The Scribe(153)
Izam guided his mount through the ant’s nest of narrow streets until they reached some abandoned shacks in the poor quarter outside the walls. He dismounted next to some abandoned-looking stables. Leading the horse inside, he tethered it to a rail. Then he piled up some straw and offered it to Theresa to sit on. When he thought she had calmed down, he asked her what was going on. She tried to speak, but her weeping prevented her. As much as he tried, Izam was unable to console her. After a while Theresa ran out of tears and she abandoned herself to melancholy. Without knowing why, he took the liberty of holding her, and she was comforted to think that someone was protecting her.
When at last she could speak, she told him what she had witnessed in the tunnel. She explained that she had heard Hoos promising to kill her, and also that he knew the whereabouts of her father. She had to persuade Izam that Gorgias was no murderer, that they had to find him, for he was undoubtedly in danger. However, Izam urged her to continue her story. She told him all she knew, leaving out Constantine’s document. The young man listened closely and inquired about Alcuin’s role, though Theresa could not give him a clear answer. Izam pondered it all and finally decided to help.
“But it will have to be tomorrow. It’s getting dark, and going down into the mine now would be an open invitation to bandits.”
Theresa cursed those Saxons a thousand times. She hated them with all her being. She remembered again her assailants after she had fled Würzburg, the brutal attack during their voyage on the ship, and how the one person they should have killed—that bastard Hoos Larsson—remained alive. She was surprised when Izam corrected her assumption.
“I don’t think they were Saxons. They were just outlaws. The rabble doesn’t distinguish between the two because they identify pagans with evil, and evil with the Saxons. But the Saxons that are still resisting are hiding out in the north, beyond the Rhine.”
“It doesn’t matter whether they’re bandits or Saxons. They’re all our enemies.”
“Of course, and I fight them with everything I have, but as strange as it may seem, I have never hated the Saxons. They’re only defending their lands, their children, their beliefs. They’re rough, yes. And cruel. But how would you behave if one morning you got out of bed to find an army laying waste to everything you know and love? Those pagans are fighting for what they’ve had since they were born, for a way of life that some foreigners from far off lands have come to take from them. I must admit that on occasions I have admired their valor and aspired to their energy. I even believe they truly hate God, for they often fight like demons. But I can assure you that they are only guilty of having been born in the wrong place and wrong time.”
Theresa looked at him disconcertedly. In her mind, like all humans, the Saxons were children of God. So how could they be guided toward the Truth if they refused to accept it? At any rate, she thought, her anger returning, who in hell cares about the Saxons? Hoos, now he was a real servant of the Devil—the worst kind anyone could meet. The only man who had ever made her feel truly happy was nothing more than a con artist she now hated with such venom that she would gladly tear him apart with her bare hands. She kicked herself for having been so naive, for having wanted to marry him and give her life to an animal like that.
Her anger clouded her senses, making her incapable of distinguishing between rage and cold. She put Hoos out of her mind and laid her head against Izam’s chest. His warmth comforted her. When she asked where they would spend the night, she was surprised to hear him say they would stay in the shack. He didn’t trust anyone in the fortress anymore. The young man covered her with his cloak and took some cheese from his bag. When he offered her some, Theresa refused, but Izam broke off a piece and made her eat it. Her mouth brushed against his fingers.
As the young woman savored the food, Izam regretted not having any more cheese so that he might touch her lips again. He recalled the day they met. He had been attracted by her polite demeanor, her honey-colored eyes, and her messy hair. She was so different from the plump, rosy-cheeked girls that populated Fulda. But later it had been her bold and impetuous character that had captivated him. Curiously, the fact that she could read—something that would unnerve any normal man—fascinated him. He loved the interest with which she listened to him, and in turn he enjoyed listening to her stories about her native Constantinople. And now he was beside her, protecting her amid so many strange events, and not knowing what was real and what was fantasy.
28
When the voices woke Gorgias, it was already nightfall at the mine. He had just enough time to roll to one side and pull the pallet over himself. Pain shot through him as he fell on the stump of his arm. He crouched down and waited in silence, praying to God that the darkness would protect him.
Before long, hidden in the shadows inside the miner’s hut, he listened to the approaching voices until finally he could see two individuals bearing torches. One of them was tall and blond, and the other appeared to be a priest. The strangers separated and began to sniff around the shacks, kicking aside the discarded junk. At one point the blond one came near his hiding place while the other waited at a distance. For a moment Gorgias thought he would be discovered, but in the end the man turned around, signaled to the clergyman, and they each deposited a bundle just a few paces from where he was hiding. Then they turned around and, as quickly as they had arrived, disappeared into the darkness.