The house of Rhode’s one-time mentor, Loukos Hermeneutos, was burning. Luckily it was just the roof that had caught fire, for now. Rhode stared at the house sadly, covering her mouth and nose to keep from inhaling the itchy smoke. Loukos was one of the few people she genuinely considered a friend. Sometimes he invited her to drink herbs and talk. They would spend the whole afternoon talking. Afterwards, she would have things to think about for days. It was painful to see his house now, so desolate and ravaged by fire. At least he had been spared the pain of the siege. He died of old age a week before the Normans arrived.

Rhode took a step toward the front door. It had been hacked at by someone, but it still held. She pushed slightly and the door opened, its hinges loose and creaking. Rhode glanced at Chlodvig, expectantly. To her surprise, he looked hesitant. He was watching the fire and smoke coming from the upper floor with an impassive face. Seeing her surprised look, he said offhandedly:

“I don’t like fire.” With that, he exhaled deeply, and stepped inside. Rhode followed him cautiously. The main hall of the house had already been looted. The mosaic floor was damaged in a few places, pieces of it missing, others cracked or covered with soot. A large marble bust of Aristotle lay in pieces on the floor. Rhode wondered if the looters tried to take it with them and simply dropped it, or if they destroyed it just for the fun of it. Her view of human nature was dark enough to suspect the latter. She made her way carefully around other delicate and fragile things which lay broken on the floor, and led the mercenary deeper inside the house. They walked across the atrium, until they reached the stairs that led to the upper floor. The stairs were on fire. Chlodvig looked at her and raised his eyebrows.

“We want to go upstairs, huh?”

Rhode gave a small nod. “Sorry,” she muttered.

He didn’t respond. Instead he picked her up, and made his way along the burning, damaged stairs. Many of the steps were badly damaged or missing, making the climb more difficult. The lime mortar which was used to keep the stones together, was cracking because of the heat. Rhode felt trickles of sweat run down her face. The fire danced and glittered on Chlodvig’s maille shirt, giving it a reddish hue. Despite the heat, Rhode shuddered.

Upstairs the smoke was thicker. The heat was awful. The destruction here was not due to looting, but because of the fire. Sections of the burning roof had collapsed and littered the floor. Walking there was difficult and Chlodvig picked Rhode up a few times more to carry her over the still smoking remains of the collapsed roof. There was ash everywhere. Two sculpted busts and a marble table with an expensive looking vase were still whole however. It was a miracle the case survived. Back on her feet, Rhode only gave them a passing, uninterested, glance, and marched quickly towards a room at the end of the hall. The room was locked. She looked at the mercenary, who broke down the door swiftly, letting them both enter.

The room was clearly a scholar’s private study. The roof was still whole here, and the fire was only beginning to spread along the plush, thick curtains on the window. Beside the window stood a large desk made of wood of different colors. A large map hung on one of the walls. Another wall was decorated by a fresco with geometric and floral motifs. A large, comfortable chair stood in the opposite corner. Next to the chair stood a large shelf filled with books. Rhode jumped towards it with sudden vigor. Chlodvig was still looking around the room, but she was already pulling out scrolls and leather-bound codices with hands trembling in excitement.

“How many can we take?” she asked breathlessly, her black eyes reflecting the glow of the fire.

“Uh…all of them, I think. If you find something for me to carry them in.”

Rhode nodded. She dashed off, out of the room. Soon she was back, struggling to carry a rolled pair of heavy curtains. They were very thick.

“Good enough,” said Chlodvig, rising to his feet to help her out. They folded and tied the curtains into a makeshift sack. While they worked, Chlodvig asked,

“So, who is this Loukos person anyway?”

“A philosopher. And my Arabic teacher.”

“Oh. And he is…?”

“Dead. He died a month ago. He didn’t have children, he was an eunuch, so he left all his possessions to the monastery of St. Theodora. Except for the books. In his will he wrote that the nuns have to divide the books between themselves, me and another student of his.”

Rhode stopped what she was doing and glanced at Chlodvig from the corner of her eyes.

“So…what we’re doing isn’t theft…” she said emphatically, “the nuns already took all the religious and medical texts. The rest were for me and that other student.”

“So…technically, we are stealing from that other student, no?”

“No. He hasn’t claimed them, so we are not stealing from him. I’m not taking something that is already his. I’m taking something that could have, potentially, been his. The modality is different… ”

“I’m not so sure ‘modalities’, whatever they are, hold up at court…” said Chlodvig giving her a slight smile.

Rhode bit her lip.

“Are you’re making fun of me?” she asked, looking away.

He looked at her, his face confused.

“No. Just joking…” he scratched his head awkwardly.

“Oh. Sometimes…usually…I don’t understand when something is a joke. And then, when I finally do, it often turns out I’m the joke…” Rhode cracked her knuckles. She was angry with herself now. She had said too much, it made her sound sorry for herself. Sophia would not have been impressed.

“I see…” Chlodvig replied, “well, I’m not great with jokes either. I mean, I get them all right. But I’m not that good at making them,” he shrugged.

With a last tug, he secured the freshly made, makeshift bag and presented it to Rhode who was sucking a strand of her hair thoughtfully, and staring at him. Once the bag was ready, she rose and started collecting the books. Soon they were both on the floor, and wrapping the books in dry vellum she found in Loukos’ desk and packing them into the curtain sack.

Rhode was just packing a copy of ‘The Isagoge’, by the pagan philosopher Porphyry, when Chlodvig suddenly rose to his feet. In two large steps, he was by the window. Rhode saw him shift his shoulders slightly.

“We have to go. Wait here. Be ready to get going as soon as I get back.”

“What?”

He didn’t reply. He made his way out of the room quickly. Rhode could hear him walking down the stairs. She looked at the shelves. Only a few books and scrolls were left. She tied the large bag closed with bits of rope (one advantage of being a seaman’s daughter was that she knew her knots well), and waited. She could hear voices coming from downstairs. Then a clash of metal, and something that sounded like an animal’s snarling. Finally loud steps as someone was running up the stairs. A loud crash followed. Rhode guessed that the stairs must have finally collapsed. She jumped to her feet, trying not to think about the possibility that the person to appear might not be the mercenary. 

It was the mercenary though. He entered the room staggering a bit and looking rather worse for wear. He had a large cut across his temple. It bled steadily. His left forearm had been raked by something resembling claws, leaving three jagged, parallel wounds, which were almost bone deep.  Rhode recoiled, despite herself. The mercenary stepped into the room, grabbed the makeshift bag and threw it over his shoulder. Then, he ran up to Rhode, wrapped his free, bleeding arm around her, and before she had time to protest, jumped out of the window.

As soon as they landed, the mercenary was on his feet, and running again. Rhode, her head bobbing over his shoulder, decided that sitting on his back wasn't so bad if the alternative was being carried against his chest like a sack of turnips. The only advantage was that looking over his shoulder, she could see the entrance to the house they had left in such a hurry. No one seemed to be following...Why were they running then?  Yet another mystery that day. 

 Finally, they reached the outer wall on the western side of the city. There were a number of tall towers attached to the wall here. Chlodvig rushed to one of the smaller ones, put Rhode and the bag of books down, and went about breaking the door. It was much stronger than a house door. He bashed against it with his shoulder a couple of times before it gave. He picked up the bag and nudged Rhode towards the stairs. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, tripping a few times. 

Once they were on the top floor, they could see a ladder leading to a trap door in the ceiling. They climbed out through it, finally reaching the very top of the tower. The wind whipped their faces and tugged at Rhode's hair and dress. Beyond the walls, the countryside stretched out before them, as far as the eye could see. As she took one look at the ground, far, far below them,  Rhode knew what was coming. The mercenary wrapped his bloodied arm around her again and leaped off the tower.

____________________

People

Hermeneutos - an official court translator. 

Last names - Titles and jobs often served as last names in the pre-modern era. So Rhode's friend Loukos, was called Hermeneutos (the Translator) even after his retirement. His onetime job turned into his last name. This is also why it is sometimes difficult to identify people in medieval documents. The same person might have different last names depending on the context...

Things 

The Isagoge - A book written by the philosopher Porphyry 268-270. It was an introduction to Arstotle's Categories and served as a textbook for logic for over 1000 years after Porphyry wrote it. It was very popular among scholars in the Middle Ages and served as a starting point for the discussion of particulars. Interestingly, Porphyry himself was a staunch anti-Christian. This didn't preclude his books from being very popular among medieval Christian philosophers however.