Chapter Two: Bibliothecarius Scriptor Timoris IV
Later, in the privacy of my cell, I lit a contraband candle—which was, in itself, a small act of rebellion against the strict regulations of the abbey, which permitted no private light after compline. By its flickering glow, I withdrew a small notebook bound in plain linen from its hiding place beneath a loose stone under my bed.
My pen moved swiftly across the page as I recorded everything I could remember from the forbidden manuscript before memory's edge dulled the details. The lunar eclipse calculations. The discrepancies in Bede's chronology. The reference to "Gregorius, who forged time." And most importantly, the central claim: The years from 666 to 911 were never lived.
As I wrote, my mind raced with questions. If these centuries were fabricated, who had done it? To what purpose? And how had such a monumental deception been maintained across all of Christendom for so long?
"Non est potestas super terram quae comparetur ei," I wrote, quoting Job. "There is no power on earth to be compared with him who was made to fear no one." Was this the power of those who controlled time itself—to stand beyond fear, beyond accountability?
I paused, my pen hovering above the page as I recalled Father Umbertus's veiled threat. The old librarian had been afraid—not merely concerned or disapproving, but genuinely terrified. Umbertus, who had faced down bishops and princes in defense of the abbey's collection, who had remained calm when fire threatened the western wing of the library in 1906, had trembled at the mere mention of the quartered circle.
The sigil of those who claim to be the guardians of true time, he had called it.
Guardians. Not creators or discoverers, but guardians. Which implied that there was a true chronology to be protected—one that differed from the accepted record.
I turned to a fresh page and sketched the symbol from memory: a circle divided by a cross into four equal quadrants. Simple, yet unsettling in its perfection. I had seen it before, I realized, though I couldn't place where. Perhaps in one of the ancient manuscripts I had helped restore, or in the marginalia of some forgotten text.
A thought struck me with the force of revelation. If 300 years of history had been inserted into the timeline, then the entire chronology of the Church—of papacies, councils, schisms—would be built on quicksand. Saints who had never existed. Miracles that had never occurred. Martyrs who had never bled.
The implications staggered me. This was not merely an academic curiosity, but a challenge to the very foundations of the faith. No wonder Umbertus had reacted with such alarm.
I closed my journal and concealed it in its hiding place. Tomorrow, I would begin my investigation in earnest. Umbertus had assigned me to catalog the Reichenau manuscripts? So be it. Those texts, produced in the neighboring abbey during the very period in question, might contain clues—inconsistencies, anachronisms, traces of the truth beneath the fabrication.
As I extinguished my candle, a phrase from the forbidden book echoed in my mind: The years lie. Three simple words that threatened to unravel everything I had ever known to be true.
I crossed myself and lay down on my hard pallet. But sleep did not come, only a parade of questions marching relentlessly through my mind.
Outside, the night pressed against the abbey walls like a tide of darkness. Beyond the mountains, the moon rose over Switzerland—the same moon that had witnessed whatever truly happened in those contested centuries, the same silent orb that had once shone down on “Gregorius, who forged time,” whoever he was.
The truth was out there, scattered through the vast repository of texts that was the abbey library. And I was determined to seek it out, no matter the cost.
