THE ABBOT WAS RELIEVED to hear Nyree coming down the hall. He did not wish to be alone, although he was suspicious of her. He had seen her near the vault, and she shouldn’t have been there.
“A test of your knowledge,” he said. “Fiat justitia ruat caelum. What is the meaning?”
She lit the lamp he held out to her, and bowed. “Its specific interpretation is ‘Do justice. Let the sky fall.’ But in practice, it means something more like ‘In order for justice to prevail, all hell will have to break loose.’” The abbot shifted uncomfortably. “It is an unsettling phrase, found in the ancient texts,” she said. “Has the abbot been reading?”
Lugius said, as offhandedly as he could, “Yes. As usual.” He paused and added, “I read that in Sophocles.”
“But Sophocles did not—” Nyree began, and then thought the better of it. “I mean to say, Sophocles is tumultuous for this time of day.”
“I am aware of that. This stove needs cleaning. Send up a housekeeper.”
Nyree left in a bow, for she did not want the abbot to see her face. An abbot in a scriptorium should know the difference between the language of Sophocles and the language of Virgil.