Gerbert's Book

By Bob Mustin

Gerbert, a French monk educated in the sciences and literature of Muslim Spain, has risen to the Chair of St. Peter as Sylvester II, and for a brief while co-rules the Holy Roman Empire. His friend Zosimus has compiled his writings into a book at the behest of Pope Benedict VIII. An archbishop, Arnulf, jealous of Gerbert’s prominence, hear

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647647230

Bob Mustin

Bob Mustin has had a brief Naval career and a longer one as a civil engineer. In the 1990s he was the editor of a Georgia-based literary journal, The Rural Sophisticate, and was later a North Carolina Writer's Network Writer in Residence at Peace College in Raleigh.

Book preview

The Geometria of Gerbertus

Anno Domini MXII

I

, Zosimus, of the monastery of Saint Remi, born Sosimo of Rouen, have been rewarded with the sacred task of writing an account of the life of Gerbertus of Aurillac for the edification of our Most Holy Father, the Eighth Benedict, Bishop of Rome. My own testimonies have been interspersed with those taken from the writings of Gerbertus, or Gerbert, the man crowned the Second Pope Sylvester by the Third Otto, Emperor of the Romans. Insofar as my recollections allow, I shall provide in my account verbatim conversations between Father Gerbert and others with whom we were mutually acquainted. Most Holy Father Benedict has allowed me the liberty of making similar adaptations of Father Gerbert’s diarium. For reasons that shall immediately become evident to this book’s readers, my work is to be called THE GEOMETRIA OF GERBERTUS. May God strengthen my thoughts, make clear my memory, and guide my hand.

ADDENDUM

Anno Domini MXIV

Benedict, Bishop of Rome, Pope of the one true Church, has instructed that I unbind this book in order to include pages reflecting my own knowledge of Holy Father Sylvester’s life, and to remove various sketches of geometria put in place by Father Zosimus. These addenda are included in order to provide knowledge of events beyond that of Father Zosimus.

—Theodore, scribe of Benedict, Bishop of Rome

The First Testimony of Zosimus

An Accounting of My Authority to Create This Book

October of Anno Domini MXII

W

hat a wonder is Rome! It has been a decade since I last stood before this most venerable of cities. As I looked out over the River Tiberis to the ridges over which the city spread so long ago, history’s ghosts rose to life before me. The pagan Romans’ palatial estates on the Collis Palatinus. To my left, beyond the river bend’s opposite bank, the Forum Romanum, gateway to Collis Capitolinus. To my right, the Circus Maximus, and then Collis Aventinus, upon which many of the less wealthy Romans made their homes. Hidden yet from my view was the Flavian Amphitheatre, or as the Roman masses called it, the Coliseum. In the distance, the Collis Quirinalis, where our Most Holy Fathers have in recent decades spent their summer seasons. Other hills greeted me as well, but the sight of them to my mind remains as dim as their history.

Years before this visit, when I first accompanied Father Gerbert to Rome, he took in the city from this same vantage and sighed his dismay at its deteriorating state.

You’re sad, Gerbert, I remarked, hoping he might find relief to some degree by speaking of it. For what seemed an eternity, he didn’t speak at all, his eyes fixed on the city, as if trying to remake it through the power of his holy visage.

Yes, he said in that deep, resonant voice of his. You know, Zosimus, I have often wondered, since our Lord, upon his return to Heaven, has seen fit to anoint Rome as the seat of His Holiness, why He hasn’t sent his angels to urge those most capable to restore His Holy City’s physical state. But then I think He wouldn’t be as concerned with having their attention on structures born to inevitable decay as He would in having them lift their eyes and hearts to the true Eternal City where He now resides. Then he turned a smile my way. What say you, my friend?

This was as Father Gerbert always spoke, considering most complex and sacred things, as if he had been promised a seat beside Jesus the Christ in Paradise. And as always, I replied, It is beyond my station.

He shook a finger playfully, his smile remaining, and he said, Someday, Zosimus, someday you will see the Kingdom of Heaven as I have learned to see it. It’s our true home, you understand? If you cannot see it as such, you will never truly be at home there. You will desire the world of the senses, a return to that which will forever be in turmoil, forever in a state of rebuild, decay, restore, fall from grace.

He had never spoken this way to me before. Truly, I knew not what to say. So, I glanced to the waning sun and replied, We’ll never arrive at our destination if we sit astride our horses and talk, even of sacred things.

Laughter erupted from him. You are correct, my friend. That is exactly what I was just saying.

Besides, I said in a tone of voice more sardonic than I intended, why does it have to be one or the other? Why can’t we have both the temporal and the eternal?

He looked deeply into me, as if trying to plumb the true source of my question. He touched his heels to his horse, clapped the reins, and I followed him into the city.

It is true that Romanorum animus, bent on civilizing the baser instincts of mankind in ancient days, now sings of Christ, even though wickedness still lurks among Rome’s edifices. But, I wondered as I looked across the seven hills, was Rome now about to provoke the same despair in me that broke Holy Emperor Otto’s young heart and aged an already elderly Father Gerbert? Perhaps, I mused as I prepared to enter the city, our Most Holy Father, the Eighth Benedict, Pope of Christ’s Church, has found a balm for his city, and for Christendom.

It was our Holy Father who summoned me to Rome from Reims in early autumn of this year, against the wishes of my Archbishop, Arnulf. I, Zosimus, of the monastery of Saint Remi, had somehow captured Holy Father’s attention. But how? And why? Was there some sin from our tumultuous time in Rome, now uncovered and begging for atonement? Or was it more of Father Gerbert’s politics, lying fallow in Roman soil and now, like weeds, tainting the city?

These questions tumbled through me the way the windswept falling leaves across the countryside near Reims as I prepared for my journey to Rome. You must have faith, Zosimus, I thought over and over as my horse and I traveled the roads leading eastward to Italia. The Holy Father’s a good man, God’s servant, and so there’s no need for fear. A series of clear, cool rains followed me across the White Mountains and down the Roman coast and this day swept all imperfections from the sky, leaving it a dome of Mediterranean blue. And so, I crossed the Tiberis south of its bend, just past the island Insula Tiberina, on that magnificent stone bridge. The rain and an accompanying coolness managed to tame the river’s odiferous nature. Despite the sounds of clattering carts, workmen’s hammers, yelling vendors, and citizens chattering in conversation, a peaceful hush seemed to prevail. Then memory led me down the streets toward Collis Caelius and Holy Father’s palace.

A palace priest, a short, pale man with the lithe physicality of a cat, took my documents and disappeared into the palace’s bowels as I took in the sun’s last gleaming. Some time later, the priest returned and led me to a vacant servant room. At my insistence, he ordered water for my bathing and, finally, he brought food. For a while, as stars began their mischievous winking in the ultramarine sky, I felt as though I were in Emperor Otto’s court once again, this room so spacious, so well lighted with its abundance of candles, so different from my cell within the monastery of Saint Remi. But I wasn’t able to enjoy such opulence. Holy Father’s summons once again began to worry me. But after some time, I fell asleep and dreamed of Francia.

Tierce Sext of the next day passed. I had just finished my prayers and contemplations when the same pale priest came for me. We walked together down a magnificently gilded hallway.

Brother Zosimus, he whispered on sour breath as we negotiated the hall, you must be on the holiest of missions.

I stopped, frowning, not understanding.

He turned. Our Most Holy Father has asked that you be taken to his private chambers.

How was I to respond to that? I bowed slightly in acknowledgement.

Very few are summoned there, he said. Very few.

Again, a bow. He gave me an odd smile, turned, and led me on. At the end of the hallway, a guard stood before a massive oaken door.

You must surrender your arms, the priest whispered. No one is allowed to carry a sword into the presence of God’s Most Holy Servant. Again, the odd look. No one.

I surrendered my sword and dagger to the guard. He then nodded to the priest, who pushed one of the doors open and announced me in Latin. Then a brief exchange in the vulgar tongue of Italia that I never mastered. The priest bowed, backed from the room, and quietly closed the door.

Had I been in the presence of Father Gerbert after he had taken on the papal robes as Sylvester, I would’ve known how to approach, but now I was momentarily perplexed. My sensibilities quickly returned, however, and I prostrated myself before him. He called me to rise, and as I did so, he smiled. He was a man of Rome, that much I could tell—gaunt, beginning to wrinkle with age, clean shaven, his skin aglow with the burnish common to Romans. He had not yet that day adorned himself with the robes of his office, dressed instead in a long white tunic.

Zosimus, he said softly, looking away, as if probing the sound of the name for some significance beyond the obvious. A sainted Pope of our church carried that name, a most passionate servant. How did you come to choose it?

"I was named Sosimo at birth, Holy Father, born to a most common family of Hispania. That name is a variant of the sainted Pope’s. I was reared in the province of Vich, you see—"

Ah. But you have clearly mastered the Latinate tongue.

Yes, Father. Thanks to Gerbert. My hand flew to my mouth and I looked to the marbled floor stones. How could I have possibly committed such a breach of etiquette in speaking so familiarly of a former Pope? I fell to my knees. Holy Father, forgive me.

Come, come, he said, I know of your relationship with my predecessor. He’s the reason I’ve summoned you, so please, stand.

I obeyed, my eyes not yet rising to his visage.

"I have appointments this day, so let me be brief. There’s a personal book of his, a diarium, if you will."

I looked up. How could he have known? Only Father Gerbert and I knew of this most personal accounting of his life. His expression betrayed nothing more. I swallowed and looked away. Holy Father, I know of no…

He waved a hand as if to brush that away. "And you have this diarium with you?"

This is what I had feared. Some intrigue involving Father Gerbert, lying fallow all these years, had taken root and was about to blossom once more. No, Holy Father.

It is with your belongings in Reims, then?

I looked down again, my hands trembling. Truth, Zosimus, truth.

My dear Zosimus, he said in a most tender voice, you are not here for any sort of reprisal. While I’m troubled by what I’ve heard of your Father Gerbertus’ personal life, his reputation is not at risk with me. Please, sit. He motioned to a stool at his right side, and I sat. You do have the book?

Yes, Holy Father. It’s with my things in Reims.

And no one has access to your possessions there?

I shook my head. My abbot wouldn’t allow it, nor would Archbishop Arnulf, I think.

At the mention of the Archbishop, the Holy Father seemed to tense.

And you have not spoken of this book to anyone there?

I replied that I had not, and that seemed to relieve him.

I have had reports on you, Zosimus, he said, leaning forward, so close I was enveloped in the scent of him. I know of your loyalty to your Father Gerbertus, and I’m confident that you have no intrigue in you, despite… He sat back, his gaze narrowed. Despite the troubles that haunted your mentor’s life, as priest, as bishop, archbishop, and as Pope.

Again, I could but swallow. I nodded in reply.

Your Father Gerbertus set many changes in motion while in Rome, he said. And there are those here, and across Christendom, who wish to soil, (he used the Frankish word, soullier, perhaps to gain my confidence), his character, and through him, my papacy. Altogether too many events have transpired in recent years to stain the Church, and I wish such to cease. Beyond that, I wish to revive some of what Sylvester began. Another pause. Some of it, mark you. Toward that end, I wish you to be my ally.

My eyes blurred at this pronouncement. More intrigue for me to defend? I wished only to return to my cell, to pray, to reflect on my soul’s hidden darknesses with all appropriate dread, and to contemplate my avenue to God. But he continued.

Father Gerbertus’ book must come into my possession. Not as an acquisition, but for higher reasons. First, it is my hope that his most intimate thoughts will in some manner reveal ways to restore to the papacy the righteousness and dignity I suspect he longed for. And second… Here, his jaw jutted and he clenched a fist. It must not fall into the hands of those who wish to malign Saint Peter’s rightful successors.

My thoughts swirled as if in a whirlwind. Father Gerbert wished me to have his diarium for posterity. He knew his reign, and that of young Emperor Otto, were controversial, that he had amassed many enemies over the span of his years. He had the book sent to me for safekeeping, to be passed on, perhaps to his son, Wilfried, or Theodore, as he’s now known, toward the end of my life. Or, should Arnulf soon embrace his eternal reward, the book might be included in the Library of Reims, to be read by the curious in years, even centuries, to come. Perhaps in that way, Father Gerbert’s life and work might be better understood. But to place it in the safekeeping of a Pope? Even Father Gerbert, in all his wisdom and farsightedness, would never have contemplated that. Would Holy Father Benedict understand a man as mercurial, as complex, as Father Gerbert?

I know, Holy Father continued, that your voyage here has been arduous for a man of your years. Perhaps I should send one of my emissaries to your monastery to retrieve the book.

Another storm of thoughts. An emissary of the Pope appearing in Reims and announcing to Arnulf that he wished to retrieve something that had been secretly placed in my safekeeping? I could almost smell Arnulf’s wrath at my having held a papal volume of such value. I could see darkness rising in him as he sent his own man to the monastery to retrieve the book, and then I could hear the damning silence as his man told him Holy Father’s emissary had already secured it. No, if that were to happen, I would never be able to leave Rome, to return to the peace and serenity of my abbey. Another thought emerged, shining a ray of hope on something I didn’t dare speak of to the Bishop of Rome.

And so, I replied impetuously, I would be afraid for the book’s well-being if that were to occur, Holy Father. I gasped at my horrendous choice of words. Please for- give me, I begged. I didn’t mean to imply that you—

You’re afraid the Archbishop will see to it that the book never reaches me.

Yes! I yelled, distraught. Shamed by my outburst, I bowed my head and tried to gain control of my emotions. "He would never allow the diarium to see Rome. With this book in his hands, forgive me, but I’m afraid wicked use would be made of its contents."

He sat back and peered at me. You have a suggestion, then.

The thought I had dared not speak of surfaced with such force that were I not to express it in that moment, I imagined I might burst. Yes, Holy Father, I have an idea. The book is not in truly readable form. Oh, some passages are very eloquent, very well written. But others are mere scribbles, disjointed thoughts, pieces of Father Gerbert’s history, pieces that don’t reveal the context of his actions and thoughts. He was old, very near death when he sent the book to me, Holy Father. During his years as Pope, I think he may not have had the energy to put flesh on its bones, so to speak. And I doubt he had a scribe he could trust to restore these most private thoughts to a proper form. I wished to go on, to pursue this train of thought to its end, but did I dare? Faith, Zosimus, I thought again. You’re in the presence of Saint Peter’s successor, and he’s asked for a suggestion, so explain further. I know Father Gerbert perhaps better than any other person, alive or dead.

Yes, yes, Holy Father replied. Go on.

With your permission, Holy Father, I propose to return to Saint Remi and to copy the portions of his book that are, to my mind, the most significant representations of his thoughts and life experience. Others I propose to omit and in their place provide my own testimony of occurrences to which both Father Gerbert and I were parties. To represent his intentions in that way as best I know them.

I paused. Holy Father’s eyes remained fixed on me, his expression now most stony. Finally, he crooked a finger for me to continue.

I have this understanding, Holy Father, that the written words of one man parallel, (and here I used the Greek word, parallēlos, as Father Gerbert had used it when we talked of this concept), to those of another will make the ideas those words represent come alive in a way uncommon to the spoken word.

Holy Father offered the faintest of smiles. Then he cleared his throat and asked, Your abbot would agree to this? And Archbishop Arnulf?

Head bowed again, I said, It would take a fiat from you, Holy Father.

Time passed before he spoke again. And how would you conceal from Arnulf and your abbot the nature of your work?

My thoughts had been too embryonic for me to consider this. But good ideas often follow one another, especially as they gain substance. Father Gerbert had a fascination with mathematics, I replied. "He was especially enamored of the Greeks’ geometria. If your fiat could explain that you have found a book of such sketches in the rough, drawn by Father Gerbert, and you wish a properly copied and bound book of these sketches and of his thoughts on geometria for your personal library, perhaps they wouldn’t indulge in curiosity regarding the book I propose."

This time, Holy Father laughed softly. "I’m sure the prospect of geometria would compel them to leave you to your solitude."

Thus heartened, I offered more. "His diarium does contain a number of tentative sketches pertaining to geometria, which I can include."

The priest who had ushered me in opened the door. Your Holiness, he said, the Duke of Burgundy has arrived and awaits his time with you.

Soon, soon, Holy Father said, and please bring my alb, will you?

The priest bowed and closed the door, and Holy Father turned again to me. I was certain I read worry in his countenance. While I knew little of the external threats to Christendom, I had heard reports during my travels to Rome of Saracen threats in the south. And then there was the succession of Popes and antipopes, which, to my mind, would continue until Christ led some forceful person to stop them. Perhaps Holy Father Benedict was to be that person.

Tell me, Zosimus, he said, how long will such a project take you?

This was a concern I hadn’t anticipated. I believe it will take some four years, Holy Father. But perhaps less.

He sprang from his seat at that. Four years! I may not be Pope in four years! What’s the problem, then? Is it a shortage of vellum?

There was always a shortage of vellum, but the real problem was that as a monk I had other responsibilities, and there was the time to be devoted to prayer, from Matins to Compline. I did my best to allay his concerns regarding time, saying I would devote myself to it most diligently. Still, there was no one I could trust to assist me. And for my own testimonies, I would need time to stir persons and events to life once more within my memory.

Finally he sat, and after some time of reflection, he said, "I will direct Arnulf that you have been given a treatise on the geometria to copy. That this geometria is reputed to have value only to the Chair of Peter as an intellectual document. That you’re to be allowed to work on this project alone, in seclusion, that you must be excused from the duties