The Psalter (27 page)

Johannes felt as though he should thank Ahmad, but he found little thanks in him. Still, he was grateful for the few hundred or so books he’d been granted. Looking at the wagons filled with gold and silver pilfered from Saint Peter’s as well as the church’s library, he stood wearily clutching the Psalter. “How can you haul such a load? Horses can’t pull heavy wagons. The harnesses will strangle them. You need teams of oxen hitched to wooden yokes.”
Perhaps God had sent a miracle after all
, Johannes thought, wondering if Ahmad’s lack of planning might yet save the day.

The prince stared for a moment, reflecting on what the priest said, then shouted to one of his men who retrieved a large, oblong object from one of the carts. The soldier carried it to Johannes and dropped it on the ground. “A parting gift, Priest. It’ll make you rich if that is what you desire. My men spent the night fashioning them.” Ahmad clasped Johannes’ narrow shoulders with large hands. “I’ve taken a liking to you, although I’m not sure what my people will think when they discover a priest saved my life. Write to me and let me know what you do with the collar, and tell me which scriptures you spared. Send the letter to Sicily. It will find its way to me.”

With that, Ahmad climbed on his stallion and waved as he raced to the head of the cavalry while the infantry boarded their fustas, pushing away from shore with oars. Mounted Arabs, Berbers, and Turks advanced, and the wagons lurched forward, rumbling.

The horses did not strangle as they would had they pulled the loads with the throat-and-girth harnesses Italians used. Johannes marveled as he watched them pull the wagons much faster than oxen could. Yet he wept bitterly as Rome’s Holy Scriptures disappeared down the road to Ostia.

Johannes labored all morning and into the afternoon, carrying the books back to the shelves in the grotto. He had taken but a moment to decide that he should protect what he had saved rather than running to the
patriarchum
to raise an army. Theophylact commanded Rome’s military, and the church would receive no help from him. Most likely, he was busy hiding the gold he had stolen. No one could divine where the Emperor’s men were, but as usual, they were not where they were needed. In the end he saw only one logical choice: to save the scriptures.

Scribes could begin their copying once again with what he had saved, but had he found enough? He had rescued the oldest copies of the Gospels and the letters of Saint Paul, as well as the apocalyptic Revelations. He had salvaged many complete Bibles in Latin and the earliest Greek ones, written long before Jerome’s translation. For himself, he retrieved as many heretical scriptures as he could find. These heresies, he returned to their secret place in the sarcophagus, and he resolved to find a new stone cover.

Dirt lined his face in streaks where rivulets of sweat had deposited it. Weary and sad beyond belief, he sat on the marble steps of the violated basilica, rocking back and forth. He knew he should make his way to the
patriarchum
, but fatigue welded him to the spot. Only now did he hear troops marching quick step from the direction of Rome and spied heads wearing dissimilar helms and breastplates that neither gleamed nor did one soldier’s armor match another’s.

At the head of the disorganized column tramped Anastasius and Baraldus. Beside them was Avraham’s son, Elchanan. An odd assortment of troops followed the three, wearing different uniforms. Some of their weapons were merely old, while others were antiques. Yet despite the lack of orderliness, the men looked ready to fight, and some limped as though they had seen battle already.

The soldiers were neither Lothair’s nor in the service of the city’s nobles. They were a ragtag army of guards from the foreign
scholae
, various confederations of Greeks, English, Frisians, and dozens of other foreigners as well as a battalion of Jews. Together, they had defended the city, led by Baraldus after Theophylact and the other nobles fled.

At first the guards of the
scholae
laughed and mocked the Lombard who looked ridiculous in his priestly robe cinched to his knees, wearing a steel helm too small for his head and waving a short sword. But as he shouted orders and cuffed men on the ears who scoffed at his authority, all realized that this was no ordinary cleric. He took command as easily as a parish priest says mass.

Jews were used to having no protection for their poor quarter in the Trastevere. Thus, every able man belonged to a militia organized for their defense. They beat back the Saracens, who had come to pillage their Temple, led by Elchanan the tanner.

Baraldus and Anastasius ran to where Johannes sat. “Are you well, brother?” They squatted beside him.

Johannes did not look up.

“Where are you hurt?”

“In my soul,” Johannes said. “They’ve stolen everything. The golden offerings, the vestments, anything of value, they’ve taken. They even tore down the silver altar over the tomb of the Apostle, leaving his bones scattered on the floor.” A sob broke the priest’s voice. “And they’ve stolen the library.”

“Our books?” Anastasius replied, astonished. “How do you steal a library?”

“They loaded them on carts and wagons and took them.”

Baraldus’ cheeks and ears turned bright red. “We’ll run them down and smite the heathens for their wickedness.” The Lombard thrust his sword into the air.

“You won’t catch them,” Johannes said.

“We’ll march all night and fall upon them as the sun rises on the morrow.”

Johannes hung his head. “They’re on horseback and in their boats, and you’re on foot.”

“Too true, Master Johannes, but they tow wagons, and men can march faster than plodding oxen.”

“Oxen don’t pull their wagons. Horses do.”

“Your brain is addled. Impossible.”

“I tell you that teams of horses pull the wagons, and they galloped away with little effort.”

Baraldus shook his head. “Horses cannot last long pulling such weight. We’ll catch them. We must.” Turning to Elchanan he said, “Your men are the best fighters I’ve seen in many a day. Nevertheless, this isn’t your fight, but the church’s. There’s no shame if you would go back to your families.”

“We started this day with you, and we will finish it with you. Jesus was a Pharisee, a prophet, and a Jew. We’ll fight for Him and for you and our friend Johannes.”

“Thank you,” Baraldus said to his new comrade-in-arms. He shouted orders to the rabble of soldiers, and the column trotted off down Vatican Hill toward the port of Ostia, kicking up a choking dust.

Anastasius consoled his protégé. “They’ll catch them.”

Johannes laid his head on his mentor’s lap on the steps of Peter’s holy church as despair and fatigue overwhelmed him.

25
Normandy

Rashid al-Ansar guided the Renault minivan out of the rental lot at Charles De Gaulle Airport. He drove around the loop, past the terminals, and entered the freeway toward Paris. Next to him, Hassan lit a cigarette and punched a button on the radio. He exhaled a fog of smoke as an Arab rap tune blared from the speakers.

“Open the window,” Rashid said.

“It’s freezing outside,” Hassan shot back.

“Then put out the cigarette.”

Hassan smirked as he cracked the window. “You should have rented something flashier. My grandfather drives a nicer car than this piece of crap.”

“We’re not here to waste the community’s donations, although we could spare some cash for better clothes,” Rashid said.

“What do you mean?”

“You look like an army deserter with your camouflage pants and military boots, and what’s with the US Army t-shirt?”

Rashid grew defensive at the criticism. “It’s the latest style—urban combat. I’m not wearing a suit or some Bedouin dress. I’m a soldier, and I’m going to dress like one.”

“You’re conspicuous. How about something casual, slacks or blue jeans? We need to blend in.”

“Hah,” Hassan scoffed. “If you want to look like them, I’ll get some bleach for your hair and skin. You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Me? You almost bungled the job. You let a priest beat you senseless, a Christian priest!”

Hassan scrunched down in his seat. “He sucker punched me.”

“You hit an old man and a woman for God’s sake. What did you expect?”

Hassan pulled a box knife from his pocket and pressed the flat of the blade against Rashid’s neck. “I’m doing all the dirty work while you keep your hands clean.”

Rashid stared straight ahead. The steel was cold on his skin. “Nothing is unclean in our holy mission. Does not the Qur’an say to smite the unbeliever’s necks? The blood sacrifice atones for their sin.”

Hassan pushed harder, digging the point into flesh. Rashid lifted his chin, but set his jaw. “Next time, get a real razor. You couldn’t even cut his throat properly.”

Hassan slid the cutting edge back into the metal handle. “We got the job done.”

Rashid realized he was holding his breath and exhaled slowly so Hassan wouldn’t notice. His palms sweated as he gripped the steering wheel. “It was messy. I said to keep them occupied. That’s why I gave you the pistol. If you can’t take care of an old man, a woman, and a priest without causing a riot, I’ll get someone else. You made a hell of a racket.”

“That was no ordinary priest,” Hassan said.

They drove in silence around the
peripherique
and exited at the autoroute toward Normandy. The freeway narrowed into a two-lane highway and the congested city soon became a series of towns. The towns gave way to villages, and they rolled past brown, dormant fields hibernating in the winter gloom.

Not far from the coast, Rashid turned the minivan off the main road. A country lane bordered by tall hedgerows wound around fields cultivated for a thousand years and more. The single-car lane was walled by skeletal beech trees stripped of their leaves.

“Please tell me we’re not going to be stuck out here in the backwoods with cows and chickens waking us up at dawn,” Hassan complained. “I want to be in the city where we can have some fun.”

“We’re on a mission, and that’s our only concern. Seek your diversions on your own time.”

“Why we can’t do both?”

“Because we’re commanded to come here,” Rashid snapped at his friend, frustrated at his obstinacy.

At the end of the lane, they approached a heavy iron gate supported by two brick pillars. Rashid parked the minivan, stepped out, and walked toward the barrier. A video camera on top of a pillar followed his steps. He spotted a tarnished brass speaker at the side of the gate and pressed the button below the mouthpiece.

A voice spoke from the speaker. “What do you want?”

“It’s Rashid, Rashid al-Ansar.”

“Who’s with you”?

“Hassan.”

“Enter and peace be upon you.” The gate opened automatically, but no one was visible inside. Rashid drove the Renault into the gravel courtyard toward a two-story, half-timbered house. Large brick outbuildings with gabled roofs on either side formed a U-shaped compound. One of the buildings might have been a barn once and the other stables, but they had been modernized and appeared to be living quarters.

The farmhouse door opened and an Arab in a white ankle-length robe stepped out. He raised his arms, and a large smile spread on his face. Rashid sprang from the car and ran to his master, who held him by his shoulders and kissed his cheeks. “
Salaam Aleichem
, peace be upon you.”

“And you, Imam.”

The imam turned to Hassan, who stepped from the minivan. “Welcome Hassan the reluctant.”

Hassan lowered his head. “Salaam, Imam.”

“You’re just in time for the afternoon prayer. You’ve been through an ordeal which clouds the soul, but your spirits will soar once you pray.” Then, turning to Rashid, he narrowed his eyes and whispered, “Did you bring the book with you?”

“Yes.” Rashid smiled proudly. “I’ll get it.”

“Later, after you’ve prayed. First, you must purify yourselves with running water and put on clean clothes. Let me show you to your rooms.”

The compound included no mosque, but one of the brick buildings had a large room set aside for services. The congregation numbered only eleven or twelve men and they seemed like hard men, hardly what one would expect in a holy community.

The imam led prayers for the assembly. As he recited verses from the Qur’an, Rashid sensed the presence of God. He faced east with the others toward the city of Mecca, while the imam preached. Then he bowed, crouched on his knees, and laid his head on the floor. Finally, he prostrated his body, giving himself over to Allah’s divine will.

With the
fard
or obligatory prayers complete, he continued to sit, meditating long after the others had left. His heart opened to the overwhelming presence of God and tears moistened his eyes. How could one not be moved by the words of the Prophet? He had faith that God guided his life on the holiest of missions.

Rashid sucked in a large breath and returned to the physical world. He felt refreshed and morally whole. The imam was right, prayer was necessary to restore the spirit, like being
born again
, as the Christians said. He rose and turned to leave. The imam stood in the open doorway, beaming. “Truly, Rashid,” he said, pleased at the young man’s devotion, “Allah has a special place in heaven for a faithful son. Now, let’s see the book.”

The imam thumbed the pages, pressing his face close to the ancient script, peering at the text through half-moon spectacles. Occasionally, he mouthed a word. “This is the one. You saved it and restored our honor.”

“What’s the importance of this Latin book?” Rashid asked.

“Ah, my son, the meaning is of little use to us. The significance lies in a great sin committed by our forefathers.”

“What sin is that?”

The Imam breathed a gloomy sigh. “One that obliges us to protect the book until the Mahdi returns and brings the golden days of justice.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t, but understanding will come sooner than you can imagine. You’re part of the plan. It’s your heritage.”

“Can you not tell me what that is?” Rashid chafed at the arcane answers.