The Scribe (13 page)

For a moment, Gorgias didn’t know whether he should suggest just relaying the truth, but he had little choice, so he presented the idea.

“What are you saying?” the count asked incredulously.

“I’m saying that if the envoy arrives before the document is ready, perhaps you could tell him that the original was burned in Korne’s workshop. It would give us the time we need.”

“I see. And tell me: Aside from convincing the prelate of your ineptitude—and also mine—do you have any other ingenious ideas?”

“I was merely trying.”

“Well, for the love of God, Gorgias, stop trying and do something for once!”

Gorgias lowered his head, accepting that he had been foolish. He lifted his gaze and observed the count’s pensive expression.

“Well, perhaps I have judged you too harshly. I do hope your intention is not to allow so many hours of work to go to waste.”

“Of course not, Father.”

“And your idea—about the fire,” added the count. “It is truly what happened?”

“Indeed,” said Gorgias, his nerves calming a little.

“Very well. And you think you could have the document ready in three weeks?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Then this conversation is over. Begin work immediately. Put your hood back on.”

Gorgias acquiesced. He went down on his knees, kissed Wilfred’s wrinkled hands, and awkwardly donned the hood. As he waited for Genseric to arrive, he was finally able to breathe without feeling his heartbeat in his throat.

Though Gorgias was blinded again, the walk back seemed shorter than the way there. At first he attributed this to Genseric’s haste, but as they walked he realized that the coadjutor was taking him down a different path. Indeed, he did not notice the stench of the latrines or the stairs that he had climbed on the way there. For a moment he thought the change might be attributed to Genseric’s zealousness, for at that time the whole building would be crawling with servants, but when the coadjutor told him to remove the hood, he was surprised to find that he still didn’t know where he was.

Gorgias examined the small circular room closely. An altar was situated at the center, and on it a torch crackled away. The flickering light cast a yellow glow on the hewn stone and the timber roof, which had been eaten away by rot. Between the beams there were blurry liturgical images, blackened slightly by the smoke from the candles. He deduced that the room must have been a Christian crypt, though judging by its state, it would be easy to mistake it for the dungeons of the Hagia Sofia.

To one side he saw a second door, bolted shut.

“What is this place?” he asked in surprise.

“An old chapel.”

“I can see that. An interesting place, no doubt, but you will understand that I have other duties to get on with,” he said, losing his patience.

“All in good time, Gorgias, all in good time.” The coadjutor gave a hint of a smile as he took a candle from a bag, lit it, and placed it at one end of the stone altar. Then he went over to the door that Gorgias had spotted and drew back the enormous bolt that kept it closed. “Please, this way.”

Gorgias did not trust him.

“Or follow me if you prefer,” he added.

He let the old man go in first before hesitantly following.

“Allow me to sit,” Genseric continued. “It’s the damp. It gnaws at my bones. You sit, too, please.”

Gorgias reluctantly complied. The smell of dry urine that Genseric exuded made him retch.

“I suppose you are wondering why I brought you here.”

“Well, yes,” Gorgias answered, his irritation growing.

Genseric smiled again, taking his time to respond.

“It’s about the fire. An ugly affair, Gorgias. Too many dead… and what’s worse: too many losses. I believe Wilfred has already spoken to you about the intentions of Korne, the parchment-maker.”

“You mean his determination to hold me responsible?”

“Believe me, it is not just intentions. The parchment-maker might be a thoughtless individual, a primitive man without restraint, but I can assure you that his tenacity is inhuman. He blames you blindly for what has happened, and he will do anything to see you pay with your blood. And forget about compensation. His desire for revenge obeys reasons that you will never comprehend.”

“That’s not what the count told me,” Gorgias answered, his concern growing.

“And what did he tell you? That a reparation would appease his anger? That he will be content with whatever he makes from selling you as a slave? No, my friend. No. That is not Korne’s way. I might not have Wilfred’s refined learning, but I know a rat when I smell one. Have you heard about the rats of the Main?”

Gorgias shook his head, nonplussed.

“The rats of the Main band together to form ferocious packs. The eldest rat selects her prey without a care for its size or any difficulty it presents. She patiently stalks it, and when the time is right, she leads the clan to kill—and they devour it. Korne is a Main rat. The worst kind of rat you can imagine.”

Gorgias fell silent. Wilfred had told him about the Carolingian code, the fines he might have to pay by way of compensation, and
the possibility that Korne might bring the weight of the law down upon him, but he didn’t mention all that Genseric seemed to be insinuating.

“Perhaps Korne should try to understand that I have also received my punishment. Moreover, the law obliges him to—”

“Korne? Understand?” Genseric interrupted with a guffaw. “For Christ’s sake, Gorgias, do not delude yourself! Since when has a law protected the destitute? Even if the foundations of the Ripuarian Code underpin our justice system, and even if the reforms undertaken by Charlemagne abound with Christian charity, I can assure you that none of them will free you from Korne’s hatred.”

Gorgias could feel his stomach turning. The deranged old man kept blurting out absurd stories of rats and meaningless prophecies, while he had work to do—work that would take an incomprehensible amount of time to finish. He felt on edge and so signaled that the conversation was over by standing. “Sorry, but I do not share your fears. And now, if you don’t mind, I would like to return to the scriptorium.”

Genseric shook his head. “Gorgias, Gorgias… you must try to understand. Give me another moment and you will be grateful for it—you’ll see,” he said condescendingly. “Did you know that Korne was a Saxon?”

“A Saxon? I thought his children were baptized.”

“A convert, but Saxon nonetheless. When Charlemagne conquered the lands of the north, he forced the Saxons to choose between the cross and the gallows. Since then I have attended to many of these converts, and though they come to my mass and fast at Lent, I can assure you that the poison of sin still runs through their veins.”

Gorgias rapped his knuckles on the chair. Genseric’s words were making him increasingly worried.

“Did you know that they still practice ritual sacrifice?” he added. “They meet at crossroads to slit calves’ throats. They perform
sodomy. They even engage their sisters in the most appalling incestuous acts. Korne is one of them, and Wilfred knows it. But the count does not know about their ancestral traditions—customs like the
faide
, by which the death of a son is avenged with the murder of the person responsible. That is the
faide
, Gorgias. Saxon vengeance.”

“But how many times do I have to say it? The fire was an accident,” said Gorgias in irritation. “Wilfred can confirm it.”

“Calm down, Gorgias. It does not matter what you say, or even what really happened that morning. All that matters is that Korne blames your daughter. She is dead, and soon you will follow her.”

Gorgias looked at him. Genseric’s liquid gaze seemed to cut right through him.

“You brought me here for this? To announce my death?”

“To help you, Gorgias. I brought you here to help you.”

The old man paused. Then stood up. He gestured to Gorgias to wait and went out of the cell, in the direction of the crypt. “Wait there, I must fetch something.”

Gorgias obeyed. From inside the cell he could see Genseric wandering back and forth in the crypt. Then he returned with a lit candle, which he placed on a ledge near the doorway.

“Take this,” he said, tossing an object to Gorgias.

“A wax tablet?”

Genseric’s only response was to retreat a few steps before, in one quick movement, he slammed the door shut, leaving Gorgias alone inside.

“What in God’s name are you doing? Open this door immediately!”

He realized after some time that all he would achieve by pounding on the door was tearing his knuckles. When he finally stopped banging on the door, he heard Genseric’s voice, softer than ever.

“Believe me, it’s better for you. You will be safe here,” the elderly man whispered.

“You demented old fool—you can’t keep me here. The count will flay you alive when he finds out.”

“Poor, deluded Gorgias,” he said. “Do you not see that Wilfred himself conceived all this?”

Gorgias did not believe him.

“You must be insane. He would never—”

“Shut up and listen! On the table you will find a stylus. Note the items you need: books, ink, documents… I will return after Terce to collect the list. Until then you may do as you wish. It looks like you will have time to complete the task, after all.”

7

Not long before midday, Theresa savored her last mouthful of salt roe. She foraged in her bag for any remaining crumbs and then sucked her fingers until they were glistening. She took a gulp of water and sat down to rest. She knew the terrain well, but looking ahead the snow hid any distinguishing landmarks, creating an immaculate landscape that obscured the routes that ran through it.

Since she had left the cabin, she had endeavored to follow Hoos Larsson’s advice when he had told her about his journey. She recalled his description of the Saxons as lazy brutes, careless folks whose singing and extravagant campfires were usually enough to betray their whereabouts. According to Hoos, staying alive was not difficult: All she needed to do was behave with the cunning of a hunted animal, move stealthily, refrain from lighting fires, avoid startling flocks of birds, and watch for footprints in the snow. He had also declared that, with enough care, anyone who knew the way could make it through the passes.

“Anyone who knows the way,” she grumbled.

Normally, to reach Aquis-Granum travelers had to take the western route, which meant crossing the River Main in the direction of Frankfurt, following its course for four days to its confluence with the Rhine, and then journeying for three more days to
the capital. But according to Hoos, with the bandits prowling both banks of the river, that route meant certain capture.

On the other hand, in the middle of winter, with the snow growing worse on the paths, going south to the Alps would be an act of insanity.

She decided that her only option was to travel via Fulda.

She looked skyward to contemplate the impregnable wall of mountains. The Rhön range marked the northern boundary of the countship of Würzburg. It was the road that Hoos had taken from Aquis-Granum. Once she reached Fulda, she would continue along the Lahn, a river that, according to Hoos, was easy to negotiate.

Though she had never traveled to Fulda, Theresa estimated that it would take her two days to reach the abbatial city, which meant she would have to spend the night on the road. She crossed herself, took a deep breath of air and set off toward the mountains.

She walked in double time, fixing her sights on the peaks that seemed more distant with every stride. Drinking her remaining water, she ate whatever berries and nuts she could find on the way. For several miles she marched without incident, but within three hours she started to hobble. What began as a slight tingling quickly became a sharp pain that finally stopped her in her tracks. With snow up to her knees, she looked at the mountains and sighed. Dusk had arrived. If she wanted to reach the Rhön pass, she would have to pick up the pace considerably.

She was about to get moving again when a whinny made her start. She turned slowly, expecting to find an enemy, but to her surprise there was nothing there. Soon she heard another whinny, followed by some barking. She kicked away the snow that confined her and ran to crouch behind some rocks, but as she hid, she noticed with horror that she had left a trail of footprints in the snow. Whoever came through would undoubtedly discover her. She tucked in her head and waited, hunched over, as the barking grew louder until it became the clamor of a pack of dogs. Slowly
she lifted her head and scanned the surroundings. The place was still deserted, but she noticed that the racket came from the gully flanking the path.

She hesitated for a moment but then decided to leave her hiding place, and she crawled to the edge of the precipice, where she lay flat on her stomach. She edged forward to poke her head out and was immediately transfixed by the scene in front of her: A pack of wolves were devouring the innards of a horse, which lay at the bottom of the gully. The poor horse was puffing and snorting, struggling and kicking in desperation. She could see its guts already strewn across the snow.

Without giving it a second thought, she shouted and waved her arms as if she were the one being attacked. Upon hearing her, the wolves stopped feasting and immediately started growling with menace. For a moment she thought they would attack her, so she bent down and picked up a dry branch at her feet. Wielding it above her head, she threw it at the pack with all her strength. The stick flew until it hit the crown of a tree. The snow that had piled high on its branches dislodged, falling to the ground. A gray wolf was startled and fled. The others hesitated, but then quickly followed.

After making sure they weren’t returning, Theresa decided to head down the gully. Descending was more difficult than she expected, and when she arrived at the bottom, she could see that the horse was in the throes of death. She found it peppered with wounds—and not all of them had been inflicted with teeth. She tried to loosen its girth, but it was impossible. It shuddered as though it were being flayed, whinnied a couple of times, and then—after several spasms—it lay lifeless in the snow.