Free The Thirteenth Apostle by Michel Benoit Page A

But… it’s the text of the Symbolon of Nicaea!”
    â€œThe text of the Creed?”
    â€œIndeed. I wonder why they wanted it to be so prominent, under full view of all, in this imperial church. In particular, I wonder…”
    Andrei knelt looking at the inscription for a long while. Then he stood up, dusted himself down and placed his hand on Nil’s shoulder.
    â€œMy friend, in this reproduction of the Nicene Creed, there’s something I don’t understand: I’ve never seen it before.”
    They quickly took a snapshot, and left just as the workers were downing tools for lunch.
    Andrei remained silent until Orléans. As Nil was preparing the camera for their work session, he stopped him.
    â€œNo, not with that film, it’s the one we used for the slab. Put it to one side, and use another film for these manuscripts, if you don’t mind.”
    The journey home was glum. Before he got out of the car, Andrei turned to Nil. His face looked particularly grave.
    â€œWe’ll develop the Germigny photo and make two copies. I’ll take one and fax it straight away to an employee at the Vatican Library with whom I have been corresponding: I’d like to have his opinion; there are very few people capable of understanding the particularities of inscriptions from the High Middle Ages. The second copy… you can keep it and take good care of it in your cell. You never know.”
    A fortnight later, Andrei had phoned Nil in his office. He seemed worried.
    â€œI’ve just received a letter from the Vatican: they’ve told me to go and explain the translation of the Coptic manuscript I told you about. Why do they want me to go there? With the letter there was a note from the employee in the Vatican telling me he’d received the photo of the Germigny slab. But he didn’t add anything by way of comment.”
    Nil was just as surprised as his friend.
    â€œWhen are you leaving?”
    â€œFather Abbot came this morning to give me a ticket for the Rome express that leaves tomorrow. Father Nil… please, while I’m away, go back to Germigny. The snapshot that we took isn’t clear: take another photo in a raking light.”
    â€œFather Andrei, can you tell me what you are thinking?”
    â€œI can’t tell you any more today. Find some excuse or another to leave the Abbey, and quickly go and take that photo. We’ll examine it together as soon as I’m back.”
    Andrei had left for Rome the following day.
    And he had never returned to the Abbey.
    * * *
    Nil opened his eyes. He would go as soon as he possibly could to carry out his friend’s last wishes. But without him, what would be the use of a new snapshot of the inscription?
    The tocsin started to chime lugubriously, announcing to the whole valley that, the next day, a monk was going to be solemnly borne to his last resting place. Nil half-opened the drawer in his table, and slipped his hand under the pile of letters.
    His heart started to beat. He pulled the drawer open fully: the photo taken at Germigny had disappeared, and so had Father Andrei’s note.
    â€œImpossible! It’s impossible!”
    He had poured the contents of the drawer out onto the table: there was no denying it – the snapshot and the note were just not there.
    Monks take a vow of poverty, so they possess absolutely nothing, cannot lock anything away, and not a single cell in the Abbey had a lock. Only the offices of the steward and that of the Father Abbot had locks – and the three libraries, the keys to which had been distributed parsimoniously, as already mentioned.
    But a monk’s cell is the inviolable domain of his solitude: nobody is ever allowed in when its occupant is not there, or without obtaining his formal permission. Except for the Father Abbot who, ever since his election, had made it a point of honour to respect this intangible rule, which underlines the choice made by his