Chapter Three: A Scolaris Gestos

"Veritas temporis filia, non auctoritatis."
—Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae

The Reichenau manuscripts arrived on a Tuesday, nine days after my encounter with the forbidden book. Nine days of sleepless nights, of prayers uttered with distracted mind, of casting furtive glances toward the hidden door behind the chapter house where Father Umbertus had secreted the dangerous volume. Nine days of wondering whether I was losing my reason or standing at the threshold of a truth so monstrous it threatened the foundations of history itself.

I rose before matins, allowing myself the luxury of washing my face with cold water from the basin—a small rebellion against our winter routine, when ablutions were typically performed only after the first office. The shock of it cleared my head, preparing me for the task ahead.

"Antiquitas saeculi juventus mundi," I whispered to my reflection in the small polished metal mirror, quoting Francis Bacon. "The antiquity of time is the youth of the world." The words held new meaning for me now. If three centuries had been inserted into history's flow, then perhaps we were not as far removed from antiquity as we believed. Perhaps the modern age was still in its infancy.

The thought disoriented me. I braced my hands against the rough stone of the basin and closed my eyes, feeling the cold seep into my palms.

"Brother Lukas?"

I started, turning to find Brother Adelbert at my door, his round face creased with concern.

"You missed matins," he said. "Are you unwell?"

Had I lost track of time so completely? I glanced toward the window, where pale light now filtered through the paper panes. Yes, the day had begun without me.

"Forgive me," I said, straightening my habit. "I was... meditating."

Adelbert's expression suggested he found this explanation dubious, but he was too polite to say so. "Father Umbertus asked me to remind you that the Reichenau collection awaits your attention in the scriptorium."

"Yes, of course. I will go at once."

He lingered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "May I speak freely, Brother Lukas?"

I nodded, though wariness prickled at the back of my neck.

"There has been talk," he said, lowering his voice, "about your distraction these past days. Father Umbertus mentioned to the abbot that you seem... troubled."

So, I was being watched. I forced a smile. "The contemplative life sometimes leads us through valleys of doubt, does it not? I have been wrestling with certain theological questions. Nothing to concern yourself with."

"If you say so." He did not appear convinced. "But the abbot values your work in the library. It would be a shame if... well, if your preoccupations were to interfere with your duties."

The subtle warning was clear enough. I thanked him for his concern and promised to attend the midday office without fail. Only when he had departed did I allow my facade of calm to crack.

They were monitoring me—Umbertus, certainly, but perhaps others as well. How far did this conspiracy of silence extend? How many knew of the forbidden manuscript and its explosive claim?

I composed myself and made my way to the scriptorium. The large, well-lit room was mostly empty at this hour, with only a few brothers engaged in the meticulous work of copying texts. In the far corner, I could see the crates from Reichenau, newly arrived and still smelling of damp wood and straw.

Father Umbertus was there, examining a parchment through a magnifying lens. He looked up as I approached, his expression carefully neutral.

"Brother Lukas. I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten your assignment."

"Forgive me, Father. I was delayed in my devotions."

He studied me for a moment, as if searching for signs of defiance or deception. Finding none—or at least, none he could identify with certainty—he gestured to the crates.

"These are primarily administrative documents from the eighth and ninth centuries. Records of land transfers, correspondence with Rome, inventories of relics. Mundane texts, but valuable for our understanding of the abbey's history."

The eighth and ninth centuries. Precisely the period the forbidden book claimed had never existed. I felt a frisson of excitement but kept my face impassive.

"I will catalog them with all due care," I promised.

"See that you do." He gathered his materials, preparing to leave. "Brother Adelbert will assist you with the physical arrangement of the documents. I have instructed him to report directly to me on your progress."

So, Adelbert was to be my minder. I bowed my head in acknowledgment, concealing a flash of irritation. "As you wish, Father."

Umbertus paused at the door. "Brother Lukas," he said, his voice softening slightly, "I know you believe I am being needlessly strict, perhaps even tyrannical. But I assure you, my concern is genuine. There are waters too deep for swimming, currents that can pull even the strongest swimmer under."

"I am merely a librarian, Father," I said, meeting his gaze steadily. "A cataloger of texts. What danger could there be in that?"

His eyes, pale blue and surrounded by a web of fine wrinkles, regarded me with something like pity. "The most dangerous waters often appear the calmest on the surface. Remember that." With that cryptic warning, he departed, leaving me alone with the crates from Reichenau.