Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

“Of course,” the count said.

“Straightaway I noticed that the pen slid across the parchment as if floating on a pool of oil. The letters appeared bright and silky before my eyes, as smooth as a young girl’s skin, and jet black. But, on the document, as I went back over the uncial letters, I had the accident.”

“Accident? What accident?”

“These letters, the uncials, required a finish in accord with the importance of the document. I had to retouch them to ensure clean and well-defined edges. Unfortunately this process must take place before the final layer of pounce is applied.”

“For the love of God! Stop beating about the bush and explain to me what has happened!”

Gorgias grimaced. The moment had come to fabricate some kind of mistake that would explain why he didn’t have the document ready.

“I am sorry. I have no excuse for my ineptitude. The truth is that, through lack of sleep, I forgot that I had applied the pounce a few days earlier. The powder waterproofed the surface, and when I went back over the capital letters—”

“What?”

“Well, the whole thing was ruined. The whole damned document went to hell!”

“By God Almighty! But didn’t you say you had resolved the problem?” asked Wilfred, making as if to get up.

“I was so pleased with my solution that I didn’t notice the gypsum,” he explained. “Because the pounce had covered the pores, the material could not absorb the ink, which spread to the point of ruining the entire parchment.”

“This cannot be,” Wilfred responded in disbelief. “And what about a palimpsest? Did you not prepare a palimpsest?”

“I could attempt it, but if I were to scrape the skin, it would make marks that would reveal the nature of the repair, and that of course would be unacceptable for this particular manuscript.”

“Show me the document. What are you waiting for? Show it to me!” he screamed.

Gorgias clumsily produced a piece of crumpled parchment, which he held out to Wilfred. But before the count grasped it, Gorgias took a few steps back and tore it into pieces.

The horrified count thrashed about as though on fire. “Have you lost your mind!”

“I can see that you haven’t fully understood,” responded Gorgias in desperation. “It’s ruined, don’t you see? Ruined!”

Wilfred let out a guttural sound, his face contorted by rage. From the bed he tried to collect the pieces of parchment scattered over the rug, but in doing so he lost his balance and fell. Fortunately, Gorgias managed to catch him before he landed on the floor.

“Let go of me! Do you think the fact I don’t have legs makes me a useless fool like you? Get your filthy hands off me, you damned squanderer!” he roared.

“Please try to calm down, Your Grace. That document is lost, but I am already working on a new parchment.”

“A new parchment you say? And what will you do this time? Give it to a dog to keep between its jaws? Boil it? Shred it with a knife?”

“Your Grace, I beg you. Have faith. I will work day and night if necessary. I swear that you will have the document soon.”

“And who says I have time for that?” replied Wilfred as he tried to make himself comfortable again. “The papal envoy could arrive at any moment, and if I do not have the document ready—by God! You do not know that prelate! I cannot bear to think what might happen to us.”

Gorgias cursed his stupidity, but the fact was that his injured arm prevented him from proceeding with the required diligence. If the Roman legation arrived before it was ready, Wilfred could explain its absence by saying that it had been burned in the fire. Gorgias took a deep breath and turned to Wilfred once more. “When do you say the prelate will arrive?”

“I do not know. In his last letter he informed me that he would set sail from Frankfurt at the end of the year.”

“The storm might delay them.”

“Of course! Or they might arrive right now and catch me with my breeches down!”

For a moment, Gorgias didn’t know whether he should suggest just relaying the truth, but he had little choice, so he presented the idea.

“What are you saying?” the count asked incredulously.

“I’m saying that if the envoy arrives before the document is ready, perhaps you could tell him that the original was burned in Korne’s workshop. It would give us the time we need.”

“I see. And tell me: Aside from convincing the prelate of your ineptitude—and also mine—do you have any other ingenious ideas?”

“I was merely trying.”

“Well, for the love of God, Gorgias, stop trying and do something for once!”

Gorgias lowered his head, accepting that he had been foolish. He lifted his gaze and observed the count’s pensive expression.

“Well, perhaps I have judged you too harshly. I do hope your intention is not to allow so many hours of work to go to waste.”

“Of course not, Father.”

“And your idea—about the fire,” added the count. “It is truly what happened?”

“Indeed,” said Gorgias, his nerves calming a little.

“Very well. And you think you could have the document ready in three weeks?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Then this conversation is over. Begin work immediately. Put your hood back on.”

Gorgias acquiesced. He went down on his knees, kissed Wilfred’s wrinkled hands, and awkwardly donned the hood. As he waited for Genseric to arrive, he was finally able to breathe without feeling his heartbeat in his throat.

Though Gorgias was blinded again, the walk back seemed shorter than the way there. At first he attributed this to Genseric’s haste, but as they walked he realized that the coadjutor was taking him down a different path. Indeed, he did not notice the stench of the latrines or the stairs that he had climbed on the way there. For a moment he thought the change might be attributed to Genseric’s zealousness, for at that time the whole building would be crawling with servants, but when the coadjutor told him to remove the hood, he was surprised to find that he still didn’t know where he was.

Gorgias examined the small circular room closely. An altar was situated at the center, and on it a torch crackled away. The flickering light cast a yellow glow on the hewn stone and the timber roof, which had been eaten away by rot. Between the beams there were blurry liturgical images, blackened slightly by the smoke from the candles. He deduced that the room must have been a Christian crypt, though judging by its state, it would be easy to mistake it for the dungeons of the Hagia Sofia.

To one side he saw a second door, bolted shut.

“What is this place?” he asked in surprise.

“An old chapel.”

“I can see that. An interesting place, no doubt, but you will understand that I have other duties to get on with,” he said, losing his patience.

“All in good time, Gorgias, all in good time.” The coadjutor gave a hint of a smile as he took a candle from a bag, lit it, and placed it at one end of the stone altar. Then he went over to the door that Gorgias had spotted and drew back the enormous bolt that kept it closed. “Please, this way.”

Gorgias did not trust him.

“Or follow me if you prefer,” he added.

He let the old man go in first before hesitantly following.

“Allow me to sit,” Genseric continued. “It’s the damp. It gnaws at my bones. You sit, too, please.”

Gorgias reluctantly complied. The smell of dry urine that Genseric exuded made him retch.

“I suppose you are wondering why I brought you here.”

“Well, yes,” Gorgias answered, his irritation growing.

Genseric smiled again, taking his time to respond.

“It’s about the fire. An ugly affair, Gorgias. Too many dead… and what’s worse: too many losses. I believe Wilfred has already spoken to you about the intentions of Korne, the parchment-maker.”