digger at the town works, of Kuttenberg
“I am the only honest ditch-digger in this foul town. I belong on a farm, not up to my knees in Italian Court muck.”
Things Adam had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
By Saint Martin, if I have to smell Robert's cheap ale in the straw one more night, I will sleep in the street. I know he misses his brother Simon, but the stink of him is enough to wake the dead. I just want a quiet rest before the trench tomorrow.
the eve of Saint John of Beverley, at None
Has anyone walked the road toward Maleshov? The soldiers' camps are thick that way, and I have heard nothing from my sister Marika since winter. If one of you idle drunkards is heading out, carry word to her that her brother still draws breath.
Walk there yourself if you care so much. We have our own aches to tend.
Nota scribaeHe asked five different men to go for him before sitting to dictate this.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Geoffrey is a cheating whoreson. I hauled his heavy stone quota twice to pay him for the three groschen I borrowed at Lent. My sweat is worth silver, but he refuses to give back my tin plate. Am I to eat my pottage off bark like a dog?
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Compline
I will say it again so all Kuttenberg hears. I am keeping Hermann's heavy pickaxe until he returns the ash-handled pitchfork he stole from me at Martinmas. It is a fair pledge. A man needs his tools for the summer work, and I will not be robbed of my livelihood.
Give me my pickaxe, you thief. You took it from my pile like a bandit in the night.
Bring the pitchfork to the Italian Court tomorrow and we will trade. Not before.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly in the cellar. The other men told him to shut his mouth.
the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at Sext
The cold in the trenches has ruined my boots. My toes are numb and the foul water seeps right through the rotten leather. If Otto strikes my name from the morning ledger because I cannot stand up in the muck, I do not know how I will pay the widow her rent.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Leave the lad be, Adam. He is drinking to forget the fever that took his kin.
You talk fast enough to keep the rats awake anyway, old man.