The Scribe(13)

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 air, 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.

“Come on, you son of a bitch, move!” he cried.

Suddenly there was a cracking noise and the beam lifted, creating a space the width of a few fingers. Gorgias breathed in a mouthful of smoke, heaved once more and the beam moved again, now there was a palm’s width of space between the boy and the beam.

“Now, Johan! Get out of there!”

The youngster rolled to one side, just as Gorgias’s strength left him and the beam went crashing to the floor. Puffing with exertion, he lifted the enfeebled boy onto his shoulders and quickly fled the inferno.

In the courtyard, where neighbors tended to the injured, Gorgias saw Zeno helping a man with blister-covered legs. The physician brandished a lancet that he used to burst the blisters at great speed before squashing them like grapes. He was assisted by a helper who, with panic in his eyes, was applying oil-based ointments with questionable skill.

Gorgias headed toward him with Johan on his back. As he reached Zeno, he lay the boy down on the ground and asked the physician to help.

But with one quick glance, Zeno turned toward Gorgias and shook his head. “Nothing to be done,” he said with resolve.

Gorgias took Zeno by the arm and pulled him away from the boy. “You could at least make sure he can’t hear,” he whispered. “Tend to him at any rate, and let God decide his fate.”

Zeno gave him a scornful smile. “You should look after yourself,” he said, pointing at his blood-soaked arm. “Let me have a look.”

“First the boy.”

Zeno grimaced and squatted beside the youngster. He called over a helper and snatched the ointment from his hands.

“Pig fat—the best thing for burns,” he announced as he smeared the substance on Johan’s wounds. “The count will not be pleased if it is wasted on someone with no hope of recovery.”

Gorgias did not respond. All he could think about was finding Theresa. “Are there more wounded?” he asked.

“Of course. The most seriously injured have been taken to Saint Damian’s,” the surgeon answered without lifting his gaze.

Gorgias crouched beside Johan and stroked his brow. The boy responded with a hint of a smile. “Pay no heed to this meatcutter,” he said. “You will get better, you’ll see.” And without giving him time to respond, he stood and set off toward the basilica in search of his daughter.


Despite its squat appearance, Saint Damian’s Church was a solid, sturdy structure. It had been built from good masonry stone and Charlemagne himself had expressed his satisfaction when he learned that a building consecrated to God had been erected on foundations as robust as the faith of its subjects. Before going in, Gorgias crossed himself and prayed to God that Theresa was safe.

As he walked through the door, he was struck by an unbearable stench of burned flesh. Without stopping he took one of the torches secured to the walls and continued toward the transept, using the torch to illuminate the little chapels that flanked the lateral naves. When he reached the presbytery, he noticed a row of straw sacks arranged behind the altar for the injured to lie on.