Free The Scribe by Antonio Garrido Page B

The death of the Basileus triggered an endless cycle of feuds and revenge, ending in the arrest and execution of anyone who dared oppose the new monarch. But it was not just dissenters who ended up in the cemeteries. Anyone who had forged political or commercial ties with the Basileus while he was alive also suffered the wrath of the empress.
    One winter night, the Cubicularius turned up at Gorgias’s home in disguise with a warning and a couple of horses. The next day he and his daughter were to be put to death. They fled on horseback to Salonika. Then they undertook a pilgrimage to Rome before journeying to the cold Germanic lands.
    But why was his mind preoccupied with the past at this precise moment? Why bring back memories that only fueled his pain?
Accursed destiny. Cruel torment. Meandering caprices that tear the flesh that was mine from my soul, leaving me empty. Loathsome hair shirt, path of punishment. Take me with you so that I may give you my hatred. Come and embrace me.
He closed his eyes and began to weep.

    Despite the stony soil, Gorgias and Reinold finished digging the grave just after midnight when the clerics were resting in their chambers and Wilfred could officiate the funeral in complete secrecy. Afterward, he told Gorgias to cover the casket without a cross or any sign that would betray their act.
    “The manuscript…” the count reminded him when it was all done.
    Gorgias nodded in understanding with reddened eyes.
    Then Wilfred lowered his head and left Gorgias to be alone in his bitter sadness.

5
    That night chilling winds from the north covered Würzburg in a blanket of ice. The men busied themselves sealing off cracks and stoking the fires in their homes, while the women pressed their children between straw mattresses. They all prayed for the firewood to last until dawn.
    Those who slept within reach of the embers’ warmth bore the cold with resignation, but Theresa was far from any heat and could not fall asleep. Her weeping had inflamed her eyelids until they were swollen like wineskins, and her feverish eyes could hardly make out the pigsty that she had found shelter in. Her skin was still ash gray from the smoke, and the charred smell of her clothes constantly reminded her of the hellish nightmare she had experienced. Again, she broke into tears and asked God to forgive her sins.
    The images of all that had happened flashed through her mind again: the mocking laughter of the workshop boys, the rotten skin floating in the pool, the test that she had fought so hard to take, the argument with Korne, and finally, the terrifying fire. Just thinking about it gave her goose bumps, but she thanked the heavens that she had been able to escape the flames with her life.
    Lord, if only you could have prevented Clotilda’s death!
    Once or twice she had stumbled upon Clotilda as she skulked around the workshop’s storerooms or rummaged through the waste. Theresa thought her parents must have died at the onset of winter since she wandered alone about the cathedral, with nobody taking pity on her. She calculated that Clotilda must have been the same age as herself or even a bit younger. The girl eventually disappeared, and was never heard from again until the day of the fire.
    She remembered the moment that she decided to return to the workshop, right after making sure Korne’s wife had reached the top of the courtyard wall safely. As she went in, the fire was crackling on the roof, turning the place into a great forest of flames. She was looking for her latest books when she had seen her. Clotilda, curled up in a corner, was waving her arms around in an attempt to fend off the embers that rained down on her from the ceiling. At her feet apples were strewn across the ground. No doubt the girl had taken advantage of the mayhem to enter the workshop and find some food.
    Theresa tried to get her out, but the girl resisted, her face etched with pain. That was when Theresa saw that her reddened skin looked