The Scribe(137)
“There was only enough parchment left for two trial runs. It is a special parchment. Uterine vellum: you know, the one made from unborn calf’s skin.”
“Everyone knows what vellum is,” he murmured.
“This is different, brought in from Byzantium. Anyhow, the only copy was lost in the fire, so Gorgias started another. But a few weeks ago the scribe disappeared from the scriptorium along with the document.”
“I don’t understand—what do you mean?”
“About two months ago I met with him in my chambers, and he assured me that he would have it finished within a few days. However, that same morning he vanished as if by magic.”
“And since then?”
“Nobody has seen him,” he lamented. “As far as I know, Genseric was the last person to see him. He accompanied him to the scriptorium to collect a few things and was never seen again.”
When Alcuin suggested they go to speak to Genseric, Wilfred fell silent for a moment. Then he downed his wine and looked at the monk with glazed eyes.
“I’m afraid that will not be possible. Genseric is dead. They found his body last week in the middle of the forest, run through with a stylus.”
Alcuin coughed when he heard this last part, but his astonishment turned to stupor when he heard that, according to Wilfred, Gorgias was the murderer.
The next morning Alcuin went to the kitchens early. As in other fortresses, they were located in a separate building so that, in the event of a kitchen fire, the flames would be contained. Indeed, as soon as he entered, he noticed the blackened walls—a clear sign of repeated fires. He asked a maidservant for the head cook, who turned out to be Bernardino, a stout monk the size of a wine barrel. The squat man greeted him without a glance as he dashed about as nimbly as a squirrel organizing the supplies. When he finally stopped, he gladly turned his attention to Alcuin. “Sorry about the rush, but we were in desperate need of the provisions you brought.” He handed him a hot cup of milk. “It’s an honor to meet you. Everyone is talking about you.”
Alcuin accepted the milk with pleasure. Since he had left Fulda he had drunk nothing but watered-down wine. Then Alcuin asked Bernardino about Genseric. Wilfred had told him that it was the cook who had found the coadjutor’s body.
“That’s right.” With difficultly he perched on a chair. “I discovered the old man in the middle of the forest, lying face-up with froth at the mouth. He couldn’t have been dead long, for the vermin had not yet devoured him.”
He told him about the stylus sunk into his belly. It was of the type used by scribes to write on wax tablets, he explained. It had been driven deep into him.
“And you think it was Gorgias?”
The midget shrugged.
“The stylus undoubtedly belonged to Gorgias, but I would never have attributed an act like that to him. We all thought him a good man,” he added, “though lately some strange events have taken place.” He explained to him that, in addition to Genseric, several young boys had turned up dead, and it was rumored that the scribe was also behind those murders.
When Alcuin asked him about the coadjutor’s body, Bernardino informed him where it had been buried. The midget was surprised at the monk’s interest in the whereabouts of the clothes that Genseric had been wearing, for normally they washed the garments of the dead and if they were in good condition they were reused.
“But Genseric’s stank of urine, so we decided to bury him in his habit.”
Alcuin finished his cup of milk and asked the cook if the young boys had also been stabbed.
“They were. Strange goings-on.”
Alcuin nodded, disconcerted. He thanked Bernardino for the information and wiped the remnants of milk from his mouth. Then he asked when they could examine the place where he had found Genseric. They agreed they would meet that afternoon following the Sext service. So he said farewell and returned to his chambers. On the way he decided to ask Wilfred to exhume the coadjutor’s body, for something did not add up.
In the corridor that led to his room, he bumped into Flavio Diacono, with bleary eyes and disheveled hair. It was late to be rising and the prelate behaved as if there was no work to be done. Alcuin had the impression that Flavio Diacono—with his puffy flesh and perfumed clothes—was the kind of priest who was less concerned with abiding by the precepts than in fulfilling his own desires. In a moment of drunkenness, he had even admitted that in Rome he used to enjoy the company of young girls, suggesting that Alcuin should try it. But Alcuin naturally chose celibacy. The Church, of course, condemned concubinage, but it was not uncommon for some men of the cloth to succumb to the pleasures of cohabitation, living with women they bought or coerced with the threat of eternal damnation.
He returned Flavio’s greeting and accompanied him to the dining hall. It was not his place to judge his behavior, but as Saint Augustine had declared in his De Civitate Dei, though men were born with the freedom to choose, there was no doubt that for some, such a faculty only allowed them to make poor decisions.
At breakfast, everyone present discussed Theresa’s miracle.
Izam did not give an opinion, but several clerics suggested setting up an altar on the ashes of the old workshop, and one even suggested building a chapel there. Wilfred was in agreement, but listened to Alcuin’s objection when he proposed that they wait for an ecumenical council to comment on the matter.