Popes and Phantoms

by John Whitbourn

  Michelangelo waved a dismissive hand.

  ‘But mainly,’ Slovo continued, ‘I would pick upon the word “faith” in your question – which was undoubtedly a test, a reference to the real reason for your reluctance to return to Rome.’

  Michelangelo twisted his irregular face into the distant relation of a smile. ‘As was your “by all the gods”, Admiral,’ he said.

  Slovo showed his own facial travesty of human pleasure. ‘Indeed,’ he confirmed.

  ‘I should have guessed,’ said Michelangelo, absent-mindedly rending apart a small loaf, occasionally popping a morsel of the soft bread in his mouth. ‘There were so many clues in the design of Julius’s tomb. His Holiness was practically telling me the secret …’

  ‘I think not,’ answered Admiral Slovo very slowly, as if afraid of being misunderstood. ‘You have a subtle and discursive mind, well stocked by interest and education. Pope Julius is likewise when sober – and calm – but differs in thinking himself alone in being so. One starts off not tolerating fools gladly and ends up thinking all men fools; that is the way of it. You see, normally, the secret passes from Pope to Pope, and a very few select others, and hitherto there has been wisdom and modesty enough to maintain discretion.’

  ‘Even with a Borgia Pope?’ exclaimed Michelangelo.

  ‘Rodrigo – that is to say, Alexander VI – was capable of good sense and virtue,’ said Slovo defensively, ‘although he found the world such a playground that he saw few occasions for either. But yes; he kept the trust. Even Cesare did not use the information to his advantage.’

  Michelangelo was clearly impressed.

  ‘And that was wise,’ Slovo continued, ‘for wilful and promiscuous employment of the knowledge could lead to only one end. Mother Church, much as we may mock or neglect her as we might our earthly mothers, is a mother still. The one thing she cannot tolerate is the questioning of her marriage’s validity in front of her children. Do you follow me?’

  ‘The other people who’ve found out … from time to time,’ said Michelangelo, putting what he already knew, but couldn’t accept, in the form of a question, ‘they were killed, weren’t they?’

  ‘Well, of course,’ said Slovo. ‘What else? These are not soft times. Even from a gospel of love, a certain robustness of response is bound to be encountered.’

  ‘I should have guessed!’ snapped Michelangelo, his anxiety coming round full circle. ‘When he summoned me last year and showed me the plans for St Peter’s, I should have guessed something.’

  Admiral Slovo’s hand gestured meaningless sympathy.

  ‘… a titanic marble tomb,’ Michelangelo rambled on, ‘a testimony to his perceived greatness; that I could understand. One almost expects it of the modern sort of Pope, albeit on a lesser scale. But what he wanted was more than that. It was a slap in the face to decency. Moreover, it was entirely unchristian. Actually, I rather liked it!’

  ‘For which reason, you accepted the commission?’ said Slovo.

  ‘Oh yes, the sheer monstrousness of it appealed to me. In constructing it, I would share in the immortality of its intended occupant. A shocked world would not lightly forget the creator of the Hecatomb of Julius. And lasting fame is my one unvarying desire.’

  ‘Then I now see a way out of your present predicament, Sculptor – but pray continue.’

  ‘It was to be three storeys high, studded with forty massive statues. I even finished one of them – the Moses – and made it look like Julius when he’s drunk and itching with the “French disease”.’

  ‘But he didn’t recognize himself,’ said Slovo. ‘Fortunately for you.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think he would. Anyway, there were to be these friezes depicting the travails and death of antiquity, and their gods bound and tortured by the new revelation. The allegorical statues touched on that as well but mostly they were of personified virtues – the fierce, martial ones – representing the qualities of the man within. They were to wind their way around and up the tomb, alongside all the victories of Rome, past and present, all the prostrate cities and captive nations, right up to the final storey where—’

  ‘Where Julius himself …?’ hazarded Slovo.

  ‘That’s correct. Encased in a marble effigy, thrice life-size and thirty times as handsome: topped by a mob of angels exulting over their gain, and the Earth deploring its loss.’

  ‘Rather than a wicked old soul about to meet his maker,’ observed the Admiral.

  ‘If you say so. I’ll give him this though; funding was limitless: I’ve never had such quantities of marble at my disposal. Not only that, but I had the go ahead to put red and gold tongues of fire up and down its entire height – and onyx to create deep internal shadow. There was even a requisition for five hundred skulls to be brought up from the catacombs to decorate the base. I tell you, Admiral, it was the greatest project I’m ever likely to have.’

  ‘Possibly not,’ said Slovo, trying to employ the tone of kindness, ‘but go on.’

  ‘And then I had to go and make sure of things, to guarantee my work’s survival by deepening its foundations beyond that agreed. My workmen broke through an old floor level and summoned me, they’re all dead I suppose …’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Sculptor. They sleep with the Tiber fishes.’

  ‘As shall I, because of what I know,’ conceded Michelangelo in deep despond.

  Admiral Slovo re-attracted his attention by tapping the table with the pommel of his (spare) stiletto. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘If His Holiness required your presence in Paradise, it would have been effected before now. In common with all mankind, you must eat and drink, and walk in the streets – there is no escape from the desire of a Prince should it and he be sufficiently strong. The deed could be done even now, with this blade which was overlooked by your Englishman’s search.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Michelangelo, studying the needle with rapt fascination and recommencing his attack on the bread.

  ‘But it shall not,’ said Slovo comfortingly. ‘In the event, I now see a tunnel through which you may scamper to survive and prosper. His Holiness has cancelled the tomb project in St Peter’s. Naturally, he wishes no more attention drawn to that spot. But Julius – and the Church – may be served in more ways than one …’

  ‘I am overjoyed,’ said Michelangelo, sounding far from it.

  ‘Whilst at the same time ensuring both your current life-span and the immortality you so crave.’

  Michelangelo suddenly revived and cast the maimed loaf over one shoulder. ‘You have my undivided attention, Admiral.’

  ‘Then listen, with infinite care,’ said Admiral Slovo.

  And so Michelangelo did, gradually growing more cheerful and expansive.

  ‘Still,’ he said, after an hour had passed, ‘it is quite a sight to have seen, Admiral, do you not agree?’

  Slovo shrugged noncommittally. ‘I only had the barest glimpse,’ he said, ‘through the tiniest of approved peep-holes. Pope Julius permitted it so as to bind me to him for life.’

  ‘They were all there,’ continued Michelangelo in a voice of wonder, ‘spread out for me to see. Of course, when the workmen broke through, I had them widen the hole – to get a good view. I think I spent a day and night observing, forgetting all about food and sleep. I yearned with my artist’s heart to paint that scene – I still do – though I know I never shall. All the sketches I made are safely burnt.’ Swallowing his emotions, he queried, ‘How old do you think that chamber is, Admiral?’

  ‘No one knows. Certainly as old as Rome itself. However, since I saw representatives of the Hittite and Assyrian pantheons down there, I suspect that the vault’s history may long predate Romulus and Remus.’

  ‘Or,’ mused Michelangelo, ‘possibly they were brought there from similar prisons in previous Empires.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ conceded Slovo. ‘Assyria defeats Egypt; Babylon defeats Assyria and so on and on through Persia, Greece, Parthia and Rome – the booty of one passes to its succe
ssor.’

  ‘And the new Rome marches on,’ said Michelangelo, warming to his subject as his inner vistas lengthened. ‘Such a teeming crowd of many shapes and colours. I saw gods from the New Americas, freshly arrived10 and bickering with a Thor and Odin more accustomed to captivity. Oh yes, Admiral, they’re all there – Mars and Mithras, Serapis and Set – the whole lot. Jupiter the Unconquered Sun (only he is conquered now) conversed with Osiris; all the glorious portrayals of antiquity were made flesh. It was a complete convocation of every deity that human fear and society’s needs ever gave birth to.’

  ‘And yet St Peter’s power holds them all fast,’ countered Slovo. ‘Curious, is it not?’

  ‘It is,’ Michelangelo granted. ‘They jumped and flew at me but some force held them back. Likewise, their constant assaults on their prison’s single door failed before its flimsy lock and Papal seal. Tell me, Admiral, who conveys the captive gods there and who sets that door fast?’

  ‘Special troops?’ offered Slovo.

  ‘Remarkable,’ said Michelangelo, shaking his head. ‘I shall never forget it.’

  ‘Oh, you shall,’ said Slovo quietly, no longer hiding the naturally icy and uncharitable note of his voice. ‘That is part of the deal. The Church brooks no competitors, not even talk of them.’

  ‘I have forgotten,’ said Michelangelo earnestly, ‘completely. Forgotten what?’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Slovo swiftly. ‘Hold on to your recollection just a little longer. I have a question for you: there is one detail I require from your hours of observation – that is also part of the deal.’

  ‘The Pope was still unwilling that I should complete the tomb and ordered me to paint the vault of the Sistine. We agreed for 3000 ducats. I am still in great distress of mind … God help me.’

  Michelangelo Buonarroti – private letter

  dated 1509

  ‘So, as I suggested,’ said Admiral Slovo, ‘Michelangelo made his return, discreetly, reverently and with the appearance of due reflection. Julius received him at Bologna – or rather he was apprehended sidling into Mass at the Church of San Petronio.’

  ‘Offering prayers for his deliverance, one presumes,’ hazarded Rabbi Megillah, combing his patriarchal white beard with his fingers.

  ‘If so, they were efficacious. Some of Julius’s grooms who were present recognized the Sculptor and dragged him to His Holiness – who happened to be at dinner. Fortunately it was a dry repast and the Holy Father’s temper was coiled and at rest. Of course, there was thunder and lightning but Michelangelo recalled my strictures and curbed his own mercurial propensities, merely bending the knee and praying for pardon.’

  ‘As well ask for mercy from a rabid lion, Admiral.’

  ‘Normally so, but two factors intervened in the Sculptor’s favour: one, the Cardinal Francesco Soderini spoke on his behalf …’

  ‘And how is the Cardinal’s health?’ enquired the Rabbi politely.

  ‘He survives, albeit with person and dignity bruised. “Your Holiness might overlook his fault,” was what he said. “He did wrong through ignorance. These artists, outside their art, are all like this.” At which Julius exploded and had his servants kick the Cardinal from the Palace. It was a useful diversion, breaking the brunt of the charge. Secondly, and more importantly, in a world where mercy must justify its existence, the Sculptor was able to offer something in return for his pardon.’

  The Rabbi nodded, looking at and through Slovo into some future, kinder age.

  ‘We discussed the matter with infinite care,’ explained Slovo, ‘and decided the most tempting offer was something that catered for Julius’s aggrandizement, and then something for posterity. To be specific, Michelangelo offered a bronze colossus of His Holiness and then the Sistine Chapel ceiling.’

  ‘That work which he has recently commenced?’ asked Megillah.

  ‘The same – supposedly the single effusion of his talent, all for Julius, all for the preservation of his name. The Pontiff forgets, of course, that it is the perpetrator, not the patron, that is honoured and remembered – but that is of no account to us.’

  ‘We shall be safely dust,’ agreed the Rabbi, picking at the dish of Venetian rice before him. ‘But meanwhile, your forethought seems to have borne dividends, Admiral – the Sculptor still lives.’

  ‘And looks fit to remain so until called home in the natural order of things. Michelangelo is putting heart and soul into his work and when the Sistine ceiling is complete, Julius will not wish to be remembered for killing its sublime creator. That is his long-term security. And with luck and ingenuity, I think he will see it through.’11

  ‘And speaking of seeing …’ asked Rabbi Megillah, giving up the struggle to restrain his curiosity.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Slovo, idly playing with the sunbeams reflected on his silver goblet, ‘my commission. I questioned the Sculptor closely; even to the point of writing an inventory. I can confirm Zeus and Apollo and Woden and Augustus and Lao-Tse—’

  The Rabbi interrupted, his unfairly wizened face reflecting quiet confidence, modified only by understandable, forgivable, human doubt. ‘But what about …?’ he whispered.

  ‘I am more and more persuaded that you may be right,’ said Admiral Slovo. ‘I pressed the Sculptor most assiduously on the question of JEHOVAH’s presence. Be assured, Rabbi. He is not there.’

  In Rome, Pope Clement VII was reading a letter from Henry VIII, King of England, demanding, no less, a divorce from his Spanish wife. The good and amiable Pontiff had thought that he’d got troubles enough already, what with the Luther business and all. He little dreamed that in less than two years, Rome itself would be sacked with a ferocity to make Alaric the Goth’s visit eleven hundred years before seem half-hearted. Twenty-two thousand Spaniards, Italians and Lutheran German Landsknechts would occupy the ‘Eternal City’ for ten months and leave it gutted. From that day’s perspective, Pope Clement would look back on 1525 as a golden age.

  Meanwhile, Slovo, on the verge of suicide, was still wrangling with the Welsh Vehmist in his Caprisi garden.

  ‘You might have told us about the prison of the gods,’ said the Vehmist.

  ‘It transpires you already knew, so no harm was done.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Admiral. Your feet should have run swift to inform us out of the love you bore us. But yes, as it happens, we knew long ago.’ The Vehmist allowed his voice to mount with anger. ‘We knew when your remotest recorded ancestor was not even a blob of semen. We have numbered Roman Emperors in our ranks, how could we not know?’

  ‘How indeed?’ replied Slovo, humouring him but concluding that their knowledge and infiltrations were not as extensive as they would wish.

  ‘And because we knew,’ the Welshman rushed on, ‘the fire in our hearts became fiercer still. The long incarceration of our gods would merely make their day of liberation more sweet!’

  ‘You merely had to work out how?’ said Slovo in facetious support.

  ‘Yes, it is a puzzle we are still engaged in,’ answered the Vehmist, seeking vainly to conceal his deflation. ‘It may be that we have a religion to dispose of before we can reestablish our own. If it does come to that and a thousand-year war, so be it.’

  ‘So that’s why …’ prompted Slovo.

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed the Vehmist. That sort of challenge is complexity enough for a score of generations; so you found no dispute between Pope and Vehme when a new and deadly creed arose that was anathema to us both. We were content that he chose to set you on it.’

  ‘I did my best to please you both,’ said Admiral Slovo. However, I suspect that we’re just putting off the evil day.’

  The Year 1508

  ‘PUTTING OFF THE EVIL DAY: In which I render a god homeless, mingle with Royalty, learning their dark and disgraceful secrets, and do the world a great favour for which it is not particularly grateful.’

  ‘What we have heard is monstrous enough,’ said Cardinal Treversari of Sienna. ‘I do not believe a
nyone else should know.’

  Pope Julius, troubled by his various bodily ailments and a naturally fuseless temper, smote the table with his little gold-and-steel wand. If the Cardinal had been within easy reach, he would have copped it instead.

  ‘Damn your eyes!’ Julius exploded. ‘I’ve decided that this special concilium will agree on the additional disclosure. So why aren’t you agreeing? Didn’t you hear me?’

  ‘I could hardly fail to, but—’ replied Treversari nervously, not so old in years nor so steeped in virtue or despair as some of his colleagues around the table, as to be free of fear.

  ‘Then clean your ears out!’ bellowed Julius. ‘Before I do it for you!’ He indicated the attempt might be made with the wand’s sharp end and thereby signalled the discussion period closed.

  However, before responsibility, killer-stress and venereal disease had changed him, Julius had been a reasonable man. The spectral remains of this youth bade him try once more to justify matters to his inner retinue of approved (but, alas, not trusted) Cardinals.

  ‘Look,’ he said, begrudging the waste of time that even this form of consultation represented, ‘we need him. This is his sort of thing; perhaps the Almighty designed him for it.’

  ‘I hope that is so,’ said Cardinal Guicciardini of Florence. ‘For if we or our times created him, then what judgement would await us?’

  That was indeed a thought to conjure with – and then to be forcibly thrust aside. Pope Julius frowned.

  ‘But the knowledge he would have …’ protested Treversari, pushing his luck too far. ‘How will he react?’

  ‘No one will ever know,’ answered the Pope in a tone that the more perceptive realized meant a grim and perhaps short future for the Cardinal. ‘He is as inscrutable as the back of a corpse’s knee. Merely consider that if there should be problems, we can always kill him; I do not think he would mind unduly.’