The Scribe (12 page)

Several clerics and servants had access to the scriptorium, but it was unlikely they could have conceived of the value of the document—unless they had overheard something from Wilfred, the only person who knew its secret. At that moment he decided to make an actual list of suspects.

Gorgias walked into the basilica through the side entrance that led directly to the cloister. He stopped there for a while to pray for Theresa. After shedding some tears, he traced the sign of the cross on the ground. Then he went through the kitchens, not bothering to greet the cellarer, making haste for the scriptorium.

He found the room empty, so he would be able to work until Terce without interruption. Closing the door, he shuttered the windows and carefully lit the mass of candles spread around on the desks. When their flames had cut through the darkness, he took his writing instruments and a wax tablet from a small chest, erasing his previous annotations with the blunt end of a stylus. He made himself comfortable on a stool—and, loosening up his hands, he started composing the list.

For a while he scribbled away at the tablet, noting and deleting names of suspects without being convinced of any of them. His arm was smarting again, but he hardly paid any attention. All that mattered was recovering the parchment. Once he had completed his list, one by one he reviewed the names.

First there was Genseric, Wilfred’s coadjutor and secretary, a wizened old man, who, if not for his persistent odor of urine,
could have been mistaken for one of the sculptures that flanked the ambulatories of the cloister. Genseric acted as vicar-general, which meant that, alongside Wilfred, he was responsible for the everyday administration and accounts of the district.

Then there was Bernardino, a Hispanic monk of tiny stature who ran the household with a firm hand. His role enabled him to come in and out of every room, so it would come as no surprise if he had got wind of the existence of the parchment.

Next in the list was Cassiano, the young precentor, a Tuscan whose honeyed voice, to Gorgias, reminded him of a woman of ill repute. As the head of the choir, Cassiano would often visit the part of the library where the psalters, tetragrams, and antiphons were kept. He was also one of the few adept at reading, which made him a serious suspect.

Finally, he had included Theodor, a giant man who, though of kindly demeanor, had the bluest eyes that Gorgias could remember seeing. Theodor worked as a general factotum, but because of his strength he often helped Wilfred with his relocations around the fortress.

He had erased Jeremiah, his personal assistant, and Emilius, his predecessor as a scribe, as well as the
cubicularius
Boniface, and Cyril, the novice master. The latter three could all read, but Boniface had almost entirely lost his sight, and both Cyril and Emilius had his complete trust.

The rest of the domestic staff and Wilfred’s men were either illiterate or did not have access to the scriptorium.

Gorgias reread the tablet as he massaged his wounded forearm: Genseric, the old coadjutor; Bernardino, the midget; Cassiano, the precentor; Theodor, the giant. Any of them could have been behind the attack—as could have Korne, whom he had not forgotten.

He was trying to solve the mystery when there was a resounding knock on the door. Gorgias hid the tablet and hurried to open it. However, as he took hold of the bolt, he found that it was jammed
into its housing. The knocking continued, accompanied by an urgent voice, so Gorgias pushed up on the latch again until the door gave way with a piercing squeak. Genseric, the old coadjutor, was waiting on the other side. His liquid gaze scanned the room.

“May I ask what all the fuss is about?” asked Gorgias in irritation.

“I am sorry to bother you, but Wilfred asked me to speak with you. I was surprised to find the door locked, and I thought that perhaps there was a problem.”

“For the love of God, does nobody understand that my only problem is finding the time to do all the work that piles up in the scriptorium? What does Wilfred want now?”

“The count needs to see you. In his chambers,” he elaborated.

In his chambers
. A shiver ran down Gorgias’s spine. To the best of his knowledge, no one had access to Wilfred’s private rooms. In fact, the servants often said that aside from the coadjutor nobody knew the way. He frowned, sensing that the count’s summons could not lead to anything good.

Gorgias took his time cleaning his instruments and gathering up all the documents that he presumed he would need for the meeting with Wilfred. When he was ready, the coadjutor turned around and started the walk back with weary steps. Gorgias followed him at a safe distance, still trying to guess the reason for the summons.

From the scriptorium they took the corridor that flanked the refectory, past the grain stores, across the cloister’s portico where they entered the chapter house located behind the narthex, between the stone choir and the novices’ chapel. At the back of the chapel was a passageway leading to the chapter house, normally closed off by a sturdy door. At that point Genseric stopped.

“Before continuing, you must swear that nothing will leave your lips about anything you see here,” he warned.

Gorgias kissed the crucifix that hung from his neck. “I swear before Christ.”

Genseric nodded, then removed a hood from his sleeve and offered it to Gorgias.

“I must ask you to cover your eyes,” he ordered.

Gorgias did not protest. He took the hood and pulled it over his head.

“Now hold the end of this rope and follow my directions,” he added.

Gorgias held out his hands until he grasped the rope that Genseric offered. He felt the old man tie it to his arm and then check to see if the hood was properly in place.

Moments later, Gorgias heard the squeaking of hinges and they departed, the rope suddenly tightening, forcing him to stumble forward with no means of support other than his unsteady feet. In the darkness, he followed the tugging of the rope, probing the wall with his injured arm, aided now and then by Genseric’s terse warnings.

As he walked, he could feel the walls begin to ooze some greasy substance, which was not usual for those buildings. Gorgias wondered what part of the fortress he could possibly be in, for they had walked a fair stretch already. He had heard no fewer than four doors being opened so far. They had climbed a narrow staircase, and there was an unpleasant smell of excrement, which must have come from some nearby latrine. Then he felt as if they were descending a long slope, before climbing again on uneven, slippery ground. Before long, the rope that guided him slackened, signaling their arrival at their destination. He heard another bolt being opened, and the count’s rasping voice resounded in his ears. “Please come in, Gorgias.”

Genseric led Gorgias in, still wearing the hood. The door closed behind him and an unnerving silence descended upon the place.

“I should imagine, my good Gorgias, that you are wondering why I have summoned you.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” The hood was suffocating.

“Well, I shall tell you. It seems paradoxical, does it not, that sometimes, the more diligently we serve God, the more He tests us. Last night,” he continued, “not long after retiring, I began to feel out of sorts. It is not the first time it has happened to me, yet on this occasion the pain became so unbearable that I had to request the presence of our physician. Zeno believes that the malady in what is left of my legs is spreading to the rest of my body. It would seem there is no cure, or if there is, he doesn’t know of it, so all I can do is try to rest before the pains return. But for goodness’ sake! Take off that hood—you look like a condemned man!”

Gorgias obeyed.

As he removed the cloth, he could make out they were standing in what once must have been an armory. He saw bare walls of stone blocks arranged in neat lines, the order broken only by an alabaster window, a weak glow filtering through it. On the main wall, carved into the ashlars, he noticed the remnants of a crucifix, which seemed to be watching over the great four-poster bed. Wilfred lay among plump cushions, breathing with difficulty as though an intolerable weight bore down on his chest. This had the effect of transforming his face into a bloated mask. To his left were a side table with the remains of his breakfast and a chest holding a pair of chasubles with a coarse woolen habit lying on top. On the other side of the room Gorgias saw a clean chamber pot, a table, writing instruments, and a small alcove carved into the stone. There was no other furniture adorning the chamber. Only a single flimsy chair at the foot of the bed.

He was surprised not to see a single codex, or even a copy of the Bible. However, as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could make out another room: Wilfred’s private scriptorium.

Some menacing growls suddenly made Gorgias take a step back.

“Do not be alarmed,” said the count with a smile. “The poor dogs are a little restless, but they aren’t dangerous. Come and make yourself comfortable.”

Before accepting his invitation, Gorgias made sure that the animals were tied to Wilfred’s wheeled contraption. He also noticed that Genseric had left the room.

“So tell me the reason for this summons,” said Gorgias, his eyes still fixed on the dogs.

“In fact it is you who must talk to me. It has been six days since we spoke and I haven’t heard anything of your progress. Have you brought the parchment?”

“My Lord, I am not sure where to start!” he sputtered. “The truth is I must confess a matter that troubles me. Do you remember the problem with the ink?”

“Not exactly. Something to do with its fluidity?”

“That’s right. As I said, the pens I have do not retain ink for very long. The excess flow causes splattering and sometimes leaves big trails of ink. Hence, I attempted to make a new mixture to solve the problem.”

“Yes, I vaguely remember now. So?”

“After several days of reflection, I decided to test my theory last night. I charred a bit of walnut shell, which I added to the ink, and I mixed it with a drop of oil to thicken it. I also tried it with ash, a little tallow, and a pinch of alum. Naturally, before using it, I tested the mixture on a different parchment.”

“Of course,” the count said.

“Straightaway I noticed that the pen slid across the parchment as if floating on a pool of oil. The letters appeared bright and silky before my eyes, as smooth as a young girl’s skin, and jet black. But, on the document, as I went back over the uncial letters, I had the accident.”

“Accident? What accident?”

“These letters, the uncials, required a finish in accord with the importance of the document. I had to retouch them to ensure clean and well-defined edges. Unfortunately this process must take place before the final layer of pounce is applied.”

“For the love of God! Stop beating about the bush and explain to me what has happened!”

Gorgias grimaced. The moment had come to fabricate some kind of mistake that would explain why he didn’t have the document ready.

“I am sorry. I have no excuse for my ineptitude. The truth is that, through lack of sleep, I forgot that I had applied the pounce a few days earlier. The powder waterproofed the surface, and when I went back over the capital letters—”

“What?”

“Well, the whole thing was ruined. The whole damned document went to hell!”

“By God Almighty! But didn’t you say you had resolved the problem?” asked Wilfred, making as if to get up.

“I was so pleased with my solution that I didn’t notice the gypsum,” he explained. “Because the pounce had covered the pores, the material could not absorb the ink, which spread to the point of ruining the entire parchment.”

“This cannot be,” Wilfred responded in disbelief. “And what about a palimpsest? Did you not prepare a palimpsest?”

“I could attempt it, but if I were to scrape the skin, it would make marks that would reveal the nature of the repair, and that of course would be unacceptable for this particular manuscript.”

“Show me the document. What are you waiting for? Show it to me!” he screamed.

Gorgias clumsily produced a piece of crumpled parchment, which he held out to Wilfred. But before the count grasped it, Gorgias took a few steps back and tore it into pieces.

The horrified count thrashed about as though on fire. “Have you lost your mind!”

“I can see that you haven’t fully understood,” responded Gorgias in desperation. “It’s ruined, don’t you see? Ruined!”

Wilfred let out a guttural sound, his face contorted by rage. From the bed he tried to collect the pieces of parchment scattered over the rug, but in doing so he lost his balance and fell. Fortunately, Gorgias managed to catch him before he landed on the floor.

“Let go of me! Do you think the fact I don’t have legs makes me a useless fool like you? Get your filthy hands off me, you damned squanderer!” he roared.

“Please try to calm down, Your Grace. That document is lost, but I am already working on a new parchment.”

“A new parchment you say? And what will you do this time? Give it to a dog to keep between its jaws? Boil it? Shred it with a knife?”

“Your Grace, I beg you. Have faith. I will work day and night if necessary. I swear that you will have the document soon.”

“And who says I have time for that?” replied Wilfred as he tried to make himself comfortable again. “The papal envoy could arrive at any moment, and if I do not have the document ready—by God! You do not know that prelate! I cannot bear to think what might happen to us.”

Gorgias cursed his stupidity, but the fact was that his injured arm prevented him from proceeding with the required diligence. If the Roman legation arrived before it was ready, Wilfred could explain its absence by saying that it had been burned in the fire. Gorgias took a deep breath and turned to Wilfred once more. “When do you say the prelate will arrive?”

“I do not know. In his last letter he informed me that he would set sail from Frankfurt at the end of the year.”

“The storm might delay them.”

“Of course! Or they might arrive right now and catch me with my breeches down!”