“Prophecy? Revelation? What are you speaking about, Abbot? I’ve not heard of a prophecy. Nor has Bishop Chrysologos told me of one.”
“Not…heard?”
Brenos spilled wine from his cup when he set it down too quickly. Could the monk have died before he was able to announce the imminent disclosure of the Nazarene’s last testament?
“You are ill, Abbot,” Placidia observed. “I’ll summon my physician.”
“No, no. Wh…what exactly happened to Behan?”
“I thought you knew that he drowned. When my surgeon examined your monk’s body, he found manuscripts on his desk. When you speak of prophecies, are you referring to those manuscripts?”
“Manuscripts?” What does the Harlot mean? Perhaps one of them is the prophecy, and I can confirm it to the bishop. “Y…you have them here?”
“No, in the palace library. On another matter, Abbot, a…document…that had been hidden was uncovered by accident. Could it be connected to this prophecy you mention?”
“Document?” Brenos’s stomach spasmed at her question, and he fought to keep from retching. Was it possible that the Nazarene’s will had been prematurely discovered? He choked back bile and forced himself to keep from trembling. “What kind of document?”
“A forgery, undoubtedly, but—”
“Where is this document?” he demanded, under control again. “I must see it.”
“I was about to say that my librarian, Theokritos, has been trying to determine its authenticity. He has been ill, but told me I could have his results this afternoon.”
Brenos fought for the discipline he had learned in performing his harsh penances. “This librarian, where is he?” he asked, more calmly. “May I see him?”
“Theokritos is in his room, but I’ve told you that he is not at all well.”
“Our Hibernian rite of private confession often promotes healing in those who are…ah…perhaps reluctant to reveal their sins in public.”
“Sins, Abbot?” Placidia suppressed a smirk by taking a sip of her wine. Theokritos might be a Gnostic, or even crypto-pagan, but he would never undergo the humiliation of confessing to a monk. On the other hand, my librarian might be able to draw information from the abbot that I could not. What harm could there be in allowing Brenos to see him? “Very well, I’ll have my steward escort you to Theokritos’ room, but the results of his experiments are to be given to me alone.”
“Of course, Queen.”
Placidia rang her golden bell to summon Magnaric. When the steward came in, she told him to take the abbot to Theokritos’ room near the library.
As Brenos followed the man, he felt drained of energy, yet, despite that, the unsettling news had given him the strength to find out what had happened, and the Harlot Queen an opportunity for him to do so.
After Magnaric left, Brenos rapped on the door. There was no answer, but he found the portal unlocked. He pushed it open slowly and peered in. The stale air in the sickroom smelled of camphor. Theokritos lay on his bed, propped up by pillows, his eyes closed.
“Librarian, I am Brenos of Slana,” he called out. “Abbot of the Monastery of Culdees.”
Theokritos slowly opened his eyes and turned to see who was speaking. “Slana? Culdees?” he croaked. “The names mean nothing to me.”
“I am Behan of Clonard’s abbot,” Brenos elaborated, coming closer to the bed. “I came as soon as I heard news of his blessed death.”
“Why blessed?” Theokritos scoffed.
“I understand our brother died in a penance while praising the Nazarene. I consider that blessed.”
“Nazarene? That term is used only among a few fanatical Christian sects. Abbot, why did you travel this far in winter just to bury an obscure monk?” Theokritos asked suspiciously. “If there was uncertainty over burial jurisdiction a courier could have brought an answer. Why are you here?”
“Did you know our brother?” Brenos asked in an attempt to counter the old man’s obvious mistrust.
“He came to my library to read.”
“Behan would.” Brenos forced a chuckle. “It is said that Hibernians are wedded to their books and, indeed, I would like to see your palace collection. Our own Bishop Germanus has a number of rare volumes in his library. Culdees has a modest selection, but most are written in Celtic.”
“Your monk had some manuscripts in that language.”
“Yes, our brother was…was always writing.” Brenos felt his heart beat faster and sat down on a wicker chair near the bed. “I…I understand you’re trying to determine the authenticity of those manuscripts.”
“Not the ones the surgeon brought me,” Theokritos replied hoarsely. “They were mostly gibberish, at least the part written in your barbarian tongue.”
What is he referring to? The prophecy is written in Latin. “Tell me what Behan wrote, Librarian. One person’s gibberish may be another’s vision.”
“Vision, Abbot? Even worshippers of Dionysus see visions, only to awaken in the morning with a swollen head.”
Brenos forced a laugh to cover his impatience. “And the Latin manuscript. Did you also think that one to be nonsense?”
“Latin manuscript?” Theokritos rasped. “How could you know that one of the manuscripts was written in that language?”
Brenos realized his error and tried to distract the sick man from it. “May I help you drink, Librarian? Your throat seems dry.”
Theokritos waved a hand toward a cup on the table. “A little of Antioches’ poison.”
Brenos sniffed the drink. “Mint crushed in wine. Our monks would succumb to many illnesses to…to drink this,” he quipped, but his voice faltered. As he held the cup while Theokritos sipped the medication, the thought that the will might have been discovered clogged Brenos’ mind. He had to find out exactly what the old man was testing, and deflect his attention away from his slip about the Latin manuscript. “You have many ancient volumes in your library?” he asked as he put down the cup.
Theokritos nodded and lay back. “Some were brought from Mediolanum when Honorius made Ravenna his capital. Homer, Plato. Herodotus…” His voice trailed off in a spasm of coughing, and he closed his eyes.
Brenos felt new alarm. He had to find out which manuscript the librarian had found without further arousing his suspicion, yet could not
