by James Blish
These half-thought-through prophecies and polemics filled Roger now with nothing but cold disgust, but he was most highly resolved to stay aloof. Still he could hardly argue, even with himself, that these coils and toils could not have been avoided years ago by application of but a little knowledge; and he permitted himself the most oblique of public comments, by making his perfect copy of the Secret of Secrets available to the University, and with it an introduction explaining its significance. Both Bungay and Oxford were stunned and delighted, and the work did not go back on the shelves for more than a day before it was out to be copied again; but the time for it was past – or perhaps not now to come for a century. Aristotle’s advice to the god-king Alexander served, in the meantime, to swell the Peregrine account.
Yet it did appear that Gregory X was not entirely comfortable at finding himself depicted by the Merlins and others as a fractional messiah, or anti-Antichrist. In the second year of his episcopate, he called a Council at Lyons, to discuss all the troubles of Christendom, spurious and real; but he had no proper appreciation of which was which, and the Council’s decisions could not have made matters worse had they been deliberately calculated to do so. At the death, before the Council had even met, of Bonaventura, it was nothing short of inevitable that the new Franciscan Minister-General should be the dour Jerome di Ascoli, the bitterest enemy the Joachites had in all the Latin world. Nor did Jerome lack for new reasons. He was barely installed before being called back from a mission to the Greek emperor by the first real outbreak of Joachite violence, in a small central Italian seaport called Ancona; the brothers had taken a decree of the Council to be an endorsement, and rebelled when their Order failed to take the same view. Jerome retaliated by casting all the dissidents into prison for life, and on the spot.
Deeper and deeper all these holy men went into the mire; it was as though the guidance of God had been withdrawn from the world until the end should come. How to keep silent now, on the very verge of Armageddon? Knowledge should be useful! and for the lack of it these devout knaves were stumbling to and fro as blindly as sheep in a burning fold. Speak, the self insisted, almost as though it were pleading with him. Speak!
But speak in what voice? None listened to Roger now, beyond the confines of his special competencies. Daring to attack these follies he had, and bitterness enough as well; but he had no audience that might effect the changes that were most needed in the world. Suppose that he were to undertake at last that compendium of philosophy which he had so often projected, and from which he had so often been turned away – how would he finish it in time to reach those who would need to read it, and how shoulder aside all obstructions vehemently enough to cast sulphur into the eyes of the Antichrist before it was too late?
These questions allowed him no recourse. He must try to write that work, though he had never been less ready. And it must begin with a frontal attack, for the time for prudence was run out.
As he wrote, the memory of his slights began to rise and rise in him, until in his throat he could taste nothing but bile all the day long, and all the night too; until the very ink that dripped from his quill was greenish with it, until his every word was engorged with it. Now was the time, not only to name errors, but to name names:
For nearly forty years the University of Paris has been dominated by some who have made themselves into masters and teachers of the subject of philosophy, though they have never learned anything of it worth while, and either will not or cannot, being utterly without training. These are brothers who entered the two Orders as boys, such as Albert and Thomas and others who in so many cases enter the Orders when they are twenty years of age or less. They are not proficient because they are not instructed in philosophy by others after they enter, because within their Order they have presumed to investigate philosophy without a teacher. So they become masters in philosophy before they are disciples, and so infinite error reigns, and the study of theology is brought to ruination, and with it the conduct of the Church.
The work went quickly; though long, it took him less than a year; but after he sent it to Bungay, the silence was protracted, while the world decayed apace. He sent a query, but no answer came back; and then, much later, a brief word that the provincial minister was John Peckham, Friar Bungay having been called to other tasks, and could Friar Bacon somewhat better describe the MS. in question, of which there seemed to be no record?
The first inkling of the truth reached him when the lector to the Oxford house, the Dominican Robert Kilwardby, called together all members of the Order in the city to hear the condemnation, by Bishop Tempier of Paris, of no fewer than two hundred and nineteen ‘erroneous theories’ now rife in Christendom, and in Paris in particular; to which Kilwardby added some of his own. Roger had been present at such a reading before, when the constitutions of Narbonne had been proclaimed, but that had been a short proclamation and a mild one compared to this. Bungay had yielded up his ministership to suppress the Compendium studii philosophiae, and indeed seemed to have run away with the MS. for none knew now where he was, solely to protect his friend of old –thus periling, for love, his immortal soul.
That mortal kindness, however, did not avail; Thomas had thought only of what might happen in England, but it was the responsibility of the Minister-General’s office to think of all Christendom. Within the month, that office had called in all suspect members of the Order, to present themselves in Paris, and give an account of their teachings and writings on these errors. At the head of those called from Oxford, despite all Bungay’s good and desperate offices, was the name of Roger Bacon.
The office of Jerome di Ascoli at the Ministry was windowless, and bare but for a long massive table. Behind this sat Jerome himself, flanked by two brothers who seemed to be lawyers; with him too were the Parisian provincial minister and a secretary. Before the table stood Roger; but it was not he whom Jerome first addressed.
‘I am no little irritated,’ he said slowly, but in rather a pleasant tenor voice, ‘that this case should have come before me. These extremists are constantly distracting me from the serious business of the Church. Why could not it have been dealt with locally, as I have frequently ruled?’
One of the lawyers stirred uneasily. ‘It was called to Your Eminence’s attention de multorum fratrum concilio.’
‘Because of the negligence and sloth of the provincial minister in England. I will write to Friar Peckham of this. It is my main duty to prevent schism in the Order, not to question brothers on such petty offences as I see here written down. Astrology! Magic!’
The man is also charged as a schismatic, Your Eminence.’
Jerome looked down the parchment before him, and then nodded curtly. ‘I see. Then I am forced to conclude that neither of you yet knows how to draw up an indictment. You civil lawyers will be the bane of the Church. Let us dispose of these pins and needles.’ He turned to Roger a face like a rusty hatchet ‘Prisoner, do you practise the art of astrology?
The word of address shocked him, though he had expected naught else; but Roger was not afraid of the question. ‘No, Your Eminence; but I am a student of it.’
‘Precisely,’ said Jerome, looking back at the lawyers; ‘and so are Thomas Aquinas, and the Bishop of Ratisbon, and half of the scholars in Christendom.’
‘But, Your Eminence, the astrological doctrines of Albertus Magnus have been specifically condemned by Bishop Tempier!’
‘Since this man has not taught them at Paris, that is quite beside the point, and ought not to be in the indictment at all.’
Nor would I ever have been guilty of such, Your Eminence,’ Roger said. ‘I do not subscribe to the doctrines of the Speculum Astronomiae.’
‘There, you see?’ Jerome waved the subject away. ‘Now, magic. Let me see – night walking; a brass head; raising demons; what alewives’ tales! As a student of astrology, naturally the man must look at the stars, now and again. But here’s somewhat of substance: a defence, in writing, of the books of magic condemned a
t Paris. Prisoner, do you acknowledge this?’
‘Yes, Your Eminence. But I am and have been all my life an opponent of magic, and have written a book to prove its nullity.’
‘Then what’s this document?’ Jerome demanded.
‘Your Eminence, the books are largely nonsense, but they contain nothing that is contrary to the Christian religion. It seemed to me to be unjust that they should be condemned by men who had not even read them. So said I in that writing.’
Jerome looked at him narrowly. ‘That was contumacious. And this on raising fiends – it is sworn to by a number, including our learned brother Richard of Cornwall.’
‘Your Eminence, I but demonstrated in a lecture how one can make a loud noise with a composition of saltpetre. Richard Rufus was – disconcerted.’
Jerome suppressed a slight smile. ‘Can you show it me?’ ‘Cedes, Your Eminence, with proper materials, as many times as you wish. You could do it yourself.’
‘Nay, I dislike noise as much as Cornwall. Let us press on. You are alleged to hold to Averroeist beliefs on the unity of the intellectus agens.’
‘Your Eminence, if your clerk will bring you the record of my reading for my secular mastership, which I took here in Paris, you will find that I specifically and successfully argued against that view with Albertus Magnus himself.’
Jerome swung on the lawyers once more. ‘But this is the document adduced in evidence! What does this mean?’
‘Your Eminence – we took the argument to tend the other way.’
‘Then why would the prisoner adduce it himself? Let me see it.’
The fascicle of the transcript was banded to the Minister-General in silence. He studied it, frowning. Roger found that he was beginning to become tired with standing; it occurred to him, with some surprise, that he was sixty-three years old. But he knew that he would remain standing for a long time rt-
‘You gentle scholars,’ di Ascoli said finally, ‘cannot read, either. This is admirable disputation, and to the complete refutation of Averroes on this subject. Your incompetence leaves me no choice: all these charges are dismissed, categorically and completely.’
‘Your Eminence,’ Roger said huskily. ‘You are as just as you are merciful.’
‘Rejoice not yet, Friar Bacon. The remaining charges are of the utmost gravity. For the safety of your body, and the salvation of your soul, I bid you answer me thoughtfully. You are accused of having published forth, not once but many times, a belief in the prophecies of Joachim of Calabria; of Merlin; of the Sybil; of Sesto; and of others whose names are unknown. Do you deny any part of this?’
‘I do not believe that they can all have been wrong.’ Roger said steadily. ‘The ultimate source of all knowledge is revelation, which is given, according to Scripture, to those who lead perfect lives. Can there have been none such in our time?’
‘That is not for me to say, nor for any man. I speak now only of Joachim, putting these others aside. You are aware that the doctrine of the Eternal Gospel is adjudged schismatic?
‘Yes, Your Eminence. But it is not yet proclaimed a heresy.’
‘True,’ Jerome said grimly, ‘else would you be in the hands of the Inquisition, and not here. You have written that this doctrine in particular is worthy to be believed. Do you cling to this cede? Beware what you say!’
‘I believe it to be true,’ Roger said. ‘I writ His Holiness Clement IV, of glorious memory, that I so believed. Shall I deny it to any other?’
‘Then we are done,’ Jerome said heavily. What matters the rest of this tally? Impudence to superiors; public attacks on eminent Dominicans, leading to strife among the regulars; infractions of the discipline of the Order, such as publishing letters to the Pope; provocation of dissension – all beside the point. Yet stay, these are also heavy charges. For the record, Friar Bacon, do you deny them?’
Roger stood silent.
‘Shall it be said that you offered no defence? The Lord God seeth into thine heart, Roger. Testify, I beg thee.’
‘I do not deny these last,’ Roger said, wringing his hands, ‘They are true. I have been frail and contumacious indeed, and ask your mercy; and the mercy of Jesus Christ our Lord. In His name I ask it.’
‘In His name thou shalt be given it, in every possible measure,’ Jerome said, holding out his hands across the table. ‘These other charges are but internal matters of the Order, for which punishments are prescribed; for example, for publishing without permission letters to the Pope, three days of bread and water, and the loss of the writing. But Roger, for the schismatic, repentance is not enough; thou must recant, else thou are still lost. What thinkest thou, in this thine extremity, of the doctrines of the Eternal Gospel?’
Roger said stonily: ‘Your Eminence, I believe what I have thought for twenty years. I believe them to be true.’
Jerome sank back in his chair. The lawyers were congratulating each other with their eyes; but the provincial minister said:
‘Your Eminence – on this matter of publishing to the Pope: The record will show, and I so testify, that I gave the learned friar the necessary permission.’
Jerome looked at him for the first time. ‘Yes. I will deal with you later.’
‘But I submit, most humbly, to Your Eminence that these letters were commanded by the Holy Pope himself.’
‘It shall be so regarded; but what does that matter now? There is only one charge of substance here, and of this, the prisoner is guilty. He has spoken, published and acted in support of a doctrine leading toward the division of our holy Order; in plain controversion to many prohibitions thereof; and in the confessed knowledge that this was being furthered by his every word and deed.’
The Minister-General stood up, resting his fingertips upon the table. His eyes were hooded and dark.
‘Friar Roger Bacon is remanded to the company of his fellow schismatics, in the March of Ancona, there to be kept in hobble-gyves, with none to speak to him, for all the rest of his natural life; and on his deathbed, he shall be deprived of the sacraments of holy Church, and buried in a common grave; and his writings are forbidden all men from this time forth.
‘This inquiry is now declared closed. Martin, have chains brought.’
Explicit tertia pars.
Sequitur pars quarts:
HOW THAT WE BAREN US THAT ILKE NYGHT
XV: THE MARCH OF ANCONA
In the wall opposite the black iron door there was a curious niche or alcove, whose original function was wholly puzzling. Two stone steps led into it, and within there was a single block of granite so placed that a man might sit there, sidewise; but to what purpose was impossible to fathom. Overhead in this alcove was a breach in the wall which went to the outside, but it was so high that, even standing on the block, Roger could barely touch it – nor could he have seen through it had it been placed lower, for his fingers told him that it slanted downward from the inside; so that it could not have been placed there for an archer’s convenience. By the rime of seepage around the sides of the cell, it was plain that a third of the chamber was below the water line; so that the exit of that small rectangular hole, no bigger than the end of a book, could not be more than four feet above the ground; perhaps less.
Each day, from that slanting, recondite embrasure, a beam Of dim yellow light made a blurred patch on the ceiling of the cell, coming gradually into being long after dawn; it was brightest and had the sharpest edges at noon, and then faded again. Otherwise it did not change; certainly it never moved.
But it was the only source of light that he had. Early and late in the day there was a little glow in the alcove from the downslanting hole, but only when the sun was directly on the ground on which it looked, would it make that blurred rectangle on the ceiling. On rainy days, there was no light at all, and the floor of the cell became an even sea of thick mud, through which his hobble-chain dragged the decaying strips of old rushes, and his privy-hole filled to the brim. On such days he sat on the stone block in the niche, huddled awa
y from the dripping walls, and listened to the endless hollow sighing of the Adriatic; that sea was, he knew, very near, though he had not been permitted to observe just where in Ancona his prison was.
On bright days he tended his calendar, though after only a few months he no longer had any confidence in it; nor had he from the beginning any belief that it was going anywhere but toward his death; it had simply been something to do. He made it by lifting the centre link of his chain, which would reach about a foot up the wall from the dirt, and making a scratch with it in the nitre. The early scratches, however, already were tending to fill with a stiff gluey stuff, vaguely blue-green when the light was brightest, though they were almost surely not much more than a year old. By summer, they would be unreadable, indeed obliterated.
Once a day, also, he took up his vigil by the slit in the iron door, ready to thrust out his bowl as soon as the hinges at the end of the corridor screamed and the horses began to trample and snort expectantly. After the horses were fed, Otto would dump into Roger’s bowl, as into everyone’s as long as it lasted, some of the gelid, mouldy mash from yesterday’s trough. On holy days, if Otto was not too drunk, there was also a sprouted onion, often less than half soft. You withdrew the bowl quickly, because Otto would knock it out of your hand if you appeared to him to be begging for more, and might not give it back to you for days; and you ate quickly, so as to hold the bowl out again for water. Occasionally, for a joke, you got horse-piss; but usually it was water.
During these transactions, Otto could often be heard swearing at the horses, especially when he was leading them in or out, or when one of them trod on his foot; but he never spoke to a prisoner. That was forbidden. Nor did they talk to each other any more; that had been difficult from the outset because the cells were so far apart, and there were many echoes; but also it disturbed the horses, and betrayed the attempt to the gaoler. Now no one spoke, except those who were too sick or daft to know that they were speaking, and none answered them. Occasionally, on the hottest days when the ground was almost dry, there came the brief musical rustle of a chain, and then another; that was their conversation.