The Psalter (21 page)

“You know as well as I that the songs people sing about me are absurd. Anyway, I hold a new position as
primicerius
of the library, and the construction takes all my time.”

“The ballads about the priest who defied a count are not as farfetched as that and not just any count, but the formidable Theophylact.”

“It’s rubbish.” Johannes was embarrassed.

“So this is what you paid for Deacon John’s life, monuments to Sergius.”

“It’s a small enough price to pay, I suppose.”

Avraham admired the workmanship of the plasterers who stood on wooden scaffolding and tile setters who fashioned colored tiles and glass into works of art. “I had no idea that in addition to your many talents, you’re a builder.”

“His Holiness in his dubious wisdom placed me in charge of this construction, although I know not a whit about it. But the job is not difficult. I let master craftsmen advise me. Then I ask the workers if their counsel is true. The stonecutters are only too willing to tell me how the masons should do their jobs. And the masons seem to know more about carpentry than the carpenters themselves. They all agree that the architects are muck-brained miscreants. I’m getting quite an education.”

The rabbi laughed out loud, cleared his throat, and asked, “May we speak privately?”

Johannes peered into Avraham’s eyes not wanting to hold this conversation. “Of course.” He led the rabbi to a small cell in the
schola
he used for a study and offered his own chair while he squatted on a stool.

The kind rabbi put a comforting hand on the priest’s shoulder. “You have naught to fear from me. I come to offer counsel because I worry about your safety. It was one thing when you were an insignificant novice or even one assistant among many, but now? You hold a position of responsibility and your deeds bring you fame. You’ve captured the imagination of the entire city, indeed all of Christendom, but you put your life at risk.”

Johannes could not hold Avraham’s gaze and stared at the floor. “Sergius is no threat, if that’s what you mean. He needs me to build his music archive. The idea is not without merit, although featuring his songs demeans the intent.” He chuckled half-heartedly.

“Look at me,” the rabbi said kindly. Johannes raised his eyes. “Your bravery is beyond question, yet your foolishness dumbfounds me. What would happen if you’re undone?”

“Everyone already knows which side I’m on. There’s little else to reveal.”

“You’ve disguised yourself thus far, but you cannot hide forever. Leave this foolishness behind. There are many places where you can learn—Byzantium, Antioch, Alexandria. You’ve surpassed all in Rome. Why not teach, instead? Universities would jump at the chance to employ such an illustrious personage. Reclaim your life in another part of the world.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Then I could finally remove this knot from my bowels.”

A slave boy in a knee-length tunic rushed into the room unannounced and shouted in a thick accent, “
Primicerius,
come at once to Saint Peter’s. The sextons need you.” Before they could ask the emergency, the boy fled.

Johannes led the Rosh Yeshiva up the road to the basilica. The field in front was littered with carts filled with sticks of furniture. Wounded bodies lay strewn across the plaza, pleading for mercy. Ragged and filthy children wandered about, wailing for their mothers. An unending column of battle-broken refugees trudged up Vatican Hill, flooding into the yard and begging for asylum.

Johannes and Avraham pushed their way through the doors of Saint Peter’s, stepping gingerly around piteous souls with livid wounds and hacked limbs, laid out on the cool pavement stones. Linus, the frail old sexton, triaged, directing priests who attended the wounded as best they could. “Brother Linus, what’s happening?” Johannes asked.

Large tears puddled in the priest’s dull eyes. “There are tales of murder and mayhem from the north, villages pillaged and sacked, mothers and daughters raped, their men slaughtered like spring lambs.”

“The Norse?”

“Would that it were those godless heathens, for their souls are already damned. Alas, Emperor Lothair’s son, Louis, exacts his father’s revenge on Italy. He carves a wide swath as he makes for Rome and for Sergius.”

“Sergius?”

“All say that the soldiers’ battle cry is Hogsmouth the usurper.”

“Do our allies not rally to our defense?”

“The cowards run like startled sheep, leaving the defenseless to fend for themselves.”

“I’ll send to the hospitals to come to your aid, Father,” Johannes said to the sexton.

Avraham added, “I’ll make for the Trastevere to marshal our physicians. We’re closest.” He turned on his heels.

“Tell His Holiness to mount the defenses.” Father Linus said. “The apocalypse is at our door.”

Sergius’s brother, Benedict, sat on the throne in the
partriarchum
with
vicedominus
Adrian at his side. One of Sergius’ first acts as Pope was to name his brother Bishop of Albano and put him in charge of administration of the Papal Palace. Kneeling before him was a man in his mid-thirties with long brown hair that curled at his shoulders, who was dressed in the fashion of the Frankish gentry. “Five hundred solidi is my last offer and even that is larcenous,” he protested.

Benedict looked away, appearing bored, “A thousand I said and not a
sou
less.”

“I won’t pay,” the Frank said.

“As you will. There are many who wait in the atrium who would pay twofold for such a fine bishopric. The tithes are copious and I understand the women in that part of Louis’ kingdom are quite distracting.” Benedict feigned a leer and gave the kneeling Frank a sly wink. “I would take the position myself, but alas, my labor here is never ending.”

“Done,” the sour noble growled.

Benedict arose and grasped the holy scepter leaning against the throne. He pointed it at the Frank. “Arise and do God’s work, Bishop of Reims.”

Johannes shoved his way through cardinals who shepherded visitors to their audiences with Benedict, who in turn busied himself lining the
patriarchum’s
pockets by selling church positions. Priests in the treasury were amazed that their vaults filled as never before with gold and silver, although they grumbled that some vanished only to reappear in Theophylact’s coffers.

“How dare you interrupt these proceedings, Father Johannes,” Benedict said. “We do the church’s business here.”

“Forgive me, Bishop, but I must speak with His Holiness.”

“He’s indisposed. Make an appointment with the scribe and you may have an audience with me. Now, you’re wasting my valuable time. See the
primicerius
out.”

“You fools!” Johannes lost his temper. “Prince Louis marches on Rome, burning and ravaging the country. Refugees flood Saint Peter’s even now as you do your… your business. Where’s Sergius?”

Benedict bolted off the throne. “Louis? What did we do to offend the Prince?”

“Have you forgotten that the Emperor alone holds the right to confirm the Pope? You thumbed your nose at him, and this is his reply.”

Benedict fled the great hall without a single word. “Wait,” Johannes called out. “Where’s Sergius?”

“In the cardinal’s dining hall atop Zacharias’ Tower,” the
vicedominius
answered, scampering after Bishop Benedict.

Would-be purchasers of rank took flight like a flock of swallows swooping left and right, seeking a path out of the
patriarchum
. Johannes shoved his way through the stampede to a side door. He ran across the alley to the tower.

Running up stone steps two at a time, he rushed into the dining hall to find Sergius lying on a couch wearing only a white linen surplice hiked to his knees and moaning in pain. His Saracen slave boy dabbed at his brow with a moistened cloth while Pietro drank from a jeweled goblet. Ruby blotches stained his garment. “Fair Johannes, thank the Lord you’ve come to comfort me in my misery.” Sergius was drunk. “God is punishing me for my wickedness. I fear I’m dying.”

The librarian gaped at the Pope’s feet. His ankles were red and bloated like pomegranates. “And so you will if you keep this up.” Johannes snatched the cup from his hand. “Have you sent for a physician?”

Sergius moaned. “They say I suffer from an imbalance in my bile and blood. I’ve been bled twice.”

Johannes pushed up a wide sleeve to reveal fresh wounds from razor incisions. “The dunces.”

“Do you also practice the healing arts, young scholar?” Sergius slurred his words.

“Of course not, but anyone with eyes can diagnose what ails you.”

“Is my death at hand?” Sergius began to weep.

“Hardly, and you have no time for this foolishness.” Johannes turned to the slave boy and handed him the goblet. “Take away the wine and meat. Every scrap of food, out!”

Hogsmouth pleaded, “It’s my only relief from this agony.”

“Listen to me, Holiness. The strong drink and rich foods cause your distress. You suffer from a malady of indulgence, the gout.”

“Impossible. That’s the sickness of the wealthy and idle.”

“There’s no time to dispute. Set your drunkenness aside if you can and listen.” Johannes held Sergius by the cloth of his surplice as he explained that Louis scourged the land, making for Rome to dethrone him.

Hogsmouth sobered, realizing he was in mortal danger. “What must I do?” He shivered.

The Crescentii, Pierleone, Frangipani and the other aristocratic families gathered up their households and bolted for their country castles or to relatives in the south, leaving Rome undefended. The Count of Tusculum had thought of opposing Lothair once and for all. But with his allies deserting en masse, there was no possibility of a practicable resistance, let alone victory. In the end, he, too, fled to his castle in Tusculum on the northern edge of the extinct Alban volcano.

The patrician clergy also took flight with their families. Benedict abandoned the
patriarchum
to seek Theophylact’s protection. Only common and foreign priests were left with the exception of Sergius, who was bedridden.

Louis crossed the Tiber north of Rome on the Milvian Bridge. Marching south on the
via Flaminia
, the Frankish army punished Roman citizens as they fled the city, hacking the men and children to death and raping women, young and old. Prince Louis rode ahead of the macabre scene on his steaming charger, clad in gleaming armor like an avenging angel.

Poor civilians, taxed heavily for protection, received none. They took the brunt of the villainous attack as is common in every war, no matter how righteous. Fires broke out along the road, set by the arsonist army. Johannes tracked Louis’ advance from the aerial banquet hall by the plumes of smoke creeping ever closer.

He clambered down the steps of Zacharias’ Tower and crossed the alley into the Lateran Palace to give an account to Sergius and what was left of the clergy, which included Anastasius. Doors were barred from the inside with stout wooden beams. “Louis makes for the Flamina gate and will be here before midday prayers,” he reported between breaths.

Sergius had recovered somewhat from his debilitating gout thanks to an enforced regime of cherries and tea, but paced gingerly on painful ankles. Even in his terror, he was lucid enough to realize his life depended on Lothair and Louis’ pleasure. “We must send soldiers to man the battlements,” he said to Anastasius.

“Holiness, few men at arms are left in the city. I ordered the gates shut and barricaded. The Aurelian walls are strong and will keep Louis at bay for a while, but if he lays siege, he’ll breach them soon enough. Little can be done to stop him.”

Sergius sobbed, then shouted at Anastasius, “You’re the emperor’s man. Don’t deny it. You and your uncle Arsenius do his bidding. Go parley with Louis. Make him listen to reason. Tell him I’ll excommunicate him and his whole vile family!”

“I doubt if Louis would heed my words or anyone else’s. Lothair seeks vengeance, not accommodation.”

“I order you to meet with him. Do something, for mercy’s sake.”

Anastasius sought Johannes’ gaze. “Any suggestions, friend?”

“There are few chess pieces left on the board. Nevertheless, if you would plead with the prince, you won’t be alone. I shall go with you.”

The streets were empty, the shops shuttered and locked. Even the rowdy inns which never closed were shut up tight. An eerie quiet hung over the city as the two priests made their way through deserted neighborhoods. The hooligans and their sycophants, troublesome fixtures outside the Colosseum, were nowhere to be found.

Crossing the ox pasture which had once been the Forum, they turned north following the bourgeois
via Lata
until it became the long and straight
via Flaminia
. At last, the Aurelian wall came into view. Only a few soldiers still manned the ramparts at the Flaminian gate. They were supported by commoners, armored in dented helms and worn leather jerkins. One without rank, who seemed to be acting as sergeant, addressed the pair as they approached. “Hold, good priests. You shouldn’t be here. Get yourselves to a church for the emperor’s army arrives to lay siege.”

Anastasius called up to the acting officer, “Nay, protector of Rome. We act on orders from His Holiness to treat with Louis.”

“Madness, folly,” the soldier said. “And with what will you bargain?”

“With God’s good word.”

The acting sergeant burst into a hearty laugh. “Then come up and welcome, priests, for you’re even more foolhardy than we few.”

They watched together in silence as Louis rode at the head of a column of despoilers flying military banners. The sun glinted from polished breastplates and pikes. Helmets shined like halos in the distance.

Prince Louis halted a hundred paces from the wall. He held up his gauntlet, signaling the army to hold while he rode forward, an armored captain on either side. Looking up at the paltry defenders, he mocked, “Why, good Anastasius, I see you’re protected by the city’s elite guard.”

“There are none braver, majesty.” He bowed his head to the prince in obeisance.