The Scribe(177)

The Struggle

A historical novel must do more than document history; it must also be a novel. Historical detail is merely scenery, the varnish that makes the characters shine, the packaging that legitimizes them and makes them credible. But like any thick varnish, if the description overwhelms it darkens the canvas, which will undoubtedly ruin the painting. Because what is truly essential is the story itself: its fast steady plot, its unexpected twists, its terrible outcomes. In a historical novel, the characters, despite the distance in time, must feel as credible and as familiar as the neighbor you see every morning, or the unfortunate beggar who asks you for money on the street.

Over the course of two years I studied thousands of pages before closing in on the authorship of famous eighth-century forged document most call the Donation of Constantine, which would underpin the plot of The Scribe.

The earliest record is traced to Latin Codex 2777 of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, in Paris, dating from the ninth century, though this codex is nothing more than a copy of the original that was never found. Many studies have attributed its authorship to the same hand that concocted the False Decretals, while others, such as Baronius, pointed to the East and a schismatic Greek. Recent researchers have turned their eyes toward Rome, the Papacy being the main beneficiary, while the older interpretation of Zechariah and others points strongly to the Frankish Empire. The latter theory, championed skillfully by Hergenr?ther and Grauert, emphasizes the fact that the Donatio first appears in the Frankish collections, namely the False Decretals and Saint Denis’s manuscript, thus arguing that the document legitimized the Translatio imperii to the Franks, or in other words that the Imperial title would transfer to the coronation of Charlemagne.

I could mention other hypotheses, such as those posited by Martens, Friedrich, and Bayet, who support the existence of multiple authors, or those of Colombier and Genelin, on the date of its implementation, but fortunately the conclusion would not change: these gaps in historical foundation left room for my characters to enter without them seeming like impostors.

Having overcome this obstacle of accuracy, others soon appeared (of course), such as issues of topography (I needed a river, two cities in close proximity, an abbey and a gorge), weaponry (Theresa could not learn to use a bow in one day), and the unlikelihood that bands of Saxons would decide to venture so far from home.

The setting would be Würzburg and Fulda, cities to which I traveled on several occasions to ensure the suitability of their location. The bow I replaced with a crossbow, an instrument that, though it solved my problem, brought me another, for the crossbow, although existing at the time, was not widespread. But ultimately, such proposals were feasible, so I endeavored to make them as credible as possible.

As for the characters, Alcuin of York, it should be remembered, was a man of momentous influence on the history of Europe, whose existence I appropriated to turn him into an investigator enshrouded in dark shades.

And though these comments might make it seem as if it is the history that drives the novel, in truth it is the characters and the events that make it a mosaic of adventure, love, and crime, interwoven to form intricate workings in which the historical documents merely push forward the plot.





DEDICATIONS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When I considered writing a novel I was not thinking of myself. Not even of what I personally like to read.

I wanted it to be the reader who would enjoy it, not me, which was why I consulted those who know most about books: the booksellers.

There were mixed opinions, from those who stressed the importance of the title or the cover design, to those who insisted on the value of a good poster. However, almost all agreed that none of this would be any use if the book lacked soul. “Give your characters soul, and the novel will captivate.” They spoke to me of rhythm, of maintaining interest, and of the power of entertainment. “The critics seem to revile an entertaining novel, but I can assure that those are undoubtedly the best,” Peter Hirling, the owner of a tiny bookstore in central London for thirty years, said to me.

All I can say is that I tried to follow their advice. I weighed and measured every paragraph, every chapter, seeking that alchemy that disappears when you finish a novel. And after the final touch was added, the words, the metaphors, and the symbolism made way for the bigger picture. And best of all, I enjoyed it.

I would also like to thank my wife, Maite, for the love and support she gave me during the seven years that this adventure lasted, and during the twenty years that we have known each other. She is everything a man could want. I cannot forget my parents Antonio and Manoli; my siblings Sara, Alberto, and Javier; or my daughter Lidia, her husband Rafael, and their son Rafa, who has brought us all such joy.

I must also thank Carlos García Gual, professor of Greek philology at the Complutense University of Madrid, writer, essayist, and critic, as well as editor of the National Geographic’s Historia magazine, for his praise of the first draft of the manuscript. His advice, moreover, direct and sound as it was, contributed to polishing the story, and his words of encouragement helped me on this difficult journey. More valuable still was the advice of Ramón Conesa, my literary agent at the Carmen Balcells agency, who I congratulate for his magnificent work and manner. I would also like to mention Simon Bruni’s excellent translation of the original, and finally express my sincerest appreciation to Gabriella Page-Fort and María Gómez, my American editors at AmazonCrossing, and their fantastic team, for their trust, professionalism, and enthusiasm.