‘She survives,’ answered the Baal Shem, now casting reticence aside and rattling the empty flagon in Slovo’s direction, ‘because you need her – in the most honourable sense. She, and her ransom, will be your guarantee of welcome at your destination – not to mention the riches aboard her ship and the mighty craft itself: a welcome addition to any navy. There is also, as part of her intended dowry, a relic prised from the bony hands of Coptic monks: part of the pelvis of St Peter or some such: long revered and smothered in gold and baubles. Your next employer will love you dearly for the handing over of that.’
Slovo declined to rise to the dangled bait about his future and held to the question in hand. ‘You neglected to touch upon the subject of how,’ he said politely.
‘Ah yes,’ said the Baal Shem, clearly impressed by the Captain’s restraint. ‘Well, it is possible with some effort, and some magic, for me to circumscribe the name of God so that it fails to harm certain categories of person. It appealed to my sense of humour to exclude those possessed of a beautiful bottom …’
‘Oh, I see!’ said Slovo.
‘Although that fails to account for why an accompanying Rabbi of the Hebrew faith should hear the blessed name and live.’
Surely he doesn’t …?’ asked the Captain.
‘Goodness no!’ replied the Baal Shem. ‘He is exceedingly plain, prematurely middle-aged and dumpy – a shape gained through excessive study and prayer. No, it transpires that he already knew the name – presumably by dint of those last two activities – and so did not share the general fate.’
‘I should like to meet this man,’ said Slovo, as though asking a favour.
‘And so you shall, Captain. His fortunes are entirely in your hands. You may allow him to proceed on his embassy from the Cairene Hebrews to their Ottoman fellows, you can converse with him or simply ditch him in the sea. It is up to you.’
Slovo at long last had mercy on the Baal Shem and fetched another flask of wine from his personal store. ‘I should have thought,’ he said, averting his eyes from the ensuing noisy imbibing, ‘that with such a man anything but the sweetest good treatment would be most unwise.’
‘Ah …’ answered the Baal Shem, reluctantly disengaging his lips from the purple flow, ‘that is the difference between he and I, between his … philosophy and that of the Vehme. He might know an ineffable name, but he would never use it!’
Just then a peculiar cry went up from the captured Egyptian ship, different from the sounds of insensate joy that Slovo and the Baal Shem had got used to. They looked round to see two pirates hoisting a golden-skinned youth on to the ship’s rail for all to see.
‘We’ve found a live-un,’ explained Bosun to the Captain. ‘He was hiding under a pile of deaders.’
‘Well, gracious me!’ exclaimed the Baal Shem. ‘This is a day of wonders!’
Slovo said nothing but for once allowed a butterfly feeling of pleasure in his stomach to live out its brief, fluttering life. Assuming this adolescent wasn’t a precocious theologian, the current voyage might be even more interesting than anticipated.
Once they’d all made themselves at home in the Egyptian behemoth and sunk the galley Slovo, the Baal Shem announced that he wanted to be taken to Sicily. All things considered it was generally felt best to humour him in every respect and Slovo set the course.
The Captain was mildly sorry to lose his maritime home, his means of livelihood for the last few years, but there were simply not the numbers to move the Egyptian prize even under full sail, and tow the Slovo. For old times’ sake, they waited long enough to see the forsaken galley point its stern skywards and then rapidly make its way, arrow-like, beneath the waves. Slovo even sought inspiration for a poem in the poignant sight but nothing suitable occurred to him.
Thereafter, the Baal Shem would not speak but retired to the Royal pavilion to think private thoughts that no one dared to interrupt. Captain Slovo thereby met the evicted Princess Khadine and the fortunate-in-his-studies Rabbi of Cairo.
The Princess was disappointingly clad in voluminous black and in a state of permanent rage. After a full day of having his ears incomprehensibly assaulted, Slovo toyed with the idea of handing her over to the crew so that, just for once in their stunted lives, they might get to see how the other 0.0000001 per cent lived. Common sense prevailed, however, and peace was finally restored by the completion of her chadoor-clad modesty with an equally thick, black sack to muffle her head. Whatever future complaints the Sultan of Egypt might levy against the Captain, lack of concern for Islamic dress restrictions would not be among them.
The Rabbi was called Megillah and Slovo’s first thoughts were to put him to much-needed work on the oars. It was unlikely his soft frame would last the trip, but he would at least perish in the good cause of putting distance between Slovo and the revenge of Islam in general, and Egypt in particular.
As it turned out, Rabbi Megillah saved himself (all unknowingly) with a masterful exposition over dinner that first evening of the five Noachian Commandments. Since Slovo continuously sought to balance his activities between the flesh and the spirit, he decided to retain the company of both the golden youth and the Rabbi – which Megillah mistook for an act of kindness. Between the two of them the journey became quite a pleasure cruise, and to compensate, Slovo experimented with praying before the pelvic bone of St Peter.
However, all good things must come to an end. The coast of Sicily was sighted, one dull and rainy dusk. Without being told, the Baal Shem awoke from his trance, and with the crew shrinking from him like puppies from a bath, he made his way to the ship’s rail and beckoned Slovo to join him.
‘I’m off now,’ he said as pleasantly as his tin-whistle voice could allow.
Slovo looked uneasily at the dark and choppy sea. ‘Right now?’ he queried. ‘Can’t I get you nearer?’
The Baal Shem shook his head. ‘No, that’s kind, but not necessary, thank you. I’ll walk from here.’
‘I see …’ answered Slovo, not going so far as actually to doubt him, ‘but …’
‘Another of my little skills,’ explained the Baal Shem. ‘It comes with knowing what I do.’
‘Which is?’ said Slovo swiftly. There seemed no harm in asking.
The Baal Shem merely smiled, proof against temptations. ‘Which is that you must now go to Rome,’ he said.
‘Rome?’
The Baal Shem was looking longingly to shore, eager to be away. ‘Yes, that is where your real life is to begin, the life you’re going to share with us. You should be pleased, you know, we have great plans for you!’
Slovo found it easy to take the news equably. ‘Are you prepared to tell me what they are?’
‘Not yet, Captain. Besides, they’re still somewhat fluid. Don’t worry, all you have to do is be yourself.’
‘That should be easy,’ observed Slovo dryly.
The Baal Shem turned back, suddenly troubled. ‘No,’ he said, his voice as grave as high C would allow. ‘I can reveal this much – it won’t ever be easy.’ So saying, he clambered laboriously over the rail and jumped. The sigh of relief from the superstitious (and highly racist) crew was almost audible.
Slovo looked over the side and found himself still almost eyeball to eyeball with the negro who was standing on the water as if it were an undulating platform.
‘You’ll be met at Rome,’ he was told. ‘Pay off your crew; give the Princess, the ship and the relic to the Pope. Do not hold anything back – we are trusting you.’
‘Don’t do that!’ advised Slovo.
‘Make a clean break with your past life. I wish you well. As does the Venetian.’
‘Who?’ said the Captain.
‘The Venetian,’ replied the Baal Shem, indicating a patch of sea beside his feet. ‘He tells me to wish you well with the job – despite everything. Oh, didn’t you know? He’s accompanied all of your voyages – particularly since he learnt you’re one of ours. Here, look!’
Slovo did as he was asked and,
even in the gloom, now saw that a man-sized area of sea was coated in a film of green-blue slime and grease. It suddenly began to bubble and boil and Slovo hurriedly recoiled. ‘Is he still human?’ he asked, looking more closely. The slime blistered again.
‘Nominally so,’ explained the Baal Shem. ‘Higher minds can still communicate with him, although he says long association has brought increasing empathy with marine-life. It’s just as well because he’ll be joining them fully before too long, as the process of dissolution continues.’ The Baal Shem looked at the darkening horizon and saw that day was almost over. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I can’t stay here chatting; I’ve got a dynasty to destabilize.’
And with those words, he walked off over the sea and into the fast falling gloom.
Whilst very careful not to look properly, Slovo waved cheerfully at a certain bit of sea below him and gave the order to row.
The great Egyptian ship slowly began to move and, shining brightly in the light of the moon, a patch of oily water – and something extra – dutifully followed.
‘Here’s to the Captain! May his stiletto never rust!’
The pirates cheered Bosun’s drunken toast and recommenced drinking themselves insensible and to an early grave.
Captain Slovo smiled thinly and soberly raised his modest mug of wine in response. He would be glad when this meaningless charade was over. The chilliest portion of his mind had suggested turning the crew in as ‘apostates’ and ‘barbaries’ to be hung at the nearest beach-strand at low tide. That would have made the very cleanest of cuts with his former life style. Certainly, the obliging potentate of the Roman Colonna clan (and Vehmist) who had greeted their arrival at Ostia Port would happily have arranged it.
In the end though, it just seemed simpler to pay them off with profligate lavishness, and a warning that they should now forget all. Asia, Africa, even Scandinavia, were all calling out for men of their calibre, he’d said – everywhere except Italy. The Italian climate would be bad for their health. Knowing the Captain as they did, they got the message and, as newly rich men, they could afford to be reasonable and oblige him.
After an initial frosty moment, caused by the appearance of their Islamic warship hoving into port, they had received a warm welcome at Ostia. The reception turned positively ecstatic when the full extent of their haul became apparent. The Colonna-Vehmist handled everything beautifully and the very next day a Cardinal, no less, with all the trimmings in terms of personnel, arrived to escort St Peter’s pelvis to a place of respect and reverence. Commanders of the Papal naval forces descended to drool over the captured Egyptian galley and a flurry of nuns took the cursing Princess Khadine out of Slovo’s life and to goodness knows what fate.
Rabbi Megillah blessed the Captain’s head and went off to contact the Roman Jews and seek solace – perhaps even a permanent home – in their midst. It seemed wise, he said, to quit the Moslem world for a while and, anyway, he’d tired of his barren Cairene wife. He was still blissfully unaware of just how narrow his escape had been.
So everyone was happy from the Pope downwards, and Captain Slovo decided to take his crew out for a final (with the emphasis on final) drink. The Colonna baron, wisely espying what sort of an evening it was going to be, graciously declined to join them. The Captain’s new position in the Vatican apparatus was all arranged, he’d said. Any … unfortunate aspects of his personal history had been expunged from the relevant records. Slovo should report for duty tomorrow and never look back – or contact the Baron again.
After three of four hours’ bulk consumption of alcohol, proceedings reached what Slovo always called ‘the knife-edge’ – that moment when the collective mood pivots wildly from jollity to jumpiness, and a pirate’s thoughts lightly turn to the blade at his side. Confined on board ship, such a moment can be relatively harmless, a stab, a scar or two, one killing at the most. Onshore, and in a big city however, Slovo was less sanguine. He did not wish to be held responsible for whatever might transpire – it was time for him to leave.
With a farewell wave that few noticed, he rose to go – and directly bumped into a body. The reaction to arm and strike was overridden, just in time, by the recognition that it was merely a little old woman, one of many working the taverns.
‘Read your palm, my love, my sweet?’ she said, not appreciating the greatness of her own recent good fortune.
The delay allowed the pirates to notice their Captain’s act of departure and the message passed down the line of tables. ‘Go on!’ they shouted, sentimental all of a sudden and anxious to forestall their beloved leader’s exit. ‘Go on – give the old cow some money. See what’s in store for you!’
Christian orthodoxy frowned on such practices and ordinarily Slovo would not have indulged. However, on this occasion he saw no way out that would not be a noisy and embarrassing anticlimax. Besides, he was embarking on a new life, why not bless it with a kindness? He gave the old girl a whole ducat and, smiling, held out his hand.
Also smiling, she took both and studied the upturned palm. She studied it – and studied it – and gradually the pirates became silent.
Then she dropped Slovo’s hand as if it were hot and gave him back his money. Never taking her eyes off him, she retreated stiff-legged backwards to the door.
‘We were astounded,’ said the Welsh Vehmist back at the other end of Admiral Slovo’s existence, where the fever of life and activity now seemed very remote. ‘Such a change in life and yet you took to it like the proverbial duck to water.’
‘A poor metaphor, I think,’ said Slovo. ‘It was the chaos of Neptune’s realm that you had me leave.’
‘Good point,’ nodded the Vehmist. ‘Yes, we required your career to take on the soundness and stability of land. However, we were fully expecting a transitional period, a space where we would need to apologize for you and nudge you along the path of propriety.’
‘For me,’ Slovo mused, ‘it was a novelty to behave like a normal man. Obedience and work, advancement and submission, they were a heady brew – for a while.’
‘But how you supped at it,’ smiled the Vehmist. ‘Dutiful hours in the Vatican, a home, making love to women, a Christian wife even! We didn’t know what to expect next!’
The Admiral turned to look at his guest, an ill-natured light in his eyes. ‘That’s the very point,’ he said. ‘You knew all too well …’
It was around the time that Mikhail Gorbachev died.
The Archaeologist allowed his Italian assistant to sound the call for ‘major find’ – ‘Aaaaaaa! Hereeeeeee!’ she sang sweetly.
That meant the rank-and-file diggers could ‘take five’ and quit their trenches to see what was turning up. The Archaeologist thought such concessions good for site morale.
As the sun-browned mob arrived, the Archaeologist scraped away with mounting enthusiasm. He didn’t even notice that some personnel had lit up strictly forbidden on-site cigarettes. ‘This is going to be good,’ he announced to all. ‘It’s a grave slab – not classical, late medieval, I should think. Joy, pass us the brush, will you?’
A finely constructed, sloe-eyed English girl handed down the required tool. The Archaeologist used it, with the ease born of practice, to flick away the remaining soil.
‘Oh bugger! It’s broken. Wayne, have your crew been using pickaxes down here?’
‘No way,’ answered a tall Anglo-Saxon in John Lennon glasses. ‘I watched ’em – trowels only.’
‘Well someone’s given it a crack. There’s a central strike with radial fault lines.’
‘Looks ancient to me,’ said Wayne authoritatively, leaning forward and peering into the trench.
The Archaeologist stood up. ‘You’re probably right,’ he muttered. ‘What a shame. Well, folks, I didn’t expect to find anything like this. As far as we know there was never a church here, so either this slab is displaced from somewhere else – and has deliberately been broken – or else whoever’s it is, is still underneath, buried outside consecrated ground
. All in all, a nice little bonus before we hit classical levels.’
‘Can you read any of the markings?’ asked Joy.
The Archaeologist leaned closer and worried at the stone with his brush. ‘There’s a lot of stuff but in very bad condition, and the fault lines go straight through it. Latin, I think. Also there’s some larger script up one end. Let’s see, SL-O–V–O: Slovo. Well, well, well!’
‘There was a villa here called that,’ explained Wayne for the benefit of the native Caprisi diggers. ‘Fifteenth to sixteenth century – where the Villa Fersen subsequently was. We’ve already uncovered some other stuff from it, fragments of statuary, that nice ornate key we showed you yesterday: bits and bobs, that sort of thing.’
‘Maybe this was the guy himself,’ mused the Archaeologist, smiling. ‘How neat! Right, no more work just here for a space. We’ll make arrangements to lift this beast and conserve it.’
‘One thing,’ said Joy hesitantly. ‘I mean, maybe it’s my eyes playing up or just the grain of the stone but … well, look – I don’t think that’s a natural break.’
She stepped lithely into the trench and knelt beside the slab. The consequent coffee-and-cream cleavage display awoke slumbering engines in the Archaeologist’s mind and he failed to hear her next remark.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said it’s a V,’ she repeated, stretching forward to trace the relevant line, thereby worsening the Archaeologist’s concentration problems. ‘A great big V!’
When the ‘break’ did indeed prove to have intricate radial ends and exquisite lightning bolts carved about the lower portion, the Archaeologist felt impelled to do some research in his free time.
A raid on the Anglo-Italian Institute’s library in Capri Town produced Dr Grimes’s famous Dictionary of Sign & Symbol, a comparable V and the entry: ‘Vehme (supposed)’ beside it. This in turn led him to the two-volume Oxford English Dictionary and greater enlightenment in the form of: ‘Vehme-Vehmgericht: a form of secret tribunal which exercised great influence in Westphalia and elsewhere from the 12th to 16th centuries.’
Popes and Phantoms Page 6
