The Scribe (7 page)

The church was filled with murmuring.

“Hunger calls at our door,” he continued. “It seeps into our homes and devours our children. The rain floods our crops. Disease decimates our livestock. And still you complain? God sends us signs, and you lament His ways? Pray! Pray until your souls cough up the phlegm of your greed and hatred. Pray for the glory of the Lord. He has taken lives today, including Caelius and Theresa, freeing them from the sinful world that you have built. Now that their souls have left the corruption of the flesh, you tear your hair out and cry like women. Heed His warnings, I say, for they will not be the last. God is showing you the way. Forget your hardships and fear Him, for you will not find the feast that you crave in this world. Pray! Beg for forgiveness, and perhaps one day you will sit at His table, for those who renounce the Lord will be consumed in the abyss of damnation, until the end of time.”

Wilfred went silent. Over the years he had come to understand that, whatever the cause, the best argument was eternal damnation. Nonetheless, Korne frowned and stepped forward.

“If you will allow me,” he said, raising his voice. “Since my conversion, I have always thought myself a good Christian: I pray when I rise in the morning. I fast every Friday, and I follow the Lord’s commandments.” He looked around at those gathered as if seeking their approval. “Today God has taken my son Caelius: a healthy and robust boy, a good child. I accept the ways of the Lord, and I pray to Him for my son’s soul. I also pray for my own, for my family’s, and for those of almost everyone present.” He swallowed and turned to Gorgias. “But the culprit of this tragedy does not
deserve a single prayer to ease her punishment. That girl should never have set foot in my workshop. If God uses death to teach us, perhaps we should use His teachings. And if it is God that judges the dead, let us be the ones to judge the living.”

The church filled with shouts and cries: “
Nihil est tam volucre quam maledictum—nihil facilius emiltitur, nihil citius excipitur, nihil latius dissipatur
.”

Wilfred interjected at the top of his voice. “Poor
illitterati
: Nothing moves quicker than slander. Nothing issues forth from us so easily. Nothing is accepted so readily. And nothing spreads farther across the face of the earth. I have already heard the rumors surrounding Theresa. You all say the same thing, yet none of you know the truth of what happened. Give up this falseness and ignominy—because there are no secrets that do not come out sooner or later.
Nihil est opertum quod non revelavitur, et ocultum quod non scietur
.”

“Lies, you say?” responded Korne, waving his arms around. “I suffered the wrath of that daughter of Cain myself. Her hatred caused the fire that has destroyed my life. And I will say it here, in God’s house. My son Caelius would have borne witness to it had he not died because of that girl. Everyone who was there can attest to it and I swear before the Almighty that they will do so when Gorgias and his family face judgment.” And without waiting for Wilfred’s consent, he lifted Caelius’s body onto his shoulders and left the church with his family following.

Gorgias waited until the rest of the congregation had left the building. He wanted to talk to Wilfred about Theresa’s burial and he knew that there would not be a better time. Wilfred’s words had come as a great surprise to him. Rutgarda had told him about the rumors that pointed to Theresa as the perpetrator of the fire, but the count’s warning seemed to suggest it was far from an established fact. While Rutgarda waited outside, discussing preparations for the burial with some neighbors, Gorgias approached
Wilfred and was surprised to see him stroking the backs of his hounds. He wondered how a man without legs could handle those ferocious beasts with such ease.

“I am sorry about your daughter,” said Wilfred, shaking his head. “In truth she was a good girl.”

“She was all I had—my whole life.” His eyes filled with tears.

“People think there is only one death, but that is not entirely true. Every time a child dies, the death is also felt by the parents, and this in turn gives rise to a painful irony: The emptier life is, the heavier it becomes. But your wife is still young. Perhaps you could yet…”

Gorgias shook his head. They had tried many times, but God did not want to bless them with another child.

“My only desire is that Theresa receives a burial worthy of the Christian that she always was. I know that what I ask of you may be difficult now, but I beg you to heed my request.”

“If it is within my power.”

“I have seen terrible things of late: unclothed bodies lying in ruts, corpses thrown in dung heaps, remains dug from graves by desperate starvelings. I don’t want these things happening to my daughter.”

“Naturally. But I do not see how—”

“The cloister cemetery. I know only clerics and important men rest in that garden, but I ask you as a special favor. You know how much I have done for you.”

“And I for you, Gorgias, but what you ask of me is impossible. Not another soul will fit in the cloister, and the chapel tombs belong to the church.”

“I know, but I was thinking about the area near the well. It’s unused.”

“That place is almost pure rock.”

“It doesn’t matter. I will dig.”

“With that arm?”

“I’ll find someone to help me.”

“Regardless, I don’t think it’s a good idea. The people would not comprehend why a girl accused of murder should lie to rest in a cloister surrounded by saints.”

“I do not understand. You defended her yourself just a few moments ago.”

“True,” he said, shaking his head. “Nicodemus, one of the injured workers, asked for confession. He must have felt the presence of death and between confessing his sins he spoke of what happened. It would seem that events did not occur as Korne described them.”

“What are you saying? That it was not Theresa who caused the fire?”

“Let us say that it is not clear what happened. Nonetheless, even if Korne’s accusation was false, it would be very difficult to prove it. Nicodemus spoke under the secrecy of confession, and we can assume that the rest of the workers will confirm Korne’s version. I do not think Nicodemus will survive much longer in his condition, and even if he does, no doubt he will take back what he said. Remember that he works for Korne.”

“And Korne works for you.”

“My good fellow, sometimes you underestimate Korne’s power. People do not respect him for his work. They fear his family. Many townsfolk have suffered his wrath. His sons are as quick to draw their swords as an adolescent is to unsheathe his member.”

“But you know that my daughter could not have done it. You know Theresa. She was a kind and generous soul.” His tears began to flow.

“And stubborn as a mule. Look, Gorgias: I hold you in great esteem, but I cannot grant what you ask. I am truly sorry.”

Gorgias could understand Wilfred’s position, but he was not going to allow his daughter’s body to be defiled in some old dunghill.

“Then you leave me no option, Your Grace. If I cannot bury my daughter in Würzburg, I will take her body to Aquis-Granum.”

“To Aquis-Granum you say? You must be jesting. The passes are blocked, as are the relay posts. Even if you had a cart with oxen, the bandits would tear you to pieces.”

“I tell you that I will do it if it costs me my life.”

Gorgias held Wilfred’s gaze. He knew the count needed his services and would not permit anything to happen.

Wilfred took his time to respond. “You forget that there is a manuscript that needs finishing,” he eventually said.

“And you that there is a body that needs burying.”

“Don’t tempt fate. Until now I have protected you like a son, but that does not entitle you to behave like an insolent child,” he said, and resumed stroking the dogs’ heads. “Remember that it was me who took you in when you arrived in Würzburg begging for a scrap of bread. It was me who secured your place on the registry of free men, despite the fact that you lacked the required documents or weapons. And it was me who offered you the work that you have benefited from until now.”

“I would be an ingrate if I forgot it. But that was six years ago, and I believe my work has more than compensated you for your help.”

Wilfred gave him a stern look, but then his face softened. “I’m sorry, but I cannot help you. By now Korne will already have been to the judge to report what has happened. It would be reckless for me to accept the body of a person who might be found guilty of murder. And there is more. I would advise you to start worrying about yourself. You can be certain that Korne will go after you.”

“But why? During the fire I was with you in the scriptorium.”

“Hmm… I see that you still have no understanding of the complexities of Carolingian Law, something you will have to remedy if you value your head.”

Wilfred cracked his whip and the dogs moved obediently, dragging the wheeled contraption to one of the lavishly decorated chambers. Gorgias followed, obeying the count’s gesture to follow.

“This is where the optimates are given lodging,” Wilfred explained. “Princes, nobles, bishops, kings. And in this little room we keep the capitula that our king has been publishing since his coronation. Archived with these are the codices of Salic and Ripuarian Law, decretals and acts of the May Assembly—in short, the rules that govern the Franks, the Saxons, the Burgundians, and the Lombards. Now let me see…”

Wilfred brought his wheelchair up to a bookcase built low to the ground and, one by one, examined the volumes organized and protected in wooden covers. The cleric stopped in front of a threadbare tome. He removed it with difficulty, then leafed through it, wetting his finger with the tip of his tongue.

“Aha. Here it is:
Capitular de Vilbis. Poitiers, anno domine 768
.
Karolus rex francorum
. Allow me to read it to you: ‘If a free man inflicts material or personal damage on another man of equal status, and if due to any circumstances he is unable to compensate for his offense, the punishment that justly befits the offender will fall upon his family.’”

Wilfred closed the book and returned it to the shelf.

“My life is in danger?” asked Gorgias.

“Perhaps. I have known the parchment-maker for a long time. He is an egotistical man. Dangerous, perhaps, and shrewd as they come. You are no good to him dead. I imagine he will go after your assets. But what his family wants is another matter. They are from Saxony. Their customs are different from those of the Franks.”

“If what he seeks is wealth…” said Gorgias with a bitter smile.

“That is precisely your biggest problem. The trial could finish you. You could end up being sold on the slave market.”

“I don’t care about that now. After I have buried my daughter, I will find a way to remedy this situation.”

“For God’s sake, Gorgias, think it over. Or at least consider Rutgarda. Your wife is innocent. You should concentrate on preparing your defense. And do not even think about running away. Korne’s men will hunt you like a rabbit.”

Gorgias lowered his head. If Wilfred did not authorize the interment, his only option was to take the body to Aquis-Granum. But this would be impossible if—as the count warned—Korne’s relatives were prepared to hunt him down. “Theresa will be buried tonight in the cloister,” Gorgias said, “and it will be you who oversees the trial. After all, Your Grace needs my freedom much more than me.”

The count flicked the reins and the dogs growled menacingly. “Look, Gorgias, since you started copying the parchment for me, I have given you food that many would kill for. Now you are pushing me too far. In fact, perhaps I should reconsider the scope of our agreement. Your skills are to a certain extent essential to me, but if an accident, illness, or even this trial prevented you from completing the task we have agreed to, do you think my plans would go on hold? That your absence would prevent me from completing my undertaking?”

Gorgias knew that he was treading on thin ice, but his only chance was to put pressure on Wilfred. Otherwise his head would end up on a dung heap alongside Theresa’s.

“I don’t doubt that you will be able to find someone. Of course you could. All you would have to do is find a scribe whose mother tongue is Greek, who knows the customs of the ancient Byzantine court, who has equal mastery of both diplomatics and calligraphy, who can distinguish an unborn calf’s vellum from a lambskin parchment, and, who of course, knows how to keep his mouth shut. Tell me, Your Grace, how many men like that do you know? Two scribes? Three perhaps? And how many of them would be prepared to undertake such a risky commission?”

Wilfred growled like one of his animals. His head tilted to one side, aglow with rage. He was more grotesque than ever.

“I could find that man,” he said defiantly as he turned away.

“And what would he copy? A charred piece of parchment?”

The count stopped dead. “What do you mean?”

“You heard me, my Lord. The only complete copy in existence went up in flames, so unless you know someone who can read ashes, you will have to accept my conditions.”

“What do you want? For us all to end up in hell?”

“That is not my intention, for luckily I remember the contents of the document word for word.”

“And how exactly in the Devil’s name do you think I can help you? I represent the law in Würzburg. I owe obedience to Charlemagne.”

“You tell me. Or is the powerful Wilfred, count and guardian of the greatest of secrets, unable to arrange for a simple burial?”