“Papyrus?” Theokritos opened his eyes and eased himself to a sitting position. “How did you know the manuscript was made of papyrus? The material has been out of general use for decades.”
“Th…the Queen mentioned it,” Brenos lied, realizing he would have to be more cautious. For a sick old man, the librarian was alert. “Have you come to a decision about the document’s authenticity?” When Theokritos did not reply, Brenos pushed in another direction. “Is it a new letter of Pilate? The others are forgeries, but many good people are deceived.”
“It is not that.”
“No? But you have come to a conclusion?”
Theokritos nodded slowly, but said nothing. Brenos waited a moment, then demanded, “Well? Do you believe the papyrus to be a forgery or authentic?”
“That is written only for the Regina’s eyes to see.”
“Of course.” Old fool. Would he have stored the papyrus in his library? No.
If it is the Nazarene’s will and Theokritos has discovered it to be a forgery, he would keep it near him. In this room. He wouldn’t have expected a stranger to visit. At the least his conclusion is here somewhere. Brenos glanced around at the sparse furnishings. Besides the bed there was the wicker chair, a single wardrobe, and a shelf of books above a writing desk that was much like the ones in the scriptorium at Culdees. Cabinet doors closed off storage space under the slanting top. That’s where the papyrus would be placed! So would the damning results of his tests. Brenos looked back at Theokritos. The librarian was slumped against the pillows, his eyes closed again. He seemed asleep.
Even though Brenos stood up carefully, the wicker chair creaked. His hands felt clammy as he began to ease himself toward the desk with as little noise as possible. He was halfway to it, when he heard the rustle of bedclothes and looked around. Theokritos was sitting up, his glance darting from the abbot to the cabinet doors and back again.
“It’s in there, isn’t it?” Brenos asked in a husky whisper. “The papyrus is in the cabinet. Let me see your test results. The Queen won’t have to know.”
“What? No, get away from there!” Theokritos ordered. “How did you know the documents were written on papyrus, or that there was a Latin scroll? You…you’re part of the conspiracy to release the will. That’s why you came.”
The will! It is the Nazarene’s testament! As Theokritos struggled to get up from the bed, Brenos strode back and snatched up a pillow from behind the old man’s back. Before Theokritos could cry out, the abbot had stuffed the soft bag over his face and pushed him back onto the mattress.
Suffocating the librarian was more difficult than Brenos expected—he had been weakened by exhaustion, from the rigors of his winter journey, and by the fever. As he struggled to keep Theokritos’ face pressed hard against the pillow, Brenos winced at the agonizing pain stabbing out from the rawness on his side. The librarian’s arms flailed around, trying to tear away the deadly covering, and his legs kicked out to push his assailant away.
One of Theokritos’s feet caught Brenos in the groin and threw him off-balance for an instant and the old man managed to work his head free. The abbot glimpsed his terror-filled eyes, before frantically stuffing the pillow hard over the librarian’s face again. His effort must not fail. The success of the Gallicans’ plan depended on finding the Nazarene’s will, and this stubborn librarian had it.
“Brandub!” With the spat-out Celtic curse, Brenos stiffened his arms and pushed against the pillow with all his remaining strength.
Theokritos’ struggle ended moments afterward.
Breathing in gasps from his exertion, Brenos propped the librarian’s body up against the pillows, arranged the rumpled bedclothes to look normal again, then went to the desk and opened the cabinet doors.
Theokritos had made no effort to conceal the vellum on which he had penned the results of his experiments. Brenos found it in a cedar box, on the lower shelf. His hands shook as he unrolled the white sheet. He glanced past the record of the experiments, to the librarian’s conclusion, making sure it was the Nazarene’s will that the man had been testing, then turned as pale as the white vellum page.
Brenos mumbled the conclusion to himself. “Theokritos of Athens, Library Master to Flavius Placidus Valentinianus III, at the court of Ravenna, through the results documented above, declare that the papyri of the Apostle Petros, and the Last Testament of Jesus, the said Christos, are authentic and genuine.”
Brenos was stunned. Th…the old fool thought…thought it was real! Theokritos declared the will to be authentic! As his shock ebbed, the abbot replaced the vellum in the box, then rummaged through other scrolls stored on the shelves to find the will itself. All were blank. Brandub, he cursed again, silently. The two papyri were elsewhere in the palace. How had they been discovered, and who else knew of their existence? Perhaps now, with the librarian dead, only the Queen, the emperor’s mother, knows.
He slumped back down into the chair to think. If the documents were in the palace, Smyrna could help locate them, but why hadn’t the man contacted him? Had the Gallican plot been discovered, or had Theokritos been recruited as one of the conspirators and agreed to declare the will genuine? That would have been clever.
A rap at the door startled Brenos, sending a shiver of alarm through his body. The portal opened and the Queen’s steward, who had brought him, looked in.
“Pardon, Abbot,” Magnaric apologized. “The Empress Mother was worried at your absence.”
“I…I was about to come to her with poor news. I was praying with Theokritos for renewed health…for both of us. After we said
