disorder.” Shrewdly Rosenberg looked down at Gutenberg. “It seems to us that this—technique—falls like a gift, for if it makes a single text identical in every copy, then each one is entirely free from error.”
The master licked his lips. He stood a moment, stunned, it seemed to Peter. What whirred in the mechanics of his mind? Dietrich leaned his great black bulk toward them.
“A missal,” said the master, pulling at his beard.
“This tool of yours could be—extremely useful,” said the vicar. “So long as it does not . . .” His voice trailed off.
“So long as we are all assured it does God’s work.” Archbishop Dietrich smiled, pretending that he waited. There was no possibility, of course, that his desire would be denied.
“The Word of God, Your Grace.” The master dipped his head. “You do me a great honor.” The words were obsequious, though underneath it Peter knew that he was calculating madly.
“One thing, though, I must beg, Your Grace.” Gutenberg looked briefly left and right, as if to fix his words into the minds of both the soldier and the priest. “I must insist on secrecy. I cannot work without it—for if word of this gets out, it is stolen from me in a moment.”
Dietrich nodded, bobbing that huge face, made large as if to counterbalance the great miter of his office. “It will be so.” He turned to Rosenberg. “You need not keep these things.” The vicar bowed, and handed book and sheet back to the printer.
“You will need money, I suppose,” said the archbishop.
“Always,” said the master. They exchanged a smile.
Dietrich turned then to his knave and raised the jewel-handled knife. The boy lifted up a pear—a pear, and in December! An instant later the archbishop raised his eyes, as if surprised to find them both still there.
“Go with God,” he said, and lifted up the knife in a slow, lofty gesture. Peter recognized it with a shudder. It was the same dismissive gesture that he used when lifting up his shepherd’s crosier on the rare occasions that he deigned to visit Mainz.
They exited the castle warren through some gardens and an iron gate that opened to the little town of Eltville-on-the-Rhine. Gutenberg stalked swiftly, his closed face not betraying what he thought. Nor did he say a word to Peter that whole day about the thing that had transpired. The scribe was mute, an appendage, a slave the master put back in its place when it had served its purpose. Yet all the while the shock of it was lodged inside him, blocking any other thought. The Word of God reduced to that crude, soulless type—the handbook of the Mass, this precious volume filled with sermon and with song, stamped like some tawdry trinket onto hide. A grammar was one thing—a holy book a sacrilege, a horror in God’s eyes.
Mammon ruled, Peter thought darkly. This day as every day, Johann Gutenberg had business to transact. The man had fingers in all kinds of pies; they saw his niece, his nephew, and a pastor. He’d spent some early years in Eltville, it was clear—most likely every time the Elder clans decamped from Mainz, refusing to submit to taxes from the guilds.
The sun was sinking when the boat to bear them back arrived. Despite libations at each visit, Peter was not warmed. They climbed on, and the master joined the captain in his shelter at the aft. Peter huddled on a bench up front. Spent horses were unhitched, and fresh ones tethered to the long, stout lines that ran between the towpath and the ship. The vessel struggled hard against the current as the dray team strained, the horses’ heads bowed nearly to the ground, before it heaved and started back the long, slow haul upstream.
CHAPTER 7
MAINZ
Mid-December 1450
R EFORM WAS A PRAYER that bounced across the Holy Roman Empire and the rest of Christendom that year, a hope that something in the world might change. True Christians yearned for a return to a purer, more ascetic faith, and change
The master licked his lips. He stood a moment, stunned, it seemed to Peter. What whirred in the mechanics of his mind? Dietrich leaned his great black bulk toward them.
“A missal,” said the master, pulling at his beard.
“This tool of yours could be—extremely useful,” said the vicar. “So long as it does not . . .” His voice trailed off.
“So long as we are all assured it does God’s work.” Archbishop Dietrich smiled, pretending that he waited. There was no possibility, of course, that his desire would be denied.
“The Word of God, Your Grace.” The master dipped his head. “You do me a great honor.” The words were obsequious, though underneath it Peter knew that he was calculating madly.
“One thing, though, I must beg, Your Grace.” Gutenberg looked briefly left and right, as if to fix his words into the minds of both the soldier and the priest. “I must insist on secrecy. I cannot work without it—for if word of this gets out, it is stolen from me in a moment.”
Dietrich nodded, bobbing that huge face, made large as if to counterbalance the great miter of his office. “It will be so.” He turned to Rosenberg. “You need not keep these things.” The vicar bowed, and handed book and sheet back to the printer.
“You will need money, I suppose,” said the archbishop.
“Always,” said the master. They exchanged a smile.
Dietrich turned then to his knave and raised the jewel-handled knife. The boy lifted up a pear—a pear, and in December! An instant later the archbishop raised his eyes, as if surprised to find them both still there.
“Go with God,” he said, and lifted up the knife in a slow, lofty gesture. Peter recognized it with a shudder. It was the same dismissive gesture that he used when lifting up his shepherd’s crosier on the rare occasions that he deigned to visit Mainz.
They exited the castle warren through some gardens and an iron gate that opened to the little town of Eltville-on-the-Rhine. Gutenberg stalked swiftly, his closed face not betraying what he thought. Nor did he say a word to Peter that whole day about the thing that had transpired. The scribe was mute, an appendage, a slave the master put back in its place when it had served its purpose. Yet all the while the shock of it was lodged inside him, blocking any other thought. The Word of God reduced to that crude, soulless type—the handbook of the Mass, this precious volume filled with sermon and with song, stamped like some tawdry trinket onto hide. A grammar was one thing—a holy book a sacrilege, a horror in God’s eyes.
Mammon ruled, Peter thought darkly. This day as every day, Johann Gutenberg had business to transact. The man had fingers in all kinds of pies; they saw his niece, his nephew, and a pastor. He’d spent some early years in Eltville, it was clear—most likely every time the Elder clans decamped from Mainz, refusing to submit to taxes from the guilds.
The sun was sinking when the boat to bear them back arrived. Despite libations at each visit, Peter was not warmed. They climbed on, and the master joined the captain in his shelter at the aft. Peter huddled on a bench up front. Spent horses were unhitched, and fresh ones tethered to the long, stout lines that ran between the towpath and the ship. The vessel struggled hard against the current as the dray team strained, the horses’ heads bowed nearly to the ground, before it heaved and started back the long, slow haul upstream.
CHAPTER 7
MAINZ
Mid-December 1450
R EFORM WAS A PRAYER that bounced across the Holy Roman Empire and the rest of Christendom that year, a hope that something in the world might change. True Christians yearned for a return to a purer, more ascetic faith, and change
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