Free The Psalter by Galen Watson Page B

Colosseum. Further on, the serpentine streets were broken, rutted, and often muddy, especially near the marshy banks of the Tiber.
    Johannes set forth with Baraldus after the setting of the sun. The walk was easygoing on the via Papale toward the Flavian Amphitheater, now known as the Colosseum. Baraldus set a quick pace despite his girth. They passed the basilicas of Santi Quattro Coronati and San Clemente in no time. “You’re more athletic than I would have thought,” the youth jabbed at his assistant, still piqued the Lombard insisted on coming.
    As they arrived at the sunken Ludus Magnum that once housed Rome’s largest gladiatorial training school, the new secundarius could not help but glance at the sword Baraldus had slid through the leather strap he used as a belt. He was troubled that the priest displayed the weapon openly, even if he was in disguise. Yet as they reached the Colosseum, Johannes understood.
    The grandiose Colosseum, which was once home to the Empire’s bloody entertainment, had become a virtual city within the city. Rome’s poor had converted many of the vaults under the seating to apartments. Shopkeepers and artisans set up businesses to serve the newest denizens. A small brick church had even been built inside the walls, into the very structure, to provide the village’s spiritual needs. The cursed arena was transformed into the local cemetery.
    Outside the walls of the makeshift commune, the resident’s toughs, delinquents, and their admiring adolescent toadies stood near small fires swilling cheap wine from clay cups, laughing and taunting passersby in vulgar argot. Baraldus slid his sword around his middle for the reprobates to behold. Their taunts softened to unintelligible grunts. Johannes was now glad of his company and protection despite earlier protestations. Eyeing his escort with a new appreciation, he couldn’t help himself. “Tell me where you got the sword.”
    “The sword is mine. It has always been mine. I realize we’re required to give up our possessions when we enter the order, but I couldn’t part with it.”
    “How came you to possess it?” Father Baraldus’ simple exterior seemed to disguise a hidden past, perhaps as a rogue.
    “I wasn’t always a priest and, believe it or not, I wasn’t always fat. My father was a farmer who tilled the land for a manor lord, but I’m the youngest of three brothers. We’re not like the Franks who divide their property amongst sons. The eldest alone inherits. My brother likely tills the fields, though I’ve received no word from him for many years. However, my liege lord looked kindly on me and secured a position in the army, curse him for his generosity. I fought the Norse and Saracens as well, but I’ve had enough of death and killing for ten lifetimes. I left my closest friends on the plains the lords call fields of honor, although there was never any honor in it.”
    Baraldus had no end to his surprises. Like a sweet onion, peel a layer and an even more succulent one waits to be explored. “So how did you become a priest?”
    “One day I collected my pay, resigned my commission and walked away. I’d thought about quitting after many a bloody battle, but never did. Time overtakes us all, however, and looking around one autumn morn at our drear encampment, I saw only youths like yourself. Those who had joined up with me were dead or retired to a safer profession. So I resolved to seek the path of peace and pray for my comrades, as well as those I sent to their reward. Even so, I cannot part with the sword. It was given to me by my liege lord the day I joined up and reminds me of the man I wish never to be again.”
    They walked in silence the rest of the way. Johannes realized he might have the benefit of knowledge from the volumes he had read, but no real comprehension of the pain of losing lifelong friends or the guilt of senseless murder. As he cast a glance at his assistant, he saw him with different eyes. The