Gorgias grimaced, not just from the pain but also because he sensed the dire truth in what the physician said. “But how can a surface wound—”
“Whether you like it or not, that’s how it is. It is not just king’s evil and pestilence that kills people. In fact the cemeteries are stuffed with healthy people who croaked because of minor cuts and scrapes: a slight fever, some strange spasms… and farewell to them and their suffering. Perhaps you don’t know Galen’s methods, but I have seen enough people die to know who the likely candidates are months before they go to the grave.”
Having finished the dressing, the little man gathered up his implements and put them untidily in his bag. Gorgias ordered the servant to leave the scriptorium and wait outside before he said to the physician, “One moment, please. I need you to do me a favor.”
“If it’s in my power…”
Gorgias made sure the servant was out of earshot.
“The thing is, I would rather the count did not hear about this. I mean, the severity of my injury. I’m working on a codex, a document that he has a special interest in, and no doubt he will be displeased if he learned that the job were to be delayed.”
“Well, I don’t see that you have any other option. You will not be able to hold a pen in that hand for at least three weeks. And that’s if it doesn’t worsen. Since it is the count who is paying my fee, you will agree that I should not lie to him.”
“But I am not asking you to lie, just to keep quiet. As for your fee…”
Gorgias put his left hand in his shirt pocket and pulled out some coins.
“It is more than the count will pay you,” he added.
The physician took the coins and examined them closely. His eyes flashed with greed. He kissed them and put them away among his belongings. Then, without a word, he walked off toward the exit.
At the door he stopped and turned toward Gorgias.
“Rest and allow the wound to heal. Health is lost at a gallop, but it returns at walking pace. If you see abscesses or cysts, send notice to me immediately.”
“Don’t worry, I will follow your advice. And now, if you don’t mind, send the servant in.”
The physician nodded and said good-bye with a wink. When the servant came into the scriptorium, Gorgias looked him up and down. He was a scrawny, beardless young man, with a dimwitted, ungainly look about him.
“I need you to run over to the parchment-makers’ workshop and ask my daughter for the remedy that the physician prescribed for me. She will know what to do. But first, alert the count that I’m waiting for him in the scriptorium.”
“But, sir, the count is still resting,” he stammered.
“Then wake him!” Gorgias shouted. “Tell him it’s urgent.”
The servant drew back, nodding his head. When he left, he closed the door behind him, and Gorgias could hear his footsteps as he rushed away.
Gorgias looked around the scriptorium and saw that everything in the room was damp. The flames from the lamps barely lit the benches they rested on, giving the room a dreamlike appearance. Only a narrow window protected by solid bars provided some weak light for the gigantic wooden lectern, where there was a jumbled collection of codices, inkwells, pens and styluses, intermingling with awls, scrapers, and blotters. The room had another lectern and, in stark contrast, it was completely bare. On the north wall, a sturdy cabinet flanked by two lamps housed the most valuable codices, which had chains running through the rings on their spines to secure them to the wall. On the lower shelves, separate from the rest, there were psalters for communal use, beside both books of the Bible in Aramaic. On the rest of the shelves, dozens of unbound volumes stacked on top of missives, epistolaries, and cartularies of various kinds competed for space with the polyptychs and the censuses that recorded accounts and transactions.
He was still thinking about that morning’s attack when the door slowly creaked open and the light of a torch blinded him. When the servant moved aside, a strange, squat figure stood silhouetted against the torchlight. After a moment, Gorgias heard a faltering voice from the doorway.
“Tell me, Gorgias—what is this emergency that ails us so?”
At that moment a low, sustained growl interrupted. Gorgias recognized one of Wilfred’s dogs clenching its jaw and advancing toward him, with the other hound close behind. But they were retrained by harnesses that Gorgias saw tighten as they pulled along the familiar but strange contraption that screeched along on its crude wooden wheels. Hearing their master command them to stop, the dogs lay down and the cart came to a standstill.
Gorgias could see Wilfred’s grotesque face cocked awkwardly to one side. The man let go of the reins and held his hands out to the dogs, who rushed over to lick them.
“Every day I find it harder to handle these devils,” said Wilfred, his voice choked with emotion, “but the Lord knows that without them, I would live like a dry old olive tree.”
Despite the years that had gone by, Gorgias was still shocked by the extraordinary appearance of the count. For as long as he’d known him, Wilfred had been a prisoner of that wheeled device—where he’d slept, ate, and emptied his bowels ever since both his legs were amputated as a boy.
Gorgias bowed in greeting.
“Dispense with the formalities and tell me—what has happened?”
The scribe looked from side to side. He had been so anxious to speak with the count, and now he did not know where to start. At that moment a dog moved and the contraption suddenly rolled along. One of the wheels was squeaking and Gorgias went down on his knees to examine it as he tried to find the right words.
“It’s one of the rivets,” Gorgias said. “It must have come out with all the jolting. The boards are misaligned and could come off. You would do well to take the chair to the carpenter.”
“I hope you haven’t woken me to examine my cart.”
When Gorgias lifted his hand apologetically, Wilfred saw the bulky, bloody bandage wrapped around it.
“Good heavens! What have you done to your arm?”
“Oh, it’s nothing! A small incident,” he lied. “On the way to the workshops some poor wretch gave me a scratch or two. They fetched the physician and he insisted on dressing it, but you know these quacks, they’re worried they won’t get paid unless they wrap you in bandages.”
“True, but tell me: Are you able to move your hand?”
“With some difficulty. But a little work will loosen it up.”
“So what was the emergency?”
“Allow me to sit down. It’s about the codex. It’s not progressing as quickly as I would have hoped.”
“Well, aliquando bonus dormitat Deux. It is not a question of going quickly, but of finishing on time. Tell me, what has caused the delay? You haven’t told me anything about it,” he said, trying to conceal his annoyance.
“To be honest I didn’t wish to concern you. I thought I could make do with the pens I have, but I have sharpened them so much I can barely make the ink flow.”
“I fail to understand. You have dozens of quills.”