Technology (5): The Gutenberg Oath
After shedding my disguise, I revealed my true identity to Adolf. He was genuinely shocked. At first, he didn't believe me, but thanks to Halvar, who had accompanied us, he quickly grasped that I was indeed the emperor.
In any case, after disclosing my identity, Adolf and I returned to the palace together. No sooner had we arrived than he prostrated himself before me, perhaps struck anew by the realization that I was truly the emperor, and begged forgiveness.
"F-Forgive me, Your Majesty. I had no idea it was you... and I said those things..."
"No need. I was traveling in disguise to gauge the state of the common folk. That's when I met you, and you admirably demonstrated your talents to me."
The wooden printing press hadn't been invented yet. But the copying method he had devised, utilizing intaglio and relief carving on wooden blocks, could be applied immediately.
"We can't build the printing press you described at the end just yet, but coating wooden blocks with ink and stamping them out is feasible right now."
It functioned like a sort of stamp. Simply applying ink and pressing would eliminate the tedious task of drawing tables by hand each time.
"This is a technology our administration desperately needs. And once we add the wooden printing press you'll develop, we'll accomplish even more."
"You mean..."
"Would you consider entering the service of Eastern Rome and working as a technician for the empire?"
Adolf's face registered surprise at my words. At this time, his Gensfleisch family was more akin to a wealthy household than nobility. In other words, they weren't nobles. Of course, I had no intention of making him one outright, but I planned to formally employ him as a bureaucrat—specifically, a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Technology. That was tantamount to elevating him to high nobility.
Thus, it was only natural for a commoner like Adolf to be stunned.
"I am deeply grateful for Your Majesty's gracious words. I shall devote myself to Eastern Rome."
Adolf accepted my offer without hesitation. As I had mentioned before, people in this era lacked the modern concept of the nation-state. Patriotism or a sense of belonging to a country simply didn't exist. It was an age when moving from place to place for profit was commonplace. Adolf himself was a wandering merchant, traveling far from home to earn coin as a trader.
For these reasons, he immediately recognized the rarity of the opportunity I was extending. He accepted on the spot to seize it before it slipped away.
"A wise choice, Sir Adolf Gensfleisch. As a new bureaucrat of Eastern Rome, I bestow upon you a new name and surname."
The reason for granting him a new name and surname: partly because he was now a high official, but mainly because his work required a name suited to Greek. My own original name, Robert, was a Northern European or English one, unknown in Greece. When Basil II first employed me, he had given me the name Rogerius to help me adapt swiftly to Eastern Rome. I intended to do the same for him—and add a surname to boot.
"Adolphus Gutenberg. That is your new name and surname."
Adolf expressed his profound gratitude. Though his name and family had changed overnight, receiving them directly from the nation's leader was an honor in this era. Evidently feeling the weight of it, Adolf—no, Adolphus—swore eternal loyalty to me with utmost sincerity.
"Adolphus Gutenberg shall serve Emperor Rogerius and Empress Zoi, devoting himself to the glory of Eastern Rome."
Adolphus's oath. In response, I observed the proper protocol and accepted his pledge of fealty.
After recruiting Adolphus, I threw myself into the printing press project in earnest.
"So this printing press... it lets one person do the work of twenty?"
Zoi's question. I nodded immediately.
"It's based on the same principle as a wine press. Just lay the wooden block on top, apply ink, and press down to copy."
"That requires simple shapes... and the tables made by that cleric are the most suitable."
"Exactly. Spot on."
Truth be told, I was tempted to carve actual letters into the blocks. But to do that, I'd need not only a skilled engraver but also wood with the right hardness.
"What woods suit wooden blocks?"
"Pear, jujube, alder, and hornbeam."
From what my carpenter father had taught me, hardwoods like pear, jujube, alder, and hornbeam were ideal. These woods resisted warping and were dense—often used for charcoal—which meant low moisture content. That prevented distortions during drying.
"But realistically, only pear and jujube are viable."
Of those, only pear and jujube were accessible to us. Alder and hornbeam grew mainly in China, Korea, and Japan, so procuring them was impossible. Thus, we had to choose between pear and jujube.
Yet another problem arose.
"Eastern Rome lacks sufficient pear and jujube trees, though. And don't pears discolor badly inside?"
We simply couldn't source enough pear or jujube wood suitable for carving letters. Western pear was workable but prone to internal discoloration, making it poor for blocks. Fundamentally, they were different species despite the name: Western pear was one variety, true pear another.
If we could obtain pear seeds, grafting could combine their strengths—the ease of Western pear with the hardening-upon-drying of true pear—yielding the perfect block material.
Explaining this to Zoi was out of the question. Grafting had existed since 2000 BCE, so no issue there. But pear? A Northern European raised in Eastern Rome knowing Eastern pears strained credibility. I could claim hearsay, but it wouldn't solve procurement, so I skipped it.
"Which leaves jujube."
"Jujube... From what I recall, it's mainly produced in the Levant region."
The Levant: the eastern Mediterranean coast, bordered west by the Mediterranean, south by the Arabian Desert, and east by modern Iraq. In our time— the Middle Ages—it fell under the Islamic Caliphate, encompassing what are now Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria.
"No reason for the Muslims to hand it over willingly."
"It's vital religiously, politically, militarily, and economically."
The Levant had long been a key region. As the sole land route to Egypt—Rome's breadbasket—it teemed with merchants. Geographically narrow as a borderland, but the interior revealed why: desert everywhere. Stray from the coastal roads, and you hit sand. Thus, cities clustered along those routes.
A crossroads between Europe and Arabia, where civilizations met, brimming with holy sites. In the Middle Ages, religion was life itself. Pilgrimage to these sites was a must for Christian or Muslim alike. Pilgrims brought wealth.
Religion, politics, military, economy—all converged in the Levant. After the seventh-century Battle of Yarmouk left a vacuum between Eastern Rome and Sassanid Persia, Islam seized it effortlessly. The Umayyads made Damascus their capital; the Abbasids further developed it. Small wonder it was the Islamic heartland.
From their perspective, an indispensable territory they wouldn't yield lightly.
"It's not just about jujube trees that we're targeting the Levant."
"I know. It's Roman soil."
Antioch and environs. To reclaim Rome's past glory, we needed the Mediterranean coast's lost Roman jewels.
"And religious reasons too."
My pact with Michael I. One reason he rejected his father Keroularios's alliance plea was our implicit promise to join the Crusades. Not official, so no binding obligation. But for unifying Eastern Rome's church in future governance, spurning Michael wasn't wise.
"Economic reasons, religious... so military remains?"
Sharp as ever, Zoi. She already knew what I meant.
"Right. Seizing the Levant isolates Egypt."
The region essential to restoring Rome's golden age: Egypt. Rome's granary, producing enough wheat to feed all Mediterranean subjects. Losing it precipitated Rome's decline. Reclaim glory? Reclaim Egypt. And to strike Egypt, secure the Levant's land corridor.
The mood ripened thus. From printing presses to Crusades felt premature. Talk of distant futures. Time to build strength for that tomorrow.