The Scribe (33 page)

“Be brief, Alcuin. I must dress for the execution.”

“The execution? But did you not postpone it?” he asked, bewildered.

“And now I have brought it forward,” the bishop responded without so much as a glance at him.

“Please forgive me, but that is precisely what I wanted to speak to you about. Were you aware that someone has cut out The Swine’s tongue?”

Lothar looked him up and down. “Of course. The whole town knows it.”

“And what is your opinion?”

“The same as you, I should think. That some undesirable has deprived us of the pleasure of hearing him scream.”

“And also speak,” he said openly.

“Yes, but who is interested in the lies of a half-witted murderer?”

“Maybe that is the crux of the matter.” He paused to consider his next words. “Perhaps someone does not wish him to speak. And there’s more.”

“More?”

“The Swine is no criminal,” he said.

Lothar looked at him with irritation. Then he turned and walked off.

“I can guarantee you that he did not kill the girl,” Alcuin continued.

“Stop talking nonsense!” He turned back and walked straight back toward Alcuin until they were face to face. “How many times do I have to tell you that they found him with the victim, clutching the sickle that was used to cut her throat? Soaked in her blood!”

“That does not prove he killed her,” he responded calmly.

“Would you be capable of explaining that to her mother?” Lothar retorted.

“If I knew who she was, I don’t see why I couldn’t.”

“Then you just missed your chance! She was the woman I was speaking with when you interrupted. The mill owner Kohl’s wife.”

Alcuin fell silent. Though it was too early to jump to conclusions, that information upset most of his ideas. However, it didn’t alter the fact that he believed an innocent man was about to be executed.

“Will you listen to me, for the love of God? You are the only person who can stop this insanity. That man would be incapable of holding a sickle. Have you seen his hands? His fingers are deformed. Deformed from birth. I have seen them with my own eyes.”

“You have seen him? How? Have you visited him? Who authorized it?”

“I tried to ask your permission, but your secretary told me that you were busy. And now answer me this: If The Swine is incapable of holding even an apple with either hand, how could he have held, much less wielded, a sickle?”

“Look, Alcuin, you may be a minister of education. You may know your letters, theology, and a thousand other things. But I must remind you that you are merely a deacon. Here in Fulda, whether you like it or not, the person who has the final decision is me, so I suggest you forget your foolish theories and concentrate on that codex that so interests you.”

“All I am interested in is preventing an outrage. I can assure you that The Swine did not—”

“And I assure you that he killed her! And if your only argument is that his fingers do not work, you can start praying—for there is nothing else you can do before he’s marched to the gallows.”

“But Your Excellency—”

“This conversation is over,” he said, leaving and slamming the door to his chambers in Alcuin’s face.

Alcuin returned to his cell with his head bowed. He was certain that The Swine had not murdered that young woman, but his certainty rested only on the fact that the man could not even hold an apple.

He cursed his stupidity. If instead of attempting to convince Lothar he had tried to have the execution postponed, perhaps he would have had time to find more convincing proof. Maybe he should have argued it was more appropriate to wait for Charlemagne’s arrival, or perhaps he should have suggested they wait until The Swine’s injuries heal, to add to the enjoyment of the spectacle. But now there was nothing he could do. Only a couple of hours remained to try to prevent the inevitable.

Then the idea came to him. He wrapped up and hurried out of his cell to get Theresa from the stables. Together they made for the abbey.

In the apothecary he asked Theresa to wash a bowl while he examined the various flasks that filled the shelves. Uncorking several, he sniffed their contents before deciding on one labeled
lactuca virosa
. Opening it, he removed a whitish block, which he placed on an earthenware plate.

It had been a long time since he had used the compound extracted from a variety of wild lettuce, the sap of which had a strong hypnotic effect. He took a walnut-sized portion, crushed it into a powder, then opened the little lid on his ring and tipped the powder into the tiny receptacle. Then he tidied the flasks, leaving everything how it was, before hurrying off to the chapter.

However, when they reached the episcopal palace they found the doors closed. Theresa parted ways, for she had promised Helga she would accompany her to The Swine’s execution, and Alcuin, too, set off for the gallows.

When Theresa arrived at the tavern, Helga was ready to leave, her face painted and hair pinned up. The gash on her face had disappeared under a paste of flour, water, and colored with earth, which made Theresa think it might not be too deep. Helga seemed excited, and she had prepared some sweet pastries so they wouldn’t have to buy them from the hawkers, and though they were not the most attractive things, they smelled of honey and spices. Before heading to the square, they both donned fur cloaks to protect themselves from the cold. Then they locked up properly and set off carrying their food and some wine. While they walked, Theresa told Helga about what she had seen at the slaughterhouse, but to her surprise, Helga rejoiced to hear they had cut out The Swine’s tongue.

“Shame they didn’t rip his balls off, too,” she declared.

“Alcuin says he’s innocent. That killing him will solve nothing.”

“What does that priest know? I hope he doesn’t spoil the party,” she said, and they headed for the square arm in arm.

Not long before sundown, the cathedral bells started to chime their mournful strains. The soldiers had arranged a circular arena about thirty paces across in the center of the square, cordoning off its perimeter with a circle of stakes. Inside the arena was a hole similar in size to a grave, and in front of it were three wooden tables along with three small chairs. A dozen or so men armed with sticks were watching the crowd that was starting to gather at the fence, where traders had set up their stalls to make last-minute sales. Gradually the multitude grew, and before long, the palisade was hidden under a mass of people clamoring hysterically for the spectacle to begin.

When the bells fell silent, a long cortège paraded into the square. A rider dressed in mourning led the way, accompanied by a cohort of civilians. Most of them wore colorful outfits that contrasted with the rags worn by the serfs who followed them with cured meats hanging from their arms. Next there were several
slaves announcing their arrival with the beating of drums. Then came the wagon with the prisoner, and behind him, the executioner who was busy picking up the rotten food that was thrown at the captive and then rubbing it in his face. A swarm of excited children brought up the rear of the procession.

Moments later a group of clerics appeared led by Bishop Lothar. In his right hand he brandished a golden staff, and in his left, he held up an ornate silver crucifix. He was wearing a
ciclatoun
robe of red silk, covered by a tunic of Bukharan cotton, his head crowned with a linen
infula
of dubious taste. The rest of the clergymen wore woolen
paenulae
, all of them covered with the priestly alb. The bishop took the second seat at the table where a man in black already sat. Upon the bishop’s arrival, the man stood to kiss his ring. An acolyte served them wine, and then a city magistrate took the third seat.

The square erupted into a roar when the oxen transporting The Swine were driven into the arena toward the hole in the ground. As soon as they stopped, the executioner grabbed the condemned man and threw him headlong onto the ground. A cheer went up and objects rained down upon the wagon, forcing the executioner and driver to take refuge under the cart. When the crowds had calmed down, the executioner dragged the prisoner to a stake near the pit, tied him to it, and put a rope around his neck. Then he checked that the knots were tight and gave a signal to the rider who was also dressed in black. The rider nodded and looked at the pathetic sight of the captive with evident pleasure.

Alcuin was the last person to arrive at the arena. Crossing the square and elbowing his way through the crowd, he jumped over the fence, threatening to excommunicate the guard who tried to stop him. As he approached the dignitaries, he realized that the man in black was the mill owner Kohl, father of the murdered young woman. His wife, accompanied by some other women, was there, too, but she was farther back in a more discreet location, her
grief evident from the dark rings around her eyes. He thought to himself that, for this family, not even the execution of the perpetrator would bring relief.

As Alcuin contemplated how to deposit the powdered drug into Lothar’s wine, the drums sounded, and he tried to stand behind them—close, but out of the way. The three men stood up, and Bishop Lothar spoke. “In the name of Charlemagne—the wisest and noblest king of the Franks; ruler of Aquitania, Austrasia, and Lombardy; patrician of the Romans and conqueror of Saxony—we declare that Fredegarius, better known as The Swine, a man without light and an envoy and disciple of Lucifer, has been found guilty of an abominable murder and other dreadful crimes. I, Lothar of Reims, Bishop of Fulda, lord of these lands, and representative of the king, his power and his justice, order under God’s law that the accused be punished with the greatest of torments, and that his remains be spread about the city’s fields as a lesson to those who dare offend God and His Christian creatures.”

The crowds screamed with fury. At Lothar’s signal, the executioner untied the condemned man and, after tying his hands behind his back, ushered him with blows to the edge of the pit.

The Swine seemed dazed, as if uncomprehending of what was about to happen. When he could see the ditch he was destined for, he attempted to free himself, but the executioner cast him to the ground and kicked him in the head. By then, The Swine was little more than a mass of trembling flesh. The multitude pressed against the fence squealed like a great herd of pigs.

Two boys armed with stones evaded the guards while finding their way into the arena, though they were soon caught. When the crowds had calmed down again, the executioner lifted The Swine to his feet. Lothar stepped forward, made the sign of the cross with a gesture of contempt, and ordered the executioner to begin the torment.

The crazed onlookers screamed their approval. It seemed that at any moment they would knock down the fence and lynch the prisoner.

Alcuin took advantage of the commotion to open his ring and tip the drug into the bishop’s tankard of wine. Nobody saw it, but Lothar turned to see him with his hand still gripping the handle. With no time to react, Alcuin raised it and offered it to him in a toast. “To justice!” he cried, handing him his own tankard and picking up another.

Lothar was a little surprised, but finally he took it and downed its contents in one gulp. “To justice,” he repeated raising his empty cup.

The executioner grabbed hold of the prisoner and with a violent blow cast him into the bottom of the pit. The clamor became deafening. The Swine stood up, drooling, with a lost look in his tear-filled eyes. The crowds pumped their fists in the air and called for blood. At that moment, two more men approached the pit bearing large wooden spades, making the crowd delirious with excitement. They positioned themselves beside a heap of sand and without saying a word they started shoveling it onto the captive. The Swine tried to turn around to escape from the pit, but the men prevented him with blows. One of them pressed into his back with the end of his spade, immobilizing him, while the others continued to bury him alive. As if in a fit of ecstasy, the crowd egged them on with curses and oaths. The Swine attempted to wriggle away from the spade that held him down. But the weight of the earth now upon him prevented him from moving his legs, and all he could do was thrash about like a trapped rabbit.

Soon the earth was piling onto his head. He spat and started to writhe out of pure desperation, his eyes all but coming out of their sockets. Spitting again and again, the sand continued to rain down on him until, gradually, he was completely covered.

For a moment the square fell silent, but suddenly the sand moved and the prisoner’s head reappeared, spewing out soil. The
Swine breathed in as though it would be his last mouthful of air, and the crowd cried out in astonishment.

The bishop stood up and gestured to Kohl, but he didn’t notice. Alcuin knew that the drug was starting to take effect.

Lothar sensed his vision clouding. His legs weakened and a dry heat pricked at his throat. He tried in vain to grab hold of Kohl. He attempted to speak but was unable, and he barely had time to cross himself before he fell flat on his face, taking the chair and table with him.

Silence descended upon the crowd. Even the executioner turned his head, forgetting about The Swine for a moment.

Seeing the executioner distracted, Kohl intervened. “Finish him off, damned fool.”

The executioner didn’t move. Then Kohl leapt down toward the pit and snatched the spade from him.

He was about to deal the final blow when Alcuin appeared between him and the prisoner. “You dare to disobey a sign from the heavens? God wishes to prolong this criminal’s suffering,” cried Alcuin as loudly as he could. Then he walked over to the fallen bishop and pretended to examine him. “When Lothar recovers, we will enjoy another execution!” he added.

The crowd roared again.

“You?” exclaimed Kohl. “You’re the monk who came to the mill just the other day!”

“The murderer will pay for his crime, but the law, the executive authority, must justify the punishment,” he put forth.

Kohl tried to strike The Swine again, but Alcuin stopped him.

“This is not God’s will,” he repeated, holding the spade firmly.