Free The Psalter by Galen Watson Page A

Benedict continued his lechery unabated in the Emperor’s Frankish lands. But the humiliation of his rivals now pleased young Theophylact’s sensibilities, and having a vassal who was unprincipled could be put to considerable use in the patriarchum . The time had come to call in Benedict’s debt.
    “Nephew, this is impossible,” Pietro said. “Benedict’s reputation hasn’t been forgotten. The Pope would never let him enter a church, let alone be ordained as a priest. It can’t be done.”
    “It can and will and you’ll do as you’re told. Besides, nothing is so irresistible as the return of a prodigal son. It’s the reassurance of God’s grace. Of course, Benedict must perform an appropriate penance.” The Count of Tusculum laid his hand on Benedict’s shoulder, and Benedict bowed his head deferentially. Theophylact could not help but smirk. Not only would he have a crafty and ruthless vassal strategically placed in the patriarchum , but as a priest, he would be untouchable to the Crescentii clan. Yet his presence in Rome would be an enduring proclamation of their shame. Theophylact laughed aloud, “What a propitious homecoming.”

9
The Rosh Yeshiva
    Father Baraldus spread the bundle of clothes on the sleeping pallet in Johannes’s cell. “This is a terrible idea you’ve contrived, and I’m ashamed to be helping you.” A runner had arrived in the afternoon with a message that the Rosh Yeshiva would indeed meet with the secundarius , but their meeting had to be in the Trastavere after dark. The Rosh Yeshiva suggested that Johannes might be wise to dress like a common Roman since a priest in the Jewish ghetto would attract the attention of the entire quarter.
    Johannes rifled through the peasant clothing, which was more tattered rags than an actual costume but nevertheless delighted the youth, who scarcely contained an excited giggle. “These are perfect, Brother, but how did you find them?”
    “I do a bit of trading at the bazaar now and again,” Baraldus admitted. “They’re only rags, but they must do.” Johannes eyed him playfully as though he had committed some minor sin and the fat priest grew defensive. “You had need of them, and trading is in my miserable Lombard blood.”
    Johannes couldn’t hide his pleasure. “And just what did you trade? No, don’t tell me. I asked if you could find some clothes, and I’ll not criticize your methods.” He held up a short tunic with a low collar, which had been dyed blue at one time, but wear and countless launderings had turned the fabric an uneven shade of gray. Then he held short brown trousers to his waist. The legs came to the knee.
    “I hope the boots fit,” Baraldus said. “Your feet are uncommon small and I couldn’t find a cap, so this turban must suffice.” He raised a length of white linen.
    “It’s perfect. I feel like an actor in a play,” Johannes said, enchanted by the outfits.
    Baraldus wrinkled his nose. “A lowly profession indeed. All I found to cover your face was this woolen cloak. It’ll be too warm, but it has a hood. Dress yourself, for the sun sets and a long walk to the ghetto awaits us.”
    “Us? I said nothing about you coming with me.”
    “Brother, you possess powerful knowledge in your young head, but it’s book learning. I’ll wager you know little of the streets after dark. I’ll obey you in all things of the church, but this is not that.” The stout priest pulled off his brown robe. He was already dressed in peasant clothing. He produced a short sword in a leather scabbard and slid it through his belt.
    “That’s a sword!” Johannes was shocked at the sight of a priest with a weapon.
    “Change your clothes if we’re going,” Baraldus said.
    They would be missed at Vespers and the evening meal, but there was no other option since the walk to the Jewish quarter would take an hour. It was just a league and a half, but the road was straight and paved with flat stones only as far as the