Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

He fell silent, pleased with himself, as though his explanation would have convinced even the most foolish.

However, Theresa gave him a look of indifference.

“This is why the copy must be finished before the council that the pope will call in the middle of June,” he added. “Do you understand?”

“What I understand is that Rome yearns for the power that Byzantium claims as its own, and that your primary desire is to see Charlemagne crowned. Now tell me: Why should I believe a man who keeps my father in a hole? A man who has manipulated, lied, and murdered? Tell me why I should help you.” The fact that the conclusions still had to be added to the parchment gave her a strong bargaining chip that she thought she had lost. “Still, I’ll repeat my offer: Free my father, and I will finish the document.”

Alcuin stood. He approached the window and looked outside. He could smell the aroma of resin from a little forest nearby.

“Nice day,” he said, then turned back around to face Theresa. “When I chose you, I clearly knew what I was doing. All right, lass. I’ll tell you what I know, but keep in mind your oath—for if you dare to break it, I will personally make sure that every last one of your nightmares comes true.”

Theresa wasn’t intimidated. The stylus under her dress gave her courage.

“My father is dying,” she pressed.

“All right, all right.” He came away from the window and, grim-faced, he paced around the perimeter of the room. He walked upright, slowly, meditating on his words. “The first thing you should be aware of is that I have known Gorgias for a long time,” he said, “and I assure you that I am fond of him and admire him. We met in Pavia, when you were still a little girl. He was fleeing from Constantinople with you and, seeking help, he came to the abbey where I was resting on my journey to Rome. Your father was an educated man with extensive knowledge, and of course alien to the corruptions of the court or the Vatican. He had an excellent command of Greek and Latin, he had read the classics, and he seemed like a good Christian. So, not without some self-interest, I suggested he accompany me to Aquis-Granum. I needed a Greek translator at the time and Gorgias needed work, so we returned together and he settled here in Würzburg to await the completion of the palatine schools that were being built in Aquis-Granum. Here he met Rutgarda, your stepmother, and very soon they married, no doubt with your future in mind. I would have preferred him to have established himself within the court, but Rutgarda had her family here, so in the end we agreed that he should work for Wilfred translating any codices I sent to him.”

Though she nodded with interest, Theresa still didn’t understand the connection to the series of murders. When she told him as much, Alcuin asked her to be patient.

“All right. Let’s move on to the murders, then. On the one hand there is the death of Genseric. And also the wet nurse, and the death of her likely lover and murderer, the parchment-maker.”

“And the young sentry,” Theresa added.

“Ah, yes! That poor lad.” He shook his head with an expression of disapproval. “Not to mention the other youngsters who were stabbed to death. But we’ll talk about them and the sentry later. As for Genseric, ruling out the stylus as the cause of his demise, I am inclined to think it was a potion, some deadly poison that was administered to him. Zeno spoke of his trembling and the itching in his arm, which tallies with what happened to the parchment-maker, who if I remember rightly, also complained of a strange prickling in his hand. I think I even drew a picture.”

Alcuin retrieved a parchment with a picture of a hand with two little circular marks in the center. “I drew this after his death,” he pointed out. “Look closely. Doesn’t it remind you of something?”

“I don’t know. A sting?”

“With two puncture holes? No. I would suggest it’s more like a snakebite.”

“A serpent? Are you implying they weren’t murdered?”

“I didn’t say that. As for the hand wounds, I consulted with Zeno and he agreed that the diameter and appearance of the perforations were similar to those made by a viper. But let us consider the position of the marks.” He pointed to them carefully. “It would be difficult for a snake to bite a palm unless someone was stupid enough to try to grab it. Perhaps the snake might go for the back of the hand or even a finger—but not the palm. Look, give me your hand,” he requested. “Now use your fingers to simulate a serpent’s jaw and strike at my hand.”

The friar held out his hand and Theresa pinched the back of his hand with her index and middle fingers, with her thumb going into his palm. Alcuin told her to squeeze and she did so until her nails dug in. Only when the monk cried out did the young woman ease the pressure.

Retrieving his hand, he showed her his palm and then the marks she had left vertically lengthwise across of the back of his hand: one red mark near his wrist, another close to his fingers. Then he compared his hand to the picture he had drawn, depicting the puncture holes aligned horizontally across the width of the hand.

“An animal would have struck exactly as you did, on the back or on the palm, but in the direction of the arm. And yet, Korne’s wounds,” he said, placing the picture beside his hand, “appear across the palm, perpendicular to the marks you’ve made on me.”

“And what does that mean?”

“That the murderer is a skilled man who is able to kill in an unhurried manner, allowing some time to pass—a useful skill to employ if you don’t want to be associated with the murder. It’s even possible that his victims weren’t even aware of what was happening. And it must be someone with a knowledge of venoms.”

“Zeno?”

“That drunk? What would he gain from these murders? No, Theresa dear. Ad panitendum properat, cito qui iudicat . To find a criminal, one must establish the motive. What connection might there be between Genseric and the parchment-maker?”

“They were both men. They lived in Würzburg.”

“And they both had feet and a head. Try to sharpen up, for the love of God!”

Theresa made it known she was in no mood for guessing games.

“All right,” he conceded. “They both worked for Wilfred. I know that everyone in Würzburg works for Wilfred, but Genseric was his coadjutor, his right-hand man, abreast of all that concerned his superior. Korne, the parchment-maker, was a close friend of Wilfred’s. This connection might seem irrelevant when it comes to finding a motive for their murders, but let us continue to speculate. We can agree that the twins were abducted in order to blackmail the count, and that their kidnapper was undoubtedly the parchment-maker.”

“How do we know that? From the curly hairs we found?” Theresa suggested.

“And this doll’s eye that I found in Korne’s cell.” He took a little pebble from a small box and showed it to Theresa proudly. “It belongs to the toy that the twins were playing with on the day of the kidnapping.”

Theresa examined it, impressed. The blue paint stood out crudely on the white of the pebble.

“We can deduce, therefore,” Alcuin continued, snatching it back, “that the parchment-maker must have wanted something that he judged to be impossible to obtain by less risky means. For surely, he would have done that before resorting to abducting the children. He must have been after something of such value that he was willing to risk his own life, and even do away with his poor lover.”

“Constantine’s document?”

“Exactly: the document again. And if both Genseric and Korne died in the same manner—poisoned, that is—it would be logical to infer that they were both killed by the same hand.”