The Scribe (26 page)

He understood that serious crimes had to be answered with severe punishments, but he didn’t share the eagerness of some judges to deal out sentences merely to set an example for others. In fact, during his tenure at the school in York, he had participated in numerous trials, and while unfortunately some had resulted in the accused being sent to the gallows, he had never attended the executions. However, on this occasion he had promised the bishop he would accompany him. For now he concluded that it would be best to put the matter out of his mind and devote a few hours to reading Virgil.

Saturday morning was bitterly cold. After attending the Prime service, Alcuin met the bishop in the small refectory next to the accommodation. The place was warm and smelled of freshly baked bread.

“Good day to you,” Lothar greeted him. “Please, sit beside me. Today we have an exquisite gourd pie.”

“Good day, Father.” He thanked him for his offer and served himself a small slice. “I would like to speak to you about the
assistant that you assigned to me for the writing tasks, the novice who is the librarian’s nephew.”

“Yes. What about him? I hope he is not disobeying you.”

“No, Your Eminence, on the contrary. The boy is a hard worker and also very orderly. Somewhat fussy, perhaps—but diligent enough, certainly.”

“So?”

“Only, he is not suitable. And believe me that I am not saying this on the grounds of his youth. I must admit that when you suggested him as an assistant, Father, I thought him a wise choice. However, the facts indicate otherwise.”

“Very well. Tell me how he has displeased you and we will see if the problem can be solved.”

“A thousand things, Father. To start with, he does not know how to write in minuscule. He uses that ancient Latin alphabet, all in crude capitals, with no punctuation or spaces between the words. What’s more, he ruins parchments as if he were blowing his nose on them. Only yesterday, he blotted the same page twice. Ah! And of course, he does not know Greek. Yes, he is eager to learn, but what I need is a scribe, not an apprentice.”

“You can be grateful to have that boy. He is meek and has a nice hand. And you know Greek. Why do you need anyone else?”

“As I have already explained, Father, my eyesight is not what it was. At a distance I can distinguish a kite from a swift, but close up, as the hours draw on, I can barely tell a vowel from a consonant.”

The bishop scratched his beard and let out a belch. “All the same, I don’t know how I can help you. In the chapter there is nobody I know of who speaks Greek. Perhaps in the monastery…”

“I have asked there, too,” said Alcuin, shaking his head.

“Then you will have to make do.”

“Perhaps not.” He arched his eyebrows. “A couple of days ago by coincidence I met a girl who needed help. Fortunately, not only can she read, but she can also write with an immaculate hand.”

“A girl? I’m sure you are aware of the ineptitude of women in matters of knowledge. She has not caught your attention for more earthly reasons, I hope?” He winked mischievously.

“I can assure you that is not the case, Father. Rather, I need a scribe, and one who speaks Greek, so her coming is a godsend.”

“Then do as you wish. But she must not be allowed in the chapter at night, lest she stir the baser desires of the clergy.”

Alcuin was pleased. He drank a little wine and served himself another slice of pie. At that moment he remembered the matter of The Swine and asked Lothar about his crime.

“You seem distressed by the affair,” observed the bishop after wolfing down a piece of pie larger than his mouth. “Indeed, when I invited you to the event, you didn’t show much interest, and I must admit, Brother Alcuin, that it troubled me.”

“You must forgive me if I do not share your enthusiasm.” He served himself a thin slice of cheese. “But I have never enjoyed treating death like a special occasion. Perhaps if I knew the details of what happened, I would understand your stance better, but in any case, do not concern yourself more than necessary: I will accompany you to the execution and pray for the condemned man’s soul.”

Lothar pushed the bread aside with one swipe of his arm. “
Actio personalis moritur cum persona
. Here in Fulda, the clergy is respectful of the law, just as I assume it is in your own country. Our humble presence not only comforts the prisoner in his final trial on earth, but also instills the necessary respect in the common folks, who, as you know, are by nature tempted to follow examples that are contrary to the doctrine of Our Lord.”

“And I admire such laudable intentions,” Alcuin responded, “however, I believe that certain spectacles only serve to distract the masses and accentuate their primitive instincts. Have you not seen how their faces twist into grotesque grimaces as they applaud the agony of the condemned man? Have you not heard the boorish
blasphemies they utter while the accused writhes on the rope? Have you not seen their lustful expressions, still sullied by the effects of wine?”

The bishop stopped eating and challenged Alcuin with his stare. “Listen to me carefully! That bastard murdered a girl in the prime of her life. He beheaded her with a sickle and defiled her innocent body.”

Alcuin choked and spat out his mouthful. He had not imagined an offense so grave. “A truly heinous crime,” he said, “which I knew nothing about. But even so, this punishment…”

“Dear brother, the law is not dictated by we humble servants of God. It is Charlemagne’s capitularies who decide such matters. What’s more, I do not understand why you would argue against giving this man the ultimate punishment.”

“No, no. Please, do not misunderstand me. I believe like you that the crime must be punished, and that the punishment—so that justice prevails—must be proportionate to the offense committed. Only, this morning after the Terce service, I heard a most disconcerting comment from some chaplains.”

“What did they say?”

“That this poor half-witted fellow, alluding to the condemned man, should not have been born. Do you know what they might have meant by these words?”

“You said it yourself. They were talking about that cretin. I do not see anything that should concern us in those words,” replied Lothar, serving himself another slice of gourd pie.

“But when I asked them about The Swine—I believe that is what they called him—they told me that he has been a half-wit since birth, and that until the day of the murder, he had not once done anything serious. They said that on a few occasions he had scared someone, but more because of his slovenly appearance than his behavior, and that nobody would have imagined that he was capable of committing such a cruel and abominable act.”

“And if everything they have told you is true, it would seem, dear Alcuin, that you know more about the case than you let on.”

“Just the details that I have recounted. However, I do not know how his guilt was determined. Pray tell, was he caught attacking the young woman? Did a witness see him in the area? Or perhaps someone found his clothes covered in blood?”

The bishop rose and abruptly batted his plate aside. “
Habet aliquid ex inicuo omne magnum exemplum, quod cautra cingulos, utilitate publica rependitur
. The monster is guilty. He has been tried and sentenced. And like any good Christian, I expect you to applaud when we send him to hell.”

Alcuin was taken aback by the bishop’s reaction. He had not intended to pass judgment on his methods, but merely to make a comment. However, he could see that his words had been ill considered. In reality he had no reason to question Lothar’s views.

“Esteemed Father, forgive me,” he said. “If it is still your desire, please count on me to be there this afternoon.”

Lothar looked him up and down. “I hope so, Brother Alcuin. And I suggest that you think more about victims and worry less about murderers. There is no place for them, nor those who sympathize with them, in the Kingdom of Heaven,” said Lothar, departing without saying good-bye.

Alcuin realized too late how foolish he had been. Lothar would now see him as an arrogant Briton more eager to demonstrate his superiority than to concern himself with his own matters. And worst of all, he was certain that, sooner or later, their confrontation would come back to bite him.

After breakfast, he went to the kitchen to pick up a couple of apples for a midday snack. He chose them ripe and yellow, highly perfumed, just as he liked them. Then he set off for the old library located on the opposite side of the palace. They had told him that the bishop had ordered it constructed at the southern end of the
building, facing the interior of the atrium, to shelter it from the wind and damp.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to find Theresa sitting on the bench that ran along the scriptorium. She wielded a pen in the air as though writing on an imaginary parchment, but she was moving it with such delicacy that, more than writing, it seemed like she was performing some sort of dance. Alcuin imagined she was practicing, but no matter what she was doing, it was clear that she undoubtedly had the skills required for the delicate art of copying.

“Good morning,” he interrupted. “I didn’t think you were coming to the chapter today.”

The young woman gave a start and dropped the pen on the desk. She looked at Alcuin openmouthed and suddenly rose as if she had been pinched on the backside. “I was… I was practicing,” she stammered. “My father says that if you practice enough, you can achieve anything.”

“That is almost always true with a great deal of practice—and I would also say with a great deal of faith. To progress, one has to believe in what one is doing. Speaking of which, do you like your trade? I mean, do you like working as a parchment-maker?”

Theresa fell silent, and her cheeks turned red. “I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but I only do it to be near books,” she finally said.

“I sense a feeling of guilt, when it should be the opposite,” he replied. “Divine Providence makes sure everyone fulfills the role that She has provided for them. And yours does not have to be that of a faultless bookbinder.”

The young woman remained with her head bowed for a moment. Suddenly her face lit up. “Reading! That’s what I love! I read whenever I can, and when I do, I feel like I am traveling to other lands, discovering other languages, and living other lives.” Her eyes were moving side-to-side as if she were picturing her words. “I don’t think there is anything quite like it. Sometimes
I even imagine myself writing. But I don’t mean copying like an amanuensis, but writing down my own thoughts.” She stopped as if she had said something foolish. “I don’t know… my stepmother always told me that I have my head in the clouds, that it is not good for me to be doing a man’s work, and I should marry and have children instead.”

“You never know. Perhaps that is the path that the Lord has laid out for you. How old are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-four? Look at me. I’m sixty years old, and I’m a simple teacher. Perhaps it is not a lot, but I am content to do the tasks that God has seen fit to entrust to me.”

“So, it doesn’t depend on me? I mean… God has decided my future?”

“I see you have not yet read
The City of God
, for otherwise you would know what the saint from Hippo Regius illustrated with dazzling clarity in his writings: The stars, as has undoubtedly been demonstrated, hold the keys to our destiny in their alignment and movements.”

“And you can deduce what my fate will be?”

“It is not so easy. I would need to prepare your astral chart, know the precise moment of your birth, determine the position of the sun in the heavens and, of course, it would take many, many days of work.”

Theresa looked disconcerted. Suddenly she screwed up her face and sat back down. “But if what you say is true, would that not mean that the stars are more powerful than Divine Providence?”

“Not exactly. And it is not me who says so, but Saint Augustine himself, who asks what the heavenly bodies are if not mere instruments of God. His work—the heavens—a mirror of his celestial intentions. The Maker did not give us a soul in order to be slaves to one destiny. He granted us free will to differentiate us from the quadrupeds, from the wild beasts that roam this world. And this free will is the thing inside you that tells you that you must
persevere with your writing. That you will better serve God by reading and writing, instead of wasting your life sewing pages and boiling leather.”

“My father always told me the same thing. With different words, of course, but more or less the same.” Then something occurred to her. “Could you teach me?”

“Teach you? Teach you what?”

“You said you are a teacher. I could learn what you teach to your students.”

At first the friar hesitated, but finally, he acquiesced. They agreed that after the day’s writing was complete, they would devote a couple of hours to studying the
trivium
and the
cuadrivium
, for she already had a good command of reading and writing. Once they had covered the basic subjects, they would move on to the Holy Scriptures.

Suddenly Alcuin rose as if he had just remembered something. “Do you feel like going for a walk?” he proposed.

“What about the writing?”

“Bring a couple of tablets with you. You’ll see what use we’ll make of them.”

14

Before departing for their walk, Alcuin told Theresa to wait for him while he discussed a matter with the bishop. The monk set off for the prelate’s chambers, where he was received by his personal secretary. After explaining his intentions, the secretary, a hunchbacked old man who seemed as if every part of his body, even his monk’s habit, was in pain, rose and disappeared behind some red curtains before returning moments later with a slow step.

“His Eminence will receive you in the evening. He is busy now with an emissary from Aquis-Granum.”

“But it is essential that I see him imminently.”

“He is busy, I tell you. What’s more, it is not a good time. It would appear he has had to postpone The Swine’s execution, and it has upset him.”

“Postpone it? I do not understand.”

“Charlemagne is approaching Fulda with a Roman legation, and knowing of his impending visit, it would be inconsiderate to deprive the king of the spectacle.”