The Scribe

by Garrido, Antonio

  Gorgias did not answer. The physician rummaged around in his workbag. “Well, I’ll be damned! I’m out of knotgrass. Do you have the powders I prescribed for you here?”

  “I left them in the workshop. I’ll send someone to collect them later.”

  “As you please, but I must warn you—your other wounds do not concern me, but this arm… If you don’t look after it, in one week, it will not be fit to feed to the pigs. And if you lose the arm, you can bet that you will lose your life. Now I’m going to strengthen the stitching to stop the hemorrhage. It will hurt.”

  Gorgias grimaced, not just from the pain but also because he sensed the dire truth in what the physician said. “But how can a surface wound—”

  “Whether you like it or not, that’s how it is. It is not just king’s evil and pestilence that kills people. In fact the cemeteries are stuffed with healthy people who croaked because of minor cuts and scrapes: a slight fever, some strange spasms… and farewell to them and their suffering. Perhaps you don’t know Galen’s methods, but I have seen enough people die to know who the likely candidates are months before they go to the grave.”

  Having finished the dressing, the little man gathered up his implements and put them untidily in his bag. Gorgias ordered the servant to leave the scriptorium and wait outside before he said to the physician, “One moment, please. I need you to do me a favor.”

  “If it’s in my power…”

  Gorgias made sure the servant was out of earshot.

  “The thing is, I would rather the count did not hear about this. I mean, the severity of my injury. I’m working on a codex, a document that he has a special interest in, and no doubt he will be displeased if he learned that the job were to be delayed.”

  “Well, I don’t see that you have any other option. You will not be able to hold a pen in that hand for at least three weeks. And that’s if it doesn’t worsen. Since it is the count who is paying my fee, you will agree that I should not lie to him.”

  “But I am not asking you to lie, just to keep quiet. As for your fee…”

  Gorgias put his left hand in his shirt pocket and pulled out some coins.

  “It is more than the count will pay you,” he added.

  The physician took the coins and examined them closely. His eyes flashed with greed. He kissed them and put them away among his belongings. Then, without a word, he walked off toward the exit.

  At the door he stopped and turned toward Gorgias.

  “Rest and allow the wound to heal. Health is lost at a gallop, but it returns at walking pace. If you see abscesses or cysts, send notice to me immediately.”

  “Don’t worry, I will follow your advice. And now, if you don’t mind, send the servant in.”

  The physician nodded and said good-bye with a wink. When the servant came into the scriptorium, Gorgias looked him up and down. He was a scrawny, beardless young man, with a dimwitted, ungainly look about him.

  “I need you to run over to the parchment-makers’ workshop and ask my daughter for the remedy that the physician prescribed for me. She will know what to do. But first, alert the count that I’m waiting for him in the scriptorium.”

  “But, sir, the count is still resting,” he stammered.

  “Then wake him!” Gorgias shouted. “Tell him it’s urgent.”

  The servant drew back, nodding his head. When he left, he closed the door behind him, and Gorgias could hear his footsteps as he rushed away.

  Gorgias looked around the scriptorium and saw that everything in the room was damp. The flames from the lamps barely lit the benches they rested on, giving the room a dreamlike appearance. Only a narrow window protected by solid bars provided some weak light for the gigantic wooden lectern, where there was a jumbled collection of codices, inkwells, pens and styluses, intermingling with awls, scrapers, and blotters. The room had another lectern and, in stark contrast, it was completely bare. On the north wall, a sturdy cabinet flanked by two lamps housed the most valuable codices, which had chains running through the rings on their spines to secure them to the wall. On the lower shelves, separate from the rest, there were psalters for communal use, beside both books of the Bible in Aramaic. On the rest of the shelves, dozens of unbound volumes stacked on top of missives, epistolaries, and cartularies of various kinds competed for space with the polyptychs and the censuses that recorded accounts and transactions.

  He was still thinking about that morning’s attack when the door slowly creaked open and the light of a torch blinded him. When the servant moved aside, a strange, squat figure stood silhouetted against the torchlight. After a moment, Gorgias heard a faltering voice from the doorway.

  “Tell me, Gorgias—what is this emergency that ails us so?”

  At that moment a low, sustained growl interrupted. Gorgias recognized one of Wilfred’s dogs clenching its jaw and advancing toward him, with the other hound close behind. But they were retrained by harnesses that Gorgias saw tighten as they pulled along the familiar but strange contraption that screeched along on its crude wooden wheels. Hearing their master command them to stop, the dogs lay down and the cart came to a standstill.

  Gorgias could see Wilfred’s grotesque face cocked awkwardly to one side. The man let go of the reins and held his hands out to the dogs, who rushed over to lick them.

  “Every day I find it harder to handle these devils,” said Wilfred, his voice choked with emotion, “but the Lord knows that without them, I would live like a dry old olive tree.”

  Despite the years that had gone by, Gorgias was still shocked by the extraordinary appearance of the count. For as long as he’d known him, Wilfred had been a prisoner of that wheeled device—where he’d slept, ate, and emptied his bowels ever since both his legs were amputated as a boy.

  Gorgias bowed in greeting.

  “Dispense with the formalities and tell me—what has happened?”

  The scribe looked from side to side. He had been so anxious to speak with the count, and now he did not know where to start. At that moment a dog moved and the contraption suddenly rolled along. One of the wheels was squeaking and Gorgias went down on his knees to examine it as he tried to find the right words.

  “It’s one of the rivets,” Gorgias said. “It must have come out with all the jolting. The boards are misaligned and could come off. You would do well to take the chair to the carpenter.”

  “I hope you haven’t woken me to examine my cart.”

  When Gorgias lifted his hand apologetically, Wilfred saw the bulky, bloody bandage wrapped around it.

  “Good heavens! What have you done to your arm?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing! A small incident,” he lied. “On the way to the workshops some poor wretch gave me a scratch or two. They fetched the physician and he insisted on dressing it, but you know these quacks, they’re worried they won’t get paid unless they wrap you in bandages.”

  “True, but tell me: Are you able to move your hand?”

  “With some difficulty. But a little work will loosen it up.”

  “So what was the emergency?”

  “Allow me to sit down. It’s about the codex. It’s not progressing as quickly as I would have hoped.”

  “Well, aliquando bonus dormitat Deux. It is not a question of going quickly, but of finishing on time. Tell me, what has caused the delay? You haven’t told me anything about it,” he said, trying to conceal his annoyance.

  “To be honest I didn’t wish to concern you. I thought I could make do with the pens I have, but I have sharpened them so much I can barely make the ink flow.”

  “I fail to understand. You have dozens of quills.”

  “Yes, but not of goose feather. And as you know, there are no geese left in Würzburg.”

  “Then continue with the ones that you have, I don’t see the issue.”

  “The problem lies with the flow. The ink descends too rapidly, and this could cause leaks that would ruin the entire document. Remember that I am using unborn calf’s vellum. The surface is
so soft that any mistake handling the pen would have irreparable consequences.”

  “Then why don’t you just use another type of parchment?”

  “Not possible. At least, not for your purposes.”

  Wilfred shifted in his seat. “So what do you propose?”

  “My idea is to thicken the ink. Using the right binding agent, I could ensure that it flows more slowly, while maintaining the required glide. I could do it in a couple of weeks, I think.”

  “Do what you must, but if you value your head, make sure the codex is ready by the agreed day.”

  “I have already begun the preparations, don’t worry.”

  “Very well. And since I’m here, I would like to take a look at the parchment. If you would be so kind as to bring it to me.”

  Gorgias clenched his teeth. He did not want to explain that he faced a delay because the attacker had stolen a valuable copy and the original was tucked away in the bag that he had left behind in the workshop.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “Excuse me? What do you mean it’s not possible?”

  “I don’t have it here. I left it in Korne’s workshop.”

  “And what in hell’s name is it doing there, at the risk that anyone could discover it?” roared the count. The dogs fidgeted restlessly.

  “I’m sorry, Father. I know I should have consulted you, but late last night I noticed that one of the pages was starting to peel. I don’t know the cause, but when it happens it is vital that the problem is dealt with immediately. I needed an acid that Korne uses, and knowing how distrustful he is, I thought that it would be best to take the codex there, rather than ask him for the acid. At any rate, aside from Theresa, no one at the workshop can read, and one more parchment among the hundreds they have there would not attract anyone’s attention.”

  “I don’t know… that all seems reasonable, but I don’t understand why you are here instead of at the workshop applying that acid. Finish what you have to do and bring the document back to the scriptorium. And for God’s sake, do not call me Father! I haven’t worn a habit for years!”

  “As you wish. I will leave as soon as I have tidied the lectern and gathered my blades. However, there was one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “The time that I will need to prepare the new ink…”

  “Yes?”

  “If Your Grace will allow it, I would like to be excused from coming to the scriptorium. At home I have all the required tools, and there I could carry out tests in peace and quiet. I also need to find certain ingredients in the forest, so I will have to stay outside the city walls overnight.”

  “In that case, I will tell a soldier to escort you. If you were attacked just this morning inside the shelter of the walls, just imagine what might happen to you on the other side.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. I know the area well, and Theresa can accompany me.”

  “Ha!” bellowed Wilfred. “You still look at Theresa with a first-time father’s eyes, but that young woman attracts men as if they were in heat. If bandits get a whiff of her you won’t have time to cross yourselves. You worry about the codex, and I will take care of you. The soldier will be at your house this afternoon.”

  Gorgias decided not to persist. He had planned to spend the next two days looking for the man who had attacked him, but with the soldier at his heels it would be too difficult. Still, he decided to end the conversation to avoid alarming Wilfred any further.

  Gathering his belongings, he changed the subject. “How long do you think the king will take?” asked Gorgias.

  “Charlemagne? I don’t know. A month. Maybe two. The last letter announced that a convoy with supplies was to set off immediately”

  “But the passes are blocked.”

  “Indeed. But sooner or later they will arrive. The pantries will be completely empty before long.”

  Gorgias nodded. Rations were becoming meager, and soon there would be nothing left.

  “Very well. If there is nothing else,” added Wilfred. The count took his reins, tightening the harnesses on the dogs. He cracked his whip, and the beasts labored to turn the heavy contraption around.

  He was about to leave the scriptorium when a servant burst into the room, screaming as though he had seen the Devil himself:

  “The factoriae! For the love of God! Fire is devouring them!”

  4

  When Gorgias saw what was left of the workshop, he prayed to God that Theresa wouldn’t be found under the wreckage. The flames had consumed the exterior walls, leading to the collapse of the roof, which in turn only fueled the fire, turning the place into a gigantic pyre.

  Onlookers arrived in throngs to watch the spectacle, while the bolder ones toiled to assist the wounded, rescue anything of use, and smother the embers. After a few moments of confusion, Gorgias recognized Korne, lying on some wooden boards. He looked ragged, his clothes blackened and a wild look in his face.

  Gorgias ran over to him. “Thank God I’ve found you. Have you seen Theresa?”

  The parchment-maker recoiled as though Gorgias had spoken of the Devil. Then he jumped up and lunged for Gorgias’s throat.

  “That dammed daughter of yours! I hope she burns to the last bone!”

  Gorgias threw Korne off just as two neighbors attempted to separate them. The men apologized for Korne’s behavior, but Gorgias suspected his words stemmed from more than some common fit of anger. He thanked them for their intervention and left to continue his search.

  After walking around the perimeter of the site, he observed that the fire had not only devastated the workshops and Korne’s home, but also the storerooms and adjoining stables. Fortunately, there were no animals in the stables, and as far as he knew the storerooms contained no grain, so the losses would be limited to the value of the buildings. Both buildings would surely be condemned, for the fire had started to vent its rage on their roofs.

  He noticed that the wall between the courtyard and the workshops was still standing, and he remembered that Korne, fed up with so many thefts, had ordered the primitive palisade to be replaced with a stone wall. Thanks to that decision, it appeared that the area between the wall and the pools had been saved from the flames.

  A trembling hand touched Gorgias on the shoulder. It was Bertharda.

  “What a tragedy. Such a great tragedy!” she said, tears in her eyes.

  “Bertharda, for the love of God, have you seen my daughter?” he asked with desperation in his voice.

  “She saved my life. Do you hear me? She saved me.”

  “Yes, yes, I hear you. But where is she? Is she hurt?”

  “I told her not to go in. To forget the books. But she ignored me.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Bertharda, tell me where my daughter is,” Gorgias insisted, shaking the woman by the shoulders.

  The woman stared at him but it was as if her red eyes were focused on another world.

  “We came out of the workshop, escaping the flames,” she explained. “In the courtyard she helped me scale the wall. She helped me until she could see I was safe, and then she said she had to go back for the codices. I shouted at her not to go, to climb the wall with me, but you know how headstrong she is,” she sobbed. “She went back into the workshop among those terrible flames and then suddenly there was a crashing sound and the roof fell in. Do you hear me? She saved me and then everything collapsed.”

  Gorgias turned in horror and ran headlong into the wreckage. The embers sizzled and crackled as the grayish smoke spread slowly into the sky like a sign announcing the macabre event.

  If he had been thinking clearly, he would have waited for the fire to die out, but he could not wait another second. He dodged the rafters that were in his way and went deeper into the chaos of crossbeams, stanchions, and buttresses, ignoring the flames that licked his limbs. His eyes were stinging and the heat burned his lungs. He could barely see his own hands in the cloud of ash and embers floating in the a
ir, but it did not stop him. Striding on, he shoved aside uprights, corbels, and frames, screaming Theresa’s name over and over.

  Suddenly, as he was trying to find his bearings in the smoke, he heard a cry for help behind him. He turned and ran across the embers, but as he reached some earthenware jars he saw the cry for help came from Johan Shortfoot, son of Hans the tanner. The youngster was just eleven years of age and his torso was severely burned. Gorgias cursed his bad luck, but quickly bent over the boy only to see that he was trapped under a crossbeam.

  A quick glance was enough to understand that if he did not help him at once he would inevitably die, so he gathered his strength and pulled on the boards that pinned him to the ground. But as fate would have it, the beam would not budge. He tore a piece from the bandage on his arm and used it to wipe the sweat from the boy’s face.

  “Johan. Listen to me. I’m going to need help to get you out of here. My arm is wounded and I cannot move these boards alone. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. Can you count?”

  “Yes, sir. I can count to ten,” he said with pride.

  “Well, that’s marvelous. Now I want you to breathe through this bandage, and every five breaths, shout your name as loud as you can. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. So, I will go to seek help, and when I return, I’ll bring you a slice of cake and a good apple. Do you like apples?”

  “No, please. Don’t leave me,” he sobbed.

  “I’m not going to leave you, Johan. I’ll be back with help.”

  “Don’t go, sir, I beg you!” he said, grasping Gorgias’s hand.

  Gorgias looked at the boy and cursed. He knew that even if he managed to find help, the youngster would not last that long. It was already impossible to breathe in that place. Burned or asphyxiated, one way or the other Johan would die. Even so, seeking help was surely all he could do for him.

  He crouched down and again grabbed the beam with both hands, bending his legs and tensing his arms until his back creaked, but he continued to pull as if his own life depended on it. He could feel his injured arm tearing and the stitches popping out, his skin and tendons cleaved open, but he persisted with excruciating effort.