Richard Blake - Conspiracies of Rome

‘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.