The Scribe(31)
“That’s not what the count told me,” Gorgias answered, his concern growing.
“And what did he tell you? That a reparation would appease his anger? That he will be content with whatever he makes from selling you as a slave? No, my friend. No. That is not Korne’s way. I might not have Wilfred’s refined learning, but I know a rat when I smell one. Have you heard about the rats of the Main?”
Gorgias shook his head, nonplussed.
“The rats of the Main band together to form ferocious packs. The eldest rat selects her prey without a care for its size or any difficulty it presents. She patiently stalks it, and when the time is right, she leads the clan to kill—and they devour it. Korne is a Main rat. The worst kind of rat you can imagine.”
Gorgias fell silent. Wilfred had told him about the Carolingian code, the fines he might have to pay by way of compensation, and the possibility that Korne might bring the weight of the law down upon him, but he didn’t mention all that Genseric seemed to be insinuating.
“Perhaps Korne should try to understand that I have also received my punishment. Moreover, the law obliges him to—”
“Korne? Understand?” Genseric interrupted with a guffaw. “For Christ’s sake, Gorgias, do not delude yourself! Since when has a law protected the destitute? Even if the foundations of the Ripuarian Code underpin our justice system, and even if the reforms undertaken by Charlemagne abound with Christian charity, I can assure you that none of them will free you from Korne’s hatred.”
Gorgias could feel his stomach turning. The deranged old man kept blurting out absurd stories of rats and meaningless prophecies, while he had work to do—work that would take an incomprehensible amount of time to finish. He felt on edge and so signaled that the conversation was over by standing. “Sorry, but I do not share your fears. And now, if you don’t mind, I would like to return to the scriptorium.”
Genseric shook his head. “Gorgias, Gorgias… you must try to understand. Give me another moment and you will be grateful for it—you’ll see,” he said condescendingly. “Did you know that Korne was a Saxon?”
“A Saxon? I thought his children were baptized.”
“A convert, but Saxon nonetheless. When Charlemagne conquered the lands of the north, he forced the Saxons to choose between the cross and the gallows. Since then I have attended to many of these converts, and though they come to my mass and fast at Lent, I can assure you that the poison of sin still runs through their veins.”
Gorgias rapped his knuckles on the chair. Genseric’s words were making him increasingly worried.
“Did you know that they still practice ritual sacrifice?” he added. “They meet at crossroads to slit calves’ throats. They perform sodomy. They even engage their sisters in the most appalling incestuous acts. Korne is one of them, and Wilfred knows it. But the count does not know about their ancestral traditions—customs like the faide, by which the death of a son is avenged with the murder of the person responsible. That is the faide, Gorgias. Saxon vengeance.”
“But how many times do I have to say it? The fire was an accident,” said Gorgias in irritation. “Wilfred can confirm it.”
“Calm down, Gorgias. It does not matter what you say, or even what really happened that morning. All that matters is that Korne blames your daughter. She is dead, and soon you will follow her.”
Gorgias looked at him. Genseric’s liquid gaze seemed to cut right through him.
“You brought me here for this? To announce my death?”
“To help you, Gorgias. I brought you here to help you.”
The old man paused. Then stood up. He gestured to Gorgias to wait and went out of the cell, in the direction of the crypt. “Wait there, I must fetch something.”
Gorgias obeyed. From inside the cell he could see Genseric wandering back and forth in the crypt. Then he returned with a lit candle, which he placed on a ledge near the doorway.
“Take this,” he said, tossing an object to Gorgias.
“A wax tablet?”
Genseric’s only response was to retreat a few steps before, in one quick movement, he slammed the door shut, leaving Gorgias alone inside.
“What in God’s name are you doing? Open this door immediately!”
He realized after some time that all he would achieve by pounding on the door was tearing his knuckles. When he finally stopped banging on the door, he heard Genseric’s voice, softer than ever.
“Believe me, it’s better for you. You will be safe here,” the elderly man whispered.
“You demented old fool—you can’t keep me here. The count will flay you alive when he finds out.”
“Poor, deluded Gorgias,” he said. “Do you not see that Wilfred himself conceived all this?”
Gorgias did not believe him.
“You must be insane. He would never—”
“Shut up and listen! On the table you will find a stylus. Note the items you need: books, ink, documents… I will return after Terce to collect the list. Until then you may do as you wish. It looks like you will have time to complete the task, after all.”
7
Not long before midday, Theresa savored her last mouthful of salt roe. She foraged in her bag for any remaining crumbs and then sucked her fingers until they were glistening. She took a gulp of water and sat down to rest. She knew the terrain well, but looking ahead the snow hid any distinguishing landmarks, creating an immaculate landscape that obscured the routes that ran through it.