The Psalter (7 page)

The heavy door squeaked and Baraldus’ face reappeared. “
Secund
…I mean, Brother Johannes, the tanner is here to speak with you.”

The young archivist knitted his brows. “I have no appointments today.”

“I’m sorry, Brother. I sent for him. I wasn’t sure if we’d have enough parchment for the scribes. I don’t blame you. You’re new to the job and it’ll take time to make quicker decisions.”

“Well, now we have plenty, so send him away.” Johannes’ voice dripped with irritation.

“Yes, Brother.” Baraldus’ face flushed as he pulled the door closed.

“No, wait,” Johannes called out. The round Lombard peered through the half-closed entry. “I apologize, Father. You’re quite right. Send the man to me.”

“But Brother, the skins are on his cart in the courtyard. They’re heavy and they stink.”

“Of course. Tell him I’m coming.” Johannes realized that Baraldus had found an answer for his latest problem. If he were to hoard scrolls to create a secret archive, there’d be a shortage. The solution was new skins.

The Jew stood next to his cart pulled by a team of oxen. He wore a maroon knee-length caftan over a brown chemise, and hose covered his legs. Church rules compelled Jews to wear distinctive clothing so they could be easily identified, and often ordered styles to humiliate them. But with his curly black beard draping to his chest and four-pointed cap, the tanner seemed more like a teacher or sage.

“I’m Johannes,” the
secundarius
said, still uncomfortable with his priestly appellation. He held out his hand, but the Jew simply bowed.

“I’m Elchanan HaKodesh.”

“Pleased to meet you. Now, let’s look at your hides.”

The Jew eyed the stout Lombard suspiciously. “I was told I would deal with the Vice-Prefect of the
scrinium
.”

The boy straightened his new robe and tightened the cincture. “I am the
secundarius
.” Although he knew he resembled no personage of authority.

Elchanan turned his suspicious eye to Baraldus who said, “He truly is.” The tanner bowed even lower. “Forgive me, master Vice-Prefect, a natural mistake.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I can hardly believe it myself. Well, then, let’s inspect your stock.”

The Jew pulled back the corners of hides to reveal the reverse side. “These are lamb skins for the manufacture of vellum, the best quality to make the thinnest, finest paper for the highest works of scholarship.” Johannes nodded his head. The tanner then hefted calfskins, folding the hair side over to expose the hide. “Superior, but not as good as sheepskin, they’re for more common books. I own the largest tanning yard in all of Rome and can provide as much as you desire. If you need even finer skins, I also import from the shores of the Black Sea and Cyrene in North Africa.”

Johannes smiled. “I’ll take everything you have.”

Baraldus’ jaw slacked, but the tanner simply shrugged his shoulders. “Young master, this is only a sample of my stock. I could deliver enough hides this very day to fill the
scrinium
to overflowing. You must tell me what you require and when you’ll need them. We’ll settle on a price, and our contract will be concluded.”

Baraldus stepped between the tanner and Johannes and said under his breath, “Brother, this is beneath you. Tanning is the lowliest of professions. It’s unseemly for a priest of your rank to bargain like a coarse housewife, and with a Jew, no less. Leave the dealings to me. I might be a dolt in areas of scholarship, but when it comes to animal hides, I’m an expert and can get a respectable price.”

Johannes placed his hand on Baraldus’ massive shoulder, “Good Brother, did not our Lord wash the feet of his Jewish disciples? You’re right about one thing, though. I may know the scriptures, but I’m the dolt when it comes to bargaining.”

“Very wise, Brother,” Baraldus said, proud he had made his superior see reason. “How many hides shall I buy?”

“Begin with a cartload like this each week.”

“Each week?” The fat priest howled. He lowered his voice to a throaty whisper, “But
secundarius
, we store ample parchment in the archives, which can be reused. Labor is free and hides cost money. I intended to purchase only enough to fill the temporary shortage, perhaps eight or nine score.”

“Things change, Father, and I now have need of new parchment. So please conclude our negotiation, then send the tanner to me in my cell.”

“The Jew…in your cell…in the
scrinium
?
Secundarius
, you should not…”

Johannes said sternly, “Father Baraldus, I want a word with the man in private.”

Baraldus pointed the way to the vice-prefect’s door as scribes in the
scriptorium
looked on horrified, some muttering under their breath. Baraldus heard the sound of someone spitting. A glower from the huge priest silenced them and sent their ink-stained hands back to copying. The tanner held his four-sided hat as he peered into the archivist’s cell, ill at ease.

“Come in.” Johannes stood up from his seat and pointed to the carved backless chair in front of his desk. “Please sit.”

“I thank the young master,” the tanner said, head bowed but eyes raised suspiciously. “I prefer to stand.”

“I’ll stand as well, then. I’ve been sitting all day and need a stretch.”

“I’ve concluded our agreement with Father Baraldus. He’s an expert in the art of the trade and I fear I’ve sliced my profit miserably thin in exchange for exceptional hides. I shall hardly make a denier in the bargain.”

“I had no idea my assistant was so shrewd. Perhaps you can compensate for your meager margin with volume.”

The tanner chuckled politely, then cleared his throat. “Do you wish to enter into some other business arrangement?”

“No, master tanner, I want to ask a question.” Johannes searched for the most diplomatic words, but found none that would blunt his intent. “You don’t believe Jesus is the Messiah, is that not so?”

Elchanan HaKodesh passed his cap from hand to hand. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow. “Our Hebrew religion is an ancient one,
secundarius
.” He bowed his head again, not daring to look up. “Only He Who Cannot Be Named can know if your Lord was the Messiah.”

“Fear not, Elchanan. I’m aware of your beliefs. Many of my teachers in Athens were of the Jewish faith and men of great wisdom. Your business is safe no matter what you say.”

“Then you already know we don’t believe Jesus was the Messiah.”

“Of course. What I wish to understand is why.”

“
Secundarius
, I’m not learned in these matters. I keep the law, the High Holy days, and I attend the synagogue on the Sabbath. For a subject such as this, you should consult someone who studies such things.” Elchanan bowed, trying to back away.

“Wait. Who can I speak to that does study such things?”

The tanner stopped. He realized he couldn’t politely retreat. “Would it not be unwise for you to be seen consorting with Jews that many Christians believe are the killers of your Christos? And such holy men of my faith consider Christians to be…”

“Unclean?” Johannes grinned. “Still, I want an answer. It would be better if you could direct me, rather than my having to search for these men by walking the streets of your ghetto.”

“The man you seek is the Rosh Yeshiva, a rabbi who’s the wisest in our community. He’s the leader of our Talmudic schools, much like your library. He can answer your questions.”

“Would you lead me to this man?”

Elchanon stared long at Johannes “If he agrees to meet with you, and only if he wills it, then I shall send for you.”

“Who is the man?”

“He’s my father.”

Baraldus escorted the Jew to the steps of the palace. He shook his head as he watched him lead his ox cart through the
piazza
toward the
via Papale
. “What have I done?”

A priest in the far corner of the
scriptorium
wiped spittle from his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. He opened a small square of parchment, dipped his sharpened reed into black ink, and wrote,

Johannes buys hides from the Jews!

He folded the sheet in half, then quarters, and slid it inside his wide sleeve, into a pocket.

8
Hogsmouth

Pietro di Porca muttered to himself, “I would never come this way at night,” as he endured whistles and jeers from the perpetual rabble posted outside the Colosseum. He pretended to ignore them as he shuffled past, making for the fashionable row of towers and mansions in the Monti quarter. His young nephew, the Count of Tusculum, had commanded his presence. “How dare he? I’m an Archpriest after all, and the Cardinal Priest of Saint Martins. One doesn’t summon an Archpriest. I do the summoning. The least he could have done was send a litter. These cursed hills are too much.”

Panting and sweating from his morning exertion, he made the sign of the cross as he passed the church of Saint Peter in Chains. Its beauty was glorious since it had been restored some forty years earlier. Inside its walls, the relic of the chains that had bound Saint Peter when he was a prisoner in Rome was prominently displayed. Today, Pietro felt their weight as he lumbered toward his obligation to his impudent nephew.

Pietro was, however, more fearful than angry. His arrogant nephew, with his violent temper, commanded the respect of all Roman nobles, especially his many enemies. He was no man to defy and he certainly couldn’t be ignored. Even priests took pause at the mention of his name, Theophylact.

At least he hadn’t missed Lauds, what some were beginning to call Matins in the vernacular, morning prayers sung at the cockcrow. Lauds was his second favorite ritual after Vespers, but only because he’d never become accustomed to waking barbarically early, even after all his years in the service of the Lord.

Singing was his passion, and his voice was a miracle from God. By the age of eight, his reputation had reached the ears of Pope Leo, and he sang for him by special request at Saint Peter’s. Alas, others were jealous of his melodious gift and made fun of him, calling him
Hogsmouth
, an odious nickname that had stuck.

“This heat and dust is corrosive for the throat,” he said to himself between gasps. “I’ll sound dreadful at Vespers this evening. The only bright note to visiting my nephew is that he employs the finest cook in Rome.” Just thinking about the sweetened meats and pastries he would likely taste at Theophylact’s table made his mouth water.

Archpriest Pietro trudged up the ancient
vicus patricius
near top of the Esquiline Hill. He was relieved to be away from the pitiable but treacherous poor and more at ease here where the nobility congregated. The
vicus patricius
had been an exclusive street even in the time of Nero and now, with the aqueducts broken, the rabble never came around. There was no water. Only patricians had money to cart water up the hill, so the neighborhood had become even more private.

Nobles kept towers in Rome; the greater the noble, the taller the tower. The Count of Tusculum, being the most powerful of the Roman nobility, although the Crescentii clan vied for the position of preeminence, had the tallest and grandest. The Archpriest rapped on the heavy door.

The steward of the house swung the door open and beamed at the sweaty, breathless cleric. “Dear Cardinal di Porca, enter and rest your weary bones.”

Pietro staggered in and was instantly relieved as the chill from the travertine floor radiated up his black robe. “It’s so peaceful here, like our own cathedrals.”

The steward poked the chubby priest’s middle. “I heard you were coming from the
seigneur
. The cook is baking the sweetest cakes and most savory pasties. I hope you’re in good appetite.”

Pietro’s spirits soared. His fatigue disappeared as though he had taken but a few minutes of exercise. “I’m that parched,” he said. “Could I have a goblet of wine?”

“I’ll bring it to you in the great hall,” the steward chuckled. It’ll soothe your soul. None of the ordinary Tuscan juice, mind. I just received a heady vintage from Aquitania’s King, a gift to the count.” His demeanor turned serious. “Today, you’ll need more than a goblet. I’ll bring an ewer. My lord is wroth, so steel yourself.”

Pietro’s eyes bulged in anxiety. “Why is he angry?”

“I know not, but he raves like a madman and throws the furniture. I’m hiding in the kitchen. I hear the bellowing, but not the words.”

The panicked priest hung his head in gloom until the steward brought the wine and a platter covered with golden-brown tartlets. Pietro filled the goblet from the pitcher and emptied it in two long swallows. He poured again and took another draft. Breathing a deep sigh, his anxiety waned a little. He remembered the tartlets and stuffed one in his mouth.
Truly
, he thought,
Theophylact with his unrefined palate doesn’t deserve such a cook as this Frankish one. There’s not the like in all of Rome. Pope Gregory is far more deserving, although he’s too austere of manner to consider the culinary delights
. He bit into another pastry. The intermingling of its sweetness with the tart earthiness of the wine created a sublime mix on his sensitive tongue.

Just as he began to feel a warm glow, the door burst open and the Count of Tusculum, a youthful giant, roared into the room. “Ah uncle, you’re here. The man I wanted to see.”

“Yes, nephew. You sent for me, remember?”

“Of course I do. Do you take me for an idiot?” Theophylact stood next to the Archpriest, waiting for a proper greeting, but Pietro sat frightened, cup in one hand and a tartlet in the other. “Well…?” The count lengthened the word expecting a response. He got none and barked, “Get up you fool and let me kiss you.”

The priest bolted upright, knocking his chair backward and Theophylact kissed him gruffly on both cheeks. The steward rushed forward, righted Pietro’s chair, and placed a chalice in front of the young patriarch of the Tusculani clan. He started to pour from the pitcher of wine, but Theophylact stopped him with his hand. “Bring me some water.” Appraising the portly priest, he grinned—although no mirth showed on his face otherwise. He patted the Archpriest’s belly. “You don’t put much stock in fasting.”