The Scribe(63)
Over the years, Alcuin proved to be a true artisan of letters. He would examine texts, volumes, and codices and—like a master builder—extract fragments and passages in order to construct extraordinary and highly eloquent mosaics of knowledge. He did so with poems such as his “De sanctus Euboriensis ecclesiae.” In more than one thousand six-hundred and fifty verses, he not only described the history of York, its bishops, and the kings of Northumbria, but he also gave overviews of authors whose works Brother Eanwald had added to the library. Those authors included the likes of Ambrose, Athanasius, Augustine, Cassiodorus, John Chrysostom, Cyprian, Gregory the Great, Jerome, Isidore, Lactantius, Sedulius, Arator, Juvencus, Venancio, Prudentius, and Virgil. Alcuin would write endlessly.
In time, his didactic works written as a student were used as educational texts, due to their clarity and rhetoric. He did so with Aristotle’s Categories, adapted in Saint Augustine’s Categoriae decem, or the Disputatio de Vera Philosophia, the canon that would later become a bedside book of Charlemagne himself. And he did not forget to attend to his liturgical texts, theological works, exegetic and dogmatic writings, poetry and hagiographies.
The day that Aelbert succeeded Egbert as archbishop of York, the position of head magister of the cathedral school became vacant. Several candidates put themselves forward for the role, but by then Alcuin was first choice for the post. He was thirty-five years old and had recently been ordained as a deacon.
Later, the Saxon king ?lfwald himself sent him to Rome, to seek the pallium for the new count and obtain the rank of metropolitan for York. In Parma, on his return journey, he met Charlemagne, and from that point forward he never returned to running the cathedral school. Even so, he did not stop taking enjoyment from his divinations or from using his unique cunning.
The case of The Swine suddenly sprang back into his mind. It was Friday and he would be put to death before nightfall on Monday.
He had learned that in Fulda the public executions took place on the main square at dusk so they could be witnessed by the greatest number of people. He imagined that the prisoner must have been found guilty of some heinous crime such as stealing from the estate of a noble or setting fire to property. Under the law, theft or destruction were the only offenses punishable by death—though of course there were exceptions, usually depending on the social status of the accused or sometimes the victims.
He understood that serious crimes had to be answered with severe punishments, but he didn’t share the eagerness of some judges to deal out sentences merely to set an example for others. In fact, during his tenure at the school in York, he had participated in numerous trials, and while unfortunately some had resulted in the accused being sent to the gallows, he had never attended the executions. However, on this occasion he had promised the bishop he would accompany him. For now he concluded that it would be best to put the matter out of his mind and devote a few hours to reading Virgil.
Saturday morning was bitterly cold. After attending the Prime service, Alcuin met the bishop in the small refectory next to the accommodation. The place was warm and smelled of freshly baked bread.
“Good day to you,” Lothar greeted him. “Please, sit beside me. Today we have an exquisite gourd pie.”
“Good day, Father.” He thanked him for his offer and served himself a small slice. “I would like to speak to you about the assistant that you assigned to me for the writing tasks, the novice who is the librarian’s nephew.”
“Yes. What about him? I hope he is not disobeying you.”
“No, Your Eminence, on the contrary. The boy is a hard worker and also very orderly. Somewhat fussy, perhaps—but diligent enough, certainly.”
“So?”
“Only, he is not suitable. And believe me that I am not saying this on the grounds of his youth. I must admit that when you suggested him as an assistant, Father, I thought him a wise choice. However, the facts indicate otherwise.”
“Very well. Tell me how he has displeased you and we will see if the problem can be solved.”
“A thousand things, Father. To start with, he does not know how to write in minuscule. He uses that ancient Latin alphabet, all in crude capitals, with no punctuation or spaces between the words. What’s more, he ruins parchments as if he were blowing his nose on them. Only yesterday, he blotted the same page twice. Ah! And of course, he does not know Greek. Yes, he is eager to learn, but what I need is a scribe, not an apprentice.”
“You can be grateful to have that boy. He is meek and has a nice hand. And you know Greek. Why do you need anyone else?”
“As I have already explained, Father, my eyesight is not what it was. At a distance I can distinguish a kite from a swift, but close up, as the hours draw on, I can barely tell a vowel from a consonant.”
The bishop scratched his beard and let out a belch. “All the same, I don’t know how I can help you. In the chapter there is nobody I know of who speaks Greek. Perhaps in the monastery…”
“I have asked there, too,” said Alcuin, shaking his head.
“Then you will have to make do.”
“Perhaps not.” He arched his eyebrows. “A couple of days ago by coincidence I met a girl who needed help. Fortunately, not only can she read, but she can also write with an immaculate hand.”
“A girl? I’m sure you are aware of the ineptitude of women in matters of knowledge. She has not caught your attention for more earthly reasons, I hope?” He winked mischievously.