The Scribe(158)
“Yes, it’s me. Theresa.” She kissed him, wetting him with her tears. Gorgias hardly looked at her. It was as if his eyes no longer belonged to him.
“I’ll get you out of here. Everything will be fine,” she promised as she kissed him.
“The document…”
“What are you saying, Father?”
“The parchment.” Gorgias repeated in a whisper, his pupils contracted.
Theresa burst into tears. Her father’s eyes were like a pair of opaque beads.
“I hear someone coming,” Izam warned her.
She didn’t listen to him. Izam took her arm, but she resisted.
“Sic erunt novissimi primi, et primi novissimi,” Gorgias uttered in a thin voice.
“Come, or we’ll be discovered!” Izam insisted.
“I can’t leave him here!” Theresa sobbed.
Izam lifted her into the air and made her go back up. At the top, he promised they would return, but right now they had to run for it.
Gratz removed the ladder just as Wilfred’s guard returned, humming to himself and scratching his crotch. He was surprised to find visitors, but a few coins convinced him that Izam and Theresa had just come from the kitchens. When they left, Theresa knew that her father would never make it out of the meat safe alive.
Izam decided that they would stay on one of the boats moored at the wharf so they would have the protection of his own men. Once there, they ate from the soldiers’ rations before retreating to the benches at the stern. Izam wrapped Theresa in a blanket and she accepted a sip of strong wine to combat the cold out on deck. She was comforted by his embrace, and almost without intending to, she rested her head against him.
She spoke to him of her father: his dedication to his work and how he had instilled a love of reading in her. She described the nights when she would get up to prepare some broth for him while he wrote by the light of a candle; his efforts to teach her not just Latin but also Greek, the Commandments, and the Holy Scriptures. She told him about his efforts to ensure that she remembered her native Byzantium.
She cried.
Then she asked Izam to free her father. When he said he would have to speak to Alcuin, Theresa moved away in surprise. “Alcuin? What has he got to do with my father’s imprisonment?”
Izam told her that during his conversation with Wilfred, the count had assured him that, if it were up to him, he would have already executed the scribe.
“But, it would seem, Alcuin stopped him, at least until the mystery is solved.”
“What mystery?” She rested her head back on his chest.
“That’s what I asked, but Wilfred stammered and changed the subject. Anyway, the important thing is that your father’s still alive—a miracle when you bear in mind that we found him with the twins.”
“But you know—”
“It matters not what you or I know. What matters is what Alcuin believes. He’s the one in charge, and it’s him we should convince if we want to get Gorgias out of the meat safe.”
Theresa regretted having completed the parchment. She had finished it the same afternoon they imprisoned her father. Izam explained that Alcuin was a powerful man, much more powerful than she could even imagine.
“Only the king outranks him,” he added. “Under his guise as a lowly monk, his skinny and ungainly appearance, and his prudish affectations and simple way of life, there is actually a man who holds the reins of power in the church—and he rules with an iron hand. He who rules the church also controls the intricate workings of the empire. He guides Charlemagne—he is his light, his sustenance, his anchor. Who else could have formulated the Admonitio generallis, the compendium of canonical legislation to which every subject is bound, whether priest or peasant? It was Alcuin who prohibited revenge killings, who ordered penitents to give up their delirium, who forbade working, hunting, markets, and even trials on a Sunday. Alcuin of York: a fine ally, but a terrible enemy to have.”
Theresa was surprised by the revelation. Despite his intelligence, Alcuin had always seemed little more than a simple man of the cloth. She now understood the willingness with which the monk had helped her, and the readiness of Charlemagne to grant her the lands in Fulda.
While she continued thinking, Izam went off to organize the night watches. Theresa curled up under the blanket and drank down a long draft of wine, hoping its effect would clear her mind. But instead the drink made her head spin. Since she had known Alcuin, her view of him had changed direction like a walnut in a waterfall. Sometimes he had helped her; often he had confounded her; and lately, he had frightened her no less than if he were some terrible demonic being. For that was what she thought of him: He must be an evil monster. She was certain that—after recovering the emerald Vulgate—he had murdered the young sentry. Only he was aware of its contents, for he was the only person she had told.
Hoos a traitor, and Alcuin a murderer. Or maybe it was the other way around—it made no difference.
When Izam returned, he thought Theresa seemed more attractive than ever. He finished his wine and took her hand, not knowing why he felt so good when he was by her side. He hugged her while she closed her eyes. She dreamed that he would protect her from strife, from uncertainty, from all her fears… Then drowsiness filled her. She felt herself flush with warmth before unintentionally falling asleep with her head on Izam’s chest.