The Baal Shem in turn clambered stiffly on to the galley Slovo, making heavier weather of it than was customarily seen in pirate circles. He was obviously older than appearances suggested.
‘There are survivors in the pavilion,’ the Baal Shem said, almost as an aside, ‘together with an object which will be of inestimable use to you. Instruct your creatures to respect its boundaries. All else they may have – even my trusty old ostrich fan.’
Captain Slovo so instructed Bosun and he so implemented. Even in the present madness, their management-record was such that they were confident of being obeyed.
The Baal Shem allowed himself to be directed to the Captain’s deck at the stern and was settled upon a canvas stool. Slovo procured a goblet of wine each, the Baal Shem partook and then smacked his lips.
‘Delectable!’ he said with open pleasure. ‘This is the first fruit of the vine I’ve imbibed since my Islamic servitude began. Thank you, Captain!’
‘Every man needs access to intoxication,’ said Slovo, ‘in order that he may escape being himself.’
The Baal Shem nodded wholeheartedly. ‘I agree, Captain. However, to business straightaway: how and why, I suppose?’
‘If you don’t mind,’ replied Slovo, eyeing him cautiously whilst trying to conceal the impoliteness of doing so. ‘What was that magic word you cried? It won us the game, sure enough.’
Wiping his lips with a broad hand, the Baal Shem explained, ‘One of the names of the infinite, whereupon any mortal within earshot withers and dies. It is as simple as that.’
Slovo frowned slightly. ‘But you mentioned survivors?’
‘Ah, yes.’ The Baal Shem looked meaningfully at the dead wine flagon but Slovo didn’t take the heavy hint. ‘It was always intended there should be one – aside from myself, of course – you’ll need the Princess where you’re going. It did come as a surprise though there being two who lived. Have you the time for me to explain?’
Slovo looked over his deserted ship to the wild scenes unfolding across the way. ‘They will be like badly brought-up children if they do not have their full measure of fun and profit,’ he answered.
‘Well, it will be enough for you to know that my life’s vocation – up to mere moments ago – was to fan the brow, and other parts, of the Princess Khadine. Now, it so happens that she is famous in the Islamic world for the divine beauty and perfection of her curvaceous behind …’
‘Oh yes, I have heard of her,’ said Slovo helpfully. ‘I once saw an indecent woodcut highlighting her attributes.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said the Baal Shem. ‘Our “lustrous jewel of the Delta” is quite a celebrity. Anyway, coincidentally, it also happens that the Caliph-Sultan Bayezid of Istanbul is famous for his interest in such matters. Accordingly, in order to avert the scandal of a war between Moslems and the deaths of untold thousands, the girl’s backside is to be pressed into service and she is being rushed into matrimony with him. I am called upon to keep her cool while she is ferried thither, post-haste.’
‘I still don’t understand why she is alive,’ Slovo said. ‘Surely a body-slave such as yourself must have ample grievances you wish to repay in full? There is also the question of how you ensured her immunity.’
‘She survives,’ answered the Baal Shem, now casting reticence aside and rattling the empty flagon in Slovo’s direction, ‘because you need her – in the most honourable sense. She, and her ransom, will be your guarantee of welcome at your destination – not to mention the riches aboard her ship and the mighty craft itself: a welcome addition to any navy. There is also, as part of her intended dowry, a relic prised from the bony hands of Coptic monks: part of the pelvis of St Peter or some such: long revered and smothered in gold and baubles. Your next employer will love you dearly for the handing over of that.’
Slovo declined to rise to the dangled bait about his future and held to the question in hand. ‘You neglected to touch upon the subject of how,’ he said politely.
‘Ah yes,’ said the Baal Shem, clearly impressed by the Captain’s restraint. ‘Well, it is possible with some effort, and some magic, for me to circumscribe the name of God so that it fails to harm certain categories of person. It appealed to my sense of humour to exclude those possessed of a beautiful bottom …’
‘Oh, I see!’ said Slovo.
‘Although that fails to account for why an accompanying Rabbi of the Hebrew faith should hear the blessed name and live.’
Surely he doesn’t …?’ asked the Captain.
‘Goodness no!’ replied the Baal Shem. ‘He is exceedingly plain, prematurely middle-aged and dumpy – a shape gained through excessive study and prayer. No, it transpires that he already knew the name – presumably by dint of those last two activities – and so did not share the general fate.’
‘I should like to meet this man,’ said Slovo, as though asking a favour.
‘And so you shall, Captain. His fortunes are entirely in your hands. You may allow him to proceed on his embassy from the Cairene Hebrews to their Ottoman fellows, you can converse with him or simply ditch him in the sea. It is up to you.’
Slovo at long last had mercy on the Baal Shem and fetched another flask of wine from his personal store. ‘I should have thought,’ he said, averting his eyes from the ensuing noisy imbibing, ‘that with such a man anything but the sweetest good treatment would be most unwise.’
‘Ah …’ answered the Baal Shem, reluctantly disengaging his lips from the purple flow, ‘that is the difference between he and I, between his … philosophy and that of the Vehme. He might know an ineffable name, but he would never use it!’
Just then a peculiar cry went up from the captured Egyptian ship, different from the sounds of insensate joy that Slovo and the Baal Shem had got used to. They looked round to see two pirates hoisting a golden-skinned youth on to the ship’s rail for all to see.
‘We’ve found a live-un,’ explained Bosun to the Captain. ‘He was hiding under a pile of deaders.’
‘Well, gracious me!’ exclaimed the Baal Shem. ‘This is a day of wonders!’
Slovo said nothing but for once allowed a butterfly feeling of pleasure in his stomach to live out its brief, fluttering life. Assuming this adolescent wasn’t a precocious theologian, the current voyage might be even more interesting than anticipated.
Once they’d all made themselves at home in the Egyptian behemoth and sunk the galley Slovo, the Baal Shem announced that he wanted to be taken to Sicily. All things considered it was generally felt best to humour him in every respect and Slovo set the course.
The Captain was mildly sorry to lose his maritime home, his means of livelihood for the last few years, but there were simply not the numbers to move the Egyptian prize even under full sail, and tow the Slovo. For old times’ sake, they waited long enough to see the forsaken galley point its stern skywards and then rapidly make its way, arrow-like, beneath the waves. Slovo even sought inspiration for a poem in the poignant sight but nothing suitable occurred to him.
Thereafter, the Baal Shem would not speak but retired to the Royal pavilion to think private thoughts that no one dared to interrupt. Captain Slovo thereby met the evicted Princess Khadine and the fortunate-in-his-studies Rabbi of Cairo.
The Princess was disappointingly clad in voluminous black and in a state of permanent rage. After a full day of having his ears incomprehensibly assaulted, Slovo toyed with the idea of handing her over to the crew so that, just for once in their stunted lives, they might get to see how the other 0.0000001 per cent lived. Common sense prevailed, however, and peace was finally restored by the completion of her chadoor-clad modesty with an equally thick, black sack to muffle her head. Whatever future complaints the Sultan of Egypt might levy against the Captain, lack of concern for Islamic dress restrictions would not be among them.