The Scribe(146)

“Amputated, you say? Good God, Theresa! Why did you not tell me immediately?” he cried, despairing.

Theresa tried to apologize, but it seemed as if the Devil himself had suddenly taken hold of Alcuin as he swore and cursed, scattering the parchments across the floor, before slumping into the chair like a defeated, old rag doll.

Stunned by his outburst, Theresa didn’t know what to say.

After recovering his normal composure, the monk stood up with an absent look in his eyes. “We have a problem, then. A big problem,” he said, his voice unnervingly tranquil.

“What problem?” a fearful Theresa asked.

“The problem, Theresa, is that even if we find your father, he will not be able to finish the job!” he screamed again like a man possessed.

Theresa’s quill slipped from her hand.

“And you know why?” he added, still roaring. “Because he is an invalid now. A useless one-armed scribe incapable of writing a docket.”

At that moment Theresa saw everything clearly. The monk had never intended to help her father. His only intention was to help himself, and now that her father was of no further use to him, he would no longer look for him and would only focus on the document.

Instantly, she hated him with every fiber of her being and suddenly had the urge to plunge her own stylus into his stomach. But then, just as suddenly, she remembered the parchment hidden in her father’s bag. Perhaps she could still defeat this devil.

She mustered the courage to offer a deal. “Find my father and you’ll have your parchment ready for you.”

Alcuin gave her a sidelong glance and turned back to continue brooding.

“Did you not hear me?” She boldly grabbed him by his habit. “I can finish it, I tell you.”

The monk smiled sardonically, but then Theresa took a quill and quickly began to write.

IN-NOMINE-SANCTAE-ET-INDIVIDUAL-TRINITATIS-PATRIS-SCILICET-ET-FILII-ET-SPIRITUS-SANCTI

- - -

IMPERATOR-CAESAR-FLAVIUS-CONSTANTINUS

Alcuin turned pale. “But, how the hell?”

The script was as crisp as her father’s, and the copied text was an exact replica.

“I know it by memory,” she lied. “Find my father, and I will finish it.”

Astounded, Alcuin accepted. He asked her to write a list of what she would need to write it and then ordered her to return to her chamber.


Alcuin found Zeno at the tavern in the main square, his face buried in a whore’s chest, drunk with wine. Seeing him arrive, the prostitute rummaged through the physician’s pockets and after appropriating a coin she left the table without a word. It was not the right place to talk about such serious affairs, so Alcuin convinced Zeno to exit the inn. As soon as they stepped out into the street, Alcuin threw a bucket of water over the physician, which sobered him up enough so that he could confirm what Theresa had said.

“I swear I had no dealings with Genseric. I removed Gorgias’s arm, and that was it,” he said defensively.

Alcuin clenched his teeth. He had hoped Theresa had been wrong, but if Zeno had truly operated on Gorgias, then he would surely die. The physician confirmed that it was Genseric who hired him to tend to the scribe.

“Genseric, who incidentally was found dead the next day,” Alcuin pointed out.

Zeno acknowledged it, though he doubted that Gorgias was the murderer. “He lost so much blood when I cut off his arm,” he said, shaking his head.

Alcuin understood.

“Now that you mention it, Genseric was behaving strangely, as if he were intoxicated, which I thought odd because he never drank. I recall that he mentioned something about an itchy hand. It was red and looked to be covered in bites.”

Zeno couldn’t provide Alcuin with much more information, only the location of the stables where he had operated on Gorgias and also the entrance to the crypt. After telling him these things, he walked unsteadily back into the tavern.


Alcuin had no difficulty finding the two places Zeno had mentioned. In the stables he found nothing of interest, but in the crypt he gathered several clues that improved his understanding of the situation.

On his return to the fortress, he found that there was a great stir at the gate. When he asked what was happening, a woman told him that the guards had closed the gates, locking them outside.

“I am Alcuin of York,” he said, identifying himself to a sentry. The guard paid him as much attention as he would a junk merchant.

“You can shout as much as you want—they won’t let anybody in,” a boy assured him, pushing and shoving.

“Neither in nor out. Not even their own soldiers are allowed through,” said another boy who seemed a little more informed.

Alcuin attempted to climb the hillock on which the sentry was posted, but the guard dealt him a blow with his stick. As he fell to the ground, Alcuin realized that he had just cursed out loud the man who hit him. Several peasants laughed at his unholy outburst.

Though there were rumors, nobody really knew what was happening. Some were saying that a pestilence had broken out. Others claimed the Saxons were attacking. There were even those who purported that more dead boys had been found.

Alcuin was about to head to the nearest church when he noticed Izam on the wall. Without giving it a second thought he clambered onto a barrel and waved his arms. Izam recognized him and ordered his men to allow him through.