The Scribe(110)
By midmorning he could make out the great, corroded honeycomb that the iron deposit had become. He continued along the old mining paths, among mounds of sandstone, the remains of old chests scattered around, broken lamps, and gnawed leather harnesses, which, after the mines were depleted, nobody bothered to remove.
Soon he reached the old slave huts and stopped to examine the half-ruined structures, often used by bandits and vermin, praying they were unoccupied. The rain was growing heavier, so he walked into the only hut that still had a partially preserved roof, seeking refuge among the pulleys, amphorae of caustic, tackle, and dismantled winches. Finally he found a space near some barrels full of stagnant water. He slumped against them and closed his eyes, trying to manage the searing pain. For a moment he wished he could cast off the bandage that covered the stump, but he knew it would be foolish.
He thought of his wife, Rutgarda.
He needed to know that nothing bad had happened to her, so he decided to visit her that night. He would wait for the sun to go down and then enter Würzburg through the drainage channel, which could be used to pass through the walls when the gates were locked. Trying in vain to get to sleep, he remembered his daughter Theresa. How he missed her!
He ate a little of the bread that he picked up in the crypt and pondered how Genseric had died. Over the course of his life he had witnessed many deaths, but never had he seen a face as distorted as the coadjutor’s, choked on his own vomit. He wondered if he had been poisoned, perhaps by the man with the serpent tattoo.
Suddenly he could see it, like an apparition: the night when he was attacked. Those pale eyes, an arm thrusting at him, all his attempts hold his assailant off. His mind conjured the image of a snake wrapped round the dagger that had wounded him. Yes, he was certain. The man who had attacked him was same man who had argued with Genseric in the crypt. It was the man with the serpent tattoo.
At nightfall he began the journey back to Würzburg, where he arrived protected by the half-light. He found his house empty and he supposed Rutgarda was still sharing a roof with her sister, so he decided to try her home, located on the hillside. As he approached, he heard his wife humming a little tune she often sang. For a moment the pain in his shoulder disappeared. He was about to go in when he heard some men who were around the corner.
“Christ’s wounds!” one of them blurted out. “I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here. The scribe has probably been eaten by wolves by now,” said one of the men who was trying to protect himself from the downpour.
Gorgias cursed his bad luck. They were Wilfred’s men, and the fact they were waiting for him suggested that Wilfred was involved. He couldn’t take the risk, so he clenched his teeth and retraced, heavy-hearted that he wouldn’t see Rutgarda.
On the way back to the mine, he looked up at the narrow illuminated windows above the fortress walls where Wilfred resided. The rain seemed to play with the lights, hiding and revealing them like some kind of riddle. As he speculated on the whereabouts of Wilfred’s chambers, he heard clucking. The stink confirmed that the animal pens were just on the other side of the wall, which made him wonder whether he might be able to steal a chicken. He needed to eat, after all, and a bird that needed very little food could provide him with a delicious egg every day.
He looked around for a crack in the wall that would enable him to climb over, but soon realized that with just one arm, he would never manage. He made for the animal entrance, despite knowing that a guard would be posted there. As he approached, his hunch proved to be true. Behind the palisade, he could make out the image of Bernardino, the short, barrel-shaped Hispanic monk.
He stopped under a tree, undecided as to whether to continue. Briefly, he thought about speaking to the monk, but then concluded that would be a stupid thing to do. More clucking made him linger, his stomach cramped with hunger, then he heard a cart approaching. When it reached him, he could see that it was the same guards who had been at Rutgarda’s sister’s house moments before. As they arrived at the gate, the men called to Bernardino. Approaching the cart to identify its occupants, he then opened up for them immediately.
“Damned rain! You’ve been relieved?” asked the midget, attempting to shield himself from the downpour.
The men responded listlessly and urged on the horse.
Gorgias took his opportunity. As the cart rolled past, he crouched down and ran beside it protected by the darkness. Once through the gate, he hid behind some bushes until the soldiers were out of sight. He breathed more easily after the midget had closed the gate and took shelter in the hut without spotting him.
Before long, when the monk’s snoring confirmed that he was asleep, Gorgias crawled through the undergrowth in the direction of the animal pens. Where he reached the pen, he stopped for a while, determining which hen seemed the plumpest. Waiting for the chickens to calm down, he slowly opened the gate to the pen and snuck in like a stealthy fox hunting its prey. When he was close enough, he grabbed his quarry by the neck, but the bird started to cackle as if being plucked. All of a sudden, the rest of the hens woke up, making such a racket that Gorgias was sure they would wake the dead.
He kicked at them, making them scatter, then hid on the other side of the pen and waited for Bernardino to appear. The midget soon emerged, wondering what was going on, and Gorgias took the opportunity to run to the gate, escaping with the hen.
When he arrived at the mine it was still completely dark. He took shelter again in the slave hut beside the barrels. One of the barrels was empty so he used it as a cage for Blanca, his new tenant. Despite the pain in his shoulder, he soon fell into a deep sleep and was dead to the world until long after dawn. When he woke, Blanca the hen greeted him with an egg under her legs.