Intrigued by now, the Archaeologist continued his pursuit of the silent dead. A week or so later he struck oil when the post delivered Secret Societies by Professor Royston Lyness Ph.D. (Oxon) (OUP 1990). Sitting in his tent, reading by the inadequate light of a camping solar lamp, he discovered the following – and as he read he became more and more oblivious of the mosquitoes’ loving attentions.
The Vehme, in legend at least, combined the function of a secret police, an alternative judiciary and a subversive enforcer of justice against prevailing powers. In these and other respects, they seemed akin to the earliest manifestations of the MAFIA/COSA NOSTRA (q.v.), although they allegedly predate their Sicilian counterparts and seem to have greater, albeit dimly glimpsed, ambitions.
In the contemporary popular imagination they appear as avenging angels, in the guise of masked men from nowhere or black-clad knights, the equal in arms of anything Church or State could set against them. Much is made in surviving stories of the mystery of their origin, the grimness of their judgements and the implacable inevitability of execution. A typical tale would involve a summons nailed to a castle or palace door and the named person, terrified and alone, presenting him or herself at an appointed wilderness or crossroads, there to be led blindfolded by a black-gowned usher to the Tribunal of the Vehme.
This invariably took place in some vast underground cavern or vault, often a great distance from the victim’s home. After the questioning, sentence would be pronounced, always at midnight. Then the blindfold would be removed and the justified or condemned man would see his first and last sight of the ‘Masked Free Judges in Black’ – for a second summons could only bring death, as did non-appearance. Numerous stories recount the fate of the recidivist or coward, found slain under the very noses of their guards, with the Vehme’s terrible cruciform dagger buried in their chest and the proclamation of sentence attached. It is also said that they relentlessly pursued a faithless or refractory member, even to the throne of King or Bishop, with steel and cord.
The actuality of the Vehme is attested to by the ‘Code of the Vehmic Court’, found in the archives of the Westphalian Kings and published in the Reichstheater of Müller, under the grandiose and fulsome title of Codes and Statutes of the Holy and Secret Tribunal of Free Court and Free Judges of Westphalia, established in the year 772 by the Emperor Charlemagne and revived in 1404 by King Robert who made these alterations and additions requisite for the administration of justice in the Tribunals of the Illuminated, after investing them with his authority.
Quite what is to be made of this is by no means clear. Whilst it is the one single mention of the Emperor Charlemagne in connection with Vehmic origins, other, equally compelling – or dubious – authorities attribute their founding to the Roman Emperors Hadrian or Julian the Apostate. What is significant about the Müller codex is the reference to the ‘illuminated’ who alone, it was explicitly stated, could look upon the writings or face of the Vehme. Quite what ‘illumination’ was shed, on what subjects, and for whom, is nowhere elucidated and looks likely now to remain forever unknown.
The post-war Nazi ‘Werewolf’ organization claimed to carry on the Vehmic tradition but in reality it seems likely that the group, conspiracy, belief or whatever it was, did not survive the social tornado of the Reformation and Thirty-Years War.
The Archaeologist looked ecstatically into the middle distance (circa twelve inches away in the context of his tent). So, maybe the dry old bones they’d uncovered under the slab today and neatly bagged in plastic, had once been clothed in ‘illuminated’ flesh. Or perhaps they belonged to a Vehme victim and so were unworthy of the Archaeologist’s doggedly Marxist-leaning sympathies. Either way, for good or bad, the Vehme, whoever they were, seemed to have chosen to mark the old boy’s grave with their sign. What a brilliant footnote to his report it would make!
Turning off the bug-encrusted solar lamp, he laid his bearded head to rest, well pleased.
The report was never written. Slovo’s grave remained obscure, though his bones got to fly to London, for cursory study – and then covert disposal in a Holborn dustbin. Some of the nicer finds were gifted to London museums that were prepared to take them.
Meanwhile, the Archaeologist, still troubled by the howl of the libido and the unavailability of Joy, slowly succumbed to the siren call of Capri. A mere week into his ensuing pleasures with the island’s abundantly available wallet-related love, the poor man contracted the HIV virus that would more than fully occupy the remainder of his short life.
The Year 1492
‘INSTALMENTS: In which I become impatient and incite some nostalgics to ambitions of destroying the human race. Little by little, I learn something.’
‘Almighty Lord, on the reasonable assumption that you exist and that your wishes for Mankind are actually as related by the various revelations honoured by my time and culture, please forgive me for the things I have done, do, and will do. Generally speaking I mean well – except when I mean ill; which is probably too often (although my employers are usually responsible for that). Please keep my melancholia within acceptable bounds. Overlook my ambivalent attitude to Judaism: conversion is not, you’ll surely agree, a practical course of action at present. Look kindly on my adherence to Pagan Stoicism: I mean no disrespect. Bless my wife, I suppose, wherever she is. I’m mostly sorry about the people I’ve killed this year …’
A confident tap on his shoulder interrupted Admiral Slovo’s prayers. He turned swiftly, his thumb poised over the spring release on his blade-loaded opal signet ring, to see that a long-haired young man was standing behind him.
‘No thank you,’ whispered the Admiral, remaining on his knees.
‘To what?’ replied the elegant youth, puzzled.
‘To whatever you are selling: yourself (currently fashionable in Rome so I’m told), your sister, choice sweetmeats or indulgences. Whatsoever it may be, I’m not interested.’
‘You are being offensive,’ said the youth; more hazarding a guess than making an accusation.
‘And you are interrupting my prayers,’ said Slovo. ‘I will have to go back to the beginning now.’
‘So?’ the young man replied. ‘Each moment spent in proximity to a Christian place of worship costs me dear. Even this brief conversation will have shortened my lifespan by perhaps one hundred of your years. Another five minutes so close to consecrated ground and I will die.’
‘And?’ asked Slovo, unconcerned.
‘My message will require more than that time to relate. I am not asking for sentiment, Admiral, it is merely a matter of practicalities.’
‘I am a reasonable man,’ said Admiral Slovo, slowly rising to his feet. ‘We will adjourn elsewhere.’ Speaking to God he said, ‘Please overlook the interrupted prayers, but this Elf wants to talk business.’
The young man did not actually mean to swagger, but his natural grace, compared to the other citizens of Rome, made it appear so. Once out of the Church of San Tommaso degli Inglesi, he replaced his broad-brimmed hat, arranged his red locks upon his shoulders and then set off briskly down the Via di Monserrato. Admiral Slovo kept pace, well aware that despite his childhood deportment training he appeared like a shambling ape beside his companion.
It was early evening, the between-time before commerce ceased and revelry began. The crowds were thin and incurious, the humanity-generated humidity bearable.
‘Issues have developed,’ said the youth, not deigning to turn his head. ‘Elements mature beyond expectation. Your commission is accelerated by one of your months; extra funding will be provided. At your lodgings,’ he continued, maintaining the same seamless conversation, ‘you will find delivered an oaken cask. Within is a jewelled tiara, formerly the possession of Queen Zenobia of Palmyra; together with a solid gold sword used by the Roman Emperor Caligula for purposes that you would doubtless consider disgraceful. We are not expert at determining human pecuniary values but it is judged that these items, once realized into currency, will be more th
an adequate for your purposes.’
Admiral Slovo could hardly contradict that assertion but remained less than content. ‘Always these curios,’ he said. ‘Solomon’s breastplate, Attila’s gold spittoon, Cleopatra’s intimate utensils: do you realize how famous I am becoming for selling such things? Questions are being asked by antiquarian professionals. And my wife, who is Genoese and highly acquisitive, shrieks to retain such valuables. Why can’t you fund me with gems? Those I could hide from her.’
‘They have no value to us, Admiral,’ said the youth in all innocence. ‘We give them to our offspring to play with, if we pick them up at all. Be satisfied with what you have – oh, I beg your pardon, that is another thing that humans are unable to do, is it not?’
‘Most of us,’ Slovo politely agreed. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem a trifle inadequately briefed.’
The youth nodded casually. ‘Possibly so. The tuition I received was sufficient but my attention to it less so. By and large, we find discussion of your kind rather disgusting.’
‘I see,’ said the Admiral.
‘For instance, I think I must now turn the conversation to your personal reward for these endeavours; failing which you will become disaffected.’
‘Yes; what’s in it for me?’ said Slovo, going along with the racial stereotyping for weariness’s sake.
The beautiful youth appeared pleased to find his prejudices confirmed. ‘The King sent you this,’ he said, drawing from his purse a tiny cylinder of green-discoloured bronze. ‘One month advanced, remember. Do not fail us or there will be no more.’ So saying, he handed the cylinder to Slovo and was off.
He need not have hurried for the Admiral’s mind was now elsewhere. Most rare of events, Slovo was obliged to struggle to control his actions. With nigh-on trembling fingers and an expression threatening to break on his face, he unscrewed the cylinder into its component parts. He didn’t pay attention to the masterly craftsmanship or the intricate scenes carved on its side. All of the Admiral’s thoughts were concentrated on the scrap of vellum within. It was the merest corner of a most ancient page, roughly torn across.
Admiral Slovo stood oblivious in the middle of the street and studied the Classical-Latin text: … like the castle of a Parthian … do not accumulate distress but instead, contemplate the meaning of man’s existence which is that …
Slovo fought and won a titanic inner battle and, in victory, was accordingly proud of his adherence to Stoic principles. ‘How frustrating,’ he said calmly.
‘One month from now,’ said Admiral Slovo.
‘Difficult, perhaps …’
‘Quite recently,’ said Slovo matter of factly, ‘I had the good fortune to find the Emperor Caligula’s golden sword, and sold same to Cardinal Grimani for an indecent sum. Accordingly, I have here a bearer-payable draft of deposit upon the Megillah Goldsmith’s house in Rome which should put any such difficulties in proper perspective.’
After the armourer had fetched his wife to read the bond, he wholeheartedly agreed that all difficulties had evaporated like Florentine Citizen militia before Swiss pikemen.
‘I will employ every skilled worker in Capri,’ he said with a proud flourish. ‘If need be, I will subcontract across to Naples. Your arquebuses will be ready in time, honoured Admiral: trust me.’ With this, the armourer, doubtless envisaging villas, farms and a secure old age, grew expansive; almost familiar. ‘Capri has never known an order like it,’ he rejoiced, breaking out a wickered jug of (it transpired) quite impermissible wine. ‘So many hundreds of guns! Before this, I made one or two a year but now, with your patronage, with the apprentices I’ve indentured, the blue sky itself cannot contain me or my good fortune!’
Oh, yes it will, thought Slovo, frowning at his wine, and, sadly, sooner than you think. He looked at the happy armourer and if he had not trained himself otherwise he would have been filled with compassion. Naturally, the fellow could not survive the contract’s completion: that was yet another thing that would have to be arranged. He could not, alas, offer any reprieve or sympathy, so instead he praised the wine.
‘We grow or diminish,’ said the King, ‘in direct proportion to our power – in the tales of humankind, that is. Once we were giants and titans, now we are merely tall. I do not doubt that before long people will disbelieve in us altogether. Your literature will have us as mere pixy figures suitable for the ends of your gardens.’
Admiral Slovo smiled pleasantly and thought to himself that the King was considerably behind the times. As the serried ranks of Elf soldiery in the valley below fired off another practice volley, it occurred to him that a lot of people were in for a shock.
‘And that’s another thing,’ continued the King angrily, ‘this garden business! Everywhere your species goes: gardens. Why must you try and improve on what Nature has provided?’
Nature made it our nature, thought Slovo but said: ‘It is not my place or inclination to defend mankind, Your Majesty. I am merely your gun-runner.’
The King turned to look at him, his yellow cat-eyes burning out from within his bronze helm. ‘And quite a good one – for a renegade; I think we might run to a full page for you this time.’
Admiral Slovo controlled his excitement and looked impassively around the training site. From their high vantage point he could see the tops of the forest trees running on to what seemed like infinity. Rome was a long way away. Slovo had never been so far from sympathetic civilization before. He was therefore comforted to find he did not particularly mind the lack.
Down in the clearing, the Elf warriors fired again, tearing into the facing fringe of trees. Slovo had seen better displays of marksmanship, but recognized that it was early days yet. Noting the clumsiness as they proceeded to reload, he hastened to forestall the King’s next demand.
‘The iron content is at absolute minimum,’ he said. ‘A greater proportion of bronze would have caused performance problems too tedious to elaborate. Your people’s aversion to iron is known to me but in this respect, if no other, you must defer. It was for my weaponry skills that I was hired.’
‘That and your humanity,’ agreed the King. ‘Man’s knowledge of us is not so faded that I could send my own golden-eyed folk to commission myriad guns of bronze for long-limbed sinistrists. Besides, you understand the money thing and the ways of tradesmen. Your high Vatican position is excellent cover and your lack of racial loyalty so … stimulating. You were the obvious choice.’
‘Your Majesty is too kind,’ said Slovo, bowing slightly.
The King gazed away into the middle distance. ‘We will learn to tolerate the burning touch of iron,’ he mused. ‘We were dispossessed by iron and with iron (well, a proportion of it) we will regain the land. No more flint and copper against blades of steel: this time we will be as deadly as you …’
Having lately been in charge of the Roman state-armoury inventories, Admiral Slovo took leave to doubt this – but said nothing. He was toying with the alarming discovery that he found some of the lithe Elf youths sexually attractive.
‘I know what you are thinking,’ said the King.
I hope you don’t, thought the Admiral.
‘You are thinking that we are few for such an enterprise; that our martial skills and arquebuses notwithstanding, your Swiss, French, English and German soldiers …’
‘Italians also fight on occasion,’ protested Slovo.
‘… will overrun us by the weight of numbers. You are thinking that your kind swarm and breed quickly whereas we reproduce only with effort and good fortune: is that not so?’
‘No,’ replied the Admiral truthfully, ‘my mind was not resting on that.’
‘Well, even so,’ said the King, refusing to be deprived of his speech, ‘should you be planning to think of it, you would be wrong.’
‘Doubtless,’ said Slovo obligingly.
‘We are a vanguard, Admiral. This is an unprecedented array. Here I have the very best of all the scattered feuding tribes. All those who d
are clutch the iron and dream of restitution are coming to me; the old chieftains are powerless to stop them. No more skulking in the wild places and fleeing your expansion. We are learning from you. Unheard of amongst the Old Races, an Over-King has been crowned and I am he. Our old ways and institutions are being remoulded by my dream. We will arm and learn to use your guns. Our day is returning and when we are ready we will take a human town and kill all within it so that not one usurper is left. And when that is heard abroad, all the hidden Elf Nations will unite and rise!’
‘Very commendable,’ said Admiral Slovo, the soul of gentlemanly toleration towards the pet projects of others. ‘I suggest Pisa. Its walls are in a lamentable state and I once spent a most unhappy season there.’
The King, like any common Elf or person, resentful of being humoured, lowered his voice an octave or two. ‘And then it will be your turn to eke out life in the forests and foothills,’ he concluded grimly. ‘Meanwhile,’ the King continued, recalling the present necessity, ‘commission another thousand handguns, and twelve demi-cannon. I presume the previous gunsmith is now dead?’
‘Regrettably so,’ confirmed the Admiral.
‘Then have them made elsewhere; somewhere far away.’
‘Venice?’ suggested Slovo.
‘An excellent choice; we have that place well infiltrated. My emissary will contact you there.’
‘The same youth as before, Your Majesty?’
‘No: his visit to your … church, impaired his health; therefore he was killed.’
‘I see.’
‘He fully agreed with my judgement, Admiral. There are no bystanders here; merely martyrs and would-be martyrs. Come and see.’ The King rose from the fallen tree on which they had rested and gestured that Slovo should accompany him into the valley clearing. ‘Do not fear,’ he said, ‘you will be safe – the only human of whom that can be said.’
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