The Scribe(28)
Then there was Bernardino, a Hispanic monk of tiny stature who ran the household with a firm hand. His role enabled him to come in and out of every room, so it would come as no surprise if he had got wind of the existence of the parchment.
Next in the list was Cassiano, the young precentor, a Tuscan whose honeyed voice, to Gorgias, reminded him of a woman of ill repute. As the head of the choir, Cassiano would often visit the part of the library where the psalters, tetragrams, and antiphons were kept. He was also one of the few adept at reading, which made him a serious suspect.
Finally, he had included Theodor, a giant man who, though of kindly demeanor, had the bluest eyes that Gorgias could remember seeing. Theodor worked as a general factotum, but because of his strength he often helped Wilfred with his relocations around the fortress.
He had erased Jeremiah, his personal assistant, and Emilius, his predecessor as a scribe, as well as the cubicularius Boniface, and Cyril, the novice master. The latter three could all read, but Boniface had almost entirely lost his sight, and both Cyril and Emilius had his complete trust.
The rest of the domestic staff and Wilfred’s men were either illiterate or did not have access to the scriptorium.
Gorgias reread the tablet as he massaged his wounded forearm: Genseric, the old coadjutor; Bernardino, the midget; Cassiano, the precentor; Theodor, the giant. Any of them could have been behind the attack—as could have Korne, whom he had not forgotten.
He was trying to solve the mystery when there was a resounding knock on the door. Gorgias hid the tablet and hurried to open it. However, as he took hold of the bolt, he found that it was jammed into its housing. The knocking continued, accompanied by an urgent voice, so Gorgias pushed up on the latch again until the door gave way with a piercing squeak. Genseric, the old coadjutor, was waiting on the other side. His liquid gaze scanned the room.
“May I ask what all the fuss is about?” asked Gorgias in irritation.
“I am sorry to bother you, but Wilfred asked me to speak with you. I was surprised to find the door locked, and I thought that perhaps there was a problem.”
“For the love of God, does nobody understand that my only problem is finding the time to do all the work that piles up in the scriptorium? What does Wilfred want now?”
“The count needs to see you. In his chambers,” he elaborated.
In his chambers. A shiver ran down Gorgias’s spine. To the best of his knowledge, no one had access to Wilfred’s private rooms. In fact, the servants often said that aside from the coadjutor nobody knew the way. He frowned, sensing that the count’s summons could not lead to anything good.
Gorgias took his time cleaning his instruments and gathering up all the documents that he presumed he would need for the meeting with Wilfred. When he was ready, the coadjutor turned around and started the walk back with weary steps. Gorgias followed him at a safe distance, still trying to guess the reason for the summons.
From the scriptorium they took the corridor that flanked the refectory, past the grain stores, across the cloister’s portico where they entered the chapter house located behind the narthex, between the stone choir and the novices’ chapel. At the back of the chapel was a passageway leading to the chapter house, normally closed off by a sturdy door. At that point Genseric stopped.
“Before continuing, you must swear that nothing will leave your lips about anything you see here,” he warned.
Gorgias kissed the crucifix that hung from his neck. “I swear before Christ.”
Genseric nodded, then removed a hood from his sleeve and offered it to Gorgias.
“I must ask you to cover your eyes,” he ordered.
Gorgias did not protest. He took the hood and pulled it over his head.
“Now hold the end of this rope and follow my directions,” he added.
Gorgias held out his hands until he grasped the rope that Genseric offered. He felt the old man tie it to his arm and then check to see if the hood was properly in place.
Moments later, Gorgias heard the squeaking of hinges and they departed, the rope suddenly tightening, forcing him to stumble forward with no means of support other than his unsteady feet. In the darkness, he followed the tugging of the rope, probing the wall with his injured arm, aided now and then by Genseric’s terse warnings.
As he walked, he could feel the walls begin to ooze some greasy substance, which was not usual for those buildings. Gorgias wondered what part of the fortress he could possibly be in, for they had walked a fair stretch already. He had heard no fewer than four doors being opened so far. They had climbed a narrow staircase, and there was an unpleasant smell of excrement, which must have come from some nearby latrine. Then he felt as if they were descending a long slope, before climbing again on uneven, slippery ground. Before long, the rope that guided him slackened, signaling their arrival at their destination. He heard another bolt being opened, and the count’s rasping voice resounded in his ears. “Please come in, Gorgias.”
Genseric led Gorgias in, still wearing the hood. The door closed behind him and an unnerving silence descended upon the place.
“I should imagine, my good Gorgias, that you are wondering why I have summoned you.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” The hood was suffocating.
“Well, I shall tell you. It seems paradoxical, does it not, that sometimes, the more diligently we serve God, the more He tests us. Last night,” he continued, “not long after retiring, I began to feel out of sorts. It is not the first time it has happened to me, yet on this occasion the pain became so unbearable that I had to request the presence of our physician. Zeno believes that the malady in what is left of my legs is spreading to the rest of my body. It would seem there is no cure, or if there is, he doesn’t know of it, so all I can do is try to rest before the pains return. But for goodness’ sake! Take off that hood—you look like a condemned man!”