Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

The two of them appeared with the chest transformed into a strange coffin.

“It’s not pretty, but it will do,” Gorgias declared. He dragged the chest near to where the body lay, looked sadly upon his daughter and turned to Rutgarda. “I’ve been talking to Wilfred. He warned me that Korne is likely to lodge a complaint against us.”

“Why us? What does that rat want? Does he want us to be exiled? Does he want us to admit that Theresa should never have set foot in the workshop? For the love of God! Have we not been punished enough?”

“Not enough for him, it would seem. I presume he wants to get his dues for the losses caused by the fire.”

“But what is he going to achieve? We barely have enough to eat.”

“That’s what I said to Wilfred, but under Frankish law, they can take everything we have.”

“Oh? And what do we have? All our possessions are there, wrapped up in a tiny bundle on the bed.”

“They could take your home,” suggested Lotharia.

“The house is rented,” Gorgias responded. “And that is precisely the problem.”

“Why’s that a problem?” Rutgarda asked anxiously.

Gorgias looked hard at Rutgarda and sucked in his breath. “Because they could sell us at the slave market.”

Rutgarda’s eyes opened almost as wide as her mouth. Then she buried her head in her lap and broke into tears. Lotharia shook her head and reproached Gorgias for his words.

“I said they could do it, not that they will do it,” he explained. “First they must prove that Theresa is guilty, and Wilfred says he will help us.”

“Help us?” Rutgarda sounded doubtful as she sobbed. “That cripple?”

“I promise he will. In the meantime I want you to take all our belongings to Reinold’s house. That way nobody will be able to take justice into his own hands. Leave some old junk here, and a couple of worn blankets. Don’t forget the mattresses. Empty out the straw and use the covers to transport everything. That way we won’t arouse suspicion. Then you and Lotharia must shut yourselves in with the children at their house while Reinold and I take care of the burial. We’ll return at dawn.”

Gorgias sat alone on the casket and waited for nightfall. He had agreed with Reinold that they would head to the cloister after sundown, so all he had to do now was keep vigil over his daughter’s body and wait for the first stars to appear. Soon his mind was painting a picture of Theresa. He remembered Constantinople, the pearl of the Bosphorus, the land where he was born. Those were times of good fortune and abundance, of enjoyment and happiness. How life had changed, and how cruel his memories had become. Nobody in Würzburg could have imagined that Gorgias, the man who worked as a simple scribe in the scriptorium, had once held the title of patrician in the city of all cities, far-off Constantinople.

He recalled the birth of his daughter, that little peach, that bundle of life trembling in his arms. The wine and honey had flowed for weeks. He sent news to all the empire’s forums, commissioned an altar be built behind the villa, and had his slaves mark her birth with offerings on that happy day. Not even his appointment as optimas of Bithynia had brought him greater satisfaction. His wife Otiana lamented that they had not had a boy, but he was in no hurry. The girl had his blood running through her veins, the blood of the Theolopouloses, the most renowned merchant family in Byzantium, from the Danube to Dalmatia, from Carthage to the Exarchate of Ravenna, respected and feared beyond Theodosius’s walls. There would be time for more children to fill their home with their mischief. They were young and had their whole lives ahead of them. Or at least, that’s what he had thought.

The second pregnancy was ill-fated. The physicians attributed Otiana’s death to the damp softness of the fetus. Damned fools! They could have at least prevented all her suffering. For months, desperation had become his only companion. He could see his wife in every corner of the house, smell her perfume, hear her laughter. In the end, on his brothers’ advice, he decided to put some distance between himself and the melancholy that consumed him, and he moved to old Constantinople. There he bought a villa, surrounded by gardens, close to Trajan’s forum, where he made a home for himself with his slaves and a wet nurse.

Several years went by in which he watched Theresa grow surrounded by books and writing, which were his only passion, and the only remedy for his grief that no physician could prescribe. His title of patrician and his friendship with the Cubicularius of the Basileus gave him access to the library of the Hagia Sophia, the greatest repository of wisdom in Christendom. Every morning he would visit the hall at the cathedral accompanied by Theresa, and while she played, he would reread Virgil, copy passages from Pliny or recite verses by Lucian. After her sixth birthday, the child took an interest in her father’s activities. She would sit between his legs and bother him until he let her have one of the codices he was reading. At first, to distract her, he would offer her damaged documents, but he noticed that, as he wrote, Theresa would imitate each of his movements with extraordinary delicateness.

In time, what had started as a pastime became her preoccupation. The little girl hardly ever played with other children and when she did, she would amuse herself by scribbling on their clothes with feathers she’d stolen from the henhouses. The librarian Petrus had told him about Theresa’s behavior with the other children and persuaded him to introduce her to the secrets of writing, putting himself forward as the girl’s tutor. That was how Theresa learned to read and, later on, to make her first inscriptions on wax tablets.

He reminisced with sorrow how her passion for reading had been interrupted when she was sixteen years old, following the assassination of the Emperor Leo IV at the hands of his wife, the Empress Irene. The death of the Basileus triggered an endless cycle of feuds and revenge, ending in the arrest and execution of anyone who dared oppose the new monarch. But it was not just dissenters who ended up in the cemeteries. Anyone who had forged political or commercial ties with the Basileus while he was alive also suffered the wrath of the empress.

One winter night, the Cubicularius turned up at Gorgias’s home in disguise with a warning and a couple of horses. The next day he and his daughter were to be put to death. They fled on horseback to Salonika. Then they undertook a pilgrimage to Rome before journeying to the cold Germanic lands.

But why was his mind preoccupied with the past at this precise moment? Why bring back memories that only fueled his pain? Accursed destiny. Cruel torment. Meandering caprices that tear the flesh that was mine from my soul, leaving me empty. Loathsome hair shirt, path of punishment. Take me with you so that I may give you my hatred. Come and embrace me. He closed his eyes and began to weep.

Despite the stony soil, Gorgias and Reinold finished digging the grave just after midnight when the clerics were resting in their chambers and Wilfred could officiate the funeral in complete secrecy. Afterward, he told Gorgias to cover the casket without a cross or any sign that would betray their act.

“The manuscript…” the count reminded him when it was all done.

Gorgias nodded in understanding with reddened eyes.

Then Wilfred lowered his head and left Gorgias to be alone in his bitter sadness.

5

That night chilling winds from the north covered Würzburg in a blanket of ice. The men busied themselves sealing off cracks and stoking the fires in their homes, while the women pressed their children between straw mattresses. They all prayed for the firewood to last until dawn.