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 us 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.’