Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

6

Gorgias woke up in terror, shivering from the sweat that soaked him. He was still unable to accept that he had buried his only daughter a few days ago. He saw Rutgarda by his side and put his arms around her. Then he pictured Theresa when she was alive, smiling, wearing her new dress, ready to take the test that would make her a master parchment-maker. He remembered the attack, and how she had saved him. Then the terrible fire, his desperate search for her, all the wounded and the dead… He cried as he relived the moment when he looked upon Theresa’s body. All that was left of his daughter were the tatters of that blue dress she so adored.

Curled up beside Rutgarda, he sobbed until he had no tears left. After a while he asked himself how long they could live crammed into his sister-in-law’s home like salt herrings, with no straw to lie on, sleeping instead on the wooden boards that Reinold arranged each night on the dirt floor.

He thought how his sister-in-law and her husband made a wonderful family. Despite the inconvenience of his and Rutgarda’s presence, both had welcomed them into their house with affection, and each of them did their best to ensure that neither he nor Rutgarda missed the comforts of their old home. Gorgias was gladdened by Reinold’s good fortune. His work as a carpenter did not depend on the weather—so even in difficult times, repairing a rotten roof or fixing a broken wheel kept hunger at bay for his family.

For a moment he felt overcome with jealousy, envying Reinold’s simple life. His only concern was to find enough bread to feed his offspring, and every evening he slept with the warmth of his wife beside him. Reinold always said that happiness did not depend on the size of one’s estate, but on who awaits your return home—and judging by his family, his assertion could not have been more true.

Since their arrival at Reinold’s home, Rutgarda had looked after the couple’s children, taken charge of the cleaning and the sewing—and even of the cooking when there was enough food to make a meal. This had enabled Lotharia to concentrate on her work as a servant of Arno, one of the wealthy men of the region. Gorgias tried to help Reinold in his wood workshop when his injured arm prevented him from working in the scriptorium. However, despite his brother-in-law’s hospitality, he knew that they would have to soon find elsewhere to stay, for their presence might cause Reinold or his family to become the victims of some wicked act.

The whimpering of the littlest one made both Lotharia and Rutgarda jump up, just as the child broke into a full wail. Between the two of them they tended to the infant and also the other little ones, who were shivering as though they had fallen into a river. They washed their eyes with a little water and dressed them in robes of clean wool. Then they lit the fire and heated some dried-out porridge, which in better times would have been thrown to the pigs.

Gorgias rose. Still half-asleep, he grunted a good morning and rummaged through a rickety chest for his scribe’s apron. As he did so, he swore at the pain radiating from his wounded arm.

“You should watch your language,” Rutgarda said reproachfully, pointing at the children.

Gorgias murmured something and yawned as he went over to the fire, picking his way through the odds and ends scattered all over the room. He washed his face and moved closer to the smell of porridge.

“Another foul day,” Gorgias complained.

“At least it’s not so cold in the scriptorium,” Rutgarda said.

“I’m not sure I will go there today.”

“You won’t? So where will you go?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Gorgias did not answer straightaway. He had intended to investigate the attack on him before the fire had happened, as he still intended, but he didn’t want to worry Rutgarda.

“I’ve run out of ink at the scriptorium, so I’ll go by the walnut grove and gather some nuts.”

“So early?”

“If I go any later, there won’t be a single walnut left after the kids have at them.”

“Wrap up warm,” Rutgarda ordered.

Gorgias looked at his wife affectionately. She was a good woman. He held her in his arms and kissed her on the lips. Then he picked up his bag of writing equipment and set off toward the cathedral buildings.

As he climbed the narrow, still-quiet streets, Gorgias’s mind turned to the assailant who a few days earlier had stolen an incomplete draft of the valuable parchment, remembering the event as if he were reliving it: The crouching shadow pouncing on him. The icy eyes peering through the scarf that hid his face. Then the sharp pain running through his arm. And finally, nothing but darkness.

“Eyes of ice,” he said to himself bitterly. If he had a handful of wheat for every pair of blue eyes he saw in Würzburg, he could fill a granary in a week.

For a moment he hoped that the mugging might merely have been some random, unfortunate twist of fate. The desperate actions of a starving man looking for a crust to eat. If that were the case, the draft would have been dumped somewhere, ruined by the rain or gnawed at by rodents. However, it was foolish to think such a thing. In all certainty, the thief already knew its incalculable value. So Gorgias began ruminating on who might have coveted that parchment.

Several clerics and servants had access to the scriptorium, but it was unlikely they could have conceived of the value of the document—unless they had overheard something from Wilfred, the only person who knew its secret. At that moment he decided to make an actual list of suspects.

Gorgias walked into the basilica through the side entrance that led directly to the cloister. He stopped there for a while to pray for Theresa. After shedding some tears, he traced the sign of the cross on the ground. Then he went through the kitchens, not bothering to greet the cellarer, making haste for the scriptorium.

He found the room empty, so he would be able to work until Terce without interruption. Closing the door, he shuttered the windows and carefully lit the mass of candles spread around on the desks. When their flames had cut through the darkness, he took his writing instruments and a wax tablet from a small chest, erasing his previous annotations with the blunt end of a stylus. He made himself comfortable on a stool—and, loosening up his hands, he started composing the list.

For a while he scribbled away at the tablet, noting and deleting names of suspects without being convinced of any of them. His arm was smarting again, but he hardly paid any attention. All that mattered was recovering the parchment. Once he had completed his list, one by one he reviewed the names.

First there was Genseric, Wilfred’s coadjutor and secretary, a wizened old man, who, if not for his persistent odor of urine, could have been mistaken for one of the sculptures that flanked the ambulatories of the cloister. Genseric acted as vicar-general, which meant that, alongside Wilfred, he was responsible for the everyday administration and accounts of the district.

Then there was Bernardino, a Hispanic monk of tiny stature who ran the household with a firm hand. His role enabled him to come in and out of every room, so it would come as no surprise if he had got wind of the existence of the parchment.

Next in the list was Cassiano, the young precentor, a Tuscan whose honeyed voice, to Gorgias, reminded him of a woman of ill repute. As the head of the choir, Cassiano would often visit the part of the library where the psalters, tetragrams, and antiphons were kept. He was also one of the few adept at reading, which made him a serious suspect.

Finally, he had included Theodor, a giant man who, though of kindly demeanor, had the bluest eyes that Gorgias could remember seeing. Theodor worked as a general factotum, but because of his strength he often helped Wilfred with his relocations around the fortress.