The Psalter

by Galen Watson

  Johanna stood in her rightful place next to Bishop Arsenius as thirty-year old Emperor Louis, dressed in tight stockings and a rich doublet of Imperial purple, rode by on a sleek bay stallion. At one side, the beautiful Queen Engleberga sat sidesaddle, garbed in a long, creamy gown gathered at her waist by a silver cincture. Golden curls flowed down her back. They were followed by a column of attendants, grooms, and a cohort of Imperial troops.

  Behind the Imperial procession, hordes of commoners from the city trailed the elegant entourage. The assembled cardinals marveled at such pomp and richesse as the parade passed, but Johanna’s eyes were locked on the proud, triumphant return of the man in a cardinal’s robe riding at Louis’ other side, her own beloved Anastasius.

  Louis dismounted and faced the assembly as grooms rushed forward to help the Empress step down. Louis motioned them aside and lifted her himself. Vicedominus Adrian genuflected, and the assembled clerics who ruled Christendom bowed. The show of obeisance pleased the young Emperor and he responded with a courtly wave.

  Old Adrian padded unsteadily to Louis’ side and took his arm, leading him toward the open doors of the palace. The congregation of cardinals and bishops opened a pathway, and the three passed through. Johanna raised her eyes to gaze upon Anastasius and could not force the loving smile from her face. The anathemized cardinal turned his regard and reached out his hand but brought it back, reflecting instantly on the gesture.

  The reception went on all afternoon with a sumptuous banquet and speeches promising fealty to the Emperor as well as Louis’ pledges of support for the church. Johanna ate modestly, having little appetite, which surprised Anastasius, for as he cast furtive glances her way, he was sure her thin frame had swelled. At long last, when all were sated from the meal and drowsy from the August heat and endless speeches, Louis proposed they adjourn. For on the morrow, Rome would name a new pope according to the constitution.

  “Why did you not tell me you were with child?” Anastasius said as they lay together caressing and touching, locked in seclusion in Johanna’s apartment in the restored schola cantorum.

  “Because you would have come back and risked your life and I couldn’t prevent it.”

  “I missed this time with you while our child grew in your womb and it’s time I can never reclaim.”

  “Our child will come whether you’re here or not. However, had you fallen into Leo’s hands or Theophylact’s, you might never have seen the babe, who would have been deprived of his father.”

  “It will all be at an end soon. No one would dare harm me with Louis here. But do you not fear Theophylact and his men out in the Vatican?”

  “I’m using the schola cantorum for my classes until the Borgo is rebuilt. Ahmad and the students protect me. Not a soul can pass who they don’t inspect, but what about you? Louis can’t stay here forever.”

  “Too true, but he’s raised an army to defend the southern borders against the Saracens and assured me they will follow my uncle’s command. If God wills that I’m elected Pope, they’ll obey me. In any wise, the army has been ordered to safeguard me, and Louis shall make this known whilst he’s here. I’m back and I’ll never leave your side.”

  “What am I to do? I thought about running away, for I fear the child is due soon. The cardinals believe I’m simply getting fat and indeed I am, but I still have work to do. My students need me.”

  “Is it not time to end this charade and live the life you were born to, as a wife and mother?”

  “Then I wouldn’t be able to teach nor learn, and I’ve even contrived to admit girls to the schola anglorum to receive an education without having to disguise who they are.”

  “You’re living in a dream. God has protected you thus far, but it’s over. How can you hide a child?”

  “I’ve given it much thought. I can give birth in the Trastevere, at Avraham’s. There are midwives aplenty and we could attend our babe secretly and…”

  “Johanna, my love, it’s finished. Just as you would not risk my life, I wouldn’t endanger yours and the life of our child, as well. Johannes must leave forever. You may hide at Avraham’s until you bear the babe and your hair grows out. When you emerge from your confinement, however, you must don the clothes of a woman and be Johanna. We can be man and wife as it should be. I’ll bring books and scrolls to our home and you can read and study to your heart’s content, but Cardinal Johannes must be no more.”

  Johanna sighed with resignation. “You’re right. I had hoped I might find a way to live in a man’s world, but I love you so much that I would now be a woman. The election is tomorrow, then Johannes will leave, never to return. Nevertheless, a movement is afoot to ban clerics from taking wives. You might be on shaky ground if you would marry me. Perhaps if you had a wife before you were pope, but to take one after?”

  “I assure you it’ll never happen,” Anastasius said. “popes have wives, bishops are wed, cardinals and even the lowliest priests enjoy the sanctity of marriage. Why, old Cardinal Adrian has a wife, and a young one to boot,” he laughed out loud. “Such a thing will never become law and indeed the canons support no restriction. Anyway, no one will ever keep me from you, my dearest.”

  Louis was determined the elections should be free and fair and all would have an equal voice as it had been for centuries and as the Constitution of 824 mandated. He further resolved that he wouldn’t leave Rome until he personally questioned the pope-elect and found him fit to ascend the throne of Saint Peter. And this time, he would post Imperial soldiers under command of the missi, Bishop Arsenius, to guarantee that no one would unseat the lawfully elected pontiff.

  Imperial guards were stationed all around the courtyard of the restored Saint Peter’s, and Louis forbade the attendance of soldiers from the Roman nobility, especially Theophylact’s troops. “They may attend as citizens, for it’s their lawful right,” he told the heads of the noble families, “but they may not wear their uniforms or the crests of the clans they serve. Neither can they bear arms.” His sternness left no doubt he meant business. Theophylact bristled at the admonition, but there was naught to do but obey.

  The sun rose large and warm on the autumn morn of the vintage month when grapes are harvested from the vines. Standard bearers claimed their space in the piazza san Giovanni, facing Empress Fausta’s old Lateran palace. Tall poles flew pennants emblazoned with family crests. The nobles crowded around their family’s flags near the doors of the Apostolic palace as lesser noble families moved to their positions behind. Lowly clerics, artisans, merchants, and freemen were relegated to their undistinguished sites at the rear of the multitude.

  Count Theophylact had a chair placed in front of the stone steps where he might be seated during the ceremonies, a symbolic throne of defiance. He hated the low-lying Lateran, thinking the area unhealthy. “At least it’s not the middle of a malarial summer,” he groused. “If I must be here, I’ll be at my ease.”

  Nevertheless, the rest of Rome was atwitter, anxious to catch a glimpse of the dashing emperor and his comely bride. Of course, they were just as excited to raise their voice for their candidate. This time, though, the citizens told themselves, neither Theophylact nor the Roman nobles nor even the cardinals would hijack this election. Commoners would have their say.

  The doors of the Apostolic Palace opened and the towering Emperor robed in Imperial Purple, holding his Empress’s hand, guided the procession of cardinal priests onto the wide stone porch to the oohs and aahs from the crowd. Even the noble women could not restrain their exclaims at the sight of Empress Engelberga’s rich crimson robe trimmed in white ermine. At Louis’ other side stood Anastasius, evidence of Louis’ favor. He was every bit as tall as the Emperor, though not as broad.

  Archdeacon Nicholas led the congregation in prayer asking God’s guidance and blessing on the elections. The stirring crowd fell into a solemn but uneasy quiet. The dais was turned over to Louis, who proclaimed in his deep voice that any Christian, even laymen, could be lawfully elected wit
hout regard to class. “I caution every man here,” he glowered at the still-seated Theophylact, “before the pope-elect is confirmed, he will swear an oath of allegiance to me as the constitution demands.” The sullen noble families grumbled. “People of Rome,” Louis said, “name your Holy Father.”

  Before another candidate could be put forward, however, Louis nominated Cardinal Anastasius. Laymen and common priests cheered, but the assembled cardinals behind the Emperor murmured protests that he had been anathemized. “I said any man,” Louis scolded them even louder. The crowd clapped to show their approval.

  Count Theophylact rose and the multitude hushed to deathly silence as he climbed a few stone steps toward the Emperor, then turned to face the throng. He raised his arms wide like a Roman orator of old. “In the name of our ancient families, I nominate Cardinal Adrian.” The assembly nodded in agreement, whispering that old Adrian was indeed an honorable and pious priest and would make a good Holy Father, even if he was a noble.

  Adrian stepped away from his cardinal brethren and walked to the Emperor’s side. He bowed to Louis and then the assembled Romans. “I thank the count for the honor. Nevertheless, as I have done in the past, I decline. His Holiness should be one greater than I. I possess neither the wisdom nor the strength to lead the church.” He turned and padded back to his place.

  Theophylact seemed to have divined that Adrian wouldn’t accept. “In that case,” the count said, “I’m left with no other choice but to nominate a learned priest of experience and wisdom from the most noble family of Tusculani, brother of a pious pope who governed well during the Pope’s illness. I name the Bishop of Albano, Benedict, as our man.”

  The assembly protested with hisses and shouts of “fie” and “villain”, but they were quieted by the Emperor’s raised hands. “Citizens, citizens, please. I said any man can be nominated. Let your vote be your protest. So, good people of Rome, I’ve appointed my candidate and the noble families of Rome have named theirs. It’s for you to select the people’s choice. If you please, you may choose as many as you desire.”

  Commoners in the swarm behind the nobles disputed together as names were put forward, only to be cast aside. John Hymonides was proclaimed and his name repeated by many in the crowd. Heated discussions grew into arguments as a cleric was championed by some and rebuffed by others. Then a name began to be shouted at one end and another, from the back and also the middle. Cries of agreement resounded as the people roared with a single voice, “Johannes, Johannes, Johannes!” Farmers chanted Johannes’ name as a battle cry, as did artisans and students and merchants. Even the Jews who had no vote raised their voices. Minor nobles who sent their children to the schola anglorum took up the cheering, along with guards of the foreign scholae. Even some from the noblest families shouted Johannes’ name.

  Theophylact leapt from his chair, furious, and urged the Tusculani and Crescentii to proclaim for Benedict as he waved his arms upward, signaling they should raise their voices. Nevertheless, the sheer volume of assent for Johannes drowned out the nobles and no sound was heard from beneath their bright blowing pennants. Seeing the overwhelming support for this unknown Johannes, the Emperor did not bother to encourage his loyalists or even his troops to claim for Anastasius. The election was over.

  The multitude’s shouts softened as voices grew hoarse. Louis finally raised his hands to silence the gathering. “Romans, you have spoken, and I acknowledge your choice. Send forth this man so I may question him to satisfy myself that he meets the requirements according to the constitution.”

  People looked at one another and behind until a shout from the farthest edge of the horde said, “Make way. He’s here.” The sea of Romans separated from back to front, leaving an aisle in their middle that led to the steps of Saint John’s, just as the sea had once parted for the fleeing Israelites. At the far end stood the small priest with a protruding belly, accentuated by the red cincture of a cardinal.

  Johanna’s first impulse was to run, but she was transfixed. “Father,” came a voice from the crowd. “Holy Father, they’re waiting.”

  As though in a dream, Johanna fixed her eyes on Anastasius, who stood tall on the Basilica’s porch. She took a single pace forward, then another and another. “Holy Father,” people whispered reverently as she passed and they touched her wide sleeve. Arriving at the base of the steps, a scowling Theophylact stood in her way for a moment. Then he turned aside, allowing the Cardinal to climb.

  “Can one so young be wise enough to be Pope?” Louis marveled.

  Archdeacon Nicholas answered the Emperor as Anastasius looked on, flushed and visibly distressed. “Father Johannes is the cardinal priest of the Apostolic farms and has been with us many years, Highness.”

  “So this is the priest who worked miracles with the farms, like Jesus feeding the multitudes; the one I met on the plain with Anastasius who saved Deacon John from an untimely death.”

  Johanna bowed her head, blushing and mute.

  Nicholas added, “And it was he who rescued our few scriptures from the Saracens. He teaches the poor along with the rich, instructing even girls in his classes.”

  Empress Engleberga squeezed Louis’ arm.

  “From which noble family do you hail?” Louis asked.

  “I’m not noble, sire,” Johanna said humbly.

  “Surely you must descend from an ancient Roman family.”

  “No, sire. I’m an Englishman.”

  The Emperor looked surprised. “Can it be possible Rome would elect a foreigner as pope? Are we entering a new age or are you so remarkable, Johannes Anglicus?”

  “I feel rather ordinary, Highness, quite unworthy.”

  “Well spoken, but can you swear allegiance to me and obey the constitution of the Empire without reservation?”

  Johanna pondered the question, which was more of an unspoken demand. “Our Lord taught us to give to Caesar what is his. I can do no less. Still, I must tell you that I could not put you above our Lord and our God.”

  “Nor would it be required of you.” Louis searched Johanna’s face, looking for any hint of deceit. Then he proclaimed, “I find Johannes Anglicus to be more than worthy. The Empire finds him exemplary. Turning to Johanna, he said respectfully, “I will await you at the Papal Palace in the Lateran with the mitre and crook. There I shall confirm you as pope of the universal church.”

  42

  Anastasius

  Why did I let things go so far?” Johanna whimpered as Anastasius held her tight in her apartment in the schola cantorum.

  “I’m as much to blame. I should’ve taken you away and we could’ve been together in Chiusi or anywhere in the world,” Anastasius said.

  “I was blinded by pride. I believed I was better than everyone else and could change the church.”

  “You’re guilty of no such thing. Only you could have accomplished what you did, but the price is too high.”

  “What am I to do? Do you think I might actually be the Holy Father?”

  “No one would be greater, but what about us and our child? Come, sit and rest.” Anastasius helped Johanna ease onto a chair. “Is it so important to be Pope?”

  “I never desired to rule anything, least of all the church. Oh, I’m so anxious, my guts are twisted in knots and the spasms make me ill. I think I’m going to be sick.” Johanna leaned back in the chair and held her convulsing belly.

  An insistent rap came from the door. “Yes?” Johanna called, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Ahmad, Cardinal Johannes. May I come in?”

  Anastasius slid the bolt and pulled the door open.

  “The cardinal priests wait for you outside,” Ahmad said to Johanna.

  “Already?”

  “They say the time has come to accompany you to the patriarchum for your coronation.” Ahmad turned to Anastasius. “I’m also to tell you that you may not join them and neither may you enter the basilica, for you’re anathemized.”
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br />   Anastasius took Johanna by the arms as she rose from the chair. “Don’t do this, I beg you. Let’s flee now.”

  “Cardinal Anastasius is right, Lady,” Ahmad said. “If you go down this road, you won’t be able to turn back. I’ll make an excuse so you can have a head start. But you must leave.”

  “Not just yet.” Johanna set her jaw. “First, I’ll wear the Mitre.”

  “I’m begging you,” Anastasius said.

  “Don’t you understand? As Pope, I can remove your anathema. And I’ll have the horrid fresco in Saint Peter’s wiped clean. Then we can decide how we shall leave Rome.”

  “I don’t care about the anathema or the excommunication. Let Uncle Arsenius or Louis handle that.”

  “I’ll not leave while you’re condemned to the fires of Hell. I won’t ever be separated from you again. Not in this life or the next.”

  Johanna left Anastasius and Prince Ahmad standing in the doorway of the schola cantorum as she took her place at the head of the procession of the archbishops, bishops and cardinal priests. Nicholas and Adrian held the reins of a donkey. Johanna needed their help climbing on. They led her down the Vatican Hill, across the Tiber, and into the streets of Rome, followed by a solemn parade of red-cinctured cardinals, hands tucked into their wide sleeves. Bishop Benedict trailed at the end, haughty and sullen on a high-spirited white stallion.

  Anastasius confronted Ahmad. “How did you know Johannes was a woman?”

  “How is it that all of Rome does not?” Ahmad grabbed his leather satchel from the foyer and headed to the door.

  “Where are you off to?” Anastasius asked.

  “To find Baraldus. Maybe he can talk some sense into her.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Pack your belongings. I’ll send word to you.”

  The citizens of Rome laid palm fronds on the road in front of the new Holy Father and tossed handfuls of rose petals as Johanna passed on her plodding donkey. The procession climbed the Capitoline Hill toward the ox pasture that was once the Forum. Crowds of Romans lined streets and leaned out windows to catch a glimpse of the Pope. Shouts of, “Bless you, Holiness,” resounded off brick walls and mixed with the monotone chanting of the cardinals.