The Scribe (63 page)

Her father was barely able to stammer a few words, though she heard a loud groan when Izam sat him up so that the physician could better examine him. Zeno took out a tonic, which he had Gorgias drink, but he coughed it up, making the physician curse. Then he clambered up the ladder.

“Go down if you want,” he told Theresa.

“How is he?” she asked.

Zeno spat on the ground. Without answering, he took a swig of the tonic himself and then moved away from the meat safe. Theresa wanted the physician to vomit, too. At that moment Izam pressed her to climb down.

Once she was by her father’s side, he looked at her oddly.

“Is it you?” he whispered.

Theresa embraced him, trying not to let him see the tears running down her face.

“Is it you, little one?”

“Yes, it’s me. Theresa.” She kissed him, wetting him with her tears. Gorgias hardly looked at her. It was as if his eyes no longer belonged to him.

“I’ll get you out of here. Everything will be fine,” she promised as she kissed him.

“The document…”

“What are you saying, Father?”

“The parchment.” Gorgias repeated in a whisper, his pupils contracted.

Theresa burst into tears. Her father’s eyes were like a pair of opaque beads.

“I hear someone coming,” Izam warned her.

She didn’t listen to him. Izam took her arm, but she resisted.

“
Sic erunt novissimi primi, et primi novissimi
,” Gorgias uttered in a thin voice.

“Come, or we’ll be discovered!” Izam insisted.

“I can’t leave him here!” Theresa sobbed.

Izam lifted her into the air and made her go back up. At the top, he promised they would return, but right now they had to run for it.

Gratz removed the ladder just as Wilfred’s guard returned, humming to himself and scratching his crotch. He was surprised to find visitors, but a few coins convinced him that Izam and Theresa had just come from the kitchens. When they left, Theresa knew that her father would never make it out of the meat safe alive.

Izam decided that they would stay on one of the boats moored at the wharf so they would have the protection of his own men. Once there, they ate from the soldiers’ rations before retreating to the benches at the stern. Izam wrapped Theresa in a blanket and she accepted a sip of strong wine to combat the cold out on deck. She was comforted by his embrace, and almost without intending to, she rested her head against him.

She spoke to him of her father: his dedication to his work and how he had instilled a love of reading in her. She described the nights when she would get up to prepare some broth for him while he wrote by the light of a candle; his efforts to teach her not just Latin but also Greek, the Commandments, and the Holy Scriptures. She told him about his efforts to ensure that she remembered her native Byzantium.

She cried.

Then she asked Izam to free her father. When he said he would have to speak to Alcuin, Theresa moved away in surprise. “Alcuin? What has he got to do with my father’s imprisonment?”

Izam told her that during his conversation with Wilfred, the count had assured him that, if it were up to him, he would have already executed the scribe.

“But, it would seem, Alcuin stopped him, at least until the mystery is solved.”

“What mystery?” She rested her head back on his chest.

“That’s what I asked, but Wilfred stammered and changed the subject. Anyway, the important thing is that your father’s still alive—a miracle when you bear in mind that we found him with the twins.”

“But you know—”

“It matters not what you or I know. What matters is what Alcuin believes. He’s the one in charge, and it’s him we should convince if we want to get Gorgias out of the meat safe.”

Theresa regretted having completed the parchment. She had finished it the same afternoon they imprisoned her father. Izam explained that Alcuin was a powerful man, much more powerful than she could even imagine.

“Only the king outranks him,” he added. “Under his guise as a lowly monk, his skinny and ungainly appearance, and his prudish affectations and simple way of life, there is actually a man who holds the reins of power in the church—and he rules with an iron hand. He who rules the church also controls the intricate workings of the empire. He guides Charlemagne—he is his light, his sustenance, his anchor. Who else could have formulated the
Admonitio generallis
, the compendium of canonical legislation to which every subject is bound, whether priest or peasant? It was Alcuin who prohibited revenge killings, who ordered penitents to give up their delirium, who forbade working, hunting, markets, and even trials
on a Sunday. Alcuin of York: a fine ally, but a terrible enemy to have.”

Theresa was surprised by the revelation. Despite his intelligence, Alcuin had always seemed little more than a simple man of the cloth. She now understood the willingness with which the monk had helped her, and the readiness of Charlemagne to grant her the lands in Fulda.

While she continued thinking, Izam went off to organize the night watches. Theresa curled up under the blanket and drank down a long draft of wine, hoping its effect would clear her mind. But instead the drink made her head spin. Since she had known Alcuin, her view of him had changed direction like a walnut in a waterfall. Sometimes he had helped her; often he had confounded her; and lately, he had frightened her no less than if he were some terrible demonic being. For that was what she thought of him: He must be an evil monster. She was certain that—after recovering the emerald Vulgate—he had murdered the young sentry. Only he was aware of its contents, for he was the only person she had told.

Hoos a traitor, and Alcuin a murderer. Or maybe it was the other way around—it made no difference.

When Izam returned, he thought Theresa seemed more attractive than ever. He finished his wine and took her hand, not knowing why he felt so good when he was by her side. He hugged her while she closed her eyes. She dreamed that he would protect her from strife, from uncertainty, from all her fears… Then drowsiness filled her. She felt herself flush with warmth before unintentionally falling asleep with her head on Izam’s chest.

In the early hours she awoke with a fierce headache. It was cold, and the slow swaying of the ship made her feel sick. She managed to hold it together as she negotiated the cargo on the deck, trying to locate Izam. At the other end of the boat she found Gratz, who informed her that the engineer had gone off to check the situation with the other ships.

“He told me to make sure you stay here until his return.”

Theresa acquiesced. She took the loaf of bread that Gratz offered her and went back to the stern. There she chewed on the bread while contemplating the fortress’s silhouette. The bread tasted rancid, but she swallowed it without reservation. Then, with the first light of morning, she went over the wax tablets again.

By the time the sun had climbed high in the sky, not even the tossing and pitching of the boat or the ruckus of the seamen with their tools could prevent her from poring over the strange phrases transcribed from the Vulgate. However, the words still jumbled into gibberish. The only certainty was that all the phrases repeatedly alluded to Constantine’s document.

She decided to arrange the four tablets on top of a barrel—as if merely the act of looking at them could reveal their secrets. Then her father’s words sprang to mind:
Sic erunt novissimi primi, et primi novissimi.

What was he trying to say? She stood and asked Gratz for a Bible and he gave her the one they kept on the ship to protect them on voyages. Once alone again, she looked for the twentieth chapter in the
Evangelium Secundum Matthaeum
:
Sic erunt novissimi primi, et primi novissimi
. The last will be the first, and the first will be the last.

She read the previous and subsequent chapters through, without finding anything to help her understand. She looked at the tablets again while repeating the verse:
The last will be the first
. She slid her fingers over the scores in the wax.

Suddenly she understood. She tried to read the tablets in reverse order, from the last word to the first. As if by magic, neat sentences formed, combining to create clear paragraphs. When she finished reading, she understood what her father had discovered. Quickly, she hid the tablets under the bench and went to ask Gratz when Izam would return.

“Actually, he was supposed have returned by now,” he said, unconcerned.

Theresa paced up and down the boat until she had learned the contents of the tablets by heart. When she grew impatient she went to see Gratz again and asked him to accompany her on land, but he told her he couldn’t do that until Izam returned.

“And what if he doesn’t?”

“He will. He always returns.”

Theresa was not convinced by his answer, so she decided that if Izam did not come back by midday she would go alone to the fortress.

29

As the sun reached its peak and there was still no sign of Izam, Theresa made up her mind. She covered herself in a sailor’s cloak, appropriated a bundle so that she could blend in, and with Gratz distracted mending a sail, she went down to the jetty and set off toward the fortress walls. An openwork woolen cap helped her go unnoticed. At the first entrance to the city they paid no attention to her, but to gain entry into the fortress itself, she had to wait for a diligent guard to be distracted by some passing carts.

Once inside, she skirted the outer courtyards with the intention of entering the building from the maze of kitchens. A couple of dogs barked as she went past, but she stroked their heads to soothe them. She crossed an atrium and from there made for the corridor that led to Alcuin’s cell. When she found it locked, she went directly to the scriptorium, where she found the monk reading her stolen Vulgate. When he saw her, Alcuin stood up. “Where the devil have you been? I’ve been searching for you all morning.” He set aside the Bible, making sure he closed the cover.

Theresa took a deep breath and walked in. She was scared, but determined that the murderous monk would release her father from the meat safe. He bolted the door behind her and offered her a chair, which she accepted. Then the monk took out the parchment
that Theresa had been working on and placed it in front of her as if nothing had happened.

“You still have to clean the text and go over it again, so you may as well get on with it,” he said, turning his attention back to the Vulgate.

“You’re not going to ask about my father?”

Alcuin stopped reading and coughed, a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, it’s just with so much going on, I’m a bit distracted. I don’t know if you heard, but a sentry had his throat cut in the fortress yesterday.”

Theresa was surprised at the monk’s peevish tone. He swallowed and took Constantine’s document from her.

“I won’t touch it,” the young woman blurted out.

Alcuin arched an eyebrow. “I can understand why you’re upset, but—”

“I’ve finished it—what more do you want? Have your damned document!” she exclaimed, rising from her chair in a rage.

Alcuin looked at her as if he didn’t understand. “What in the Devil’s name is wrong with you? There are still the conclusions,” he said, trying to calm her down.

“Do you think that I don’t know about your schemes? My father, the twins… that poor sentry.”

Alcuin froze as if he had seen a ghost. With a faltering step he went over to the door and bolted it shut. Then he slumped into a chair. He gave her a puzzled look and asked her to continue. Theresa gripped the stylus she had hidden under the folds of her dress.

“I caught you talking to Hoos. Two days ago, in the tunnel. I heard you proposing that he should kill me. I heard everything. I heard you discussing my father, the mine, the crypt, and the twins.”

“God Almighty, Theresa. What foolery is this?”

“Oh! You deny it? And what about this Vulgate?” she said.

“What about it? What’s your issue with this Bible?”

Theresa clenched her teeth, exasperated. When she told him that the Vulgate was the reason he had killed the sentry, the monk smiled.

“I see! So I agreed with Hoos that I should murder you—only after you’ve finished the document.”

“Exactly,” she responded.

“Of course!” The monk stood up with an air of indifference. “But if what you say is true, what would stop me from killing you right now? After all, the document is done,” he added, resting a hand on Theresa’s shoulder—near her throat. The monk felt her trembling. Then he went to the door and unbolted it. “If you want to know the truth, you’ll have to trust me. Otherwise, you can leave the scriptorium.”

Theresa’s hand clamped around the stylus under her dress. She did not trust Alcuin. But if she had to risk her life to save her father, she wouldn’t hesitate, so she nodded and sat down again. The monk was pleased with her decision and sat himself at the other end of the table. Then he tidied several documents before looking at Theresa.

“Biscuit?” he offered.

She declined with a grim expression. He gulped it down in one mouthful, then he held out the document she had been working on.

“As you know, you’ve been transcribing a reproduction of the original document that was lost many years ago, a parchment with the Emperor Constantine’s seal granting lands and rights to the Roman Papacy.”

Theresa nodded, but she didn’t release the stylus.

“The parchment legitimized Rome’s power in the face of the Byzantine Empire. Perhaps you are not aware of the current situation of the Papacy, but forty years ago, following the conquest of Ravenna by the Lombards, Pope Stephen II requested assistance from Byzantium to defend himself against the pagans.” He poured a little milk into a badly washed chalice. “When he received no
response from Byzantium, the pope crossed the Alps and appeared before the king of the Franks at the time, Charlemagne’s father, Pepin. Pope Stephen II anointed Pepin and his sons, bestowing upon them the title of Patrician of the Romans, and in exchange he asked for their protection in the fight against the Lombards. Are you sure you don’t want a biscuit?”