The Psalter

by Galen Watson

  “Father,” a faraway voice said, but Romano kept swinging. “Father,” the voice grew closer and a hand held his wrist. “Father, enough,” Del Carlo said.

  The medic gingerly inserted a needle for the intravenous solution into a vein on the back of the Pope’s hand while another medic tightened straps securing His Holiness to the gurney. They tried to wheel him away, but he held on to Father Romano’s sleeve. “Thank you, my son,” the Pope said.

  “I didn’t do enough. Had I been smarter, discovered more, perhaps this might have been prevented.”

  “What happened today was written long ago. Don’t forget the words of Pius and Fatima. You couldn’t stop these things, and you didn’t cause them, so get that out of your mind. Nevertheless, they didn’t view the future quite clearly, did they?”

  “Holiness?”

  The Pope smiled. “I’m not dead and you’re not the Pope.”

  “I have no wish to be the Pope, now or ever,” Romano said.

  “And I don’t want to die just yet, although the door awaits us all. Still, no one wishes to be the Pontiff, my son. We’re chosen, and it’s for us to accept God’s will. Who knows, perhaps today is not the day foretold, and my fate awaits me still. As for you, who can tell what your life holds, but I can say one thing for certain.”

  “Tell me, Holy Father.”

  “You’re not Michael Romano. You’re Petrus Romanus. Whether you sit on Peter’s throne one day or not, you’ll never find peace until you accept your true self. No one knows that better than I. Who you once were isn’t who you are. As for me, I’m a victim of my own vices.”

  “Holiness?”

  “If I didn’t love tiramisu so much, the bullet would never have struck the spare tire I carry around my middle.”

  Romano grinned.

  Again, the medics tried to pull the gurney, but the Pope held fast to Romano’s sleeve. “One last thing,” he said, turning serious. “Keller is no adversary. He’s a friend to you just as he was to Father Mackey. Why do you think he took your books? He tried to protect you.”

  Romano looked confused.

  “He’s never recovered from my Secretary’s murder. You see, Father Mackey was going to meet Cardinal Keller that dreadful night. I foolishly gave them permission to take the Psalter to be translated.” He squeezed Romano’s hand, “And so he did everything in his power to keep you from harm, Peter Romano.” Then the Pope motioned to the medics, and they wheeled his gurney away, surrounded by cardinals.

  Father Romano brushed plaster dust from the powder-covered man’s face. “Cardinal Keller?”

  Keller coughed. “I thought you were a goner. Isn’t that how you Americans say it?”

  “Yes.”

  Cardinal Keller shook himself, flapping his arms. The dust billowed. He rubbed his face, creating streaks of white powder that made him look like a clown trying to remove greasepaint. “I wasn’t sure I could get to you in time,” he said.

  “How did you survive? And how were you able to climb through the debris to reach me? It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “I saw you. Whether with my own eyes or something else, I can’t say. But it seemed as though I beheld you and His Holiness through a shaft of light from where I was covered. God must have guided me and given me the strength.”

  “I owe you my life and an apology.”

  “You owe nothing, Father. I’m doing my job.”

  “I believed you were imposing the church’s law on me and I thought it was unfair. I beg your forgiveness.”

  Keller sighed. “The Grand Inquisitor? I know how many feel about me. I’m the Defender of the Faith, not the decider of the doctrine. That I leave to His Holiness and those who have greater minds than mine. People like you, Father. Perhaps one day I’ll be your Defender, with my own life if necessary.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no need for a new Pope…at least not today. All the same, I’m watching you, Petrus Romanus. Now it’s my sad task to make Father Sabella reflect on the error of his ways and provide an appropriate penance.”

  “Oh my gosh! I’m sorry Eminence,” Romano said, trotting away. “I left the Hébers in the crypt.”

  Romano ran to the statue of Saint Helena, down the stairs to the grotto. Looking in every direction, he spotted no one, but the subterranean altar of the Apostle was a wreck. Three of the bronze pillars from above had been driven through the cavern’s ceiling as if by a pile driver. They had plunged through the chamber and the floor of the crypt as well, and only their tips showed above the ground.

  The paleographer ran to a gaping hole in the floor. A tiny light shone from below. “Isabelle, Pascal!” Are you there?”

  “We’re down here,” Isabelle called out from below.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes,” they both answered. “Come down, Michael,” Isabelle said. “There are stairs carved in the stone. Watch the first one, it’s the biggest drop.”

  Romano felt his way down rough-hewn steps, feeling the wall as he descended until dirt was beneath his feet. Looking to his right, he could just make out a shelf carved out of the rock. His eyes adjusted to the darkness that was slightly illuminated by ambient light from above. Bones lay in a niche, covered by a moldering linen cloth. Over the shelf, written on the rock face appeared graffiti scrawled with chalk or white paint. Romano strained his eyes. Finally, he made out the single Latin word, petreus, Peter.

  “We’re over here,” Isabelle said.

  Romano crossed himself. He wanted to pray, to say something, but his mind was blank. What does one say to an Apostle, he thought. He groped his way in the darkness, shuffling deeper into the cavern. Isabelle and Pascal sat on stone blocks beside a tomb that had been broken by falling bricks from above. Scrolls poured out of the sarcophagus and lay strewn across the floor. Pascal used a cigarette lighter to shine a light on one that Isabelle held open. They looked up at him as he stood over them. “What have you found?”

  Isabelle and Pascal beamed back at him. Then Isabelle grabbed Romano’s hand. “A letter from Jesus’ twin brother…and it’s in Aramaic. The scrolls are all in Aramaic, except one…in Latin.” Isabelle had tears in her eyes.

  “What does it say?”

  Pascal gazed up at the priest. “You should read it, Father. I think it is addressed to you.”

  45

  Johannes’ Testament

  Brave and stout Baraldus, the old soldier and priest of fame and faith, lost his life in the narrow lane between the Colosseum and Saint Clement’s Church, the same street where I was born and where they claim Mother is buried, although I will not say whether this is true or false. The citizens of Rome ever after called it the vicus papissa, street of the woman Pope. Furthermore, since mother gave birth to me there, humiliated before all Rome, every Pope has turned away from the road, although it’s the direct route from the Papal Palace to Saint Peter’s.

  My father, Anastasius, was indeed elected Pope after mother’s vile murder, and his first act was to imprison the villain Benedict for his many crimes. But truth be told, he never desired to be Pontiff. The day after Louis left Rome, Theophylact and the noble families named their own Pope, the foul Benedict, even though he languished in his prison cell. The cardinals of the patriarchum abandoned their positions until, in the end, Father reigned as Pope over an empty palace.

  Emperor Louis sent dispatches demanding that father fight back and enforce the Constitution and Canon Law, as well as the laws of the Diocese. Even Empress Engleberga encouraged him with letters promising her loyalty and affection. Having secretly read them, I often wondered if she had somehow divined the truth of Mother and Father. Women possess eyes in their hearts that see things men cannot.

  Finally, Father renounced the papacy and left the governing of the church to Benedict and Theophylact. Louis raged, but soon his fury softened. Engleberga’s handiwork was likely the cause. Do not women round out men’s sharper corners? Nevertheless, Louis was loyal to a fault and neg
otiated that, in exchange for Father’s abdication, his anathema was lifted and he was readmitted to communion. Thus did Father become known as the anti-Pope.

  Yet the happiest day of Father’s life came years later when he was named Librarian of the Universal Church, a position he held until his death. I was only twelve, but remember tears of joy running down his face as he told me he would rather be a librarian than the wealthiest Emperor in the world.

  He chose to die in his apartment in the schola cantorum, the very room, he said many times, that had been mother’s. I listened to him say weakly and out of breath as I held his dear hand, “Take the Psalter on the shelf. It belonged to your mother and she put it in my hands when I fled into exile. Never lose it and pass it on to your children. It’s all that I have left of her. Now the book is yours.” He turned away and smiled. “One more thing, darling, then I’m coming.” Looking into my eyes, he whispered, “Your mother and I couldn’t be prouder of you, but you must make one last vow.”

  I bent to hear his failing words.

  “Promise that you will love and take a wife and she will bear you a child.”

  I only nodded, for I could not speak through the tears. Then, serene and smiling, he gave up his soul.

  In my youth, I little understood the battle Mother and Father and John Hymonides waged and lost against the nobles for the papacy. Nevertheless, I sadly watched, and my sadness grew to disgust as the noble families used Peter’s throne for their own foul purposes, descending from mere corruption into unabated debauchery. Their foul reign became known as saeculum obscurum, or the Dark Age. However, the citizens of Rome sniggered in the taverns and derided the nobles’ iron grip on the church as the Rule of Harlots.

  As for my dear teacher and friend Ahmad, Father offered him his freedom when Mother died.

  “You may not free me,” Ahmad said, “for I’m no slave. Cardinal Johanna released me from bondage the day she bought me.”

  Avraham looked puzzled and scratched his balding pate. “Why did you stay for an existence of humiliation and servitude?”

  “I stayed to pay for my great sin, destroying God’s word. Allah took my brother’s life in payment. It’s only right that I give mine also.”

  “Whose slave will you be?” Avraham asked. “I wish none, and I won’t own any.”

  “I will be a slave to my people. They need me, so I shall return to Ifriqiya to serve them.” With those words, Ahmad disappeared into the night.

  Father had no word from him for more than a year, until a letter arrived by ship at the port of Ostia. Ahmad did indeed return to serve his people, arriving only weeks before his own uncle’s death. Thus did the prince who was made a slave become a prince once again, and then Emir, to rule the kingdom of Ifriqiya with dominion even over North Africa, Malta, Sicily, and the Italian cities of Brindisi and Naples.

  He ruled as a kind and benevolent Emir, and historians say Ifriqiya reached its zenith under his wisdom and tolerance. But plague afflicted Ifriqiya, carried by pilgrims, and the people blamed Ahmad for their suffering. Indeed, Ahmad himself believed he’d been cursed. He was deposed by his cousin, who was backed by Berber and Turkish mercenaries. Thus did he return to Rome, arriving at the port of Ostia and making his way in the dead of night to take his place as our slave, although father would not accept his bondage. Instead, he put Ahmad in charge of his finances, and he seemed to make our fortune grow as if by sorcery. He became my playmate and teacher of Aramaic, the law, and the Koran.

  Ahmad grew old in Father’s service, but in the winter of his life, he delivered his sons one at a time as a sort of internship to assist Father and me. They, too, were my friends and teachers and students. When they advanced in years, their sons were sent to serve me, and Prince Ahmad’s great-grandsons attend me still, although I tell them they owe no obligation. Yet they insist on obeying the will of Allah and their illustrious great-grandfather, who is revered as the holiest of men from their tribe. They protect me and guard the secret books jealously.

  So what about me? In my youth, I felt the zeal to transform the world as did Mother and Father. However, lack of wisdom made me ambitious, and I thought the path to change could only be achieved from a position of power. Thus was I prey to the subtle and seductive call. When I served as primicerius of the scrinium, the scribes believed me to be an uncompromising taskmaster. Once I cuffed the ear of a young novice and he protested, saying, “I simply made a small revision, just a word for clarification.”

  I lost my temper and told him, “A single change by one lowly scribe, and only to clarify. Multiply it by a hundred scribes or a thousand or ten thousand, day after day for a millennium, and the scriptures no longer resemble our Lord’s words. Fie on the forgers, innocent or otherwise. How can we ever know what was truly said or done?” Yet I was the one rebuked by the cardinal and after too many such complaints by my charges, I was relieved of my post. Then I realized that a position of power in the palace that ruled Christendom was not my calling.

  So I left Rome to be a simple parish priest in the city of Ostia until the day I was named Bishop. It surely must have been Father’s doing for, in truth, I had achieved nothing noteworthy. Nevertheless, I did my best for the Diocese and the priests in my charge and endeavored to be kind and compassionate.

  When I reached middle age, I began to write Mother’s story and recalled the hundreds of tales told by Father and Rabbi Avraham and Prince Ahmad and Elchanan the tanner and many, many others who knew her. All have I assembled here.

  Before father’s death, he revealed the location of the crypt under the mausoleum of the Popes beneath Saint Peter’s Basilica, where Mother’s precious heresies were concealed. I went there secretly to read and study and try to understand. Upon my death, I instructed Ahmad’s grandsons to finish what needs finishing and seal the ancient scrolls and books and Mother’s story in the empty tomb beneath the Basilica. I required their solemn vow on the name of their Prophet to guard the hidden place and the secret of her heresies to the end of their days. After the day these things have been done by those who call themselves the Children of the Book, I shall count Ahmad’s sin, if it were ever such, expiated, wiped clean a thousand times over.

  I wrote this history on the finest parchment in the Empire, manufactured by the grandsons of the venerable Elchanan HaKodesh in the Trastevere. If you’ve discovered it and read these words, then my days are over and you have exhumed Mother’s treasures and her own story penned by my hand. I, Johannes Avraham Baraldus Ahmad, for that is the name Father gave me, authored this account so my beloved parents would not be forever forgotten, their memories scattered in the overlooked places of time. My fondest desire is that one day far from now, they will be known for who they were and what they tried to accomplish, yet failed. Moreover, I want you to know how they loved one another.

  One last thing, for I am sure you must wonder. Avraham HaKodesh, Rosh Yeshiva of Rome, taught me the hidden writing, invisible lemon juice on parchment and held over a flame to make the words appear. He told me he showed Mother the trickery so she could write Father secretly when he languished in exile. Avraham revealed that the same might be done with ink erased with the foul, smelly concoction. Finally, he said that after she had written many letters in this manner, she had an epiphany: her precious heresies could be hidden in plain sight, underneath the Psalms. Her first experiment was her own Psalter, the one Father bequeathed to me. I carried on her work, cutting ancient scrolls into pages and covering them with the commonest of prayers. In this way, I saved hundreds of scriptures, but not all. The rest are here.

  Who can ever be absolutely certain of a thing? Popes and emperors say they are, and bishops and kings and cardinals, and even the lowliest priests and laymen are confident in their God and their Lord and, most importantly, their salvation. Yet I have lived four score and five years and am at the end of my tired days. If I learned anything in this curiously long life, it’s that ardent believers hide within the safety of their absolutes, for much
more courage is needed to abandon their cozy security for the questioning of one’s own beliefs.

  Now, I can’t be absolutely certain; nevertheless, I’m quite confident that I am and forever shall be the only man to have had a father and a mother who were both priests and both cardinals and both librarians and both Popes of the Holy and Universal Church.

  Johannes Avraham Baraldus Ahmad, Bishop of Ostia

  Johanna and Anasthasius’ son, Johannes, now a feeble old man, put down his reed pen and got up from his desk. He padded on tired, unsteady legs to fetch the kettle of hot water from the kitchen. He poured the boiling liquid into a plain silver bowl on the table.

  Steam rose from the vessel as the Bishop of Ostia seated himself. He leaned forward and peered into the cooling water. The cloud thinned as he gazed at the smooth surface. He strained to look beneath, to the glimmering bottom. Black letters appeared in the bowl, swirling faster and faster like a dark cone, leading his eyes downward to the depth of its inky point. Bishop Johannes cleared his mind and projected his thoughts into the twirling image. All that can be done has been done. We shall see if it’s enough. To you, I entrust Mother’s treasures either for yourself or one who will do with them as she would have.

  The Children of the Book

  46

  The Shrine

  I wish you’d stay on,” Father Romano said to Pascal in front of the security checkpoint at Rome’s Fumicino airport. “You’re the best one to translate the Aramaic.”

  “I hate to leave, but work is piling up at home. Besides, you need Isabelle more than me. The scrolls have to be photographed and digitized and put in her confounded computer. I don’t want anything to do with that. Anyway, the Grand Inquisitor agreed to let you send me the photographs so I can translate in the comfort of my dusty den at home.”

  “I can’t believe you got him to give his permission. Still, I’ll miss you and I’m sure you meant to say the Defender of the Faith.”