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Authors: Donna Woolfolk Cross
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body.
Anastasius saw, for the first time, that the attackers wore the scarlet cross of the papal militia. “Father!” he blurted. “It’s the guards! The guards of the militia!”
“Yes.” He drew Anastasius close.
Anastasius fought against the rise of hysteria. “But why? Why, Father? Why would they do it?”
“They were ordered to.”
“Ordered to?” said Anastasius. He tried to make sense of it. “Who would give such an order?”
“Who? Ah, my son,
think.”
His father’s face was ashen, but his voice was steady as he replied, “You must learn to think so you will never suffer such a fate. Consider now: Who has the power? Who is capable of giving such an order?”
Anastasius stood speechless, overwhelmed by the enormity of the idea that had begun to break upon him.
“Yes.” His father’s hands were gentle now on Anastasius’s shoulders. “Who else,” he said, “but the Pope?”
5
N O, NO,
no.”
Aesculapius’s voice was edged with impatience. “You must make your letters much smaller. See how your sister pens her lesson?” He tapped Joan’s paper. “You must learn a greater respect for your parchment, my boy—there’s a whole sheep gone to make just one folio. If the monks of Andernach sprawled their words across the page in that manner, the herds of Austrasia would be wiped out in a month!”
John cast a resentful glance at Joan. “It’s too hard; I can’t do it.”
Aesculapius sighed. “Very well; return to practicing on your tablet. When you have achieved a better control, we will try the parchment again.” He asked Joan, “Have you finished the
De inventione?”
“Yes, sir,” Joan replied.
“Name the six evidentiary questions used to determine the circumstances of human acts.”
Joan was ready.
“Quis, quid, quomodo, ubi, quando, cur?”
— “Who, what, how, where, when, why?”
“Good. Now identify the rhetorical
constitutiones.”
“Cicero specifies four different
constitutiones:
dispute about fact, dispute about definition, dispute about the nature of the act, and—”
There was a thud as Gudrun kicked the door open and entered, stooping from the weight of the heavy wooden water buckets she carried, one in each clenched hand. Joan rose to help her, but Aesculapius put a hand on her shoulder, returning her to her seat.
“And?”
Joan hesitated, her eyes still on her mother.
“Child, continue.” Aesculapius’s tone indicated that he would tolerate no disobedience.
Joan hastened to reply. “Dispute about jurisdiction or procedure.”
Aesculapius nodded, satisfied. “Provide an illustration of the third
status.
Write it out on your parchment, and make sure it will be worth the keeping.”
Gudrun bustled about, blowing up the fire, bringing the pot toboil, laying the table in preparation for the afternoon meal. Once or twice she looked over her shoulder resentfully.
Joan felt a stab of guilt but forced her attention back to her work. This time was precious—Aesculapius came only once a week—and her studies mattered more than anything else.
But it was hard, working under the weight of her mother’s displeasure. Aesculapius obviously noticed it too, though he attributed it to the fact that the lessons took Joan away from household chores. Joan knew the real cause. Her studies were a betrayal, a violation of the private world she shared with her mother, a world of Saxon gods and Saxon secrets. By learning Latin and studying Christian texts, Joan aligned herself with the things her mother most detested—with the Christian God who had destroyed Gudrun’s homeland and, more to the point, with the canon, her husband.
The truth was that Joan worked mostly with pre-Christian, classical texts. Aesculapius revered the “pagan” texts of Cicero, Seneca, Lucan, and Ovid, regarded as anathema by most scholars of the day. He was teaching Joan to read Greek using the ancient texts of Menander and Homer, whose poetry the canon regarded as
Anastasius saw, for the first time, that the attackers wore the scarlet cross of the papal militia. “Father!” he blurted. “It’s the guards! The guards of the militia!”
“Yes.” He drew Anastasius close.
Anastasius fought against the rise of hysteria. “But why? Why, Father? Why would they do it?”
“They were ordered to.”
“Ordered to?” said Anastasius. He tried to make sense of it. “Who would give such an order?”
“Who? Ah, my son,
think.”
His father’s face was ashen, but his voice was steady as he replied, “You must learn to think so you will never suffer such a fate. Consider now: Who has the power? Who is capable of giving such an order?”
Anastasius stood speechless, overwhelmed by the enormity of the idea that had begun to break upon him.
“Yes.” His father’s hands were gentle now on Anastasius’s shoulders. “Who else,” he said, “but the Pope?”
5
N O, NO,
no.”
Aesculapius’s voice was edged with impatience. “You must make your letters much smaller. See how your sister pens her lesson?” He tapped Joan’s paper. “You must learn a greater respect for your parchment, my boy—there’s a whole sheep gone to make just one folio. If the monks of Andernach sprawled their words across the page in that manner, the herds of Austrasia would be wiped out in a month!”
John cast a resentful glance at Joan. “It’s too hard; I can’t do it.”
Aesculapius sighed. “Very well; return to practicing on your tablet. When you have achieved a better control, we will try the parchment again.” He asked Joan, “Have you finished the
De inventione?”
“Yes, sir,” Joan replied.
“Name the six evidentiary questions used to determine the circumstances of human acts.”
Joan was ready.
“Quis, quid, quomodo, ubi, quando, cur?”
— “Who, what, how, where, when, why?”
“Good. Now identify the rhetorical
constitutiones.”
“Cicero specifies four different
constitutiones:
dispute about fact, dispute about definition, dispute about the nature of the act, and—”
There was a thud as Gudrun kicked the door open and entered, stooping from the weight of the heavy wooden water buckets she carried, one in each clenched hand. Joan rose to help her, but Aesculapius put a hand on her shoulder, returning her to her seat.
“And?”
Joan hesitated, her eyes still on her mother.
“Child, continue.” Aesculapius’s tone indicated that he would tolerate no disobedience.
Joan hastened to reply. “Dispute about jurisdiction or procedure.”
Aesculapius nodded, satisfied. “Provide an illustration of the third
status.
Write it out on your parchment, and make sure it will be worth the keeping.”
Gudrun bustled about, blowing up the fire, bringing the pot toboil, laying the table in preparation for the afternoon meal. Once or twice she looked over her shoulder resentfully.
Joan felt a stab of guilt but forced her attention back to her work. This time was precious—Aesculapius came only once a week—and her studies mattered more than anything else.
But it was hard, working under the weight of her mother’s displeasure. Aesculapius obviously noticed it too, though he attributed it to the fact that the lessons took Joan away from household chores. Joan knew the real cause. Her studies were a betrayal, a violation of the private world she shared with her mother, a world of Saxon gods and Saxon secrets. By learning Latin and studying Christian texts, Joan aligned herself with the things her mother most detested—with the Christian God who had destroyed Gudrun’s homeland and, more to the point, with the canon, her husband.
The truth was that Joan worked mostly with pre-Christian, classical texts. Aesculapius revered the “pagan” texts of Cicero, Seneca, Lucan, and Ovid, regarded as anathema by most scholars of the day. He was teaching Joan to read Greek using the ancient texts of Menander and Homer, whose poetry the canon regarded as
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