Read Online The Psalter by Galen Watson - Free Book Online Page A

Priest of Saint Martins. One doesn’t summon an Archpriest. I do the summoning. The least he could have done was send a litter. These cursed hills are too much.”
    Panting and sweating from his morning exertion, he made the sign of the cross as he passed the church of Saint Peter in Chains. Its beauty was glorious since it had been restored some forty years earlier. Inside its walls, the relic of the chains that had bound Saint Peter when he was a prisoner in Rome was prominently displayed. Today, Pietro felt their weight as he lumbered toward his obligation to his impudent nephew.
    Pietro was, however, more fearful than angry. His arrogant nephew, with his violent temper, commanded the respect of all Roman nobles, especially his many enemies. He was no man to defy and he certainly couldn’t be ignored. Even priests took pause at the mention of his name, Theophylact.
    At least he hadn’t missed Lauds, what some were beginning to call Matins in the vernacular, morning prayers sung at the cockcrow. Lauds was his second favorite ritual after Vespers, but only because he’d never become accustomed to waking barbarically early, even after all his years in the service of the Lord.
    Singing was his passion, and his voice was a miracle from God. By the age of eight, his reputation had reached the ears of Pope Leo, and he sang for him by special request at Saint Peter’s. Alas, others were jealous of his melodious gift and made fun of him, calling him Hogsmouth , an odious nickname that had stuck.
    “This heat and dust is corrosive for the throat,” he said to himself between gasps. “I’ll sound dreadful at Vespers this evening. The only bright note to visiting my nephew is that he employs the finest cook in Rome.” Just thinking about the sweetened meats and pastries he would likely taste at Theophylact’s table made his mouth water.
    Archpriest Pietro trudged up the ancient vicus patricius near top of the Esquiline Hill. He was relieved to be away from the pitiable but treacherous poor and more at ease here where the nobility congregated. The vicus patricius had been an exclusive street even in the time of Nero and now, with the aqueducts broken, the rabble never came around. There was no water. Only patricians had money to cart water up the hill, so the neighborhood had become even more private.
    Nobles kept towers in Rome; the greater the noble, the taller the tower. The Count of Tusculum, being the most powerful of the Roman nobility, although the Crescentii clan vied for the position of preeminence, had the tallest and grandest. The Archpriest rapped on the heavy door.
    The steward of the house swung the door open and beamed at the sweaty, breathless cleric. “Dear Cardinal di Porca, enter and rest your weary bones.”
    Pietro staggered in and was instantly relieved as the chill from the travertine floor radiated up his black robe. “It’s so peaceful here, like our own cathedrals.”
    The steward poked the chubby priest’s middle. “I heard you were coming from the seigneur . The cook is baking the sweetest cakes and most savory pasties. I hope you’re in good appetite.”
    Pietro’s spirits soared. His fatigue disappeared as though he had taken but a few minutes of exercise. “I’m that parched,” he said. “Could I have a goblet of wine?”
    “I’ll bring it to you in the great hall,” the steward chuckled. It’ll soothe your soul. None of the ordinary Tuscan juice, mind. I just received a heady vintage from Aquitania’s King, a gift to the count.” His demeanor turned serious. “Today, you’ll need more than a goblet. I’ll bring an ewer. My lord is wroth, so steel yourself.”
    Pietro’s eyes bulged in anxiety. “Why is he angry?”
    “I know not, but he raves like a madman and throws the furniture. I’m hiding in the kitchen. I hear the bellowing, but not the words.”
    The panicked priest hung his head in gloom until the steward brought the wine and a platter covered with golden-brown