The Scribe(78)
She recognized the feel of the parchment. The sheets were sewn together in quinternions of double pages, joined by the fold where they were backstitched. She found the second page of the irregular sheet. It was the same as the rest: rough and dark. Worn in the same way.
There was only one explanation for this, and she knew it because she had done it herself dozens of times. When a parchment was smudged, it could be rescued by scraping its surface until the stained skin is removed. If the entire sheet were scraped, it would look as good as new, ready to be reused. However, after scraping, it became thinner and a slightly different color. Scribes called it palimpsest.
She reexamined the smooth sheet. The handwriting was also different than the writing on the rest of the pages. Without doubt it had been written some time later.
She wondered why someone would be compelled to scrape an entire page.
For a moment she thought about waking Alcuin, but she decided to wait. Then she recalled a game the scribes would play in Korne’s workshop to recover deleted text. They would place damp ash on the page underneath a newly scraped page and lightly rub to reveal the pressure marks left by the quill. Sometimes it was impossible because the marks of the new text jumbled the marks of the old. However, all scribes knew that before writing on a reused page, they had to position a tablet underneath to avoid leaving marks on the sheet behind it.
She took a handful of ash from the fire and crossed herself. Then she applied it, rubbing little circles gently on the page underneath until it became a gray powder that disappeared with one blow. She lifted the codex and held it against the light of the candle. A short text in white lettering appeared before her eyes. She copied it onto her wax tablet:
On the calends of February of the year 796 of Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Under the auspices of Boethius of Nantes, Abbot of Fulda, and guaranteed by Charles known as the Great, King of the Franks and Patrician of the Romans.
Transaction of six hundred pecks of rye, two hundred of barley, and fifty of spelt, settled at a discounted price, dispatched to the county of Magdeburg.
Paid to this abbey, the sum of forty gold solidi, under the law of God.
May the Almighty protect Magdeburg from the Plague.
The rest of the paragraph referred to the opening of a minor road, and it coincided with the new writing on the scraped sheet.
A surge of joy ran from her stomach to her ears. Immediately, she called out to Alcuin, telling him to wake up.
“By God, you will wake the entire chapter,” he said, half-asleep.
While she told him of her discovery, Alcuin examined the codex eagerly. Then he looked at Theresa in astonishment.
“It is not a purchase, but a sale. What’s more, the price… forty solidi is far too low.”
“But it mentions a plague, and if that weren’t important, they wouldn’t have taken the effort to hide it,” she argued.
“It could also be that, though still significant, it bears no relation to our epidemic. Yet, let me think: Magdeburg… Magdeburg… nearly four years ago… Heavens above! That’s it!”
He ran to the bookshelf and took down the document containing the latest capitularies published by Charlemagne. Then he examined the pages with the focus of someone who knew precisely what he was looking for. “Here it is: a decree of assistance dated January of the same year.” He quickly read it and explained, “It regulates the delivery and price of food sent to the county of Magdeburg. It does not specify the reasons behind the pricing, but I recall that at that time a plague was devastating the area bordering with Eastphalia, on the banks of the Elbe.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Magdeburg was besieged by the Saxons during one of the worst winters in living memory. The attackers burned the grain reserves, leading to a famine that continued after the arrival of Charlemagne’s troops. To alleviate matters, the king himself ordered cereals to be sent from nearby counties at a price lower than the stipulated one. The source of the epidemic was never known.”
“But why would someone remove that information from the polyptych, while leaving the capitulary intact?”
“Because they are different things. Ultimately, the capitulary only contains a decree of assistance, without specifying what gave rise to it. However, the erased page in the polyptych established a link between the Plague and the abbey.”
“A link correlated to the sale of grain, and quite possibly the purchase of contaminated wheat.”
“We need something to hang on to. This lead could be the Devil’s tail.”
Theresa concluded: “Then let’s pull the tail so we can catch the Devil.”
16
In a corner of the stables, Theresa dreamed of Hoos. The next morning she awoke as the animals began to shuffle around, whinnying and breaking wind with a complete disregard for their guest. Stretching and yawning, her hair entangled with straw, she parted the blankets that Alcuin had put up as curtains and made for the water troughs. The water was freezing, but it felt good on her face. When she had finished washing, she noticed Alcuin standing there looking at her with despair.
“So much cleanliness. Come on, woman! We have work to do.”
He told her that after she retired to the stables he went to the abbey to awaken and question two monks who may have known something. Still half-asleep, they told him that Boethius, the previous abbot, had suffered an attack of insanity that drove him to his premature death.