The monk continued. “Through bribery, the empress’s assassin gained access to the document, which he managed to destroy before he was caught by the papal custodian. The thief was executed, but the document lay charred on the Vatican floor. Since then Irene has questioned the validity of the Donation through diplomatic missions, particularly after finding out that Pope Leo III wants to crown Charlemagne as the Holy Roman Emperor.”
Theresa could not hide her astonishment. Everyone knew that the emperor was the Byzantine monarch.
“Well, the pope doesn’t think so,” Alcuin continued. “Rome wishes to strengthen its relationship with an emperor who is both energetic and understanding, a monarch who has demonstrated his valor and generosity. But Irene sees this decision as a maneuver that will drain Byzantium’s power, thus she wants to prevent it. By destroying the document, the empress has got rid of the proof of the legitimacy of the Papacy’s possessions, and without physical proof to validate it, nothing can prevent her from attacking Rome to stop Charlemagne being named emperor.”
“But it makes no sense. How can the existence of the document be so significant? It’s nothing more than parchment.” She was beginning to grow weary of Alcuin’s lecture, never forgetting that all the while her father was dying in a meat safe.
“You might think so, but sooner or later Irene will die, just as we all will. And those who will follow us will have the same desires, the same ambitions. It’s not just a question of the whim of one powerful woman: The very future of humanity is at stake. To win this battle the Papal States must secure legal ownership of their possessions, which will in turn protect Charlemagne’s ascension to Holy Roman Emperor. Charlemagne will guide the Western Empire along the path of Our Lord, promote learning, fight heresy, crush the pagans and the infidels, spread the Word of God, unify believers, and subjugate blasphemers. This is the real reason why the document must be finished. Otherwise, we will witness endless battles that will continue for centuries until Christendom is destroyed.”
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 th
e 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.”
Theresa knocked an inkwell to the floor, splattering Alcuin, but she was not sorry about it. “You know what I think?” she blurted out. “That in reality, you are the culprit. You knew the importance of the parchment. You seem to know how Genseric and Korne were murdered. I only told you about the hidden lines between the verses of the Vulgate, and soon after, I think you killed the sentry in order to get it.” She pointed at the emerald codex. “And I saw you speaking to Hoos Larsson.”
“With Hoos? When? In the tunnel? I can assure you that wasn’t me.”
“And later in the cloister.”
“I think you’re raving.” He went to put his hand on Theresa’s shoulder, but she fended it off violently. “Stop taking me for a fool,” she warned.
“I will repeat that I never met Hoos in the tunnel, so you can forget about that. It’s true that I saw him in the cloister—as I did Wilfred, a couple of servants, and two prelates. But to conjecture that from my presence there that I am involved? For God’s sake, woman! When Genseric died, we were still on the ship. What’s more, why would I have told you how they were murdered?”
“Then why won’t you release my father now?” she cried. “Or are you hiding something?”
Alcuin looked at her sadly, smoothed his gray hair, and clenched his teeth. Then he asked her to sit down, using a tone she had never heard him use. The young woman refused, but she sensed he was about to confess something big.
“Sit down,” he insisted as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a cloth. He fell silent for a moment. “I think I can safely assert that Wilfred murdered Korne, as he did Genseric.”
“I don’t believe you. Wilfred’s a cripple.”
“He is, and his misfortune is his best ally. Nobody would suspect him… nor any of his devices.”
“What do you mean?”
“Four days ago, Wilfred showed me how one of his contraptions works. He did so when I showed an interest in how the dogs are attached to the chair. He triggered a spring that released their reins as if by magic. I had already noticed that the chamber pot was also equipped with an ingenious mechanism, so I went to see the blacksmith who admitted that he had built them. At first he refused to say anything more, but a few coins were enough to get him to tell me that he had installed an astonishing device in the rear handrail on the chair. Specifically, two small curved nails that were inserted in the grip, which when operated, shoot into the palm like two little darts. The blacksmith swore he never knew their purpose, which is understandable given how unusual the task was.”
“And Wilfred uses this mechanism…”
“To administer the poison. The nails must have been soaked in some evil solution. Viper’s poison, perhaps. I imagine that was how he killed Genseric—and also the parchment-maker.”
“But why would Wilfred commit these crimes? He has access to the document. And the murdered boys? Why would he accuse my father of killing them?”
“I don’t have all the answers yet, though I hope to have them soon. And now that you know the truth, and you know that I know your father is no murderer, I would ask you to please get back to work.”
Theresa looked at the document, with just three paragraphs left to complete. Then she fixed her eyes on Alcuin’s.
“I’ll finish it when you release my father.”
The monk looked away, then suddenly turned back to her, with an expression full of menace. “Your father, your father! There are more important things than your father!” he shouted. “Do you not understand that those who seek the parchment might still get their hands on it? To catch them I need them to think that I already have a culprit. Your poor father is innocent, yes, but so was Jesus Christ, and he give his life to save us from ourselves, did he not? Now answer me this: Do you think Gorgias is better than Christ? Is that what you think? Have you by any chance asked him whether he accepts his sacrifice? If he could speak, I am certain he would be grateful and more than willing. Moreover, let’s stop being frivolous. We both know he is inevitably, and imminently, going to die. How long has he got left? Two? Three days? What does it matter if he dies in a bed or in a dungeon?”
Theresa sprang to her feet and slapped him.
Alcuin was immobile as his cheek flushed red. He reacted as if he had just been woken up. Standing, he went to the window, his hand going to his face.
“I’m sorry, I should not have said those things,” he said. “But even so, take a step back. It’s difficult to hear, I know, but your father will die soon either way. Zeno has confirmed it, and nothing we can do will alter that fact. The future of this document depends on us. I have already explained its significance, and for those reasons I implore you to accept my stance.”
Theresa held back her tears. “I will tell you what,” she said, finally breaking down, “I don’t care what you do. I don’t care if they steal the parchment from you and we all end up in hell. I will not stand by and allow my father to perish in that hole.”
“You don’t understand, Theresa. I’m about to—”
“You’re about to kill him, and sooner or later you will do the same to me. Do you think I’m stupid? Neither my father nor I have ever mattered to you.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Really? Then tell me—where did you get the Vulgate? Or did it fly here?”
Alcuin looked at her with a distressed expression. “Flavio Diacono found it left in the middle of the cloister.” He closed the Vulgate and handed it back to Theresa. “If you don’t believe me, you can go and ask him yourself.”
“So why will you not release my father?”
“For God’s sake! I’ve explained that already! I need to find out who is after the document.”
“A document as false as Judas,” she replied, standing her ground.
“False? What do you mean?” His tone changed again.
“I know full well what you’re scheming. You, Wilfred, and the Papal States—a deluge of fraud and trickery. I know everything, Brother Alcuin. The document you go to such lengths to extol, on which you have placed hopes, ambitions, and desires… my father uncovered its duplicity. That’s why you want him to die—so that your secret will go with him.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered.
“Are you sure?” She took the tablets from her bag and flung them on the table in front of him. “They’re copies of the text written between the lines in h
is Vulgate. Don’t bother trying to find it in the Vulgate because I scraped them out with a knife.”
“What do they say?” he asked, his expression hardening.
“You know as well as I do.”
“What do they say?” he repeated as if consumed by fire.
Theresa pushed the tablets closer to him. Alcuin contemplated them and then looked back at her.
Theresa continued. “My father knew about Byzantine diplomacy. He knew about epistles, speeches, exordiums, and panegyrics. Perhaps that’s why you hired him, but also you say because he was a good Christian. And as such, he discovered that Constantine never wrote the document. That none of the donations are legitimate and that the lands in fact belong to Byzantium.”
“Silence!” the monk bellowed.
“If the document is authentic, tell me, Alcuin, why is it that the document refers to Byzantium as a province, when it was just a city in the fourth century? Why does it mention Judea when that didn’t exist at that time? Not to mention the use of terms like synclitus instead of senatus, banda rather than vexillum, censura in place of diploma, constitutum for decretum, largitas for possessio, consul instead of patricus…”
“Quiet, woman! What do those mere details prove?”
“And that’s not all,” she continued. “In the introductio and the conclusio the handwriting of the imperial era is poorly imitated, and the formulae are from another time. How would you explain the fact that in a fourth-century document, the passage on Constantine’s conversation is based on the Acta o Gesta Sylvestri, or explain the references to the decrees of the Iconoclastic Synod of Constantinople against the veneration of images, which you know was held several centuries later?”
“The fact that the document contains errors does not prove that the donation is false,” he retorted, striking the table. “The difference between real and genuine is as slight as it is between false and spurious. How could you, a descendant of the sinner Eve, have the authority to judge the morality of an act guided by the Holy Spirit?”
“Do you truly believe that is what they will say in Byzantium?”
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