Free The Psalter by Galen Watson

spy.”
    “Don’t be naïve. Not a sparrow falls that I don’t know it. However, knowing a thing doesn’t mean controlling it. Why does the library buy from Jews? They’re not members of the tanner’s guild. They’re not even Christians.” Blood percolated into Theophylact’s head and his voice boomed. “They’re the killers of Christ, yet the church puts money in their pockets. I’m the biggest landholder in Rome, all of Italy, and I tithe mightily―as Gregory well knows.”
    And to impress the other nobles , Pietro thought to himself.
    The Count of Tusculum added with spite in his tone, “I own the largest herds of cattle and sheep, yet I’ve not sold a single hide or sheepskin or even meat to the patriarchum .”
    “Be reasonable, nephew,” the Archpriest said. “The Jews make the best parchment. They import the finest skins from North Africa, and they raise their own beasts in the same manner. I’ve seen music written on local skins. It’s coarse and stiff, quite unsuitable, and the guild won’t match the Jews’ prices.”
    Theophylact exploded, slamming his fist on the table. “Quality be damned! If buying’s to be done, it will be from me. Do you understand? I’ve invested a great deal in you and I expect a return.”
    The priest cowered. “I…I hardly know where to begin.” Pietro tried desperately to keep from bursting into tears. “I have no authority in the patriarchum .”
    “Those are the soundest words you’ve spoken this day. Nevertheless, I’ll guide you, uncle, as my father did before me. You need help for this task, and I shall provide it. You have not the skills of wile and cunning that I require, but you’re well placed and can promote someone who does.”
    “Who do you have in mind?” The Archpriest knew Theophylact had many who did his bidding within the walls of the church.
    The count rose to his giant stature and motioned with his hand. The steward who had witnessed all opened a door. Pietro twisted his fat neck and craned to see who his nephew had chosen to do his dirty work. A handsome man with muscular legs in tight hose, wearing a luxuriant caftan robe, pranced in with haughty confidence. Pietro seemed to recognize the smiling dandy as he watched him embrace Theophylact. Then the recognition slapped him. “Benedict,” he choked on the name.
    “Your beloved brother,” Theophylact sniggered.
    “But…but he’s not even a priest.”
    “That’s easily remedied,” Theophylact said, “and you’ll find the way, dear Pietro.”
    Benedict clasped Pietro’s shoulders with his two large hands and kissed him on his cheek. “Dear brother,” he said in a honeyed voice dripping with derision. “Reunited at long last.”
    Although Pietro had not seen his brother in nearly a decade, he had received word of his many scandals. His whoring was renowned throughout Rome, and he was reputed to perform prodigiously in the bedchamber with skillful arts of amour. Even more infamous was his insatiable need for money to finance his philandering life. To satisfy his vast budget, he had plucked several nobles’ wives and daughters, all of whom vied like giddy suitors to shower their families’ wealth on him.
    His despoiling of Roman women, however, had come to an end when he was caught in flagrante delicto with the wife of a Crescentii noble. Set upon by her enraged husband who was armed with an antique glaudius, the short sword of the Roman Legions, he had nearly been skewered. But in his blind fury, the husband missed his thrust and pierced only blankets. Benedict clasped his own dagger, which he had placed under a pillow, as was his custom while in a woman’s bed, and plunged it between the nobleman’s ribs. He had stolen not just the wife’s virtue, but her husband’s life as well.
    Benedict had sought asylum with Theophylact’s father, who thought he might have to turn over his troublesome relative to avoid a blood feud. Instead, he spirited him out of Rome, and