The Rabbi was called Megillah and Slovo’s first thoughts were to put him to much-needed work on the oars. It was unlikely his soft frame would last the trip, but he would at least perish in the good cause of putting distance between Slovo and the revenge of Islam in general, and Egypt in particular.
As it turned out, Rabbi Megillah saved himself (all unknowingly) with a masterful exposition over dinner that first evening of the five Noachian Commandments. Since Slovo continuously sought to balance his activities between the flesh and the spirit, he decided to retain the company of both the golden youth and the Rabbi – which Megillah mistook for an act of kindness. Between the two of them the journey became quite a pleasure cruise, and to compensate, Slovo experimented with praying before the pelvic bone of St Peter.
However, all good things must come to an end. The coast of Sicily was sighted, one dull and rainy dusk. Without being told, the Baal Shem awoke from his trance, and with the crew shrinking from him like puppies from a bath, he made his way to the ship’s rail and beckoned Slovo to join him.
‘I’m off now,’ he said as pleasantly as his tin-whistle voice could allow.
Slovo looked uneasily at the dark and choppy sea. ‘Right now?’ he queried. ‘Can’t I get you nearer?’
The Baal Shem shook his head. ‘No, that’s kind, but not necessary, thank you. I’ll walk from here.’
‘I see …’ answered Slovo, not going so far as actually to doubt him, ‘but …’
‘Another of my little skills,’ explained the Baal Shem. ‘It comes with knowing what I do.’
‘Which is?’ said Slovo swiftly. There seemed no harm in asking.
The Baal Shem merely smiled, proof against temptations. ‘Which is that you must now go to Rome,’ he said.
‘Rome?’
The Baal Shem was looking longingly to shore, eager to be away. ‘Yes, that is where your real life is to begin, the life you’re going to share with us. You should be pleased, you know, we have great plans for you!’
Slovo found it easy to take the news equably. ‘Are you prepared to tell me what they are?’
‘Not yet, Captain. Besides, they’re still somewhat fluid. Don’t worry, all you have to do is be yourself.’
‘That should be easy,’ observed Slovo dryly.
The Baal Shem turned back, suddenly troubled. ‘No,’ he said, his voice as grave as high C would allow. ‘I can reveal this much – it won’t ever be easy.’ So saying, he clambered laboriously over the rail and jumped. The sigh of relief from the superstitious (and highly racist) crew was almost audible.
Slovo looked over the side and found himself still almost eyeball to eyeball with the negro who was standing on the water as if it were an undulating platform.
‘You’ll be met at Rome,’ he was told. ‘Pay off your crew; give the Princess, the ship and the relic to the Pope. Do not hold anything back – we are trusting you.’
‘Don’t do that!’ advised Slovo.
‘Make a clean break with your past life. I wish you well. As does the Venetian.’
‘Who?’ said the Captain.
‘The Venetian,’ replied the Baal Shem, indicating a patch of sea beside his feet. ‘He tells me to wish you well with the job – despite everything. Oh, didn’t you know? He’s accompanied all of your voyages – particularly since he learnt you’re one of ours. Here, look!’
Slovo did as he was asked and, even in the gloom, now saw that a man-sized area of sea was coated in a film of green-blue slime and grease. It suddenly began to bubble and boil and Slovo hurriedly recoiled. ‘Is he still human?’ he asked, looking more closely. The slime blistered again.
‘Nominally so,’ explained the Baal Shem. ‘Higher minds can still communicate with him, although he says long association has brought increasing empathy with marine-life. It’s just as well because he’ll be joining them fully before too long, as the process of dissolution continues.’ The Baal Shem looked at the darkening horizon and saw that day was almost over. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I can’t stay here chatting; I’ve got a dynasty to destabilize.’
And with those words, he walked off over the sea and into the fast falling gloom.
Whilst very careful not to look properly, Slovo waved cheerfully at a certain bit of sea below him and gave the order to row.
The great Egyptian ship slowly began to move and, shining brightly in the light of the moon, a patch of oily water – and something extra – dutifully followed.
‘Here’s to the Captain! May his stiletto never rust!’
The pirates cheered Bosun’s drunken toast and recommenced drinking themselves insensible and to an early grave.
Captain Slovo smiled thinly and soberly raised his modest mug of wine in response. He would be glad when this meaningless charade was over. The chilliest portion of his mind had suggested turning the crew in as ‘apostates’ and ‘barbaries’ to be hung at the nearest beach-strand at low tide. That would have made the very cleanest of cuts with his former life style. Certainly, the obliging potentate of the Roman Colonna clan (and Vehmist) who had greeted their arrival at Ostia Port would happily have arranged it.
In the end though, it just seemed simpler to pay them off with profligate lavishness, and a warning that they should now forget all. Asia, Africa, even Scandinavia, were all calling out for men of their calibre, he’d said – everywhere except Italy. The Italian climate would be bad for their health. Knowing the Captain as they did, they got the message and, as newly rich men, they could afford to be reasonable and oblige him.
After an initial frosty moment, caused by the appearance of their Islamic warship hoving into port, they had received a warm welcome at Ostia. The reception turned positively ecstatic when the full extent of their haul became apparent. The Colonna-Vehmist handled everything beautifully and the very next day a Cardinal, no less, with all the trimmings in terms of personnel, arrived to escort St Peter’s pelvis to a place of respect and reverence. Commanders of the Papal naval forces descended to drool over the captured Egyptian galley and a flurry of nuns took the cursing Princess Khadine out of Slovo’s life and to goodness knows what fate.
Rabbi Megillah blessed the Captain’s head and went off to contact the Roman Jews and seek solace – perhaps even a permanent home – in their midst. It seemed wise, he said, to quit the Moslem world for a while and, anyway, he’d tired of his barren Cairene wife. He was still blissfully unaware of just how narrow his escape had been.
So everyone was happy from the Pope downwards, and Captain Slovo decided to take his crew out for a final (with the emphasis on final) drink. The Colonna baron, wisely espying what sort of an evening it was going to be, graciously declined to join them. The Captain’s new position in the Vatican apparatus was all arranged, he’d said. Any … unfortunate aspects of his personal history had been expunged from the relevant records. Slovo should report for duty tomorrow and never look back – or contact the Baron again.
After three of four hours’ bulk consumption of alcohol, proceedings reached what Slovo always called ‘the knife-edge’ – that moment when the collective mood pivots wildly from jollity to jumpiness, and a pirate’s thoughts lightly turn to the blade at his side. Confined on board ship, such a moment can be relatively harmless, a stab, a scar or two, one killing at the most. Onshore, and in a big city however, Slovo was less sanguine. He did not wish to be held responsible for whatever might transpire – it was time for him to leave.