Popes and Phantoms

by John Whitbourn

  ‘You may take it which way you like,’ answered Slovo, ‘as will the denizens of the Bordelletto. Is there anything else?’

  The painter turned back at the door, glad that the Admiral had provided the excuse to do so. ‘Yes. They want to know what you thought of The Laws,’ he said.

  So, the Vehme were aware that he had acquired a copy of Pletho’s most celebrated work. Presumably they had an eye upon – or even within – his household. It could not be prevented and what cannot be cured must be endured. Slovo therefore ignored the revelation.

  He would have liked to say that he had been … enthused by the Greek philosopher’s prescription for Utopia. However, that would not have seemed like him and would have aroused interest.

  ‘Tell them I was convinced,’ he said, and Fra Bartolommeo, by the moving of his lips, showed he was committing the reply to memory. It was positive enough to allay doubt.

  ‘Oh, one other thing, Admiral. Do you know of a Turk, a Prince apparently, resident at the Papal Court?’

  ‘There is one,’ advised Slovo, ‘Alamshah, son of Sultan Bayezid the Second. He’s a hostage here whilst His Holiness and Daddy conduct some high-level funny business together.’

  ‘Yes, that must be him. Well, the Vehme say they want you to buy him a drink.’

  ‘Then, with Italy burnt and conquered, we’ll re-invade Spain, consolidate there for a few years, convert the Christians and include them in our forces. After that we could invade France in a pincer movement. Two more years would see us at the Channel Ports, and a year after that in London. Peace and the Crescent would reign from the Atlantic to Indian Oceans.’

  ‘I think you’ve missed out a few countries, Prince,’ observed Admiral Slovo politely.

  ‘There’d be some mopping up to do, I grant you.’ conceded Prince Alamshah, nodding his bristly black beard. ‘The odd island here and there like Malta and Sardinia, a few insignificant outposts like Hibernia or Iceland. They would have to wait a little longer for the blessing of the Prophet’s rule. It’s their loss.’

  Admiral Slovo considered the outline of Armageddon laid before him and wondered which side he would wish to prevail. There was much to admire within the Prince’s faith, an equal amount to deplore. Against its attractive simplicity were to be weighed some of its more arbitrary prohibitions.

  ‘A worldwide empire without the solace of wine would be short-lived, I fear,’ said Slovo.

  The giant, energetic Ottoman had anticipated any number of objections from his latest chaperon but not this one. ‘Wine?’ he said, somewhat puzzled and brushing an imaginary blemish from his rainbow silks. ‘The stuff people drink here so they can fall over and vomit down the front of their clothing? No, I can’t see that its lack would topple what I seek to construct. We’ll uproot the vines of Europe and put their owners to honest work.’

  ‘I see,’ answered Slovo, unselfconsciously taking another sip at his cup and considering whether his might be the last generation able to imbibe so freely. It was a thought to conjure with certainly – the price of wine would rise astronomically and smuggling it would make certain men rich …

  ‘All I wish,’ continued Alamshah, ‘is that my father would get on with whatever it is he’s up to with your Pope-person. I want to go home and prepare for the struggle to come.’

  ‘You are a very single-minded young man, if I may say so,’ commented the Admiral.

  The Prince took that as a compliment. ‘Islam has been compared to a sword,’ he said. ‘It is as simple and shining and useful as that. I make myself just such a sword in Islam’s service. What you call mono-mania, we call conviction: that is why we will win.’

  ‘I’ll grant you,’ Slovo said, ‘that the tide seems to be running in your favour. You captured Constantinople shortly before I was born; Otranto was sacked when I was a young man and now you draw near to Vienna. Christendom is riven with dynastic and doctrinal division, whereas you are happily united and eager to press on.’

  ‘Don’t stop,’ said the Prince, closing his eyes and basking in the flow of good news from the enemy’s lips.

  ‘I’m afraid that must suffice,’ said Slovo, spoiling the moment.

  ‘Well, Admiral, even so, if I ever appear at the Gates of Rome with an army, it would sadden me to separate you from life – particularly since you would be unsure of Paradise. So why don’t you convert and save me from the dilemma?’

  Admiral Slovo managed to look suitably grateful. ‘That’s very kind, but no thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m happy as I am.’

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ said the Prince in a two-plus-two-equals-four voice. ‘You are not blind but you do not see. I tell you, Admiral, it is time for a new dispensation to sweep the world. And since there is nothing better for me to do during my period of Papal hospitality – I like to dream aloud of it. There’s no harm done.’

  Admiral Slovo smiled. ‘You like to dream, do you?’ he asked as innocently as he was able.

  ‘I do,’ maintained the Prince stoutly. ‘Each of my best notions have been harvested from periods of contemplation.’

  ‘And your dreams of conquest and conversion derive from this, I take it?’

  ‘I cannot remember a time when I did not entertain visions,’ said Alamshah, obviously recalling fond memories. ‘However, it is thanks to this present holiday that I conceived my most exact plans. Before you are dead, Admiral, should you perchance live a natural span, you might hear a finer sound from the spires of your churches and cathedrals, your Oxford and Sorbonne; something more wholesome than the dead clanging of bells: Hayya alas salah – Come to prayer. Assalatu Khairum minan naum – Prayer is sweeter than sleep! I really think I can achieve that!’

  ‘I’m almost minded to agree with you,’ said Slovo encouragingly, and he signalled for one of his servants to attend him. A boyish maid in a short red doublet and tights swiftly appeared in the garden and bent forward to receive her master’s whispered instructions. After departing in haste, she was back within minutes, struggling with two large sealed amphorae.

  ‘Take these as a gift from me, I insist,’ said the Admiral to the Prince. ‘And think kindly of me when your day comes.’

  Alamshah scowled. ‘If the contents of those jars are what I suspect,’ he said brusquely, ‘I should prefer to have the girl.’

  ‘In Christendom, Prince, our servant’s virtue is not ours to command,’ answered Slovo quickly, almost convincing himself. ‘What I can offer is a container of the very best vintage that my estate in Capri has ever produced. You will never taste better.’

  ‘I will never taste it at all!’ protested Alamshah. ‘And tell the girl to begone!’

  With a flick of the fingers, Admiral Slovo did so but as instructed, she left the amphorae behind.

  ‘I know of your religious scruples,’ said Slovo, ‘but believe me, Prince, there is no wine in the world like this for the promotion of reverie and dreams—’

  ‘Admiral,’ interrupted Alamshah wearily, ‘you are entirely aware of the Qur’anic prohibition and …’

  ‘Perhaps, Prince, since your scheming is all to Islam’s advantage, the rule need not be strictly applied in your case – if all you seek is to enhance your speculative faculties. Such was my reasoning at least …’ Alamshah half smiled, as if to say he appreciated the Admiral’s tender concern. ‘Besides,’ the Admiral continued, ‘not all of your brethren have been so consistent. Al-Motamid, poet and last Moorish King of Seville, went so far as to mock in his verse all those who forsook wine for water. I further call to mind the great poet Principe Marwan – also a Moor – who found sunshine in the fruit of the vine.’

  ‘I am familiar with the Diwan of Principe,’ said Prince Alamshah, the merest fraction, it must be said, less convinced and adamant than before. ‘He was a heretic, Admiral.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Admiral Slovo sadly, ‘that your Holy Book appears to exhort forbearance from the fruit of the vine. With that in mind, I arranged that the second of the two amphorae con
tain nothing but the finest Roman beer. You will permit, I trust, that that at least is quite innocent of any contact with the forbidden grape.’

  ‘Mere sophistry, Admiral,’ said Alamshah. ‘Our religion denies us all reason-depriving intoxication, and reserves such pleasures for Paradise alone.’

  ‘All that may be so, Prince,’ said Slovo. ‘I had only your interests at heart in making the proposal. It just occurred to me, up to now you’ve only dreamed of entering Paris as a conqueror. But after consuming just a part of these two jars, you’ll think you’re actually there!’

  A week later, Admiral Slovo received a discreet note at home. Purely in the interests of plotting Islam’s ultimate triumph, Prince Alamshah wrote, did the Admiral have any more jars of haram?

  ‘Like a fish!’ said the scholar from the Morean Platonic Institute. ‘His father Sultan Bayezid appointed him governor of Manisa, which as you doubtless know is a very important slice of western Turkey, but the responsibility didn’t reform him. His mother, who is worse than a she-bear with ten headaches, attends him constantly and is executing people all over the place – but he still manages to find drink. He’ll be dead within two years.5

  ‘Which is presumably why the Vehme arrange his smuggled supplies of wine,’ commented Slovo.

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed the spindly Greek. ‘He had to go, preferably by his own shaking hand, if the verses were to be thwarted.’

  The Admiral accepted the scroll handed him.

  ‘Oh, indeed yes,’ said the scholar, confirming Slovo’s enquiring glance. ‘They’re from The Book – transcribed, of course. Your star rides high, you’re very honoured.’

  Curiously unmoved, Slovo studied the two scrawled and crabbed quatrains.

  The Troubles of Israel

  will come to Po, Tagus,

  Tiber, Thames

  and Tuscany.

  The cruel sect of the Moslems will come,

  hiding weapons under their robes.

  Their leader will take Florence and burn it twice,

  sending ahead clever men without laws.

  ‘And this was going to be him?’ asked Slovo, handing back the verses.

  ‘It was thought so. With his energy and burning belief he would have brought the world under one faith.’

  ‘Which didn’t suit?’

  ‘It wasn’t our faith, Admiral. We had you find his Achilles’ heel and then prise him open. The Arch-Sultan Alamshah will never be now: you’ve done well again. In fact, we reckon that you are ready for bigger things. Accordingly, the Pope thinks likewise.

  ‘Childhood’s end,’ said the Welsh Vehmist. He stood at the edge of the summerhouse, his attention caught, his comment prompted by the noisy games of the Slovo infants down in the villa below. ‘Once shown a portion of The Book, there is no way back. It marked a new stage in your career. You were ours in a new and deeper way.’

  ‘To where could I have retraced my steps?’ asked the Admiral. ‘The only way seemed onwards.’

  The Vehmist nodded at such sagacity. ‘It was as well the two judgements concurred,’ he said, his back to Slovo. ‘When our faith in one of the illuminati dies, it all becomes very messy.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ answered Admiral Slovo. ‘Not only he or she, but everyone they might have confided in – and everyone that they might have confided in …’

  ‘… has to go,’ completed the Vehmist, ‘yes. We hate such large-scale and noticeable necessities. Fortunately, it’s rare indeed. The last I know of nigh wiped out a town. We had to blame the plague.’

  ‘And doubtless the Jews or lepers who “caused” it.’

  The Welshman chuckled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that one always finds a ready audience, especially in Germania. Make up some nonsense about compounds of pus and spider-juice, stuck to church pews with baby-fat, and it goes down a storm. Credulity’s a great ally.’

  The Admiral could hardly disagree, but neither could he be expected to approve. ‘It is a brave or foolhardy man,’ he said, with an edge to his voice, ‘that meddles with popular belief.’

  The Vehmist swivelled on his heels to address Slovo, a smirk adorning his pale face. ‘Precisely!’ he said. ‘That’s why we chose you to work our will on a myth.’

  The Year 1499

  ‘GREAT EXPECTATIONS: I save a dynasty, dabble in racial politics and have my portrait painted.’

  ‘… the king hath aged so much during the past two weeks that he seems to be twenty years older.’

  Report of Bishop de Avala, Spanish Ambassador to

  Scotland, on the situation in England, 1499

  ‘Wotcha, stony-face! What’s the problem?’

  Admiral Slovo turned his chilly gaze to see a crop-headed docker.

  ‘Cheer up mate, it might never ’appen,’ said another.

  For Slovo ‘it’ had already happened. He had been ordered forth from his sunshine, books and comforts, out into the wild North and the company of barbarians with bad teeth and manners. ‘It’ was personified by the human slab who had mocked him, a person now the merest impulse away from stiletto-time.

  ‘Slovo, ho!’ shouted a mildly more cultivated voice, breaking the spell.

  The Admiral swivelled round to find himself hailed from the far end of the quay by a small group of horsemen. The one thing he really hated was having his name bellowed out in public – a deplorable breach of security, enough to set nerve endings ablaze. It was a bad end to a bad trip.

  Their obvious leader, a red-faced military type, trotted up to within polite talking distance, only now taking the trouble to wipe some odd white-ish foam from his spade-beard.

  ‘Slovo?’ he barked again. ‘The Roman? Is that you?’ His Latin was as bad as his manners.

  ‘I am he,’ said the Admiral quietly.

  ‘Sorry we’re late: been waiting long?’

  ‘A matter of a few hours, three or four at the most. There has been opportunity to study Pevensey’s Roman Castilia and its surrounding hovels. The rain was almost refreshing.’

  The military man nodded absently. ‘Still, you had your baggage to sit on, eh?’ He pointed to Slovo’s sea-chest. ‘And good old England to look at. Only we got delayed on the road, see.’

  ‘The English beer, it is so good and irresistible,’ offered the second prominent horseman – as clearly an alien as the others were obviously English. ‘We had to stop and indulge.’

  The old soldier gave his plump companion a blackish look. ‘Yes, well … anyway,’ he said, ‘this is de Peubla, Spanish Ambassador sort of chap; as to me, I’m Daubeny – Giles – Baron. The rest are your escort. Are you fit?’

  ‘Reasonably so,’ answered Slovo. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I mean are you ready to go? We’re paying you by the hour I understand.’

  ‘Few things would give me greater pleasure than departure from here, my Lord.’

  ‘Well, you’re easily pleased then,’ said Daubeny. ‘We’ve brought a horse, so jump up and say farewell to Pevensey Port.’

  Admiral Slovo mounted up, earning his first plus points in the Englishmen’s eyes by his ease of doing so. He looked round at the rain-damp little houses, the ruinous castle, and dull, copper sea, suppressing a shudder as he did so. ‘Farewell, this side of the grave, please God,’ he muttered.

  But from his new prominence on the war-horse, Slovo caught sight of the surrounding and sombre marshy levels, and suddenly English domestic architecture possessed newfound attractions.

  ‘What of my sea-chest?’ he asked briskly for fear his opinion of the view be sought.

  ‘Oh, it’ll be sent on I expect,’ said Daubeny airily. ‘The dock artificers will deal with the matter.’

  Slovo looked dubiously at the swarming dock workers and in a valuable Stoic spiritual exercise forced himself to bid farewell to his possessions.

  ‘Best hoof forward then, Roman,’ said Daubeny, leaning close. ‘There’s no time to lose.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ confirmed the Spanish Ambassador, shaking his head
sadly. ‘King Henry can’t afford to mislay another army.’

  ‘To the little mayde that danceth … £12/0s/0d’

  From the personal account books of

  King Henry VII of England

  ‘A whole bloody army, boy,’ said the King to Slovo. ‘Vanished off the face of the Earth, so it did! By my leg of St George, it can’t go on!’

  The Admiral had heard of this most prized of the King’s possessions and treated the oath with appropriate gravity.

  ‘Ahem!’ coughed De Peubla. ‘Your Majesty …’

  King Henry VII and Admiral Slovo returned their attention to the little tot who had been dancing before them. Now disregarded by dint of their serious talk, she had stopped and was tottering on the precipice of tears. Henry, though slight of build, proved he could shift when he wanted and was instantly up and away across the table like a nobleman offered a crown.

  ‘There, there,’ he hissed, crouching down to the little girl. ‘Never you mind the silly big-people and their problems. There’s nice dancing it was, wasn’t it lads?’

  A ragged chorus of oh yes and absolutely sprang from the assembled aristocracy and courtiers.

  ‘Off you go to your mumsy,’ suggested the King of England, ‘whilst we are so daft and preoccupied. And here’s a shiny farthing for you.’

  The three-year-old, now on the up-stroke of her emotional see-saw, took the gift with a smile and retreated from the room, face front as she had been taught.

  ‘It’s funny,’ said Henry to Slovo as he returned to his seat by the slower but more dignified route. ‘I don’t mind the odd execution, not if it’s strictly necessary, it’s hurting people’s feelings I don’t like.’

  ‘Quite so,’ agreed the Admiral politely, recognizing that Kings must be allowed their eccentricities.

  ‘It’s in my pockets my feelings are, you see,’ Henry went on. ‘Not the best place for them to be, the Church would say – but rather there than in my pride or lustful impulses like some I know, that’s what I say.’