Popes and Phantoms

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.’

‘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.’

‘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.”’

The Rabbi, in the midst of revisiting his sorrow, found a smile. Especially when Slovo spoke again.

‘Proverbs 31, 6 to 7: “Give strong drink to him who is perishing and wine to those in bitter distress. Let them drink and forget their poverty and remember their misery no more.”’

‘Ecclesiastes 10: “Wine makes life joyful”,’ echoed the Rabbi, studying the wine flask but making no move towards it.

‘There is no need to restrain the joy referred to,’ added Slovo. ‘The vintage is kashrut; purchased from the ghetto by my servants this very day.’

As they ate and drank sufficient to be sociable, Rabbi Megillah told Admiral Slovo about his recent doings, his family and the razor-edge life of the ghetto. Slovo listened carefully and chatted back.

‘And your wife, Admiral; how is she?’

‘Quite well, I understand. A mutual acquaintance brought me news of her quite recently. However, Sanhedrin 7 remains applicable: “When love was strong, we could lie on the edge of a sword; but now, when love has diminished, a bed of sixty ells is not wide enough for us.”’

A little pause followed this conversational derailment until the Rabbi coughed to clear the air and said, ‘Well, my old friend, I am indebted to you for your hospitality. Is there anything I can do for you?’

Stretching his smile to the appropriate length, Slovo named his price. ‘Since you mention it, might I allude to Yebamoth 122?’

‘“Do not bar your door to the borrower,”’ recalled Megillah. ‘Of course, it is not right or politic for me to refuse you but … well, remember Baba Metzia 75, Admiral: “One that complains but finds no sympathy is he who lends money without witnesses.” To so extend my credit to one especial Christian, well – it marks you out, you know.’

Admiral Slovo acknowledged gravely that this was so.

‘And it also jangles my last thoughts of the day, Admiral. You … extend me: my position grows tenuous. Tomorrow, I and my people might be banished beyond the sea …’

‘Or be called home by the Messiah,’ suggested Slovo.

‘Indeed. That may be so, although it occurs to me that money will be of no account on that happy day.’

‘This is possible,’ said Slovo. ‘Meanwhile, Rabbi, I am called upon to deal with some artist type on behalf of His Holiness. Money will do the trick, in that I find it is often the case that the true hunger firing creativity is a desire for gold and the security it brings. Such is my plan with the fellow in question. I’d rather pay your usury, dear Rabbi, than listen to any more wearying talk of “art”.’

‘As you say, Admiral,’ concurred Megillah, slipping gladly into the old, familiar coinage.

‘And,’ continued Slovo, ‘it occurs to me, in the circumstances, that your reluctance might be overcome; your interest rate acceptably low …’

Rabbi Megillah expressed surprise at this presumption. Then Admiral Slovo explained his meaning to him awhile and, at the end, the Rabbi gladly, happily, extended him unlimited credit.

‘And,’ said the Swiss Captain, Numa Droz, as they rode along, ‘when the Turks captured Otranto in the August of 1480, they tortured and killed half of the twenty-two thousand souls within and enslaved the rest. There were really interesting piles of bodies, you know: not just the usual ones you find on battlefields. Then the Archbishop and the Town Governor got publicly sawn in half so as to awe the infidel.’

‘And did it, Master Swiss?’ asked Admiral Slovo, feigning interest.

‘Did me! I apostatized then and there; made the profession of faith to their top turban and was put on the strength.’

‘Indeed,’ observed Slovo dryly, ‘and yet you seem passing young for a man present at such a long-ago event.’

‘It was my first venture out of Canton Uri, my Lord Admiral. I was a mere stripling. I ended up as a Master of Artillery and Janissary Procurer for a Macedonian frontier fort, and that was quite a nice time. The Mussulman religion is also … interesting … but nothing like the real thing,’ added the Swiss, part sincere, part in sudden recollection of his present employer. ‘So I deserted, made full restitution to Christ in Ravenna …’

‘And how expensive was that?’ enquired the Admiral, for his own reference purposes.

Numa Droz looked shocked.

‘The price, Admiral,’ he said firmly, ‘was long hours on my knees – and the hard acquisition of true repentance. Money is weightless; mere base metal in questions affecting the soul. Contrary to what you might think, I’m a true son of the Church; albeit prone to lapses.’

Slovo managed to keep his surprise to himself – there was a need for care. All Swiss met outside their natural boundaries were controlled mass-murderers, specially exported for that reason. The two of them were alone together on the Florentine road and Numa Droz could at any time surrender to his national passion for blood. Slovo discreetly loosened the stiletto concealed in his saddle.

‘And then I took employ with Ferdinand I of Naples,’ Droz continued, the little difficulty apparently forgotten. ‘Now, there was an interesting man. He kept a sort of gallery of his dead enemies, stuffed and mounted, and all dressed in their finery, for him to promenade around from time to time, musing on the shortness and vagaries of life. One day, when I was in special favour, I was given a private viewing …’

‘So was I,’ said Admiral Slovo. ‘The Duc’ de Praz-Ridolfi of Romagna looked better than he did in life, I thought. I complimented Ferdinand on it and he actually smiled!’

‘Ridolfi?’ said Droz. ‘The slim one, hooked nose, yellow doublet?’

‘With jewelled dagger poised in left hand, yes, the same,’ confirmed Slovo.

‘Oh … well, we have that much in common then, Admiral.’

‘And also service with his Apostolic Holiness,’ added Slovo, quietly mortified to find even two points of similarity with this barbarian.

‘Oh yes, I should say so! What happy days, Admiral. I can tell you; as soon as I heard the stories that he was unchristian, warlike and intemperate, I said farewell to Naples and sped to Rome. There’s not been a peaceful day since, I’m glad to say.’

‘My recollection is much the same,’ said Slovo crisply.

‘He’s been a good father to mercenaries everywhere – for and against him. I was put on the strength right away, you know; full pay from day one whether you kill or not – and you don’t get that sort of consideration just anywhere. Oh look, there’s a strangled man in that ditch.’

‘So there is.’

‘And Julius even got that Michel-angel fellow to design us Swiss lads uniforms. Do you like it?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither. Still, I expect it’ll grow on people. Mind you, before then, I’ll have earned and stolen a packet and be back in Uri with the wife.’

Admiral Slovo studied the sky without much hope of consolation and, finding none, pressed on.

‘You are far from home, Master Swiss. Suppose your wife has not waited?’

Numa Droz shrugged and flicked at his horse’s ear.

‘Then I’ll kill her and marry afresh. Her sister’s quite juicy, now I think of it. Either way, there’s a wife at the cabin door.’

Far along the road, Admiral Slovo’s constantly roving eye had detected a lone horseman. Numa Droz spotted him at the same time and suddenly all thoughts of home were forgotten.

‘A demi-lance, riding hard, alone,’ Droz said in clipped tones. ‘We stand.’

The two men, forged in different but equal fires, did not visibly prepare to meet the rider but adjustments were made all the same. Most encounters on the road were innocence itself but mistakes could not be undone.

‘Admiral Slovo?’ said the man when he drew near (but still politely far enough away).

Slovo smiled whilst remaining inscrutable. ‘Possibly,’ he replied.

The rider did not take offence. He was familiar with the etiquette of the time.

‘I am Peter Anselm,’ he said, with as much of a bow as his armour would permit. ‘Or Petro Anselmi to you, condottiere in the service of Florence, sent to greet and hasten you.’

Admiral Slovo raised one inquisitive eyebrow, confirming nothing, but signifying the very slightest interest in pursuing the ‘Slovo’ identification.

‘This Michelangelo business – it draws to a head,’ explained Anselmi, ‘the Seigniory see cause for speed.’

Admiral Slovo did not approve of qualities like speed; cousins as they were to the unforgivable: carelessness. ‘And what is the news, Condottiere?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘All good!’ the man replied. ‘There could be a war!’

‘The Republic of Florence,’ said Admiral Slovo, breaking the news as gently as he could to someone he suspected of naivety, ‘will not risk the losses incumbent in war, solely for you. The strong order the weak, who in turn direct the powerless. I invite you to speculate on your own position within that hierarchy. In short, the Seigniory will at our request, charmed by a little money, spew you forth to whatever fate has in store.’

‘That is the way of the World,’ added Petro Anselmi with a grin. ‘My little son knows that and he’s only three! Where have you been all your life, Artist?’

Sheltered from the gales of reality by two small but talented hands, thought Admiral Slovo – but forbore to say as much as he watched Michelangelo look from Slovo to Droz to Anselmi. Bags of nerve, judged the Admiral, or maybe just bad temper allowed free rein.

‘I disagree with the Admiral,’ said Michelangelo, his agitated voice going up and down the scales like a monkey on a stick. ‘I doubt Florence can ever afford to defer to such an aggressive Pontiff for fear of the demands, yet unformulated, that would follow in train. It is my belief that the Seigniory have chosen a field on which to stand and fight.’

Admiral Slovo smiled and leant forward to replenish his goblet with wine. Numa Droz remained impassive, his gaze shifting lithely back and forth between Anselmi and the Sculptor – thus passing the little test Slovo had set him.

‘I detect the echo of another’s voice behind your own, Master Sculptor,’ said Admiral Slovo patiently. ‘May I be so bold as to enquire whose?’

Michelangelo’s ugly young face coloured. ‘I have taken counsel with a certain officer of the Republic,’ he said briskly.

‘A certain Second Chancellor?’ enquired Slovo. ‘Perhaps a certain Master Niccolo Machiavelli?’

Michelangelo confirmed the suggestion by shrugging noncommittally and suddenly finding the ceiling very absorbing. ‘And what of it?’ he asked angrily. ‘People seek me out for their statue requirements; I seek his advice on the subtleties of statecraft. This is an age of specialists, Admiral.’

Slovo concurred. ‘Ordinarily, yes – but in this case, no. In my friend Niccolo, we have a man sadly attended by Madame Misfortune in his every endeavour. His thoughts are trained, drilled and marched boldly out to battle – to be routed at reality’s first charge. His long-planned Florentine citizens’ militia will come to nothing.’

‘Good,’ said Anselmi, his professional feelings outraged. ‘Amateurs spoil trade.’ Numa Droz wholeheartedly agreed.

‘His foreign missions,’ Slovo continued, ‘have spread vigorous ill will and throughout his life he will unerringly change sides from Medici oligarchs to the Republic and back; at precisely the wrong times.[9] If I were you, Master Michelangelo, I would not hazard my already short existence on Machiavelli’s advice.’

Michelangelo glared at him, fright and frustration boiling up into bravery. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m obliged to you for your fatherly words. But, given the choice, I’ll cleave to his opinion, not yours.’

With one black-bejewelled finger, Slovo waved Numa Droz forward.

‘I don’t know much about art,’ said the Swiss, ‘but all I’ve heard indicates that an artist needs his HANDS!’

Before his last words had ceased, Droz’s sword carved a silver arc, its proposed termination the joint of Michelangelo’s right wrist.

Its speed was such that there was no time for the Artist to disgrace himself with a scream, or, in fact, to react at all. He therefore maintained the most commendable Stoic calm and watched as Anselmi somehow parried the blow with his short-sword.

‘Very sorry, Master Swiss,’ said Anselmi with courteous regret, ‘but I can’t permit that: orders, I’m afraid.’

‘You’re very good,’ said Numa Droz, one craftsman to another as they disengaged blades. ‘Nice and fast.’

Anselmi permitted himself a modest smile. ‘Thank you – but you made it possible; there wasn’t full force in your blow. You didn’t intend the complete job, did you?’

Droz further indicated his spirit of professional fellowship. ‘You’re right; I confess – but not many could have told.’

‘Just a life-long scar, not a hack-off, am I right?’

‘Precisely!’ said Numa Droz, wreathed in sunny smiles. ‘Just an indication of what could be.’

‘I’m off!’ shouted Michelangelo, regaining his powers of speech and coordination, but halted one second into his progress in order to avoid impaling his throat on Anselmi’s sword.

‘You stay where you are,’ said the condottiere, expertly using the tip of his blade on the Sculptor’s Adam’s apple to guide him back to his seat, ‘and listen to what these kind gentlemen have to say.’

‘I am indebted, sir,’ said Slovo graciously, slightly cheered by this economical display of skill in a world of so much wasted energy and emotion.

‘Florence is all for freedom,’ said Anselmi, his barbarous Italian only slightly spoiling the effect, ‘but my understanding is that the sentiment is conditional upon Florence’s perceived present interest. Now, if it were down to me, Sculptor, I’d let you stay in the City and then we’d have war with His Holiness – excellent! It would do my free company’s trading figures a power of good. However, sad to say, my employer is of a more reflective mind. Accordingly, you’ll sit this meeting out, attend and digest. At the end, if you remain obdurate, I’ll escort you safely home – comprehend?’

Michelangelo nodded obediently. The sword slowly withdrew.

‘Cutting to the root of the matter,’ said Slovo, choosing the phrase advisedly and watching Michelangelo pale afresh, ‘I am willing, of my own funds, to offer you three hundred ducats to return to Rome and complete your commission. My personal lines of credit with the Florentine goldsmiths guild, via a Jew of Rome, are easily verifiable.’

‘Already done,’ commented Anselmi efficiently. ‘Sculptor: this man has what he says he has.’

There was just the merest whisper of a slight in thinking such a confirmation necessary, but Slovo passed over it with magnanimity. Numa Droz, awaiting a signal to act, took his cue and appeared to relax.

‘What use is gold to a dead man?’ asked Michelangelo reasonably enough. ‘I would not survive my first night back in Rome. Please explain to me the seductiveness of being the richest garrotted corpse in the Tiber.’

So there it was: Slovo had made persuasive appeals to the three great motivations: firstly reason, then fear, then avarice. Thrice rejected, unable to tempt the rabbit from its Florentine burrow, he now had to exert himself and exercise ingenuity.

‘I think,’ he said sadly, ‘this issue might be resolved if the Sculptor and I were to speak alone.’

‘Conceivable,’ said Anselmi, as politely as his cultural background would permit. ‘Possible even: if you were to surrender the stiletto concealed in your right boot and perhaps the curiously large, probably spring-loaded, ring – yes, that one with the jet-stone.’

‘Don’t leave me!’ shouted Michelangelo, turning to the condottiere as his protector.

‘There are deeper tides at play in this episode, Sculptor,’ said Slovo, in an even tone, like a good father to his child, ‘as you well know. That being so, if I were to say that I mean you no harm; if further, I was to swear to that effect by all the gods, would you not then change your mind?’

Michelangelo swivelled to look at him, his face emulating the paleness of his marble creations, and was obliged to swallow a sudden excess of saliva. ‘Yes, I would,’ he said, abruptly calm again. ‘Please leave us, Anselmi; I wish to speak with the Admiral.’

‘For all your present differences,’ said Slovo, ‘may I first say that I do admire your Pietà … and the David.’

‘So you do have artistic sensitivities?’ asked Michelangelo with keen interest.

‘No. Not as commonly defined.’

The Sculptor looked at Slovo as if starting his assessment afresh and a lengthy silence fell on them. Slovo was happy to let it live its natural span.

‘Admiral,’ said Michelangelo eventually, ‘I find it hard to trust a man such as you. Without a lively appreciation of art, a human is the prisoner of his fallen nature.’

‘Offhand,’ replied Slovo, ‘I might counter that it is only His Holiness’s most lively appreciation of your art that brings us to this meeting.’

‘He is an exception. Cold and rigid in his grave, he would still be untrustworthy. What alternative token of faith can you offer me?’

Admiral Slovo twirled the tip of one gloved finger in his wine, watching the resultant whirlpool pass from birth, through vigour, into nothingness. ‘Well, he said, ‘I might say that I find the Stoical teachings (tempered with certain Old Testament insights) most persuasive …’

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 successor.’

‘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 arrived[10] 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.’

‘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.’