CHAPTER 28 - 28: THE RED MANTLES GATHER

The College of Cardinals assembled within the Apostolic Palace two mornings after Pope Alexander III first laid eyes on the Liber Throni Petri. They gathered not in the Lateran Cathedral, but in the cloistered hall beneath the library, where frescoes faded with age and the scent of beeswax clung to every velvet-draped surface.

Fourteen men in red sat at a long oak table, its surface polished smooth by centuries of elbows, candlesticks, and spilled ink. The Pope did not attend this session in person—he had commissioned debate, not dictated decree. Instead, his instructions were clear: study what had come from Jerusalem. Question it. Weigh it. Fear it, if necessary.

At the center of the table rested the book.

Liber Throni Petri.

The Book of Peter's Throne.

A single candle guttered beside it, casting flickering light on the brass filigree that framed the olivewood cover. The red hats watched it in silence for a time, as if expecting the book to whisper to them.

It was Cardinal Cosimo della Scala, the Florentine, who broke the silence.

"This was not copied by hand," he said. His voice was sand on stone.

"No," Cardinal Fulbert of Reims replied. "It was... printed. Stamped by iron, or so the letter says."

He tapped the parchment that had accompanied the book. Cardinal Odo di Castellari's personal report to the Pope. It lay unfolded beside the Bible, written in crisp Latin, scribed in a tight, practiced hand.

"Mass production of the Gospel?" scoffed Cardinal Elie de Nîmes, the youngest among them. "That is a privilege of monks. A holy duty."

"A duty we may be unable to fulfill," murmured Cardinal Rodrigo of Zamora. "Our monasteries cannot keep up. One copy of the Gospels takes a year or more to produce. This"—he pointed at the book—"can be made in weeks."

"And if it can be copied, it can be falsified," countered Fulbert. "Imagine this... 'printing press' in the hands of heretics. Gospels redrawn in their own language. Tainted doctrines multiplied before a bishop could stop them."

"The Scriptures were written in Greek and Hebrew before they were ever Latin," muttered Cosimo. "The Word is not the ink, but the truth it carries."

Elie's jaw stiffened. "You would permit the peasant to read the mysteries of God?"

"I would permit him to read the parable of the Good Samaritan," Cosimo snapped. "And learn to love his neighbor better than we do."

The tension rose like mist off warm stone. Only Cardinal Odo di Castellari remained silent. He watched the others with his fingers pressed to his lips, his eyes fixed on the book—his book—now passed around like a suspicious relic.

At length, Cardinal Bernard de Albano, the Dean of the College, raised a hand.

"We are not gathered to debate the authority of the Vulgate," he said calmly. "Nor to canonize or condemn King Baldwin's soul. We are here to weigh the impact of what has been done. And what could be done."

He opened the Liber Throni Petri and turned to a random page: the Acts of the Apostles. The words were uniform, exact. He held it up.

"This is cleaner than any manuscript I have seen. Faster to read. Easier to teach from. It is not merely useful—it is perfected."

"The monks will not approve," said Rodrigo.

"They are not the Church," Bernard replied. "They serve it."

"And if this spreads?" asked Fulbert. "If the press becomes common? Will every merchant print his own psalter? Will every priest become a printer?"

"Perhaps," Cosimo said. "And perhaps the Word will go where it could not before. Into places where monks do not tread. Into hearts who never hear Mass. Perhaps... the Kingdom of God will be sown more widely."

Elie exhaled hard. "And what of Baldwin? This boy-king who builds things faster than we can name them. He writes to us of roads, patrols, order, and settlers. He defies the decay of the East by sheer will. But what is the source of his fire? No one says."

At this, Odo finally spoke.

"It is not heresy that drives him," he said quietly. "Nor rebellion. It is urgency. The kind born of someone who has seen too much death and refuses to let the Kingdom rot quietly."

All heads turned to him.

"He still attends Mass," Odo continued. "He still honors Rome. But he moves fast. Too fast, perhaps. There is something inside him... a memory that doesn't belong to his time. But whatever it is, it serves Jerusalem now. And he looks to Rome to guide it, not block it."

Cosimo leaned forward. "Then we must consider: will we become his ballast, or his rudder?"

Cardinal Bernard closed the Bible gently.

"I believe we are at a beginning," he said. "A seed, not yet sprouted. This press—this book—may change everything, or nothing. But it is ours to shepherd now. Rome must not fear tools that preserve the Word of God."

There was a murmur of assent.

"But we will proceed cautiously," Bernard continued. "No press in Europe may operate without sanction. No translations may be made without oversight. And no further works may be sent abroad without ecclesiastical review."

"And what of Baldwin?" asked Rodrigo. "What of his... movement?"

"We watch," Bernard said. "And we write back. With blessing... and boundaries."

The vote was taken. Ten to four in favor.

The Liber Throni Petri would be preserved, studied, and duplicated—slowly, under papal supervision.

And Cardinal Odo would return East, bearing Rome's first cautious endorsement of a king who spoke with a silver mask and built with the hands of a century yet unborn.