CHAPTER 5
The Black Monks of the Benedictine Order were a strong presence in Bohemia with abbeys at Ostrov, Sázava, Opatovice, Labem, and Hradisko.
Their rule came from Saint Benedict of Nursia, who lived in Italy during the sixth century.
Uniquely, they did not operate under a single hierarchy with a central command.
Instead, they were organized as a collection of autonomous monasteries and convents, each a place in the world but not of it, filled with a disproportionately large number of doddering old men.
The abbey at Podlazice ranked low in regional priority.
Others were endowed with ample lands and wealth, so no princes, ecclesiastical dignitaries, or land-rich lords were its benefactors.
Many called it the poorest and least known monastery in all Bohemia.
But Brother Jeffery Stieglitz called it home.
And had for the past forty-three years.
His introduction to the place, though, had not been voluntary.
He was born the younger son of a petty noble, thrust into the monastery at age sixteen by his father who’d offered him to God in return for salvation.
How generous considering his father was not the one who would spend his life behind a wall.
Yet Jeffery discovered that his fate was not unusual.
A few of the brothers came on their own out of genuine piety, but most, like himself, were left merely to dispose of an unwelcome heir and save the cost of raising a child.
Wise abbots sifted out those outcasts carefully and rejected most. Lesser abbots never cared.
His father had found one of the latter at Podlazice, who accepted any and all who were presented.
Those unwise acts, by many indifferent abbots through the years, had combined to allow Satan to enter Podlazice.
And that demon had never left.
It was All Hallows’ Eve and the first evensong of the festival of All Saints had been sung to end the compline service.
A departure, for sure, from their usual solemnity, but it was the feast of All Saints and those souls should be appropriately honored.
The air was redolent with the breath of incense, the notes of their chant echoing through the lofty church as the Benedictine brethren passed in procession toward the doors.
Jeffery was at peace with not only his life but also his piety toward God and love of his fellow man.
He’d even forgiven his long-dead father for conscripting him into a life that had not been of his choosing.
The procession filed out into the cloister and the cold night.
One of the lay brothers halted Jeffery’s progress toward his cell and said in a low voice close to his ear, “The abbot requires thy presence. Now.”
Talking was not forbidden, but neither was it encouraged.
The fact that the message had been delivered orally conveyed a sense of urgency.
So he followed the laic as he threaded the dark passages and reached the abbot’s private lodgings.
The messenger knocked on the door, then retired, leaving Jeffery alone to obey the summons to enter.
The abbot, the latest in a long line of incompetent mitered men, sat near the window in the plainly furnished room.
The old adage was that if the abbot was a practical and efficient man then the abbey would be happy and prosperous.
If the reverse be true, then debt came, prosperity was wasted, the monks either living evilly or deserting, and the abbey was eventually ruined.
The current abbot was a weak and infirm old man, small in stature, the countenance dignified with a modest manner.
He applied a loose hand to the brethren that had further created a nest for scandal, utilizing one simple rule.
No silly luxuries, but no absurd austerities either.
Which had taxed the abbey’s treasury to the point that it was now empty. All knew that they were in danger of being shuttered by their larger, more influential neighbors.
The abbot was not alone. Another man stood in the room.
A stranger. Wearing a lighter-colored frock in stark contrast with the Benedictine black.
He was younger, the complexion pale, with short brown hair, thin lips, and a nose that was slightly aquiline.
Jeffery knew where this man had come from.
The Cistercians. A strictly centralized branch of the Benedictines who’d been summoned into Bohemia to bring order and encouraged to establish their own abbeys.
They lived by different customs, all designed to offer an alternative to lax Benedictine rule.
Their abbeys were plain. No mosaics, stained glass, silk hangings, or floral carvings.
Nothing to distract the monks from thinking about heavenly mysteries.
But most avoided Cistercian severity, considering the monks nothing but trouble.
Yet there was no denying that their abbeys flourished while places like Podlazice withered.
“This is Brother Chyth from the monastery in Sedlec,” the abbot said.
Jeffery bowed in greeting. Which was not returned.
“Clouds are gathering thick around our devoted house,” the abbot said. “The shelter thou hast long received may fail you and all others here. It is no secret. We are in need of funds. So we must do the unthinkable.”
Jeffery felt his spirits sink within him at the words of his protector. One thing the abbot had always excelled at was dealing with the outside world. Few of the brethren understood much of what lay beyond the walls. For this old man to be so cynical meant that the problems were severe indeed.
“Please draw the bolt on the door,” the abbot said.
He did as told.
The abbot pointed. “We must go below.”
He understood and pressed the rose among the carvings in the cornice, the fourth in order from the door, third from the floor. A bookcase, which seemed a fixture in the wall, popped open to reveal a flight of circular stairs winding downward.
The abbot lifted a bowl of oil with floating wicks and descended the thirty steps to the underground below the foundations.
Ahead, through the cool darkness, the lamp’s ambient glow revealed an iron door.
The abbot found a key in his cassock and handed it to Jeffery, who opened the lock.
The room beyond was empty save for a stout wooden table.
The abbot motioned. “This was once filled with precious jewels, gemmed reliquaries, golden chalices, parchments, and, above all, books. But as you can see, they are all gone. Save one.”
Jeffery’s gaze locked on the table and the single tome it supported.
When his father offered him to the Benedictines, he’d come with something rare.
The ability to both read and write. That ability had made him valuable and had been put to good use.
Thirty years ago another abbot had a grand idea to create a single volume with all the world’s wisdom recorded inside, both the word of the Lord and the knowledge of man.
A one-of-a-kind book that no one else possessed.
A grand, large manuscript complete with colorful images.
Jeffery had labored for three decades, writing day and night, to create what was surely the largest, most expansive book in the world.
The Cistercian stepped close to the table. “It does exist. Many thought it a myth. It is so large.”
“It required five of the brothers to bring it down here,” the abbot said.
Jeffery had not seen the book in several years, wondering what had happened to it. But dutiful as he was, never had he asked about its whereabouts.
It was not his place to do so.
“We call it the Codex Gigas,” the abbot said. “A fitting description, would you not say?”
“Giant Book. That it is,” the Cistercian said.
“Tell him about it,” the abbot said to Jeffery.
“It tells of the relations between heaven and earth, cosmology, education and its instruments. God and the world. Macrocosm and microcosm. Profanity and sacrality. Sinfulness and piety. Medicine and law. The church and mathematics. The elements, the human body, minerals, flora, fauna, wars, divine and human histories, time organization, and more. Not to mention the Word of God himself. All in one place.”
“But is the story about what is inside also true?” the Cistercian asked.
The abbot motioned and Jeffery knew what to do.
He stepped to the table and carefully opened the heavy binding.
The vellum on the pages had remained bright and soft, all created from the skin of several hundred donkeys back at a time when the abbey was more prosperous.
The ink itself remained clear and unblemished.
The vibrant colors still there. It was good to see.
He’d penned every word from his own hand, without error.
He found the folio he was looking for and displayed the page. The abbot brought the lamp closer so the illustration could be seen in all its colorful terror.
“It is the devil,” the Cistercian said, crossing himself. “So the stories are true.”
“It is part of the knowledge of man and the Word of God,” Jeffery said.
“Why so frightening?”
“To convey that the demon is one to avoid.”
The stranger continued to admire the book, gently turning a few of its pages.
Jeffery knew how the Cistercians loved books, but not embellishments.
Works of art to them were idols that led away from God and were good, at best, to edify feeble souls and the worldly.
But books were different, and they maintained extensive libraries.
“It is yours now,” the abbot said.
Jeffery was shocked. “You intend to part with it?”
“I do. As collateral for a loan so that we may acquire the funds we need to survive.”
He could not believe what he was hearing. Canons required, before taking any important steps, that the abbot consult with the older monks. Pawning this book, which was the abbey’s greatest remaining treasure, definitely fell into that category.
“Has this been approved?” he asked.
“This is but temporary,” the abbot said. “Once we recover, we will reclaim it.”
Not an answer to his question. He opened his mouth to speak, but the abbot silenced him with a raise of an arm. “This is not open for discussion. We either grow or dwindle. I prefer the former. Prepare the book to be transported.”
He knew what was expected and simply bowed his head in consent.
“I have a cart and men outside the walls,” the Cistercian said.
“Excellent. You will need both. And the funds?”
“I have those too.”
“Then we shall conclude our business tonight.”