The Scribe (43 page)

After the copying was complete, Alcuin turned his attention to broadening Theresa’s knowledge, insisting on the
ars dictaminis
, or the art of writing epistles. “You shouldn’t spend all your time thinking about how to copy—you must also think about what you want to write.”

On occasion, when Alcuin left the scriptorium, Theresa would take out the parchment that her father had hidden in his bag, and study it in an attempt to decipher its contents. Sometimes she would consult the Greek codices she found on the shelves of the scriptorium. But in none of them, nor in any of the Latin texts, was there any mention of the Donation of Constantine. She was surprised to find no reference to it, but she did not dare ask Alcuin.

In addition to analyzing the parchment, Theresa spent her time studying a fascinating book: the
Liber Glossarum
, a singular codex that was a compendium of a vast body of knowledge. According to Alcuin, the copy she was reading had been made at Corbie Abbey from a Visigothic original inspired by Saint Isidore’s
Etymologiae
.

On more than one occasion he had cautioned her against the paragraphs in which the pagan prose of Virgil, Orosius, Cicero, or Eutropius could be discerned, but because of contributions by Jerome, Ambrose, Augustine, and Gregory the Great, Alcuin allowed her to continue reading. That book provided Theresa with a window to a world of wisdom beyond the confines of religion.

“There are some things that I still don’t understand,” she said, closing the book for a moment.

“If you spent less time with that volume and made more of an effort to read the Bible…”

“I’m not talking about the
Liber Glossarum
. I’m referring to the incident with the poisoned wheat. I’ve been thinking, and I still fail to comprehend why you locked me in that room.”

“Ah. That? Well. The truth is I was concerned for your well-being. And also, I must confess, I was worried what more you might tell Lothar. In fact, I am the one who made you go to him the first time, but then the situation became more dangerous.”

“You? Now I really don’t understand.”

“After you discovered the hidden text, my suspicions centered on Lothar. He was the only person who had access to the polyptych, and the correction seemed recent. Unfortunately, Lothar began to grow wary of us, so I thought it would be beneficial to make him believe we suspected someone else. That was why I told Helga the Black to dye her legs and feign the sickness—so that you would become agitated and go to Lothar. I knew you would tell him that I suspected Kohl, which would enable me to continue with my investigations. I even wrote the letter he found in my cell to purposefully mislead him, knowing that he was watching me.

“But why didn’t you tell me your plan?”

“So that you wouldn’t alert Lothar for any reason. I needed him to trust you, trust your version of what was happening. In fact, the idea to dye Helga’s legs is one I got from Lothar himself.”

“How do you mean?”

“It was he who used it first with Rothaart, the redhead. I discovered it when I examined his body. He didn’t die from the sickness, but was murdered by Lothar. Rothaart was the only person who could betray him, besides The Swine, and once the redhead died, the only suspect that remained was Kohl.”

“And why didn’t you tell Charlemagne all of this? Even I doubted your innocence.”

“I needed time. As I said in the trial, I discovered that the bishop was plowing land outside of the bishopric’s boundaries. I suppose Lothar, sowing the wheat, thought that he would free himself of the proof that incriminated him, without losing the value of the grain. But the problem isn’t so easily solved. The ergot could pass
from one crop to another and end up contaminating even more of the town.

“But, I didn’t know where he was hiding the cereal, nor if the batches that were found at Kohl’s mill, planted there of course by Lothar, accounted for all of the bishop’s contaminated wheat, so I had two acolytes watch the fields. I did not want to unmask him until I was certain of his intentions. What really concerns me is that there is a batch of grain that I still haven’t found.”

Theresa felt stupid for having mistrusted Alcuin. She put down the book, gathered her writing implements and asked for permission to retire to think things through. After all, night had fallen some time ago.

20

When Gorgias awoke, he prayed that it had all been a dream, but around him he saw the walls that had imprisoned him for over a month. Each morning Genseric visited the crypt to check on the progress of the document that Gorgias was transcribing, bring him a stewpot containing his daily rations, and remove his bucket of waste through the hatch in the door.

Gorgias endeavored to write as carefully as his faculties would permit. But he soon realized that the coadjutor was only paying attention to the quantity of text, disregarding the accuracy of expression and the elegance of the calligraphy. At first he attributed Genseric’s silence in regards to the text to his poor eyesight, but then he remembered that Genseric had never learned Greek. He was sure that Wilfred must be aware of this fact, and so it was odd that he did not demand to see the text for himself. This made him reconsider.

When the coadjutor left, Gorgias began to eat from the pot of food just delivered to him. He thought about Genseric and his pale blue eyes. After a while he stood.

His pale blue eyes
.

And what if the man who had stabbed him on the day of the fire had been Genseric himself? The coadjutor did not seem the kind of individual to assault a younger man, but it had been nighttime,
and it was a surprise attack. He recalled including Genseric in his list of initial suspects alongside the midget monk and the precentor—although, due to Genseric’s age, he was last in line. Gorgias was sure his attacker already knew about the parchment in his bag. And Genseric had knowledge of the castle’s documents and, it would appear, its secret passages.

He paced around in circles. Wilfred had always told him that he was transcribing a secret text, but if this were the case, then why did he now entrust it to Genseric? There was a stabbing pain in his arm but he ignored it. What’s more, why would the count want to lock him up? And if he needed the document so badly, why was he not checking on his progress himself?

No. It made no sense. The only explanation was that Genseric was acting independently. The coadjutor attacked him and stole the copy of the parchment containing the annotations in Latin, and now he wanted to do the same with the transcription in Greek.

He pondered the events for the rest of the day, until he decided that Genseric must know the immense importance of the parchment. For Wilfred spoke of its power with fear, though he did not explain why. For some reason Genseric coveted this power, and without a doubt he would kill to obtain it.

Gorgias reexamined the text he had been translating from Latin into Greek and estimated that, continuing at the same pace, he would finish the work in around ten days. He had this long to figure out a way to save his life. Over the next few days he devised a plan of escape.

Genseric normally appeared after the Terce service, stayed a while in the antechamber and then opened the hatch to supply him with food. Sometimes he left it open while waiting for the text, which might be the opportunity Gorgias needed.

The hatch, a sort of small vertical cylinder, had a couple of partitions located between its top and bottom, forming two more receptacles. He judged that a piglet would hardly fit in either,
so even if he could dismantle the partitions, he would never fit through the hole. However, he thought that if he could distract Genseric, perhaps he could grab his arm and force him to unlock the door.

It was Wednesday. He decided to attempt his ploy on the Sunday, which would give him enough time, he thought, to file through the partition mountings on the hatch.

By Thursday afternoon he managed to loosen the first one. Once he had filed through it, he concealed the damage with some bread wetted with black ink. By Friday he had dislodged the second and third, but on Saturday he had still not managed to file away the last one. He had worked without respite but the wound on his arm prevented him from continuing. That night he could not sleep peacefully.

When he heard Genseric arriving on Sunday, the last partition was still in place. For a moment he thought about giving up, but then thought he might manage to force it open. Desperate, he rested his foot against the partition and pushed with all his might. It didn’t budge. Finally, with a kick, he made it jump out of its housing, just as he heard the front door of the chapel unlock.

Gorgias had just enough time to reposition the hatch and clumsily secure it in place with the putty he had prepared. When Genseric asked about the noise, Gorgias told him he had fallen against his chair.

He prayed that he would not notice the imperfections in the hatch. But soon he heard him releasing and turning the revolving hatch as usual. The plate of peas confirmed that it was Sunday. He quickly took it and then placed an old, draft parchment in the hatch to see if Genseric could distinguish it. The coadjutor turned the hatch and removed the parchment, and just as Gorgias hoped, he did not secure the mechanism.

He quickly crouched down near the hatch. Now all he had to do was wait for it to turn again so he could strike the partition
and trap Genseric’s arm. He started breathing so heavily that he thought he would alert the coadjutor. However, the old man was unalarmed. Gorgias thought he could hear him sliding his wrinkly fingers over the parchment. Suddenly he noticed that he was bolting the hatch.

“I must go over the text,” he informed him.

Gorgias cursed his bad luck. He knew it wouldn’t take long for Genseric to discover that the hatch had been tampered with. Suddenly, from behind the door, Gorgias heard an instrument scraping the housings. Then he heard a curse as a blow to the hatch almost knocked his teeth out. Gorgias stepped back while the curses continued to flow on the other side. He feared Genseric would do something stupid. However, the oaths became less frequent until they gradually disappeared like a storm in the distance before the door to the chapel slammed violently.

That night, a stranger arrived with Genseric. From inside his confinement, Gorgias could hear them arguing heatedly, their voices rising until they were shouting. The newcomer seemed highly agitated, and soon the voices were replaced by the sound of blows. Moments later, the hatch opened, and powerful arms removed the damaged partitions. Light entered the room, revealing a tattoo of a serpent.

Gorgias retreated, thinking he was about to die. Yet, nothing happened. The tattooed arm passed the old, draft parchment that Gorgias had given to Genseric back into the cell and then disappeared. Gorgias heard them reposition the partitions.

For three days, he was left alone with no news of Genseric

“Get up!” the coadjutor ordered from the other side of the door.

Gorgias obeyed, not too sure what he was doing anymore. He looked at the little window with swollen eyes and saw that it was not yet dawn. Staggering over to the door, he rested his head on it. Gorgias prayed that Genseric had forgotten the incident with the
hatch, though it would have made more sense, he thought, for him to pray for the walls to fall in and crack open his head.

The hatch turned, letting in a thread of light before abruptly closing. Gorgias groped in the darkness for the pot of food. He picked it up and devoured the porridge without savoring it, for he hadn’t eaten in three days.

He was swallowing the last mouthful when Genseric ordered him to prepare the parchment. Gorgias coughed. He could hardly think.

“I… I have not been able to make any progress,” he said. “My arm… I’m sick.”

Genseric cursed him and threatened to torture Rutgarda.

“I swear I’m not lying. Please, see for yourself.”

Without giving him time to answer, Gorgias dismantled one of the partitions from the hatch. He could hear Genseric releasing the bolt on the other side. Through the hole he could see the light of a candle. Then he slowly inserted his injured arm. Suddenly he felt something crush it and he cried out in pain.

“If you try anything, I’ll break it right here,” Genseric declared.

Gorgias agreed and Genseric lifted his foot. When the pain subsided, Gorgias could feel the heat from the candle near his fingers while the coadjutor examined his arm.

Genseric was taken aback. If the arm had not been moving, he would’ve thought the limb belonged to a corpse.

The coadjutor returned at nightfall to announce that the physician Zeno was prepared to see him, but by that time Gorgias couldn’t even understand, for he was consumed with fever. When he came round, he could hear Genseric on the other side of the door, striking the hatch to remove the two partitions. The beam of light expanded.

Genseric ordered him to rest his back against the door and put both arms through the hatch. Gorgias did as he was told, barely aware of his actions. He didn’t even complain when his wrists were chained.

Then he felt Genseric insert a stick between his forearms to secure him against the door, making it impossible for him to pull his arms back through. A few moments went by before the coadjutor opened up, forcing him to drag himself along the ground in the direction of the door.

He barely had time to look up before Genseric covered Gorgias’s head with a hood, which he cinched at the neck. Before removing the stick that kept him secured to the door, Genseric warned that he would kill him if he tried to escaped. Gorgias nodded, but he could hardly stay on his feet as Genseric pulled him up by the chains.

Gorgias didn’t know for how long they were walking, only that the journey seemed endless. Finally they stopped somewhere sheltered from the wind. Before long someone arrived and greeted Genseric. By the tone of voice, Gorgias supposed it was Zeno, but it could just as easily have been the man with the tattoo. The coadjutor insisted that Zeno tend to Gorgias with the hood still on his head, but Zeno refused.

“He could die and I wouldn’t know.”