‘I will select the books. Under the direction of Martin, you will copy all that I give you. I want the best copies you can produce. I will provide you with the finest parchment and the best inks. I will feed you all that you can eat and drink. I will have what you produce bound in rich and heavy leather that will protect your work for ages to come, and will let it be used for making further copies. In return, I want copies that the finest Church dignitary here in Rome would not be ashamed to have on his shelves.
‘Above all, I want accurate copies. Don’t think I’m some pretentious barbarian who can’t tell when words are dropped from a passage, or the metre of verse or the prose rhythm is garbled. I shall notice these things. If I think you have been negligent, I shall give you to Martin, who will whip you, and I will have you make the copies again in time that would otherwise have been yours for relaxation. If, on the other hand, you do well, I will reward you so that you look forward to my next visit… Do I make myself clear?’
From the expectant muttering among the secretaries, I had. Perhaps I could have done it better. At least I hadn’t disgraced myself on the first day.
I suddenly noticed I’d given the whole speech with that wine cup in my hand. And, without noticing, I’d somehow managed to crush it. I passed it to Martin with an attempt at nonchalance that was spoiled when he dropped it on the floor. Everyone looked at it.
‘I’m so sorry, sir-’ he began.
I cut him off with what I wanted to be a friendly jest, but that turned out when I said it to sound rather spiteful.
I gave up on the effort to look good and motioned everyone toward the books.
Martin first, I second, and the secretaries hurrying behind, we passed through a maze of corridors and public rooms. We moved deep into the interior of the palace. At last, we entered a high, bright room, its windows facing into a large courtyard. This was the first room in the Papal Library.
We were greeted by a birdlike little priest who was the head librarian. He closely inspected the permit Martin had drawn for us.
‘All is in order,’ he said. ‘I have arranged for the scriptorium to be cleared out. I think the writing frames are still in good order, but I’m glad you have brought your own instruments otherwise.’
He took us into another, smaller room. This was still easily big enough for the secretaries, and was cleverly sited, so that the best light, but the minimum of direct sun, fell in through the long windows. The secretaries seemed pleased, and began setting up their instruments.
I went with Martin though the library. It went on for room after room. I had never seen so many books. There must have been tens of thousands of them. In most cases, the titles were embossed on the leather spines. Sometimes, the titles were written on gummed sheets of papyrus. The head librarian did mention a catalogue. But I was as yet unfamiliar with the apparatus of a great research library. So far, I’d never been among more books than could be comprehended by a few moments of walking up and down the shelves.
I wandered about, getting my bearings, seeing what was where. Sadly, nearly all the books were religious. When I had finished exploring, I began pointing at volume after volume to some ordinary slaves Martin had also rounded up. All the books were dirty through years of neglect. I had no intention of touching any until they had at least been dusted. And the slaves had to heave and strain to pull down the largest, heaviest volumes. I stepped back to avoid the clouds of dust they raised. I soon had over a hundred volumes of all sizes dusted and piled on the floor beside my reading table.
This done, the rest was very fast. I skimmed every volume, rejecting all that were badly written or particularly absurd. I had to be tolerant in this second matter. I have never failed to be astonished at the nonsense men can write when they believe God is dictating to them. I rejected a lot, but allowed much through that I’d never, given free choice, put into the hands of the impressionable.
The twin filters of grammar and common sense soon left me with about fifty volumes. These I had carried into the scriptorium, where the secretaries now set to work.
I stayed awhile to watch them, learning much I had never considered. Perhaps you never have either. I’m writing at present on single sheets of papyrus. I fill the whole of one side, and then add the sheet to a growing pile in a wooden box. Copying books is a very different matter. Martin had bought in great stacks of parchment, each sheet of which was around two foot by three. The sheet would ultimately be folded in two across the long side, and then folded again across the new long side. This produces a section of eight sheets. These pages must be written in the right order if they are to make sense when bound. On the first side, on the bottom, there is page eight and then one. Then the sheet must be turned upside down, so that pages four and five can be written at the new bottom. Next the sheet is turned over: pages six and three fall on the obverse of pages five and four, and pages two and seven on the obverse of pages one and eight.
Then there is the matter of the grain. Skin is made of tiny fibres. When it is scraped and dried into parchment, pages must be so written that, when folded into a section, the folds go with, rather than against, the grain. And there is the matter of colour. Parchment is darker on the skin side, and the pages must be arranged so that the two facing pages in a book have the same colour. You can see what care must be taken by a copying secretary. Martin had got parchment mostly of the right size, the grain running down the long side. But mistakes are easily made. On two occasions that afternoon, sheets had to be scrapped. Since we were putting the secretaries under great pressure of time, it would have been unreasonable to punish them for these slips.
‘We can get most of the ink sponged off these,’ Martin said, regarding the wasted sheets. ‘They can be reused when dry.’
Even so, my ambitions had grown beyond what I’d discussed with him the previous evening. These were only the first books I had in mind for copying at the Lateran. We hadn’t even looked at what Anicius might have. Two hundred volumes might be sent to Canterbury. Many more would follow.
You may have noticed in my speech that I said ‘send’ back to England, not ‘take’. I had no intention of going back there myself. Partly it was Ethelbert. Partly, though, it was Rome. Yes, the place might be a stinking slum. But it was the best I’d seen. And, all considered, it was turning out quite a jolly place to be. It might turn better still with Maximin out of the way for part of the year. If he wanted to see France again, he could ride through in the good months, on a good horse, at the head of a caravan, and with an armed guard. Or perhaps the sea journey might be faster and safer. I made a note to check in some of the wine shops down by the river port.
Martin had to go out for a while to order more parchment. ‘I don’t know how much there is in town,’ he said. ‘At your likely rate of consumption, we may need to use the dispensator’s name to pre-empt every sheet. I’m sure you don’t want prices to go through the roof.’
Going back to those books, once written on, each sheet is folded the required number of times, stitched with the other sections, and glued onto a spine. When dry, the pages are cropped so that all the folds except those at the spine are removed. Then it all goes off for binding in wood or leather. The quality of the finished product depends on the skill and care of all those involved in its making. I’m sure you’ve seen tatty little things that fall apart almost as you read them – faded ink on the pages, gross errors in the text, and so on. What I had in mind for England was something that would last forever and delight all future generations. And I wanted it fast.
Watching the secretaries at work, leafing backwards and forwards for the correct order of pages to copy, was decidedly more interesting than reading all that prosy trash – even if it was to be in pretty editions – I was about to inflict on the English mind.
The room was filled with the gentle murmur of reading. I’d noticed that, like me, Martin read quietly. Everyone else in Rome read aloud, like boys at school.
I had expected Maximin to come and join u
s when finished with the dispensator. But it seemed his meeting was running longer than expected – or he was still out of sorts with me.
17
I’d discussed with Martin the order of our inspections. First, there was to be the Lateran. We’d start the secretaries, and leave them to their copying – we might have the first completed books within ten days if they applied themselves. Then, we’d go off with just two of the general slaves to see Anicius. Martin said he was very old, and might not appreciate a mob of visitors. Because I’d slept in, we were somewhat behind in our inspections. But I decided to continue with the agreed order. It was late afternoon when we set out from the Lateran for the long walk to the house of Anicius on the Quirinal Hill.
Behind its imposing facade, this was largely a ruin. It had once been a very big palace faced with marble and stucco. It must have dominated the surroundings, both in height and with its sprawl down the hill. Now, the marble was stripped, and the stucco falling off. The roof had fallen in on most of the rooms, leaving only the library rooms, which had been built with brick domes, and some small ancillary buildings. All about were the usual piles of rubbish and the smell of dumped sewage. Unlike on the Caelian, there was no running water on the Quirinal.
We were let in through the still standing gate by a young slave. He led us through the unroofed entrance hall into the library rooms. These were mostly in good order. Water had come through in a few places, but the resulting damage was local to the racks directly underneath. All else was largely intact.
The books were nearly all of a kind I hadn’t seen before, and that I doubt you have ever seen. They were made of papyrus. Now, unless you’re reading all this in manuscript, rather than in a copy, you may never have seen a sheet of papyrus – since the Saracens took Egypt, the stuff has been in short supply for us.
Martin looked at me with a smile. I suppressed the look of confusion he could plainly see on my face, and reached for one of the books. It was heavier than I’d expected – nothing like the weight of a modern book, but still heavy. It fell through my fingers and, with a crash, came apart on the floor.
‘Let me help you, sir,’ he said. He reached for another and took it over to a table. ‘Look, you have to take it from the leather case if there is one, and then you take it in your right hand, and unroll it a column at a time, winding it onto the outer spindle with your left. Then you wind it all the way back.’
With practised ease, he unrolled the book, showing the slender columns of text. These are written so narrow to avoid excessive strain on the sheets, which are delicate even when new. The text is written larger than in a modern book because the surface is so much rougher than parchment.
‘What is papyrus?’ I asked. I hated showing ignorance in front of Martin. But I wanted to know.
He stood back from the book he’d opened and let his voice take on a lecturing tone. ‘Papyrus,’ he said, ‘is made from the tall, thick reeds of that name that grow everywhere in the Nile valley. The reeds are harvested. The outer casing is removed, showing a dense inner pith. This is sliced into thin strips, and these are cut into manageable lengths. Strips from the rougher, outer pith are laid lengthways, side by side, into a sheet about fourteen inches across by about eleven high. On top of these are placed further strips from the more tender pith, also side by side, going across. The whole is then pressed very hard and dried. Finally, the better side is rubbed smooth with pumice. The result is a tough, semi-flexible writing sheet.’
He turned back to the book and showed me the joints between the sheets. Papyrus is written on the better side, in columns about two inches wide, each separated by a margin of about one inch. When about thirty sheets have been written, they are glued, side by side, into a very long strip. This is tightly rolled about a wooden spindle with knobs at each end. The outermost sheet is joined to another spindle. The finished book is then sprayed with aromatics to keep insects away and stored in a leather case. Collections of books can be stored in a wooden box. The title is attached as a slip of papyrus to this container. In libraries, such books are stored not on shelves, but in racks, which are often designed to accommodate particular titles.
‘The great advantage of papyrus,’ Martin continued, ‘is its cheapness. A standard sheet here in Rome costs no more than the value of what an industrial slave could produce in two or three days. Parchment, of course, is much more expensive. The ancients used papyrus for all their books, and sometimes built up libraries of hundreds of thousands or even millions of books – though they contained only a tenth of the text that our own style of books can hold. Indeed, papyrus was so much the standard that it was the limitation in terms of the number of sheets in one roll that determined the length of ancient books.’
He stopped his lecture and looked at me, a faintly triumphant smile on his face. Or it might have been more servile politeness. I didn’t grudge him the first.
I picked the book up and practised unrolling it. The thing was so old, one of the sheets cracked as I handled it. Martin took it back and showed me how to unroll it more gently. I grunted some thanks.
‘I don’t know how long the parchment book that we know has been around,’ he said, slipping back into didactic mode. ‘But the ancients tended to look down on it as a vulgar innovation from the oriental races. It was brought into general use by the Church, influenced by its oriental roots. For hundreds of years now, it has been the standard – papyrus used only for supplemental or impermanent writings. Obviously, Anicius has inherited a great store of ancient writings that reached back to before the Triumph of the Church.’
I had another go with the book. This time, it unrolled and rolled again without breaking. I’m surprised it took so long for the papyrus roll to fall out of general use. Apart from cheapness it has only disadvantages as a book. For example, it can be hard to tell what book you are reading, if the title falls off the case, or if the cases are muddled. The full title is only given on the innermost sheet – so you have to unroll all the way to see what this is. There is no page numbering, which makes any passage hard to find. And it’s much harder to skim a papyrus roll than a parchment book. Another problem is that only one side of the sheet can be used for writing, and papyrus is also far more delicate than parchment. The Church and the barbarians might have killed books. But this was a random and occasional massacre. The really great killer was time. These things just don’t last in a European climate.
Martin had shown me the basics of reading in the ancient manner. Now he was off again on some errand. I sat alone in the library with a pile of books, carefully unrolling them to see what gems I might find.
It was all precious treasure. If you rule out some Latin translations of Plato, there was nothing religious here. It was all from the great ages of the past, when men wrote about the world as they saw it, rather than as a pack of life-hating bigots had instructed them to think about it.
I went through book after book after book. Most of these – the complete Cicero, for example – I set aside for collection and copying. Others, I couldn’t resist reading on the spot. I read and read, and delighted in all that I read. And I’d have read more but for the difficulty of coming to terms with the unfamiliar medium of these books. I read until the light through the high windows began to dim, and one of the Lateran slaves began to talk about going off in search of some lamps.
Careful as I was, though, the books were in very delicate shape. They were all old, and for a long time had not been stored in anything like good conditions. Some were already in pieces as I took them out of their cases. Some fell apart as I unrolled them. But, unlike in the Lateran, I found almost nothing I wanted to reject. As the light began to fade in earnest, I had several hundred books piled on the floor beside the reading table.
‘Oh fuck!’ I muttered in English as another roll cracked apart in my hands. ‘Rub this stuff between your hands, and powder your face with it,’ I continued more politely in Latin.
I heard a voice behind me. ‘Don’t trouble yours
elf over it, my dear young fellow. It’s all worthless stuff in these rooms. I wonder you spend so long poring over it.’
I looked up. An old man had come silently into the room, and stood looking at me from the doorway. Tall, thin, with unkempt hair and beard; this, I supposed, was Anicius. He tottered over and fell into a chair opposite me that I’d rejected for myself as too rickety. It took his weight without a creak. If anything, he was even dirtier than the other nobles, and his stained robe stank of piss. But he had the usual proud look of a noble.
‘You have a most remarkable library,’ said I.
He brushed the compliment aside with a dismissive wave. ‘All worthless,’ he continued: ‘Crumbling books by dead writers from a dead civilisation. There’s nothing here for you.’
‘But surely,’ I replied, ‘there is so much beauty and truth in these books. You are fortunate to have them as your friends.’
‘There was a time when I might have agreed with you. One of my ancestors certainly would. He used to sit all day at this very table, writing philosophy in Latin and translating from Greek. That was -’ he paused, screwing up his face – ‘a long time ago, when even I was a small boy. He came to a bad end, you know: killed by the barbarian who ruled Italy at the time. My family had a long fight to get his property back from the emperor. By the time we got it restituted, there was little enough left worth the having.’
I remained silent, hoping he might tell me something worth hearing. At last, he continued: ‘When I was a boy – until I was older than you are now – this was a house of wealth and learning. In those days, Rome was still alive with people. We had baths and fountains and elegant entertainments. You can’t imagine how glorious the city then was. I thought then I was a scholar, and I’d give whole days to communing with the great minds of the past. Nowadays, I know better. What is it your Galilean priests cry out when they see some pleasure they don’t share? Ah yes, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity”.’
Conspiracies of Rome a-1 Page 12