CHAPTER 27 - 27: THE BOOK OF PETER’S THRONE

The roads into Rome wore down even the most patient travelers, and Cardinal Odo di Castellari was not known for patience. After weeks at sea and another of bone-jarring carts through the spine of Italy, he entered the Holy City beneath the weight of heat, dust, and expectation.

But the wooden chest resting across his knees on the final stretch was what truly weighed on him.

It bore no crest—only a stamped cross with flared arms and a symbol now seared into Odo's memory: a stylized fish, carved from walnut, its eye formed from a single inlaid garnet. Inside was the first complete copy of a Bible unlike any the world had seen. One produced not by monkish hands in candlelit scriptoria, but by pressure and iron and ink. A Bible born of wood and vision, from a king touched by both affliction and something stranger.

And its name: Liber Throni Petri—The Book of Peter's Throne.

Odo passed through the bronze gates of the Lateran Palace with the chest in tow. He did not ask permission. He did not need to. He was expected.

In the Pope's private study, the air was cool beneath stone arches and tapestries. It was early evening, and the light filtering through the high clerestory windows had taken on the amber softness of approaching dusk.

Pope Alexander III stood waiting, robed in white, flanked by two aides but otherwise alone.

"Odo," the Pope said quietly, without smile or scorn. "You return."

"I do, Holiness," Odo said, his voice a mixture of awe and fatigue. "And I bring you something... extraordinary."

He motioned to the chest, which two squires unlatched and opened slowly.

Pope Alexander approached.

Nestled inside was the Liber Throni Petri.

The cover was dark olivewood polished until it gleamed like river stone. Brass inlays traced a ringed cross around a seat of keys—Peter's keys, flanked by vines. When the Pope touched it, he felt the smoothness of a surface prepared not for opulence, but permanence.

"A gift?" the Pope asked.

"A testimony," Odo replied. "Commissioned by King Baldwin of Jerusalem. He called it a gift not to a man, but to the chair you keep. To the Throne of Peter itself."

The Pope looked down at the book for a long moment before gently opening it.

Within lay the Book of Matthew, rendered in clear, elegant Latin. The ink sat cleanly on smooth parchment, and the margins bore stamped embellishments: gold leaf halos, crosses, and marginalia in soft green ink—stylized fish and boats and lamps. The pages turned easily. Each was identical in proportion, spacing, and form. The text was uniform—without drift or fading.

"This is printed?" the Pope asked.

"Yes, Holiness. By press. They carve letters in blocks—soon they'll use movable ones cast in lead. It allows for perfect duplication. This is not a scribe's labor. It is a craftsman's."

"A printer's Gospel," Alexander murmured.

"No," Odo corrected. "A bishop's. A pope's. A teacher's, one day. But the hands that built it do not belong to heretics or rebels. They belong to men sworn to your See."

"And yet, this comes from a boy king in the East," the Pope said, turning another page. "Who was once known more for his illness than his strength."

"He is changed, Holiness. His affliction remains, but there is something new in him. I saw it in his bearing, in his council, in his works. He speaks as one who remembers the fall of kingdoms yet unwritten. He governs not for survival, but for continuity."

Alexander did not reply at once. He turned to a page illuminated with a scene of Peter receiving the keys from Christ. The detail was unlike any manuscript the Church had ever produced—clean, bold, yet reverent. The style was new, but the spirit was ancient.

"You say he sent this as a testimony," the Pope said.

"Yes. And more. He asks for your blessing—not only for the book, but for what it represents."

"And what is that?"

"A foundation," Odo answered. "A Kingdom that does not wait for Europe to come to its aid, but instead builds from within. Not merely with stone or sword, but with order, with understanding. With books like this. With ideas not yet born in our cities."

Alexander closed the Liber Throni Petri and stepped away. He folded his arms behind his back and walked slowly across the study. Outside, bells rang faintly from the Lateran Basilica. The shadows lengthened.

"No schools have been built," Odo said, anticipating his concern. "No universities. Not yet. But he speaks of such things—not as dreams, but as plans. Practical ones. He speaks of scribes and grammarians, of laws written in both tongues, of noble sons taught in halls rather than tents."

"And the clergy?" the Pope asked.

"They remain respected," Odo replied. "He has not usurped the pulpit. He prays. He hears the Mass. But... he speaks of reason and healing in the same breath as faith. The common folk look to him now not only for justice, but wisdom."

The Pope considered this.

"And what do the bishops of Outremer say?"

"They are uncertain," Odo admitted. "But they are also tired, Holiness. Tired of defending a Kingdom that Europe barely remembers. Baldwin offers them not just hope, but tools. Roads. Clean streets. Guards who obey command, not coin."

Alexander returned to the chest and gazed again upon the closed Gospel.

"And you believe this is the future?" he asked.

"I believe it could be," Odo said. "But only if it remains tied to Rome. If it grows apart, it may bloom into something dangerous. If we guide it—if you guide it—it may become a light."

Silence settled again, deep and papery like the pages within the book.

At last, the Pope spoke.

"This book shall remain here. Not hidden, but studied. I will convene with the College of Cardinals. This is no ordinary matter. If a new method of preserving the Word is upon us, we must ensure it remains uncorrupted."

Odo bowed low.

"And you, Odo," the Pope said, "will remain my eye in the East."

"As you command, Holiness."

Alexander looked once more at the cover of the Liber Throni Petri and said quietly:

"If this book is the beginning of something... then may it begin with blessing, not rebellion."

That night, as the lamps were lit in the Vatican and the streets of Rome settled into twilight quiet, the Pope sat alone in his chamber with the Gospel on his lap.

He turned to Luke's words:

"The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed... which grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air nested in its branches."

Alexander read the line again.

Then closed the book.

And said, "Let us see what takes root."