The Psalter (16 page)

“Can he not spare a few—”

“Do I hear the young priest’s voice?” Avraham’s welcoming face greeted Johannes from the foyer. “Enter, enter. Such a coincidence; I was just speaking to my colleagues about the learned priest from the
patriarchum
.” He placed aged hands on Johannes’ slight shoulders. “I’m sorry to learn of Gregory’s passing. I have called for seven days of mourning and reflection out of respect for His Holiness.”

Johannes’ mouth gaped.

“Don’t look so surprised. Is a holy man not deserving?” Come in and meet the rabbis. They sit with me for what we call
Shivah
, a deep mourning. I’m sure they would like to express their sympathy, and I made far too many cakes as usual. You can help us eat them while we mourn together.”

Johannes held the Rosh Yeshiva’s sleeve, “If I might speak to you privately, a matter of great urgency.”

“Of course, my son. My old colleagues and I have all night, but youth is impatient.”

Johannes scarcely knew where to begin. He started with an abbreviated description of the political powers in the Lateran Palace that jockeyed for supremacy, then bumbled through a recital of the nobles calling for an unlawful election. Finally, the
secundarius
launched into a disjointed explanation that the clergy needed to take back the church from the rapacious aristocracy. Johannes was flustered at his inability to condense a volume into a few logical points.

The Rosh Yeshiva held up his hand. “What do you require?”

The priest could tell from the rabbi’s face that, despite his rambling, Avraham had grasped all. “I need a miracle,” Johannes said. “I know the people would elect Deacon John Hymonides if given half a chance, for he’s their champion. But Count Theophylact plans to elect a puppet before the citizens get wind of an election.”

“And before Lothair arrives, of course.”

“The people are our only hope. But how can I alert an unsuspecting city of thousands to come to the
patriarchum
tomorrow to elect a new pope?”

“You alone can do little, but come inside and let’s discuss your conundrum. Many wise men sit at my humble table.”

“There’s no time. I must do something now. Where can I turn?”

“To us. I said you could do little since scarce time remains, but that doesn’t mean naught can be done. I entreat you to join us and rest while we debate the problem. If a miracle can be discovered, I’m sure we can find one together.”

Avraham led the priest into the kitchen, where a dozen bearded rabbis sat on benches around the long table. They rose as one, bowing, “Shalom.” Then they began to offer condolences, but the Rosh Yeshiva stopped them. “There will be plenty of time to express our sympathy. First, we need to discuss a matter of great urgency, but I beg you, no debates. An answer must be found, and we must find it tonight.”

“Where were you?” Baraldus huffed. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Have you heard the election has been called for tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What are we to do?”

“All that can be done has been done. It’s in God’s hands and in some other, unlikely ones. Now I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed.”

Johannes retired to his cell as the front door slammed and Baraldus barged out into the night.

16
The Election

Rome’s aristocratic families flocked to their clans in the
piazza
facing the
patriarchum
. They congregated around tall poles flying colorful pennants held aloft by pageboys. Nearest the palace stood the most ancient family of Anacii, whose patriarch stood self-importantly in the center. Next to the Anacii was Theophylact’s clan, the Tusculani. Behind them, the Crescentii, Frangipani, and Pierleone had staked out their places. Lesser nobles formed a rear guard.

Clergymen tried to squeeze to the front between the clans, but the aristocrats closed ranks, as if on cue, to block their way. Johannes and sturdy Baraldus gave up trying and wedged themselves into a gap far from the ceremonies. The great palace doors swung open.
Vicedominus
Adrian and Archdeacon Nicholas filed onto the terrace, staffs in hand, followed by Theophylact and Archpriest Pietro di Porca. Straining his eyes, Johannes barely made out Anastasius, who had stationed himself in the shadows just inside the door.

Vicedominus
Adrian began with a wordy blessing of the crowd, then an interminable prayer of thanksgiving. After long minutes, the throng, shuffling and agitated, would have no more. A voice rang out, “Give us a pope!” When Adrian tried to continue, others added their voices. Soon the entire crowd chanted, “Give us a pope!”

Silenced, old Adrian retreated, leaving Theophylact to take his place. The tall, glowering Count held up his hand and the crowd quieted. “Citizens of Rome, noble brethren. “We elect our pope by popular acclaim according to the
constitutio romanum
. Your raised voices will name the new Holy Father, and I know of only one man in Christendom who merits Peter’s Holy Chair. He’s a Prince of the Church who fills the poor with joy, traveling even to their miserable slums to sing his hymns. He’s patrician of blood, as befits the Pontiff, and we find him without equal. Therefore, I put forth the name of my beloved uncle, Cardinal and Archpriest Pietro di Porca!”

The noble families cheered while behind them, the astonished clergy whispered to one another in disbelief, “Hogsmouth?” Grumbling from the rear grew to a low rumble, then ominous thunder as defiant Romans chanted derisively, “Hogsmouth, Hogsmouth, Hogsmouth,” which quieted the aristocrats. They turned to glare at the disagreeable priests. Nevertheless, Theophylact was an expert at crowd control despite his youth, having commanded panicked soldiers. “Calm yourselves!” He shouted. “Quiet, I say! If you have a name, put it forward. Yet I hear nothing but jeers. Do you malign your betters? Shame on you. No one is so deserving as my blessed uncle, and if any man says otherwise, let him face me. What, do I hear no derision now? If there’s another, make him known. If not, I demand a vote, and I say Pietro di Porca will be pope.”

Anastasius stepped onto the porch, challenged by frowning stares from the
vicedominus
and Archdeacon as well as the assembled cardinals. But the fiercest glare came from Theophylact. Johannes’ heart sank as he realized his master was about to destroy his life in the church. The
primicerius
tried to speak, but the nobles drowned out his voice, shouting, “Pietro! Give us Pietro!”

Clerics in the crowd responded with a louder chant of, “Fie on Hogsmouth!” On the uneven border between patricians and priests, skirmishes erupted, with shoving and curses hurled back and forth. Even Theophylact could no longer control the mêlée which threatened to spiral into a riot. Then a wave of quiet washed over the astonished mob. Every head turned in the direction of the city.

Over the crest of the Caelian hill marched a multitude of commoners garbed in homespun tunics, headed purposefully for the chaotic election. Half an hour passed as thousands pressed around the assembly. A reed of a man who donned ill-fitting rags, a capuchon pulled low over his face, jostled and squeezed between people who grumbled at his rudeness until he forced his way next to Johannes.

Theophylact seized on the calm to reassert his nomination. “Good people of Rome,” he sounded more uncertain. “A single name has been submitted.” The count pulled a red-faced Pietro forward by his sleeve. “I demand that we elect him and unite Rome.”

No voices came from the buzzing crowd. Aristocrats and priests alike turned to gauge which way the wind blew with the capricious, dangerous rabble. Anastasius had positioned himself next to Theophylact and raised his hand. The slight man next to Johannes raised his in response. Hands rose at various parts of the sea of commoners, like sentries signaling. Someone nudged Johannes in the ribs and the man next to him muttered, “Deacon John.” Twenty paces away a disembodied voice also said, “Deacon John.” Military Sentries all over repeated, “Deacon John,” louder and louder until the multitude picked up the refrain crying out as one, “Deacon John, Deacon John!”

The congregation of clergy took up the chant, flooding the air with the name. Nobles hollered “Pietro” in response, but their appeals went unheard, drowned out by the roar of thousands.

From the rear of the pandemonium, voices shouted, “God bless our pope.” Someone found John Hymonides, and he was lifted upon broad shoulders. Crowds gathered ’round to kiss the hem of his plain brown robe. The swarm of humanity formed into a phalanx with the deacon raised in the center. They sliced forward into the blockade of nobles. Aristocratic clans were split apart as the wedge gained momentum, thrusting to its mark like a slow but unstoppable spear.

Hogsmouth sobbed on the porch as a glowering Theophylact barred the
patriarchum
door. He was thrown aside by a torrent of commoners, their human flood bursting in and delivering John to the foot of the papal throne. Turning to the congregation, tears rolled down John’s face and dripped on his robe. The palace filled to overflowing as Rome’s humblest citizens mingled with clerics caught up in the surge.

Johannes elbowed his way to the front just in time to watch Anastasius raise the golden papal tiara. Gasps from awed parishioners echoed against stone walls as he lowered the crown reverently on his friend’s head. Anastasius took a step back and dropped to his knees. “Your Holiness.” The throng also kneeled and said as one, “God bless Pope John.”

In mid afternoon near the prayer hour of None, the congregation began to file out of the
patriarchum
. Johannes felt a nudge from behind. He turned to face two men in cloaks, their hoods pulled low. Their mysterious, dark capuchons reminded Johannes of the angels who had appeared to Lot in the city of Sodom. He recognized the small man who had stood beside him in the courtyard speaking Deacon John’s name, which had started an avalanche of voices. The man raised his bowed head to reveal a frizzy white beard encircling a beaming smile.

“Rabbi Avraham!”

“Shhh.” The Rosh Yeshiva put his finger to his lips. “I’m not sure we’re welcome here.” The rabbi’s son, Elchanan, also revealed his face to Johannes.

“So it was you who worked this miracle,” the priest said.

“I have long wished to see the inside of the
patriarchum
.” He flashed his sly grin, “but we played only a small part.”

“How did you do it in less than a day?”

“We’re humble Jews, yet have many customers and suppliers in Rome, along with friends who were delighted to help. Nevertheless, this thing could not have been done without your indefatigable and resourceful Baraldus. He procured these marvelous costumes, although how he did it in the middle of the night is truly miraculous. Do I not look like a gentile?”

“More even than the most pious pilgrim. But how—?”

“Our people did what we could and it was a great deal, but it would not have been enough. Nonetheless, word spread like wildfire throughout all of Rome. Your Lombard knows every innkeeper, trader, and soldier, as well as most of the merchants in the city. The man is a veritable one-man message service.”

“Yet I watched Anastasius give a signal and you appeared to repeat it.”

“That was Baraldus’ idea. We were spread out in the crowd, but a fire needs a spark at just the right time. Your assistant said Anastasius was the only man who would know it and could get access to the dais.”

“How I can ever repay you?”

“There’s no need to repay goodness except to pass it on to others, and that I know you shall do.”

“Thanks to you and Baraldus and God’s own grace, we’ve won.”

“Have you? Rejoice today and then take care. Be wary of the dangerous days ahead, Scholar. Be neither too sweet unless you would be eaten up nor bitter lest you would be spewed out. Find the middle road. But if you wish to repay a debt, come visit me and eat my cakes.” The Rosh Yeshiva pulled his capuchon low and took his leave with Elchanon at his side.

Thousands of commoners lazed in the
piazza
, singing songs and hymns they had committed to memory accompanied by lyres, lutes, and fipple flutes. Crowds formed around impromptu musical ensembles, clapping and dancing. Fires were lit in the late afternoon to warm the winter gathering, giving the wide courtyard the festive atmosphere of a holiday celebration.

Johannes walked among the crowd, smiling as he basked in the fraternity of people who rejoiced in a new pope who had sprung from their own humble masses. Passing from group to group, he nodded to calls of, “Bless you, Father,” or, “God bless the Holy Church,” or, “Bless Pope John Hymonides.” Winds of change blew in Rome, and ordinary citizens refreshed themselves in its cleanness.

The Lamps had been lit in the Papal Palace when Johannes made his lighthearted way to the
patriarcum’s
Basilica for evening prayers. Pietro di Porca, the
vicedominus
and Archdeacon, who descended from patrician families, were absent from Vespers, as were the obedientiary officers. It seemed an obvious slight to John and a rebellion against the changing of the guard, but that would change as time passed. If not, John could appoint an administration of his own.

Johannes took his place next to Anastasius, who showed only the slightest hint of a conspiratorial grin before they fell comfortably into the first of four psalms of Vespers. The
secundarius
recited automatically, his mind wandering. He would insist that Anastasius and Baraldus relate every detail of their parts in the magnificent coup. They finished the
kyrie eleison
and had just begun the
Christie eleison
when a low-pitched rumble invaded his reverie.
Thunder
, he wondered as it reverberated closer.
No
, he realized.
Hooves
.

Shrill screams and the clanging of battle cleaved the peace outside. The basilica doors burst open and warhorses charged into God’s house. Hooves clattered on pavement stones, flinging priests hither and fro. Theophylact led troops, swinging his broad sword as panicked clerics scattered. He spurred his charger into the central nave, galloping up its length to the altar while foot soldiers with long pikes rushed behind and herded priests to the outer walls of the basilica.