The Psalter
Page 39
“Did I hear my name used in vain?” Cardinal Keller approached the trio, who stared at him, speechless. “You three seem to be joined at the hip. Some sort of conspiracy?”
Pascal eyed the cardinal. “How did you know we were here? Do you have spies in the airport?”
Keller glared at the retired linguist. “I told you before that I have the largest network of spies in the world, you heretic.”
Pascal chided back, “Prussian tyrant.”
Isabelle was stunned by the exchange. “Do you know each other?”
“Did I neglect to tell you, chérie? We’re old friends. We were roommates at the university.”
“You two were cooped up in a room together, arguing religion?”
Cardinal Keller smiled at his lifelong friend. “Until the wee hours of the morning. It was a spiritual experience.”
“You mean to say our ranting at one another kept us out of the bars.” Pascal chortled and Keller let out a loud guffaw, making them all laugh. A boarding announcement over the public address system cut short their mirth. “I need to go.” Pascal exhaled a long sigh. Isabelle planted pecks on her father’s cheeks, and Romano extended his hand. But Pascal pulled the priest close and kissed him as well. “Take care of my little girl.”
“I promise.” Romano meant it sincerely.
Then Pascal took the Grand Inquisitor by the arm and led him a few steps away so he could whisper in his ear. “I don’t know how to thank you. I asked a big favor, and you came through in spades.”
“Nonsense, old friend. You were simply part of a grander plan, one foreseen by some of the greatest mystics of the Holy Church. But from now on, you can call me the Super Grand Inquisitor.”
The two men stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, hugged, and patted one another on the back. Then Pascal disappeared through the door, into the transparent plastic tube conveyer leading to the boarding gates.
The taxi driver maneuvered his car around the streets of Rome as Romano pointed out which turns to take. Isabelle was lost in her private thoughts, then turned to the priest. “How do you think the Psalters got from the tomb under Saint Peter’s to the Library and Secret Archives?”
“I’ve been wondering, too. Popes have been excavating the grotto since the Middle Ages. In the 1940s, a German priest removed relics he found in a tomb down there. Those relics weren’t rediscovered until his death in the sixties. I’m convinced that much more was unearthed from the Popes’ mausoleum than just ancient bones, and where else would books go than in a Library?”
“Do you think whoever brought them out realized the Psalters were Giovanni’s handiwork?”
“Giovanni’s Psalters seem to lead lives of their own and have been trying to get out for a very long time.”
Isabelle nodded. “It’s such a tragedy that the magnificent chapel dome had to be destroyed for them to be found.”
“There’s an interesting irony, though. Pagan temples and Christian churches which weren’t the official version of Christianity were obliterated to build Saint Peter’s, and a non-Christian returned the favor. But the basilica will rise again, maybe this time with non-denominational bricks.”
They drove on in silence until Romano said, “Did you know, in the Middle Ages, a marble seat called the sedia stercoraria was used to crown the Popes?”
Isabelle didn’t understand where the priest was going so she answered simply, “No.”
“It’s an unusual piece of furniture with a hole in the center like a toilet. The Pope sat on it before being confirmed and lifted his robes while cardinals peered from behind and declared, ‘He has testicles and they dangle nicely’.” Romano blushed.
“You can’t be serious.”
“The chair is tucked away in the Vatican Museum and accounts of the ceremony are stored in the Archives.”
“Do you think the ritual became part of the Pope’s confirmation because of Johanna?”
“That’s the legend.” Glancing out of the taxi’s window a few blocks from the Colosseum, Romano told the driver to pull over.
“Why are we stopping?” Isabelle asked.
“I want to show you something.”
They got out of the taxi and Romano took Isabelle’s hand. He led her down a narrow street, past the ancient church of San Clemente, a short block to the unremarkable corner of via dei Santissimi Quattro and via Querceti. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” Isabelle asked, spotting only a trattoria on one side and the wall surrounding the church of the Quattro Coronati on the other.
“Do you see the little shrine with the metal grate?”
“Yes. The plaque says it’s dedicated to the Virgin Mary,” Isabelle said.
“It does now. This street was once called the vicus papissa, the street of the woman pope, until it was razed by Pope Pius V to make the new road. Nothing remains of the original narrow lane except perhaps this small shrine which is over a thousand years old.”
“Are you saying this is where Pope Johanna was killed?”
“So goes the tale, and that she’s buried at this exact spot. Of course, they’re only fables.”
“How can you say such a thing after all we’ve been through?”
“Your own countryman, Napoleon, had an opinion about fables: ‘What is history, but a fable agreed upon?’”
They crossed the street and peered into the shrine, trying to make out the ancient, weather-stained fresco. The metal cross-hatch grate had been bent by tourists who wanted a better look at the painting. Michael gazed at the shadowy, faded figure of a woman who just might be Johanna Anglicus.
Isabelle leaned over and spoke softly in Romano’s ear. “You don’t have to fear us, Michael.”
The priest contemplated the painted face of the mother and child and answered without turning his head, “That’s what Father Mackey said. He also said something quite unbiblical: There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. I’m beginning to understand.” He took Isabelle’s hand in his own, lacing his fingers through hers. Isabelle rested her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and breathed a satisfied sigh.
The taxi stopped in front of the seventeenth-century apartment building in Paris’ Marais district. Pascal retrieved his wallet and pulled out a couple of bills. He handed them to the driver. “Keep the change.”
“No, monsieur. You’re far too generous.”
“I feel like tipping someone, and you’re the only one here.” Pascal smiled and shut the car door. He rolled his small suitcase through the cold drizzle into the building’s entry.
The kettle whistled and he turned off the gas flame on the 1950s burner. But instead of pouring water into the teapot, he walked, kettle in hand, to his study. A little copper bowl rested on a tripod on his desk, and he filled the vessel to the rim. The metal changed colors as the liquid splashed on it. Vapor rose in a thin cloud, drifting and disappearing. The surface was smooth and opaque like a deep, dark, bottomless pool.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chap
ter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46