Popes and Phantoms

by John Whitbourn

  Enraptured and blissfully ignorant, Torrigiano bowed deeply.

  Henry almost broke down but recovered and ploughed on. ‘I want it to be in the Westminster Abbey that cruel fate wanted to take away from me,’ he said. ‘Money – ha! Well, that’s no object. Let us see vast amounts of good black marble and granite, anything nice and soundproof.’

  ‘Why so?’ asked Admiral Slovo, his professional curiosity titillated beyond prudence.

  ‘Because,’ answered Henry, ‘I suspect I may be screaming through eternity.’

  The Princes vanished.8

  The Year 1500

  ‘In which some stony-hearts confide that I am important.’

  ‘In the absence of guidance, I did what I was asked. His Holiness does, after all, pay my wages and provide a roof over my head. That’s more than the Vehme have ever done.’ The Admiral’s voice was transformed into a sinister whisper by the subterranean chamber’s acoustics. It was considerably less crowded and well lit than on his last visit during his initiation.

  The Tribunal looked suitably shocked at such an explosion of ingratitude.

  ‘Brother Slovo,’ said the presiding judge in her gravest tones, ‘the Holy Vehme has given you a life!’

  ‘I had one of those already,’ answered Slovo. ‘I thought your powers were restricted to taking life away.’

  He was not minded to be deferential. He did not take kindly to being summoned, under threat of death, into the wilderness of the Germanic fringe so soon after his arduous return from England and a frosty farewell from its King. He had been looking forward to a period of spiritual recuperation with his book and the stiletto collections in his Roman or Caprisi villas. Moreover, a Genoese woman had moved in adjacent to the former and gave every indication of being able to accommodate his particular fancies in the manner for which ladies of her City were infamous. Now, instead of being amidst such rich stimulations, he was once again in a part of the world that thought civilization an optional extra. It really wasn’t good enough.

  What, after all, was the worst thing the Vehme could do to him, he reasoned? Hang him from a tree at some lonely crossroads? Stick a sword in his heart? Well then, if such was their wish, let them get the hell on with it. He couldn’t stop them.

  The panel of three spent a moment in whispered conference. ‘We find that there may be some justification in your lack of charm,’ said the female judge at last. ‘It is regrettable that some of our messengers have but one manner of summoning in their repertoire.’

  ‘The scroll was affixed to my pillow with a dagger,’ agreed Slovo. ‘Like a spider on one’s face, it’s a disagreeable sight to wake up to.’

  ‘You should lose such developed sensitivities, Admiral,’ said another judge, a pale-fleshed northerner, as far as his black cowl and the inadequate light revealed. ‘Life would be easier for you.’

  ‘Starting from scratch,’ countered Admiral Slovo, ‘with all the disadvantages of being employed as a pirate, I have on the contrary sought to cultivate such sensibilities.’

  ‘As you wish,’ came the riposte. ‘It’s your choice. I merely sought to advise.’

  ‘Which happily touches on your real purpose here, Admiral,’ added the third judge, a cold-eyed condottiere if ever Slovo saw one. ‘We wish to give you our thoughts.’

  Slovo was going to say that they could just as well have written, but felt that he’d already over-expressed his outrage. ‘Then I am at your disposal,’ he said, turning to look purposefully at the great chamber’s shuttered doors and guardian statuary behind. ‘Aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ admitted the Tribunal leader, showing that they too were not afraid to state brutal truths. ‘A closed session this may be, with no other brothers or sisters present, but you may rest assured that we are not without resource. No meeting of the Vehme is ever held unless its precincts and the surrounding country are first fully secured. But why this sour spirit of rebellion? When will you make your full submission to our great undertaking?’

  ‘When you confide what it is, perhaps?’

  The three judges simultaneously voiced brief sounds of exasperation.

  ‘We tell you what is fit for you to know,’ said the condottiere. ‘Where is your faith?’

  Admiral Slovo had no wise or safe answer to that and so remained silent.

  ‘We hear,’ said the female Tribunalist, ‘that you are “convinced” by the Laws of the Blessed Gemistus: does that not presently suffice?’

  ‘Frankly no,’ said Slovo. ‘It is a thin thing on which to found a life of altruistic action. Why should I go among the English barbarians or risk the company of the Borgias for a book with which I may intellectually agree? There are any number of such writers in my library.’

  ‘Name them,’ commanded the northerner. ‘Aside from the Meditations, of course.’

  ‘I don’t doubt your spy or spies have already itemized my possessions,’ said Slovo, ‘but if you insist—’

  ‘We do,’ said the condottiere.

  ‘Well, I would name the Greek Heraclitus, who holds that fire is the basic stuff of the universe and that all things are in eternal flux between light and dark, hunger and satiation, war and peace. Truth is the harmony of these opposites. Then there is Socrates who teaches that life must be experienced direct and not be filtered second-hand through reason or learning. Plato proposes the rule of philosophers, and Philaenis the Leucadian’s Tribadic manual serves to excite my carnal lusts in an imaginative manner. Is that enough?’

  The Tribunal indicated it was.

  ‘That’s sufficient,’ said the lady in judgement, ‘to confirm that our first thoughts were correct and that your journey here was not wasted. Once again we have neglected you, Admiral; we confess the fault. In the absence of the expression of our favour and confidence in you, your enthusiasms – should a Stoic have such – have drifted where they will. Where we would now wish you to be a single shot, you’ve become a wild volley. We would not have you so diffuse, Admiral, so unfocused. You will not find us negligent or careless again. We want to take you into our counsel.’

  Having made himself master of his will to live, Slovo was both willing and able to stake all on a supposition. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What are you afraid of?’

  Instantly he knew he had struck home. For the merest second the faces of the three Vehmists were not their absolute slaves to command – as should be the case in all who attempt great things. The momentary display of fallibility told Slovo more than anything else he’d heard that night. The Tribunal’s craven failure to address his question, even after yet further whispered consultation, also spoke volumes.

  The lady Vehmist ‘answered’, her sophisticated Roman voice now well under control, ‘For instance, should you wish to speak of your recent service to us, we will speak freely to you. It is our intention that henceforth, you be a sentient tool in our employ.’

  Slovo looked within and acknowledged that there were a few matters that trailed free and unresolved from his recollection of the English adventure. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let me put our new relationship to the test. Am I to presume from your lack of alternative guidance that you shared Pope Alexander’s concern to preserve the English Tudor monarchy?’

  ‘You may,’ replied the condottiere. ‘Although we think the Papacy may one day repent of that policy. It was our wish that the Britannic Isles be subject to the firmest and most centralizing of regimes. We have plans for that particular race and our requirement is that they be welded into a modern nation state.’

  Slovo’s neck was beginning to ache with craning up at the Tribunal on their raised dais, but he bid his protesting body be silent. ‘Then that is strange,’ he said. ‘At initiation I was told that you stood for the restoration of older and better ways. The resurgent Celts indisputably represented a revival of the antique.’

  ‘You should not always look for consistency in us,’ said the lady Vehmist, smiling falsely. ‘Consistency is the handmaiden of rationalism and leads to
predictability. Not all that is older is better, not everything better is yet born. We pick and choose. Sometimes it is necessary to go forward in order to come back.’

  ‘But what are your plans for me?’ asked the Admiral.

  ‘They are … fluid, Brother Slovo,’ replied the condottiere. ‘Merely continue as you are for the moment.’

  Slovo looked at the Vehmists and they looked at him. It should have been an unequal contest, three against one, a conspiracy of unknown size and mighty ambitions versus one short-lived man – but somehow it was not. Slovo sensed that the Tribunal were deprived of some ultimate sanction against him; that in a curious way he was their master, sitting in judgement on them.

  Pondering on this paradox, he let the silence stretch uncomfortably until he made another intuitive leap and landed in a very interesting landscape.

  ‘I’m in your Book, aren’t I?’ he said, first ensuring there was no trace of triumph in his voice. ‘The Book.’

  The Tribunal looked saddened.

  ‘We suspect so,’ their leader confirmed after a brief pause. ‘There are allusions that could refer to you.’

  ‘May I see them?’

  ‘No, that might pervert the prophecies they detail.’

  ‘Did you always think thus? Is that why I was recruited?’

  ‘No again. It is only lately that our analytic scholars, our hidden universities, have seen the concordances between your career and what is written. At your initiation here, the stone gods into which we have drawn down some of the essence of the divine, recognized you. We always watch for it but such a thing occurs at intervals of centuries. That was when we were first alerted.’

  ‘I recall the antique colossi,’ said Slovo, looking back at them, ‘but …’

  ‘Mostly they are silent, Admiral,’ said the northerner. ‘Using the magic bequeathed us, we can preserve some fraction of those gods who linger on and we store their godhead in stone to wait out the Christian-Islamic monotheist era. They are duly grateful and assist us as best as they can.’

  ‘Gods with no worshippers,’ commented Slovo. ‘How terribly sad.’

  ‘We aim to change all that, Admiral,’ said the condottiere with quiet confidence. ‘We may ally ourselves with atheists and Elves, radical humanists and Roman-Empire nostalgists – in fact anyone who rests uneasy under the present dispensation. However, we never for one moment lose sight of our ancient objective. So there you are, Admiral. Now you know our “great secret”! We wish the old gods to burst their bounds of stone, empowered by the prayers of millions!’

  Slovo contrived to look appropriately impressed and honoured, but did not believe a word of it. ‘And I have a role in achieving this – according to your predictive Book?’ he asked.

  ‘It seems so,’ agreed the lady Vehmist. ‘Possibly a crucial one. However, to be more specific might subvert the lines of fate traced by the Blessed Gemistus. Rest content in the knowledge that mighty events, things even we cannot yet clearly discern, seem to hinge upon you.’

  ‘So you’ll take good care of me?’ he said, unable to resist the temptation to tease.

  ‘For the moment, yes,’ agreed the Vehmist with commendable honesty. ‘At least, we’ll ensure that destiny is able to have its way with you. If, as our Holy Book suggests, you are going to be the world’s salvation, we can hardly do otherwise.’

  There was a violent noise from behind the Admiral. He looked round just in time to see the two great effigies they had spoken of slowly topple forward and crash – miraculously intact, he noted – to the ground. When the dust had abated, he saw that their heads and upraised arms pointed directly towards him, as though in homage.

  ‘And so,’ said the condottiere, remaining in his seat with admirable cool, as the thunderous noise echoed round the chamber, ‘it seems, say all of us.’

  The Year 1506

  ‘BE ASSURED, HE IS NOT THERE: I commission a masterpiece of Western art and learn the key mystery of Mother Church. A friend is glad to hear he has not wasted his life.’

  In high summer, the streets of Rome could be distressing in a thousand subtle ways. Admiral Slovo, experiencing them all, looked over the side of the carriage and coveted the cool green salad being eaten by a poor man. In his ignorance, he also envied the man’s undoubted innocence, his air of ‘tomorrow I’ll up and go elsewhere’ – but mostly he envied him his solitude.

  ‘It is unpleasantly humid, Admiral,’ said Madame Teresina Bontempi. ‘The various forks of my body are suffering great discomfort.’

  ‘It is unpleasant, my lady,’ Slovo replied, holding his smile rock-solid.

  The Lady Bontempi’s coach, he thought, was as big and ornate as that of a conquering Sultan. And its present mistress was of a parcel with it – an over-filled, pink-and-white strumpet sitting beside him, riding the vehicle as she did her lover, Pope Julius II – that is to say, often but for short distances only. In another close parallel, Slovo suspected that the mere act of being seen to be riding was the thing; regardless of any point to the exercise.

  However, in contrast to her nocturnal forays into Venus’s jousting field, on her carriage rides Teresina Bontempi demanded both noble company and genteel conversation. The idea was to deter the catcalls of those too debased (or free of social restraints) to keep their moral judgements to themselves.

  Slovo found that she was free with herself in a manner that depressingly failed to stir him. The opinions of the populace he could quell with a glance of his renowned stone-grey eyes, but his own inner verdicts were more ungovernable. In short, Madame Teresina Bontempi drained the well of his duplicitous diplomacy, a spring hitherto through inexhaustible.

  ‘… and at San Giovanni Laterano, Admiral, just beside the statue of the bemused man on a horse …’

  ‘The Roman Emperor, Marcus Aurelius, madam,’ prompted Slovo, his eyes narrowing with sudden weariness.

  ‘… a group of what I can only assume to be escaped apostate galley-slaves, danced around my coach and called me “whore!” as I passed. “Whore!” – can you imagine it?’

  Admiral Slovo nodded sagely, modifying his smile to signify sad appreciation of human depravity.

  ‘I can believe it, my lady,’ he said slowly. ‘You have my sympathy – and my understanding, for I am in the same case.’

  ‘You are?’ said Bontempi, shocked for the first time in memory.

  ‘Indeed, madam,’ said Slovo, favouring her with a charming show of teeth. ‘It is a full five years since I commanded a warship, yet still they call me Admiral.’

  ‘Most Blessed Father, I have been turned out of the Palace today by your orders, wherefore I give you notice that from this time forward, if you want me, you must look for me elsewhere than at Rome.’

  Michelangelo Buonarroti, in letter dated 1506, to

  Giuliano della Rovere, Pope Julius II

  ‘You have incurred our gravest displeasure,’ said the Pope. ‘It is in our thoughts to have you dispatched.’

  ‘To Capri?’ asked Admiral Slovo.

  ‘Pray banish the Island of Capri from your mind, Admiral. To put it plain, my proposal is to send you on your way by means of an inserted blade. Do you now grasp my … thrust?’

  ‘Entirely, Your Holiness.’

  The Pope looked wearily at Slovo, resting his overburdened head on one gaunt hand. A moment of rare silence passed in the state room and ebbed out to quieten the entire Vatican.

  ‘Admiral,’ said Julius, at long last, ‘do you recall when you first put on that invisible mask?’

  ‘Not with any precision, Your Holiness: my study of the Stoical tradition started early.’

  ‘I can well credit it. But rest assured, Admiral, I will provoke you to a show of emotion one day.’

  ‘I am at Your Holiness’s disposal.’

  ‘That’s right; you are. Meanwhile, whilst one finds much to commend in these ancient Stoics and dead Pagans, I must remind you that there is no fullness in them. If, on that “one day” I have referred to, I
should actually proceed to shorten your years, for say … abusing my companion of the moment as a “whore”, or perhaps killing an over-witty Perugian poet of our acquaintance (oh, yes, we know of that), then, Admiral, on that day, you may find yourself short of the price of salvation. I should be distressed to think of you in Hell.’

  Admiral Slovo bowed his grateful thanks for this display of concern. ‘Even that, Your Holiness, I could bear,’ he said, ‘for our parting would be but brief.’

  An English Cardinal tittered behind his jewelled hand – alas, too loud – and thus earned himself, one year hence, the Primacy of the ‘Mission for the Conversion of the Turks’.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Julius, with furious gravity, ‘some wretch of a Florentine sculptor has fled our employ without discharging his commission and having learnt what he should not. The details of contract and correspondence are with one of my tribe of secretaries. Take a Swiss captain to back up your silver tongue and fetch back this—’

  ‘Michelangelo,’ prompted the English Cardinal, vainly hoping to escape the martyrdom he somehow sensed in store.

  ‘—the same,’ said Julius.

  ‘Alive?’ asked Admiral Slovo.

  The Pope considered the matter. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said eventually. ‘If it’s not a lot of extra trouble.’

  ‘There was something else I do not wish to communicate; enough that it made me think that, if I stayed in Rome, that city would be my tomb before it was the Pope’s. And that was the cause of my sudden departure.’

  Michelangelo Buonarroti, in a letter sent from

  Florence, dated Spring 1506

  ‘And after the mockery of the “Disputation”, said Rabbi Megillah, ‘they formally burnt the Torah scroll in front of the Ghetto gates. I could hold my tears no longer – but what is this to you; forgive me for troubling …’

  ‘Job 32: “I will speak of my troubles and have more room to breathe”,’ said Slovo. ‘Taanith 15: “A worthy person must not be crestfallen.”’