“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!”
Gorgias obeyed.
As he removed the cloth, he could make out they were standing in what once must have been an armory. He saw bare walls of stone blocks arranged in neat lines, the order broken only by an alabaster window, a weak glow filtering through it. On the main wall, carved into the ashlars, he noticed the remnants of a crucifix, which seemed to be watching over the great four-poster bed. Wilfred lay among plump cushions, breathing with difficulty as though an intolerable weight bore down on his chest. This had the effect of transforming his face into a bloated mask. To his left were a side table with the remains of his breakfast and a chest holding a pair of chasubles with a coarse woolen habit lying on top. On the other side of the room Gorgias saw a clean chamber pot, a table, writing instruments, and a small alcove carved into the stone. There was no other furniture adorning the chamber. Only a single flimsy chair at the foot of the bed.
He was surprised not to see a single codex, or even a copy of the Bible. However, as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could make out another room: Wilfred’s private scriptorium.
Some menacing growls suddenly made Gorgias take a step back.
“Do not be alarmed,” said the count with a smile. “The poor dogs are a little restless, but they aren’t dangerous. Come and make yourself comfortable.”
Before accepting his invitation, Gorgias made sure that the animals were tied to Wilfred’s wheeled contraption. He also noticed that Genseric had left the room.
“So tell me the reason for this summons,” said Gorgias, his eyes still fixed on the dogs.
“In fact it is you who must talk to me. It has been six days since we spoke and I haven’t heard anything of your progress. Have you brought the parchment?”
“My Lord, I am not sure where to start!” he sputtered. “The truth is I must confess a matter that troubles me. Do you remember the problem with the ink?”
“Not exactly. Something to do with its fluidity?”
“That’s right. As I said, the pens I have do not retain ink for very long. The excess flow causes splattering and sometimes leaves big trails of ink. Hence, I attempted to make a new mixture to solve the problem.”
“Yes, I vaguely remember now. So?”
“After several days of reflection, I decided to test my theory last night. I charred a bit of walnut shell, which I added to the ink, and I mixed it with a drop of oil to thicken it. I also tried it with ash, a little tallow, and a pinch of alum. Naturally, before using it, I tested the mixture on a different parchment.”
“Of course,” the count said.
“Straightaway I noticed that the pen slid across the parchment as if floating on a pool of oil. The letters appeared bright and silky before my eyes, as smooth as a young girl’s skin, and jet black. But, on the document, as I went back over the uncial letters, I had the accident.”
“Accident? What accident?”
“These letters, the uncials, required a finish in accord with the importance of the document. I had to retouch them to ensure clean and well-defined edges. Unfortunately this process must take place before the final layer of pounce is applied.”
“For the love of God! Stop beating about the bush and explain to me what has happened!”