pascal, Isabelle’s father. Finally,” he said, “my daughter has brought home someone interesting. You’re an American, no?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m not sure. We Parisians can always tell, but come in. Let’s not talk in the entry.”

  The narrow hall led to a large living room. Bookcases crammed with volumes covered the walls. “Dinner is ready if you’re hungry. We should eat while it’s hot. You can wash in the bathroom down the hall.”

  As the priest scrubbed his hands, he reflected that Pascal Héber was Jewish, yet called him by the common Catholic term mon Père. Remembering his first conversation with Isabelle, who must be Jewish as well, she had also called him mon Père, and thought he was the parish priest.

  Back in the living room, Pascal led Romano by the arm to a small dining room as though they were old friends. “Please sit at the head of the table, Father.”

  The priest tried to decline. “No, Monsieur, this is your home,” but Pascal had pulled out the chair and motioned for him to be seated.

  “This way, Isabelle and I can share you. Besides, I sit nearest the kitchen. It’s easier to serve.” He disappeared then returned with a casserole emitting puffs of steam. “I’m glad Isabelle invited you because I poached a lovel
y turbot. This is Friday, after all.” He turned to Isabelle. “Could you pour the wine while I serve, ma chère? I assume you’re a colleague of my daughter’s since you can’t be a boyfriend.” Monsieur Héber slid a portion on the priest’s plate.

  “We’re not really colleagues,” Romano said. “I needed to talk to Mademoiselle Héber regarding—”

  “Father, please,” Isabelle interrupted, holding a green translucent bottle. “Can’t you wait a minute before the interrogations begin?”

  Pascal shrugged his shoulders. “Just a little conversation darling. We invite so few guests, only my old friends, and I know every one of their boring stories by heart.”

  “At least let him eat a bit first. I’m sure he’s starving.”

  Their banter amused Romano, but also made him uncomfortable. He hoped Isabelle would keep the secret of the Psalter. She appeared to his right, pouring a golden liquid into his glass as Pascal offered, “Bon appétit.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Romano replied and bowed his head to pray. Opening his eyes, he glimpsed Pascal crossing himself. “I don’t mean to pry, sir…?”

  “Sir? Sir?” Pascal raised his inflection in mock offense. “I called my father sir. Call me Pascal.”

  “Alright Pascal, I couldn’t help but notice you making the sign of the cross. I had the impression you’re Jewish.”

  Isabelle shook her head, but her father said, “he asked.” Pascal turned to the priest, his eyes gleaming. “Are you asking if I’m a Jew or a Christian?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “Then the answer is both and neither.” The elder Héber smiled, satisfied with his little joke, but Isabelle didn’t seem to share his amusement. She arched her eyebrows as if to say please don’t start.