The Psalter (24 page)

Johannes recoiled as a helmeted head rolled on the dirt. A brown-robed hulk thrust his sword at another Saracen knight. The horseman pulled back hard on the reins to avoid the attack. He spun his mount to dodge the robed swordsman, but the stout, gray-haired priest was astonishingly fast on his feet. He leapt at the rider with the power of a lion, yanking his boot from the stirrup, hoisting it up and toppling the Saracen out of the saddle.

“Baraldus,” Johannes said.

The Lombard swung his sword down on the unhorsed Saracen. The ring of steel on steel split the air as the enemy parried the blow. Baraldus feinted a backhand slice. As the Arab raised his scimitar to block the blade, the priest spun like a top and hacked deep into the enemy’s throat. Blood sprayed from the severed neck. The priest, turned army captain once more, leapt to meet the last attacker.

The remaining horseman faced the steely-eyed cleric who brandished a dripping sword and jerked on the reins. The charging horse sat on his haunches, skidded to a stop, and flailed with its forelegs. Dark hooves knocked the blade from the Lombard’s fist. Baraldus dived to retrieve his weapon, rolled, and sprang cat-like to his feet. The wild-eyed horse spun and galloped off in retreat. The priest wheeled, looking for more of the enemy.

Johannes touched his shoulder and the Lombard jumped, raising his sword. “They’re gone,” the
primicerius
said.

Baraldus circled again to be certain, then faced his master. “I didn’t think I would reach you in time.” Tears filled the corners of his eyes. “God must’ve carried this fat priest to your side.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but you’re hardly fat anymore. You’re terrible, fearsome…wonderful.”

“I am again what I thought I’d never be; may God forgive my bloodthirsty nature.”

“You saved my life.”

“And I’d do it a thousand times over.”

Johannes grinned, and droplets of blood oozed from his grimy cheek.

Baraldus dabbed at the abrasion with his sleeve. “Those were but scouts. The main force cannot be far behind. We must get to safety. Let’s make for the walls.”

“I told you, I’m staying in the grotto.”

“Foolishness! I’ll not allow it!” Baraldus shouted, his blood still hot.

“Brave captain, Anastasius awaits me there. He won’t leave until I return. If you would save someone, save him, for I’m not leaving.”

Anastasius’ eyes fixed on the stain on Baraldus’ sword. “I was within a hair’s width of having my head chopped off,” Johannes said, “had it not been for Baraldus. He bested two of them and sent the third packing.”

The
secundarius
crossed himself. “God forgive me, they were but boys and stood not a chance against an old hand.”

“So they’re here,” Anastasius said, wide eyed.

“The scouts reconnoiter,” Baraldus replied. “The main force will not be far behind. We must get to the protection of the walls.”

Johannes shook his head.

“Can you not make him see reason?” The Lombard entreated Anastasius.

“I’ve tried to no avail.”

“At least take my sword.” Baraldus held out the weapon to Johannes.

“That will be of little use to such as me. Keep it and take Anastasius with you.”

Anastasius shrugged his shoulders. “I’m staying, too.”

“You’re both lunatics,” Baraldus said. “Bar the entrance and the door to the grotto, then hide yourselves. Defenseless as you are, your only protection will be stealth.”

Baraldus turned to leave, but Johannes caught his sleeve. “Thank you for my life.”

“I fear it has been for naught.” The Lombard choked on his words then he fled across the portico.

Prince Ahmad crouched over the headless body, the scout at his side. “You say a mere priest bested you?”

“He wielded his sword like a master. I never saw such a display.”

The prince mocked the soldier. “Then let us pray we don’t meet the Pope.” He rose and spoke familiarly with his captain. “Send riders down every street and behind every building. I don’t want any surprises from the rear, like Porto.”

“Your will be done, Lord.” The captain raised his arms and horsemen split from the column, galloping down the side streets.

Ahmad marched up the street at the head of his army. He alone wore no armor. His khuff, a knee-high leather stocking, cinched loose pantaloons, and a red sash wound around his short tunic, accentuating a thin frame. An open, sleeveless robe hung to his calves and billowed in the breeze. His head was wrapped in a turban of yellow and blue linen, the end of the material falling to his shoulders. Climbing the steps to the basilica, he twisted and pulled the iron ring on the door. “Break it down,” he commanded.

The heavy oak doors burst as the battering ram tore hinges from the wall. They fell inward and crashed on the pavement stones. Ahmad raised his eyes to the high ceilings and was taken aback by the splendid architecture. A shiver from the chill inside scurried up his back, and he shuddered.
The church is beautiful
, he thought,
but its heaviness is so unlike the airiness of a mosque and it oppresses my heart
. His superstitious troops tiptoed in, speaking in muffled whispers.

One spied the Altar of Saint Peter. “Silver,” he cried, “and gold!” Men rushed forward, passing Ahmad on either side as a river torrent is split by a single stone. The prince only smiled and continued his silent inspection of the holiest church in the empire of Christ. “We have found what we sought, Captain.” The captain who followed grinned in response, showing his relief.

Arab, Berber, and Turkish soldiers pried golden plates from the walls. They used axes and spears as levers to strip silver sheets from the doors. A golden balustrade was torn from a stone staircase it had adorned for five hundred years.

Thirty men pounded on Peter’s altar with the hilts of their swords. They levered with spears, but the structure didn’t budge. Frustrated and overwhelmed by greed, they led in six mounts and lashed ropes to the saddles. They tied the other ends around the altar. The horses slipped and stumbled to their knees on the slick stone as riders whipped their rumps. A loud crack echoed off the walls as the altar tilted and crashed to the floor.

Anastasius and Johannes huddled together as the destruction above assaulted their ears. “We must find somewhere to hide,” Anastasius said.

“I’ve prepared a place at the back.” Johannes led him to the far recesses of the grotto.

“In a tomb?” Anastasius rolled his eyes.

“Don’t worry. Whoever was here is long gone, taken to the catacombs. It’s almost empty.”

“Almost?”

Johannes forced a smile. “This is where I hide the heretical books I want to archive.”

Anastasius shook his head. “I should have guessed when you said you were setting up shop here.”

Johannes had stashed a pile of scrolls and stacks of papyrus codices in the rear of the stone sarcophagus. “I didn’t know how long I’d be here so I stored jugs of water, bread, and a straw mattress.”

“But how can we close the tomb from the inside?”

“Baraldus has seen to that. He greased the edges with lard and oil. Look, the stone moves easily.” They climbed in and slid the cover nearly in place, leaving a crack so they could listen to the bedlam above. A loud crash from the ceiling sent plaster raining down on the tomb. The whole chamber shook.

“They’ve knocked something large to the floor,” Anastasius said, peering out the crack.

“Perhaps God struck them down,” Johannes said hopefully.

“More likely the altar. They’re after gold and silver.” As he spoke, a thunderous boom resounded from the far end of the cavernous grotto, then another and another. “They’ve found the
Door of Death
.” They guided the stone cover to its final place and all turned black inside the stifling tomb.

Saracens rampaged through the underground papal cemetery. They pried stone covers from sarcophagi, searching for plunder. Anastasius and Johannes could only wait as the tide of grave robbers drew nearer. The pandemonium seemed to subside, however. “They’ll find nothing of value in the tombs,” Johannes whispered. “The only jewelry the Popes possess is the ring of the fisherman, and it’s taken from their fingers upon their death and broken. That’s why I chose a tomb at the back. They’ll tire of their labor when they find only rotting bones for their trouble.”

“I would never have thought of that.”

“It was Baraldus’ idea, not mine.”

The Arab captain left the frustrated troops as they desecrated tomb after tomb, finding only moldering robes and old bones. He pulled a codex from a pile and opened the cover. The writing was foreign and incomprehensible, so he cast it back. Lifting a large scroll, he slid off the leather sheath and rolled it open. The script was the same, and he threw it on the pile as well. He walked deep into the grotto and struck the side of a sarcophagus with the hilt of his sword. A hollow ring resonated from within the crypt. When he reached the wall at the farthest end, he turned to retrace his steps then stopped. “Sergeant,” he said.

“Yes sir,” one of the men answered.

“All of these books, take them out.”

“Sir?” The sergeant looked dumbfounded at his commander.

“Don’t question me. Follow my orders.”

Shrugging his shoulders, the sergeant barked orders to men who began hauling books up the stone steps. Then the captain’s trained military mind processed something out of place. He cocked his head, trying to focus on what it was. He returned to the rear of the grotto and scanned the scene until his eye caught what seemed impossible. A tomb seeped a viscous liquid down the side. He rubbed the fluid between a thumb and forefinger, and raised his hand to his nose.
Lamp oil
, he thought to himself,
and the putrid smell of animal fat
. “Filthy Christians,” he said and turned, but stopped in his tracks.

He spun and shoved at the stone lid with a great heave. The cover slid and fell to the floor with an earsplitting crack, fracturing into pieces. Two brown-clad priests crouched inside, surrounded by books and scrolls. “Out,” he said in Greek. As the pair rose slowly, the crowd of Saracens at the other side of the mausoleum edged closer, swords at the ready. Then they burst into laughter.

“Our books!” Johannes cried out in Latin. He turned to the captain and said in Greek, “You’re stealing our scriptures.” The captain poked the point of his sword into the priest’s ribs, “Up the stairs.”

“Hold your tongue, Johannes,” Anastasius whispered harshly. “If we can gain any mercy it’ll be by our wits, not your hasty words.”

The Saracen officer pricked Anastasius’ back with his blade. “Silence, priest!”

Prince Ahmad collapsed on Saint Peter’s throne. He surveyed the looting of the basilica with satisfaction, but was mostly relieved. He had barely been able to control his men.
In truth, they weren’t his men
, he contemplated.
More a loose confederation of mercenaries, warring tribes and religious sects who hated one another almost as much as they hated Christians
.

Ahmad ibn Muhammad descended from a long line of scholarly emirs, the dynasty of the Aghlabids, who followed the Hanafi law, the most tolerant of Sunni Islam. The Aghlabids sought to bring peace and unification to all Ifriqiya. But while Ahmad’s family taught tolerance for others, his men were mercenaries and only had respect for their own sect and for gold. Many of them were followers of the Fatamid dynasty that sought to overthrow Ahmad’s uncle and impose their rigid brand of Islamic law.

This was an uneasy alliance of warriors that Ahmad led into battle unified by two things, money and land. The Crown Prince held them together, as did his uncle, by conquest and spoils.
I’m a scholar
, the prince thought while sitting on Peter’s ancient wooden chair.
Must I waste my mind on incessant stratagems for raids and plunder
?

Troops glanced up from their pillaging to mock the two priests as they were marched at swordpoint toward the seated Crown Prince. “Kneel before the Prince,” the captain barked. He seized Anastasius by his collar and jerked him to his knees. The Saracen ranks cheered. Johannes dropped at the same time, hoping to escape the abuse, but received a boot between his shoulder blades anyway. “On your face, infidel,” the captain bellowed.

“Well, well, what have we here? Two priests? I hope they’re unarmed, Captain. Otherwise my whole army might be in danger.” The troops’ faces went sour at the insult. They grumbled and returned to their burglary.

“My lord,” the captain bowed his head. “They were hiding in the tombs below.”

Prince Ahmad’s eyes narrowed. “Are you spies?”

Johannes looked up at the Arab seated on the throne of the Apostle and his mouth gaped. “You’re sitting on…”

Anastasius pushed Johannes’ head to the floor, silencing him. “My lord, my brother is young and knows not respect for his betters. Forgive him, I beg you.”

“One can learn much from the impudence of the young. I wish to hear what you would say, priest. What’s so important that you would risk your miserable life to address a prince of Islam thus?”

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Johannes could scarcely contain his outrage. “But you’re sitting on one of our most sacred relics, the throne of the Apostle.”

Ahmad sprang from the chair. “This old wooden seat is the famous throne of Saint Peter?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Upon my word, I’m the one who should ask for forgiveness. A man should not desecrate another’s sacred things.”

Johannes’ outrage was replaced by the observation that he was prostrated before a thoughtful man. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, yet you defile our holiest church and plunder its sacred treasures.”

Ahmad laughed. “Sacred to whom? The church was not built by Peter, but a Roman emperor, and a bloodthirsty one at that. And you adorn this holy place with graven images. Is that not a sin even according to your own scriptures?”

“You’ve read the Bible?”

“Not all. Now, I’ve answered your questions. I should like an answer to mine. Are you here to spy on us, perhaps our troop strength or our tactics?”

“No, my lord,” Anastasius said. “You can see we’re priests. We remained behind because we’re librarians.”