She was seething as he grabbed her arm and put his lips to her ear. “You could always earn a living massaging some drunk’s skin,” he sniggered.
Theresa could not take any more. She jerked her arm away and was about to leave the workshop, but the parchment-maker stopped her. “No harlot disrespects me like that,” he muttered, dealing her a blow to the cheek.
Theresa tried to defend herself, but Korne pushed her again and she slipped, falling against the frame she had been working on. The structure wobbled heavily, swaying for few prolonged moments before finally collapsing onto the fire with a great crash. On impact, a swarm of embers flew out into the workshop, turning it into a furnace. Sparks flared and landed on the nearest benches. A few of the cinders set fire to the codices, and in the blink of an eye, the flames had reached the shelving.
Before Korne could react, a dimwitted laborer rushed to open all the windows. Fueled by the draft, the flames licked at the timber and wattle roofing, making the dead leaves catch fire. Korne had just enough time to snatch a bundle of parchment away before a burning branch fell, close to where Theresa stood in a daze.
Ignoring her, Korne ordered the laborers to quickly grab anything of value they could find and flee the building. They obeyed, bumping into each other as they gathered objects and bolted outside. One of them started to drag Theresa away from the flames, but when he saw that she was regaining her senses, he left her to her own fate.
When Theresa came round, she thought she was on the threshold of Hell. She looked around in desperation to see the flames devouring everything in their path and threatening to surround her. A creaking above made her look at the ceiling. For a moment she thought the roof would fall in, but then she could see that the flames were not spreading across the wattle, probably because of the damp and the accumulated snow.
She scanned the room and saw that her only hope of escape was to reach the inner courtyard, for the way out to the street seemed impassable. On her left she discovered a group of codices that had been stored under a ledge. Without hesitation, she wrapped herself in her dress, still damp from the pool, and gathered up as many codices as she could carry. Then she ran out into the courtyard, where she noticed a chestnut tree climbing up the easternmost corner to the rooftop that adjoined the cathedral’s eaves. She took off her wet garment and used it as a sack for the codices, but as she was about to climb the vine, a cry from inside made her stop.
Theresa dropped the codices and ran toward the workshop. As she entered the room, smoke blinded her. She advanced toward the fire, unable to breathe with the heat burning her insides. Huddled behind a wall of fire, she discovered Korne’s wife, crying out in desperation. The fire must have caught her by surprise while she was up in the attic and for some reason prevented her escape. As she approached, the woman was squealing like a hog about to be slaughtered, and suddenly Theresa noticed that the woman’s clothes were already on fire.
Theresa moved toward her, but a wall of fire between them kept her from getting close. Above the fireplace the roof creaked. The branches of the latticework were beginning to give way under the thick layer of snow piled on top of it. Looking around, Theresa found a long spade lying on the ground. She picked it up and thrust it with all her might into the branches above that were starting to break. The roof creaked again, but she kept jabbing at it, until suddenly a great cracking sound made her stop. The latticework was on the verge of collapse. With the smoke asphyxiating her, she needed air. With her remaining strength she rammed the spade into the ceiling as hard as she could.
A flood of snow suddenly burst through the hole that had opened up to the roof. When the avalanche subsided, the flames between her and Korne’s wife were extinguished.
“Your hand! For God’s sake, give me your hand!” Theresa cried.
The woman stopped screaming and opened her eyes. She stood, kissed Theresa’s hand, and moving as quickly as the woman’s thick legs would allow, they ran together toward the baths.
3
When Gorgias arrived at the scriptorium, he realized with horror that he had left his bag in the parchment-maker’s workshop. He cursed his stupidity, but he was comforted by the fact that he had hid the parchment that he was working on in a secret compartment inside the bag. He was certain that the man who had attacked him knew the incalculable value of the parchment and had been after it. If he had not taken this extra precaution, his assailant would now have his hands on a document more valuable than even he probably knew. However, the assailant had stolen a draft from out of his bag that contained some of the most delicate passages, and it would cause Gorgias a significant delay.
He looked at his arm and saw blood had soaked through the bandage that Zeno had made. Using his healthy hand he undid the dressing and rested his wounded limb on a table. He tried to move his fingers, but they would hardly bend. The wound was still bleeding, so he tightened the stitches that kept the cut from opening, but the pain made him give up. He could feel his raw flesh palpitating in time with his racing heart. Worried, he asked a servant to call the physician again. While he waited he lay back in his chair and reflected on all that had happened.
The creaking of the door roused Gorgias from his thoughts. The same servant reappeared and asked for permission to enter. With him was the surgeon, visibly annoyed.
“Save me, Lord, from scholars,” he grumbled. “They think themselves so learned, yet at the slightest discomfort they moan like old women at a wake.” The physician brought a lamp over to Gorgias’s wounded arm.
“I can hardly move my fingers and it won’t stop bleeding,” Gorgias said, showing him the cut.
The surgeon examined the limb with the same scrutiny a butcher might examine a chicken he was about to dismember. Its stitching had nearly come completely undone. “Dear God! What have you been doing? Writing out the Bible in Greek? You should be grateful if I don’t have to amputate.”
Gorgias did not answer. The physician rummaged around in his workbag. “Well, I’ll be damned! I’m out of knotgrass. Do you have the powders I prescribed for you here?”
“I left them in the workshop. I’ll send someone to collect them later.”
“As you please, but I must warn you—your other wounds do not concern me, but this arm… If you don’t look after it, in one week, it will not be fit to feed to the pigs. And if you lose the arm, you can bet that you will lose your life. Now I’m going to strengthen the stitching to stop the hemorrhage. It will hurt.”