The Scribe (6 page)

He noticed that the wall between the courtyard and the workshops was still standing, and he remembered that Korne, fed up with so many thefts, had ordered the primitive palisade to be replaced with a stone wall. Thanks to that decision, it appeared that the area between the wall and the pools had been saved from the flames.

A trembling hand touched Gorgias on the shoulder. It was Bertharda.

“What a tragedy. Such a great tragedy!” she said, tears in her eyes.

“Bertharda, for the love of God, have you seen my daughter?” he asked with desperation in his voice.

“She saved my life. Do you hear me? She saved me.”

“Yes, yes, I hear you. But where is she? Is she hurt?”

“I told her not to go in. To forget the books. But she ignored me.”

“For goodness’ sake, Bertharda, tell me where my daughter is,” Gorgias insisted, shaking the woman by the shoulders.

The woman stared at him but it was as if her red eyes were focused on another world.

“We came out of the workshop, escaping the flames,” she explained. “In the courtyard she helped me scale the wall. She helped me until she could see I was safe, and then she said she had to go back for the codices. I shouted at her not to go, to climb the wall with me, but you know how headstrong she is,” she sobbed. “She went back into the workshop among those terrible flames and
then suddenly there was a crashing sound and the roof fell in. Do you hear me? She saved me and then everything collapsed.”

Gorgias turned in horror and ran headlong into the wreckage. The embers sizzled and crackled as the grayish smoke spread slowly into the sky like a sign announcing the macabre event.

If he had been thinking clearly, he would have waited for the fire to die out, but he could not wait another second. He dodged the rafters that were in his way and went deeper into the chaos of crossbeams, stanchions, and buttresses, ignoring the flames that licked his limbs. His eyes were stinging and the heat burned his lungs. He could barely see his own hands in the cloud of ash and embers floating in the air, but it did not stop him. Striding on, he shoved aside uprights, corbels, and frames, screaming Theresa’s name over and over.

Suddenly, as he was trying to find his bearings in the smoke, he heard a cry for help behind him. He turned and ran across the embers, but as he reached some earthenware jars he saw the cry for help came from Johan Shortfoot, son of Hans the tanner. The youngster was just eleven years of age and his torso was severely burned. Gorgias cursed his bad luck, but quickly bent over the boy only to see that he was trapped under a crossbeam.

A quick glance was enough to understand that if he did not help him at once he would inevitably die, so he gathered his strength and pulled on the boards that pinned him to the ground. But as fate would have it, the beam would not budge. He tore a piece from the bandage on his arm and used it to wipe the sweat from the boy’s face.

“Johan. Listen to me. I’m going to need help to get you out of here. My arm is wounded and I cannot move these boards alone. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. Can you count?”

“Yes, sir. I can count to ten,” he said with pride.

“Well, that’s marvelous. Now I want you to breathe through this bandage, and every five breaths, shout your name as loud as you can. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. So, I will go to seek help, and when I return, I’ll bring you a slice of cake and a good apple. Do you like apples?”

“No, please. Don’t leave me,” he sobbed.

“I’m not going to leave you, Johan. I’ll be back with help.”

“Don’t go, sir, I beg you!” he said, grasping Gorgias’s hand.

Gorgias looked at the boy and cursed. He knew that even if he managed to find help, the youngster would not last that long. It was already impossible to breathe in that place. Burned or asphyxiated, one way or the other Johan would die. Even so, seeking help was surely all he could do for him.

He crouched down and again grabbed the beam with both hands, bending his legs and tensing his arms until his back creaked, but he continued to pull as if his own life depended on it. He could feel his injured arm tearing and the stitches popping out, his skin and tendons cleaved open, but he persisted with excruciating effort.

“Come on, you son of a bitch, move!” he cried.

Suddenly there was a cracking noise and the beam lifted, creating a space the width of a few fingers. Gorgias breathed in a mouthful of smoke, heaved once more and the beam moved again, now there was a palm’s width of space between the boy and the beam.

“Now, Johan! Get out of there!”

The youngster rolled to one side, just as Gorgias’s strength left him and the beam went crashing to the floor. Puffing with exertion, he lifted the enfeebled boy onto his shoulders and quickly fled the inferno.

In the courtyard, where neighbors tended to the injured, Gorgias saw Zeno helping a man with blister-covered legs. The
physician brandished a lancet that he used to burst the blisters at great speed before squashing them like grapes. He was assisted by a helper who, with panic in his eyes, was applying oil-based ointments with questionable skill.

Gorgias headed toward him with Johan on his back. As he reached Zeno, he lay the boy down on the ground and asked the physician to help.

But with one quick glance, Zeno turned toward Gorgias and shook his head. “Nothing to be done,” he said with resolve.

Gorgias took Zeno by the arm and pulled him away from the boy. “You could at least make sure he can’t hear,” he whispered. “Tend to him at any rate, and let God decide his fate.”

Zeno gave him a scornful smile. “You should look after yourself,” he said, pointing at his blood-soaked arm. “Let me have a look.”

“First the boy.”

Zeno grimaced and squatted beside the youngster. He called over a helper and snatched the ointment from his hands.

“Pig fat—the best thing for burns,” he announced as he smeared the substance on Johan’s wounds. “The count will not be pleased if it is wasted on someone with no hope of recovery.”

Gorgias did not respond. All he could think about was finding Theresa. “Are there more wounded?” he asked.

“Of course. The most seriously injured have been taken to Saint Damian’s,” the surgeon answered without lifting his gaze.

Gorgias crouched beside Johan and stroked his brow. The boy responded with a hint of a smile. “Pay no heed to this meatcutter,” he said. “You will get better, you’ll see.” And without giving him time to respond, he stood and set off toward the basilica in search of his daughter.

Despite its squat appearance, Saint Damian’s Church was a solid, sturdy structure. It had been built from good masonry stone and Charlemagne himself had expressed his satisfaction when he learned that a building consecrated to God had been erected on foundations as robust as the faith of its subjects. Before going in, Gorgias crossed himself and prayed to God that Theresa was safe.

As he walked through the door, he was struck by an unbearable stench of burned flesh. Without stopping he took one of the torches secured to the walls and continued toward the transept, using the torch to illuminate the little chapels that flanked the lateral naves. When he reached the presbytery, he noticed a row of straw sacks arranged behind the altar for the injured to lie on.

Gorgias promptly recognized Hahn, a bright boy who would hang about the workshop waiting for someone to give him an odd job. Now his legs were scorched and he was wailing bitterly. Beside him lay a man who Gorgias was unable to identify since burns had transformed his face into a dark scab. By the central apse he spotted Nicodemus, one of Korne’s craftsmen, confessing his sins. Beyond the transept there was a stout man, his head in bandages with only his ears showing, and behind him, the prostrate figure of a naked boy. Gorgias noted that it was Caelius, youngest son of the master parchment-maker. The youngster’s body was lying there with half-open, unseeing eyes, his neck twisted round. He had undoubtedly died in terrible agony.

Nobody there was able to tell him the whereabouts of his daughter.

Gorgias went down on his knees and prayed to God for Theresa’s soul. As he prepared to continue his search, he felt his strength leave his body. A shiver ran through his insides, shaking him until his vision blurred. He tried to hold himself up against a column, but blackness overcame him. Swaying from side to side, he fell to the ground, unconscious.

By midmorning, pealing bells roused Gorgias from his slumber. Slowly the hazy veil that had clouded his vision dissipated, until vague forms took clear shape again, as if they were being rinsed with clean water. He soon recognized his wife, Rutgarda, with a hint of a smile on her face that did little to disguise the fact she had been weeping. Farther back he could see Zeno, busy with some vials of tincture. Suddenly he felt a pain so intense that he feared they had cut off his arm, but when he lifted it, he saw that once again it had been carefully bandaged. Rutgarda sat him up, positioning a large cushion behind his back. Then Gorgias realized he was still in Saint Damian’s, resting against the wall of one of the little chapels.

“And Theresa? Has she turned up?” he managed to ask.

Rutgarda looked at him with sadness in her eyes. Tears welled up as she hid her face in her arms.

“What has happened?” he cried. “For God’s sake, where is my daughter? Where is Theresa?”

Gorgias looked around, but there was no response. Then, just a few steps away, he noticed a lifeless body, covered by a cloth.

“Zeno found her in the workshop, huddled under a wall,” Rutgarda sobbed.

“No! No! God almighty! It cannot be.”

Gorgias clambered to his feet and ran to where the body lay. The shroud that covered it was marked with a grotesque white cross, a charred limb protruding from one end. Gorgias pulled back the cloth and his pupils dilated in horror. Flames had devoured her body, turning it into an unrecognizable mass of flesh and scorched skin. He did not want to believe his eyes, but his hopes were shattered when he recognized the remains of his daughter’s blue dress, the one she had adored so much.

By early afternoon, folks started gathering outside of the locked doors of Saint Damian’s Church for the funerals. Children were
laughing and chattering, playing at dodging the jostling grownups, while the more irreverent ones mocked the women by imitating their weeping. A group of old women wrapped in dark fur-lined cloaks congregated around Brynhildr, a widow purported to run a brothel who tended to know everything that happened in the city. She had piqued the interest of the other women by suggesting that it was the scribe’s daughter who had caused the fire and that it was not only the victims’ lives that the flames had claimed but also, perhaps most regrettably, some provisions that Korne had kept hidden in his storerooms.

People were forming rings to discuss the number of wounded, dramatize the severity of their burns, and speculate on the cause of the fire. Now and then a woman would run from one place to another with a smile on her face, eager to share the latest bit of idle gossip. However, despite all the excitement, the rain was growing worse and there were not enough places in the street to take shelter. So the arrival of Wilfred and his team of dogs was welcomed with relief.

As soon as the gate opened, the crowd rushed in to grab the best spots. As usual, the men positioned themselves nearest the altar, leaving the women and children at the back. The front row, reserved for the parents of the deceased, was occupied by the parchment-maker and his wife. Their two children who had been injured in the fire rested on sacks of straw beside them. The remains of the youngest, Caelius, lay wrapped in a linen burial cloth next to Theresa’s body. The dead lay on a table in front of the main altar. Gorgias and Rutgarda had declined Wilfred’s invitation to sit up front, instead sitting farther back to avoid any confrontation with Korne.

The count waited in the doorway for the last of the parishioners to take their places. When the murmuring subsided, he cracked his whip and made the dogs pull him down a side nave to the transept. There, two tonsured acolytes helped him position himself
behind the altar, covered the dogs’ heads with leather hoods, then freed the count from the belts that kept him secured to his wooden contraption. The subdeacon then removed the cope that Wilfred was wearing and replaced it with a
tunica albata
, which he tightened with a
cingulum
. Over it he placed an embroidered
indumentum
with a string of silver bells hanging from its lower edging, and finally he crowned him with an impressive damask headdress. Once the count was appropriately dressed, the ostiarius washed his hands in a lavabo and placed a modest funerary chalice beside the chrismatories that contained the holy anointing oils. Two candelabras shed their weak light on the shrouds of the deceased.

A chubby cleric with an awkward gait approached the altar equipped with a psaltery. He calmly opened the volume. After wetting his index finger, he began the service, reciting the fourteen verses required by the Rule of Saint Benedict. He then intoned four psalms with antiphons, and chanted another eight, before offering a litany and the vigil of the dead. Then Wilfred took the floor, his mere presence ended the first murmurings. The count scrutinized the congregation as though he were looking for the perpetrator of the tragedy. It had been two years since he had worn the vestments of a priest.

“Be grateful to God that in His boundless mercy He has taken pity on us today,” he decreed. “Accustomed to living in complacency, to abandoning yourselves to the pleasures of your desires, you forget with despicable ease the reason why you were put on this earth. Your pious appearances, your prayers and offerings, your clouded understanding. These things make you believe that what you possess is the result of your own efforts. You insist on desiring women who are not your own. You envy others’ good fortune. And you allow your ears to be pulled from your head if it means obtaining the wealth that you so covet. You think that life is a banquet that you have been invited to, a feast in which to savor the finest meats and liqueurs. But only a selfish brain, a
weak soul oozing ignorance, is capable of forgetting that nobody but the Holy Father is the owner of our lives. And just as a father thrashes his children when they disobey—and just as a bailiff cuts the tongue from a liar or severs the limbs of a poacher—God corrects those who forget His commandments with the most terrible of punishments.”