The Scribe (70 page)

“But I didn’t have you before,” she replied, kissing him again.

Izam looked around him as he wiped the perspiration from his eyebrows. The house was progressing slowly, and it was not going to be as large as Theresa had wanted. What’s more, the virgin soil required more work than they had calculated—perhaps too much for the meager yield they hoped to gain from it. However, he admired the pride with which Theresa confronted every undertaking.

Together, they walked beside the stream. Izam kicked the odd pebble. When Theresa asked what he was thinking about, his response was that all they had was not what he wanted for her.

“What do you mean?”

“This kind of life. You deserve more,” he responded.

Theresa didn’t understand. She told him that she was happy simply to know he loved her.

“And your reading and writing? I have seen you rereading your tablet every night.”

She tried to hide the tears welling up in her eyes.

“We could go to Nantes,” Izam suggested. “I have fertile lands there, inherited from a relative. The climate’s mild, and in summer the beaches are filled with gulls. I know the local bishop, a good and simple man. I’m sure he’ll lend you books and you’ll be able to write again.”

Theresa’s face lit up. She asked him what would happen to Olaf and his family, but to her astonishment, Izam had already thought of it.

“They will travel with us,” he said, “and serve us in our new home.”

Over the next few days, they made their final preparations. They sold the land, sending a portion of the money to Rutgarda and giving several arpents to Helga the Black.

Then on the first Sunday of May, they set off for Nantes to join some traders who were making the journey as far as Paris. Holding her husband-to-be close to her, Theresa looked up at the sky that turned a darker shade of blue with each passing moment. Remembering her father, she celebrated her twists of fate with a kiss.

EPILOGUE

Although “Dirty Eric” had lost a tooth in his last fight, he could still spit farther than the rest of the boys, and this meant—along with the fact that he had the quickest fists in Würzburg—that he was still the undisputed leader of the urchins. He guided their motley group from the poor quarter everywhere about town, always on the lookout for new hiding places.

When they returned to the slave huts that spring, they were amazed at how dilapidated they had become since the winter. Exploring the mine tunnels, they gathered all sorts of sticks, stones, and other things they would need for their games. Eric decided they should set up camp in the best-preserved hut. He told little Thomas to climb the roof beams so he could better keep watch for bandits and threatened to leave him up there if he didn’t stop crying.

After a while, Dirty Eric noticed that Thomas had stopped sobbing and was crawling up a beam.

“There’s something hidden here,” the little boy announced. He sat up on the crossbeam and lifted up a carefully tied leather package.

Eric ordered him to hand it over.

The others crowded round. “What is it?” one of the boys asked.

Eric told them to be quiet and gave one boy a slap for trying to touch the package. He untied the cord with the care of someone unwrapping treasure. But when he discovered that it only contained a few parchments, he screwed up his face and cast the package into a corner.

The boys laughed at Eric’s disappointment, but he lashed out at the nearest ones until they regretted having mocked him. Then he gazed for a while at the documents he had just thrown aside before going over and carefully picking them up.

“Why do you think that I’m the boss?” he boasted. “I’ll go to the fortress and swap these for quince cakes.”

At the fortress gates, Eric tried to get one of the guards to let him through, but the man shoved him aside, telling him to scram and go play with the other urchins. He was thinking about destroying the documents when he bumped into a tall monk who appeared interested in what he had. The monk said his name was Alcuin.

Eric was wary, but he summoned some courage. That was why he was the boss after all, he reminded himself. He licked his hands and smoothed down his hair before offering Alcuin the parchments in exchange for some cakes. When the monk examined the documents, he fell to his knees. Covering Eric with kisses, he blessed the child. Then he ran to the scriptorium to give thanks to God for returning the Donation of Constantine.

That afternoon, the gang of boys hailed Dirty Eric as the best boss in the world, for aside from the quince cakes, he had also managed to obtain four barrels of wine.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

All in a Novel

How It Began

In October 1999 I attended a conference on automotive engineering in the magnificent city of Wiesbaden, a short distance from Frankfurt, Germany. As ever, the talks proved to be boring, but on the last day I was fortunate enough to have a conversation with Dr. Gerhard Müller, an affable absent-minded professor type who would not stop greeting me until I managed to convince him he had the wrong person. But it turned out to be a providential meeting, for I ended up as a guest in his home, helping him prepare dinner. I wasn’t naturally inclined toward cooking at that time, but it so happened that Frida Müller, my host’s wife, was engrossed in her doctoral thesis, and Dr. Müller proposed that he and I take care of the eggs with cream.

Over dinner I realized that Frida was an extraordinary woman, not for her appearance, which was perfectly ordinary, but for the unexpected and contagious enthusiasm with which she spoke of the thesis she was working on. Her research focused on the intrigue surrounding the coronation of Charlemagne as Emperor of Europe, and it aroused in me such interest that on my return to Spain I immediately ordered as much literature on the subject as I could find.

Countless email exchanges with Frida Müller and with a number of German experts ensued, and they helped me compile exhaustive documentation. Meanwhile I worked hard on the storyline of
The Scribe.

Because I had always wanted to write a novel.

Some people enjoy a luxurious yacht, an unpronounceable menu, or the latest designer handbag. I prefer to spend my time with a book or a good friend, though the latter are harder to find.

Over the years I’ve read dozens of pamphlets and booklets; treatises on history and philosophy; stories and essays; adventure, period and intrigue novels; exemplary narratives or humorous and inconsequential tales. And through all of them I was both educated and entertained. But if I had to choose one genre, without doubt it would be the one that has made me breathe in the penetrating damp of an abbey, dried my throat with the asphyxiating dust of the deserts of Isfahan, or endure the harsh life of the Middle Ages in rural England. Traveling to other eras and meeting the characters of the time. To me, this is historical fiction.

The Struggle

A historical novel must do more than document history; it must also be a novel. Historical detail is merely scenery, the varnish that makes the characters shine, the packaging that legitimizes them and makes them credible. But like any thick varnish, if the description overwhelms it darkens the canvas, which will undoubtedly ruin the painting. Because what is truly essential is the story itself: its fast steady plot, its unexpected twists, its terrible outcomes. In a historical novel, the characters, despite the distance in time, must feel as credible and as familiar as the neighbor you see every morning, or the unfortunate beggar who asks you for money on the street.

Over the course of two years I studied thousands of pages before closing in on the authorship of famous eighth-century forged document most call the Donation of Constantine, which would underpin the plot of
The Scribe
.

The earliest record is traced to Latin Codex 2777 of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, in Paris, dating from the ninth century, though this codex is nothing more than a copy of the original that was never found. Many studies have attributed its authorship to the same hand that concocted the False Decretals, while others, such as Baronius, pointed to the East and a schismatic Greek. Recent researchers have turned their eyes toward Rome, the Papacy being the main beneficiary, while the older interpretation of Zechariah and others points strongly to the Frankish Empire. The latter theory, championed skillfully by Hergenröther and Grauert, emphasizes the fact that the
Donatio
first appears in the Frankish collections, namely the False Decretals and Saint Denis’s manuscript, thus arguing that the document legitimized the
Translatio imperii
to the Franks, or in other words that the Imperial title would transfer to the coronation of Charlemagne.

I could mention other hypotheses, such as those posited by Martens, Friedrich, and Bayet, who support the existence of multiple authors, or those of Colombier and Genelin, on the date of its implementation, but fortunately the conclusion would not change: these gaps in historical foundation left room for my characters to enter without them seeming like impostors.

Having overcome this obstacle of accuracy, others soon appeared (of course), such as issues of topography (I needed a river, two cities in close proximity, an abbey and a gorge), weaponry (Theresa could not learn to use a bow in one day), and the unlikelihood that bands of Saxons would decide to venture so far from home.

The setting would be Würzburg and Fulda, cities to which I traveled on several occasions to ensure the suitability of their location. The bow I replaced with a crossbow, an instrument that, though it solved my problem, brought me another, for the crossbow, although existing at the time, was not widespread. But ultimately, such proposals were feasible, so I endeavored to make them as credible as possible.

As for the characters, Alcuin of York, it should be remembered, was a man of momentous influence on the history of Europe, whose existence I appropriated to turn him into an investigator enshrouded in dark shades.

And though these comments might make it seem as if it is the history that drives the novel, in truth it is the characters and the events that make it a mosaic of adventure, love, and crime, interwoven to form intricate workings in which the historical documents merely push forward the plot.

DEDICATIONS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When I considered writing a novel I was not thinking of myself. Not even of what I personally like to read.

I wanted it to be the reader who would enjoy it, not me, which was why I consulted those who know most about books: the booksellers.

There were mixed opinions, from those who stressed the importance of the title or the cover design, to those who insisted on the value of a good poster. However, almost all agreed that none of this would be any use if the book lacked soul. “Give your characters soul, and the novel will captivate.” They spoke to me of rhythm, of maintaining interest, and of the power of entertainment. “The critics seem to revile an entertaining novel, but I can assure that those are undoubtedly the best,” Peter Hirling, the owner of a tiny bookstore in central London for thirty years, said to me.

All I can say is that I tried to follow their advice. I weighed and measured every paragraph, every chapter, seeking that alchemy that disappears when you finish a novel. And after the final touch was added, the words, the metaphors, and the symbolism made way for the bigger picture. And best of all, I enjoyed it.

I would also like to thank my wife, Maite, for the love and support she gave me during the seven years that this adventure lasted, and during the twenty years that we have known each other. She is everything a man could want. I cannot forget my parents Antonio and Manoli; my siblings Sara, Alberto, and Javier; or my daughter Lidia, her husband Rafael, and their son Rafa, who has brought us all such joy.

I must also thank Carlos García Gual, professor of Greek philology at the Complutense University of Madrid, writer, essayist, and critic, as well as editor of the National Geographic’s
Historia
magazine, for his praise of the first draft of the manuscript. His advice, moreover, direct and sound as it was, contributed to polishing the story, and his words of encouragement helped me on this difficult journey. More valuable still was the advice of Ramón Conesa, my literary agent at the Carmen Balcells agency, who I congratulate for his magnificent work and manner. I would also like to mention Simon Bruni’s excellent translation of the original, and finally express my sincerest appreciation to Gabriella Page-Fort and María Gómez, my American editors at AmazonCrossing, and their fantastic team, for their trust, professi
onalism, and enthusiasm.

To all of them and, above all, to all my readers, my eternal gratitude.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A native of Spain, a former educator, and an industrial engineer, Antonio Garrido has received acclaim for the darkly compelling storytelling and nuanced historical details that shape his novels. Each is a reflection of the author’s years of research into cultural, social, legal, and political aspects of ancient life. Garrido’s
The Corpse Reader,
a fictionalized account of the early life of Song Cí, the Chinese founding father of forensic science, received the Zaragoza International Prize (Premio Internacional de Novela Histórica Ciudad de Zaragoza) for best historical novel published in Spain. His work has been translated into eighteen languages, and
The Scribe
is his second publication in English. Garrido currently resides in Valencia, Spain.