‘No, do not,’ said the Admiral. ‘There are motives for betrayal other than the mundane – but you, of course, know that.’
Cesare Borgia modestly waved the compliment away and economically used the same gesture to urge events on.
‘Your brother,’ said Admiral Slovo, leaning back in his chair, ‘I need hardly remind you, left your Mother’s party saying, in effect, that the night was yet young and other pleasures awaited him.’
‘In effect,’ agreed Cesare, allowing a modicum of contempt to surface. ‘The regions below the belt-line controlled Juan’s life; that was well known.’
‘So the most cursory enquiries revealed,’ said Slovo, equally dismissive of such weakness. ‘Now; he was accompanied on the occasion in question by a groom and the masked Spaniard who had been his constant companion and buffoon for the month previous. He left us; a night passed and then the Duke’s household reported his absence from home. His Holiness did not take alarm, reasonably assuming that he was holed up with some other man’s wife and reluctant to be seen leaving her abode by daylight.
‘After the succeeding day and another night passed, His Holiness appointed me master of all things relating to the issue and by late afternoon of that very next day, I had located Duke Juan’s body.’
‘You are a most perspicacious man,’ said Cesare in an absolutely neutral tone. ‘Any Pope – or Prince – able to retain your services would be fortunate indeed.’
‘I could not term the task pleasurable,’ Slovo continued, ‘but it was most certainly educational. To illustrate this, permit me to recount one anecdote from my investigation.’
Cesare warily waved him on.
‘In the continued absence of Duke Juan, I turned naturally to the Tiber – it being the conduit for every kind of unwanted thing. I interviewed a timber merchant who, on the night in question, had kept watch on his water-side yard from a boat on the river. In response to a certain memory-jogging, he remembered, in increasing detail as my patience wore thin, how a group of men had brought a body to the river bank and disposed of it near the sewage outfall. I asked him why he had not reported the occurrence and he told me that in the course of his brief tenancy he had seen upward of one hundred such short-shriftings. No one had troubled him concerning those, he said, therefore why should he think this one any different? Such is the world we live in, my Lord. I thought the man’s point a reasonable one and so let him keep his left ear.’
Cesare indicated his approval of the Admiral’s liberality.
‘We dredged the area,’ Slovo continued, ‘and Duke Juan was revealed, all cut about and gory, as the street balladeers already say. Thus rewarded, I turned to the matter of responsibility and was spoilt for choice for candidates with personal or political motives. The body had thirty ducats on it, and therefore I knew Juan was not the victim of some thief. Actually,’ said Admiral Slovo, in unchanged voice, ‘to my surprise, your own name was mentioned. For example; as a rival with Duke Juan for the favours of your younger brother’s wife, Donna Sancia.’
Cesare laughed. It sounded like distant cannon shot.
‘Precisely,’ said Slovo. ‘I knew that the lady’s favours are too widely and generously given for anyone to fight over them. However, another whisper portrayed Juan and you, together with His Holiness, your Father, as incestuous competitors for the hand – and other parts – of your sister, Lucrezia. That rumour I will pass over in silence other than to say I traced its origin to one Giovanni Sforza, formerly married to your sister but divorced on the humiliating grounds of impotence.’
‘I will note that,’ said Cesare, smiling again.
‘And assuming you have at least the barest familiarity with inheritance laws, I discounted the notion that you sought to acquire your brother’s Dukedom,’ granted Slovo.
‘Which passes to his eldest son,’ agreed Cesare.
‘Just so, my Lord. But to sum up, none of these proposals satisfied. So I was accordingly driven back to my own resources and deductions.’
‘Which were?’ said Cesare, as if he set little store by any expected answer.
‘Which arose,’ persisted Slovo, ‘from forcibly preventing the immediate washing and laying out of your brother’s corpse – as strongly insisted upon by certain Borgia servants. I was therefore able to detect the tiny token of blood present in Duke Juan’s right aural cavity and postulate from that the entry point of the professional assassin’s needle-stiletto. Such a blow putting the matter beyond issue, it became clear that the other visitations of the blade were post-mortem, designed to mislead.’
Cesare nodded appreciatively whilst making private calculations.
‘And my deductions were confirmed,’ Slovo went on, ‘by today re-meeting Michelotto – or Sebastiano, as was – in your employ. He has altered appearance, posture and manner most convincingly; but a mask worn for one month in the fierce Roman sun leaves indications not easily erased. I also note, in passing, it transpires he has no scar.’
‘No,’ said Cesare. ‘My brother thought there might be advantage in the employ of a masked servitor and so concocted a pretence.’
‘But he is a businessman,’ said Slovo.
‘… and therefore open to alternative offers, yes,’ confirmed Cesare. ‘Yet he remains a person of sensitivity and has been much troubled by his previous meeting with you. I believe he wishes to apologize.’
By way of rare indulgence, he indicated that his servant might enter the conversation.
‘My Lord Admiral,’ said Michelotto in a dead, dull voice. ‘I want to broaden your understanding of our encounter in the vineyard. I desire to convince you that I am not always thus. May I say that my sordid speech was dictated by Duke Juan’s company. In matters of the flesh he was a very degraded man and in certain roles, one has to make … accommodations that can be distasteful.’
‘I quite understand,’ replied Admiral Slovo. ‘Men are driven by the storms of circumstances and, unable to stand alone against them, are hardly accountable for the course of their little ship.’
Michelotto stood and bowed in apparently genuine appreciation of the Admiral’s generous spirit.
‘If I take your meaning,’ said Cesare, ‘it prompts me to suggest a possible explanation of Juan’s death.’
‘Really?’ said Slovo, counterfeiting surprise.
‘Could it not be, Admiral, that he was removed by an ambitious member of his family, say a younger brother, anxious to secure the secular honours that would otherwise ever be showered on Juan? Might not such a ruthless and resourceful man infiltrate the Duke’s household with a killer and then disguise the murder as an all too plausible crime of passion?’
‘It is entirely possible, my Lord,’ agreed Slovo. ‘In fact, such is the favoured solution detailed in a number of letters written by myself to His Holiness; presently secured in places various and intended for delivery only in the event of my unexpected demise.’
‘Then may that day be long delayed,’ said Cesare solicitously.
‘But that eventuality aside,’ Slovo continued determinedly, ‘I detect the very brightest future for you now that you are the senior of your clan. And since that is so, I would welcome your guidance on my report to His Holiness. In short, my Lord, and to be plain, the bill of fare being before you, would you care to make a selection? I’ll call it suicide if you wish …’
Cesare sighed with pleasure and sank back into his chair. ‘What all too rare a joy it is,’ he said, smiling and savouring the moment, ‘to meet with such clarity of vision.’
Admiral Slovo woke from sleep – and then wondered whether in fact he had. Instead of being bedded and in his night attire, he was fully dressed and out and about. Quite where he was about he couldn’t say, but from literature and elsewhere he recognized a labyrinthine cave system when he saw one.
The tunnel walls were high and irregular, disappearing up out of sight, beyond the reach of the diffuse and flickering yellowy-red light whose point of origin he could not detect. Looking ro
und for same, he found he was not alone.
‘I want a word with you!’ said a rather cruel voice, whereupon a tall, dark and sodden figure stepped out of the shadows to the Admiral’s side.
‘Good evening, Duke Juan,’ said Admiral Slovo politely. ‘How are you?’
‘Dead – and covered in indescribable things,’ replied Duke Juan, gesturing angrily at his gaping wounds, ‘as you can well see! Otherwise I’m fine. Start walking.’
He pushed at Slovo’s shoulder and they set off together down the gently sloping tunnel.
‘How do I come to be here, may I ask?’ said the Admiral. ‘Am I dead too?’
‘Sadly no,’ said Duke Juan. ‘The explanation is that my anger, being so great, is able to fetch you hence in the hours of the night, when the tide of man’s spirit is at low ebb.’
‘I see,’ said Slovo, clearly fascinated. ‘And this word you wanted with me?’
‘Humanity’s ingenuity has not yet constructed a word of the required ferocity. Therefore I am obliged to resort to whole sentences.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Admiral Slovo, sounding remarkably unperturbed all the same. ‘That sounds rather unpleasant.’
‘It does and it will be,’ said Juan, showing his fine white teeth through the muck of the Tiber. ‘I would prefer to kill you but, that not being permitted, will settle for driving you mad.’
‘How so?’ asked Slovo. ‘Your company is not appreciably more repugnant than in life and this place is marginally tolerable. Purgatory, by definition, has to be so. Incidentally, which route do we take at this junction?’
‘It makes no damn difference which path you take,’ growled Duke Juan. ‘The tunnels are all the same and go on for ever. You never meet anyone, you never see anything different or interesting. That’s Purgatory for you!’
‘I’m prompted to mend my ways so as to avoid it,’ said Admiral Slovo.
‘Oh, but avoid it you will not!’ crowed Duke Juan. ‘I shall keep my fury at boiling point and fetch you here every night to walk with me. Each morning you will wake tormented and drained, and eventually your sanity will depart. Then you may linger on awhile, deprived of all dignity in some inferno of an asylum and breath your last done up in chains with fine ladies laughing at you. Or perhaps you will throw yourself from your villa roof, driven beyond endurance or, fondly imagining you can fly, smash into fragments on the hard pavement below. Either way, I’ll have you treading these tunnels in your own right before long.’
Admiral Slovo obligingly looked suitably impressed. ‘I tremble at the prospect,’ he said and Duke Juan smiled like an evil child. ‘However, as a matter of curiosity, might I enquire why your resentment is focused on me? It was not me that caused the needle to be inserted in your ear; not me currently usurping all the honours bestowed on you by a proud father. It is your brother, Cesare, who is now Gonfaloniere, out doing the subduing and conquering that you might have done. Isn’t picking on me a trifle unjust?’
Duke Juan spat at the tunnel wall. ‘Of Cesare I expect nothing! What he did was predictable and in accordance with his character – I just didn’t anticipate him moving so soon. But you, Admiral, I’m shocked! Entrusted by St Peter’s heir to seek out the killer of his eldest son, and what do you do? Don’t think that I haven’t been watching. I’ll call it suicide if you wish – disgraceful! You let Cesare get away with it!’
Slovo having no reply, they trudged on in silence for a while, choosing paths at random. Even in the pre-industrial fifteenth century, Admiral Slovo had never encountered such profound quiet and he was beginning to enjoy it. Until he recalled that he had an early appointment with the Pope that morning and he needed his rest.
‘Duke Juan,’ he said apologetically, ‘I hesitate to mention it but there may be something you’ve overlooked …’
‘So the rest of the night you slept well?’ asked Rabbi Megillah.
‘And every night since,’ confirmed Admiral Slovo. ‘Though my conscience has scant right to it, I continue to sleep the sleep of the just.’
‘From what you say,’ mused the Rabbi, ‘it would appear that His Holiness, did he but know it, has grounds for thanking Cesare. The Borgias need someone to purge their line of stupidity.’
Admiral Slovo agreed. ‘I’m almost tempted to feel that Cesare sees it that way,’ he said. ‘If Duke Juan had been the better man, by Borgian standards, I honestly believe that Cesare would have stood aside.’
‘Duke Juan was a most unreasonable young man, wasn’t he?’ said Rabbi Megillah.
‘Indeed,’ replied Slovo, ‘and a good thing too. His unreasonableness was my salvation, if you’ll excuse the term. As I pointed out to him, making demands on those of us still in the wicked world; requiring justice in a society he well knew to be far from just; expecting higher standards of behaviour than those he practised whilst alive: it was certainly unreasonable. Worst still, it was sinful – and that could only prolong his Purgatorial perambulations. Ditto the anger required to drag me to him – and his desire for revenge from beyond the grave. He was in a self-perpetuating dilemma. Either he could renounce his quest for what he called “fair play” or face an eternity of wandering, never fully purging himself of sin and thus gaining release.’
‘And from your continued nocturnal bliss,’ said Rabbi Megillah, ‘one must assume that he has taken the path of wisdom.’
‘So it seems,’ nodded Admiral Slovo. ‘And speaking of paths, I also kindly pointed out that he should be following the pathways sloping upwards rather than the contrary. “It might well be easier to go down all the time,” I said, “but what’s the merit in reaching the wrong destination by however an easy route?” He whined a great deal about that and bewailed the ground he would have to retrace.’
Rabbi Megillah tut-tutted. ‘Young people these days,’ he said. ‘You do everything for them and they’re not the least bit grateful.’
‘You’re right,’ said Admiral Slovo unselfconsciously. ‘There’s no justice, is there?’
The Year 1498
‘I offer hospitality, but for which Notre Dame would become a Mosque.’
‘They think you did well,’ said Fra Bartolommeo della Porta, looking over the top of his sketching board. ‘I suspect they have high hopes of you.’
Admiral Slovo, irked by standing still so long, was not minded to accept compliments. ‘My primary concern was survival,’ he said, ‘rather than advancing the career of Cesare Borgia – whatever store the Vehme might set by him.’
‘I’m not so sure they do,’ replied della Porta, continuing with his furious sketching. ‘You hear rumours he’s just a temporary protege to be ditched later on. The word is they’re more keen on this Florentine chap called Machiavelli, who’s going to write a book inspired by Cesare. You never know with them, do you?’
‘No indeed,’ answered Slovo civilly.
‘Keep your head still, damnit! Anyway, whether you intend to please them or not, you always seem to end up doing so. I’ve found that time and time again. They manoeuvre you into positions where your interests and theirs align. You wanted to live and Borgia wanted to skip the murder rap, see? Left arm up a little higher.’
‘I hear they gave you a close shave with Savonarola,’ countered Admiral Slovo. ‘Is that why you have that facial twitch?’
Della Porta glared at Slovo.
‘Presumably,’ he said, applying the charcoal stick with extra vigour. ‘I didn’t have it before I was in the Convent di San Marco when the mob stormed in to get him out. Even now, I’m not sure how I survived.’
‘Be thankful you didn’t end up like your master. They hanged and burnt him, didn’t they?’
‘What was left after the torture, yes,’ agreed Fra Bartolommeo, with a vigorous twitch. ‘I got off with painting a load of nobodies in the Florentine State. “We shall look for your famous perception of the ideal in forms,” they said. I ask you, Admiral, how do you depict the “ideal” in a collection of politicians and porcine bankers?’
Admiral Slovo intimated, as far as a stock-still man can, that he didn’t know.
‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘in the same way that you are foisting grace and poise on to the dry old stick currently posing for you.’
‘Oh no!’ laughed Fra Bartolommeo. ‘You’re going down just as you are. I’m going to use you in my great The Last Judgement as one of the damned in torment.’4
‘Many thanks,’ said Slovo dryly. ‘And for what sin am I to be shown as suffering?’
Fra Bartolommeo looked impishly up at the Admiral.
‘Can’t you guess?’ he said. ‘Though it’s boys and women for you nowadays, I hear …’
Admiral Slovo looked out of the window over the endless roofs of Rome and, choosing his moment, slid in the coup de grace. ‘And what is it you’ve been told to do now?’
Della Porta grimaced. ‘They want me to be a monk – a real one – in Florence. I mean, I’ve been very good about the celibacy thing so far but now they want me to make it life-long. Apparently I’ve got to go the whole hog, be genuine and everything. It’s not much of a reward for supervising the whole Savonarola episode.’
Slovo smiled consolingly. ‘Perhaps your painting will blossom when it is the sole outlet for your energies.’
Apparently della Porta still wasn’t impressed. ‘Mebbe so,’ he conceded insincerely. ‘They’re very keen for me to go on painting.’
‘There you are then,’ concluded the Admiral. ‘Now, before you go—’
The monk-designate at last got the message. ‘Oh, so there’s no meal then? So much for Roman hospitality …’
‘I’m not a Roman,’ said Admiral Slovo guilelessly. ‘And besides, I should have thought, with the prospect of the monastery stretching before you, you’d be wanting to make the most of your time. I recommend you make your way to that network of alleys we call the Bordelletto. Alternatively, if your purse is even more meagre than your costume suggests, there is always the Ponte Sisto, near the Hebrew ghetto.’
‘I take it that’s not a personal recommendation,’ said della Porta waspishly, grunting with the effort of hefting on his pack.
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