The Scribe(109)

“Shit!” Zeno exclaimed when it slipped through his fingers. He bent down to pick it up, but try as he might he could not find it.

“Leave it and use another one,” Genseric suggested.

“I don’t have any more here. You’ll have to go to my house.”

“Me? You go.”

“Someone has to contain the hemorrhage.” He released Gorgias’s elbow and a stream of blood flooded onto the table. Zeno put pressure on the artery again.

Genseric nodded.

Though Gorgias was lying there helpless, the coadjutor warned Zeno not to leave his side. Before he left he made sure the chains were secure and confirmed with Zeno where he kept the needles. He was about to leave when he gave another sudden lurch.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Zeno insisted.

“Fix that arm by the time I return!” he said, squinting as he left the stables, as if he could not see.

Zeno tightened the tourniquet under Gorgias’s arm until the flow of blood stopped. Examining the wound again, he noticed its brown and purple coloring and shook his head. The arm was lost, however much Genseric refused to accept it.

Gorgias suddenly came round. Seeing the physician he attempted to sit up, but the chain and tourniquet prevented him. Zeno tried to calm him.

“Where have you been? Rutgarda has given you up for dead,” the physician told him. He bent down as he spotted the glint of the lost needle.

Gorgias tried to speak, but his fever prevented it. Zeno informed him that he had to amputate the arm, or he would inevitably die. Gorgias looked at him in horror.

“Even if I remove it, you could still die,” the physician blurted out, as if talking about slaughtering a pig.

Gorgias understood. For a few days he had not felt his fingers. He had tried to ignore it, but from the elbow down all that remained was a lifeless limb. He pondered Zeno’s words. If he lost the arm, he would lose his livelihood, but at least he could fight for Rutgarda. He looked at his pustule-covered arm miserably. It pulsated, but there was no pain. It was clear the physician was right. When Zeno explained that Genseric opposed the amputation, Gorgias could not comprehend it.

“I’m sorry, but he’s the one paying,” Zeno replied.

Gorgias tried to reach for something at his neck, but Zeno stopped him.

“Take it,” Gorgias managed to utter. “The stones are rubies. It’s more than you’ve ever been paid.”

Zeno examined the necklace that hung from the patient’s neck. He clasped it and then pulled it off him, thinking it over as he looked at the door. “Genseric will kill me.”

But he spat on the ground and told Gorgias to bite into a dry stick. Then he took hold of the saw and carved through the arm like a butcher.

When Genseric returned, he found Gorgias unconscious in a great pool of blood. He looked for Zeno, but could not find him. The amputated limb lay on the floor. Where it used to be was now just a skillfully sewn stump.

Before long Zeno reappeared, doing up his trousers. When he saw Genseric he tried to explain that he had decided to do the inevitable, but the coadjutor would not heed reason. He cursed him a thousand times, condemned him to hell, insulted and attempted to hit him. But suddenly he calmed down, as if seized by a strange fatalism, before reeling again. He seemed confused. His gaze wandered around the room. Zeno managed to catch him before he collapsed onto the floor. He was coughing, his face pale as a mask of marble. The physician gave him a swig of liquor, which seemed to revive him.

“You look unwell. Would you like me to accompany you?”

Genseric nodded without conviction.

Zeno unfastened Gorgias’s other arm, then brought his cart around, ushering on the coadjutor before loading Gorgias as if he were a sack of wheat. Finally he climbed on, cracked his whip, and guided the horse through the woods, following Genseric’s confused directions. As they traveled, Zeno noticed that the coadjutor was repeatedly scratching the palm of his left hand. It seemed irritated, as though he had rubbed it with nettles. He mentioned it, but Genseric was oblivious.

They stopped in the oak grove near the fortress walls. Genseric clambered down from the cart and started walking, dragging his feet like a ghost until he reached a wall. In the darkness, the coadjutor groped among the climbing plants until he found a small door, took a key from his robes, and inserted it with difficultly into the lock. Then he leaned against the doorframe to rest before opening it and entering like a sleepwalker. Finally, he collapsed.

When Gorgias awoke the next day, Zeno was long gone, and Genseric’s dead body lay by his side.


It was some time before Gorgias was able to stand. With his vision still cloudy, he looked at the stump that Zeno had bandaged for him with a strip of material from his own chasuble. The pain was excruciating, but at least it was not bleeding.

He turned toward Genseric’s body. The monk was lying on the ground with a contorted expression, his hands clutching his stomach, the left one a strange purple color. Gorgias wanted to kick him, but contained himself.

Looking around, Gorgias saw that he was in the circular crypt where he had been imprisoned all that time. He turned toward the cell and pushed the door open with a squeak. Fear made him hesitate, but finally he went in to search through his documents. Fortunately, the truly valuable ones were still where he had hidden them. Stashing away the original and the Greek transcription, he did his best to tear up everything else he could find with his one hand. Then he took some bread that had been left there and departed for the old mine.