This invariably took place in some vast underground cavern or vault, often a great distance from the victim’s home. After the questioning, sentence would be pronounced, always at midnight. Then the blindfold would be removed and the justified or condemned man would see his first and last sight of the ‘Masked Free Judges in Black’ – for a second summons could only bring death, as did non-appearance. Numerous stories recount the fate of the recidivist or coward, found slain under the very noses of their guards, with the Vehme’s terrible cruciform dagger buried in their chest and the proclamation of sentence attached. It is also said that they relentlessly pursued a faithless or refractory member, even to the throne of King or Bishop, with steel and cord.
The actuality of the Vehme is attested to by the ‘Code of the Vehmic Court’, found in the archives of the Westphalian Kings and published in the Reichstheater of Müller, under the grandiose and fulsome title of Codes and Statutes of the Holy and Secret Tribunal of Free Court and Free Judges of Westphalia, established in the year 772 by the Emperor Charlemagne and revived in 1404 by King Robert who made these alterations and additions requisite for the administration of justice in the Tribunals of the Illuminated, after investing them with his authority.
Quite what is to be made of this is by no means clear. Whilst it is the one single mention of the Emperor Charlemagne in connection with Vehmic origins, other, equally compelling – or dubious – authorities attribute their founding to the Roman Emperors Hadrian or Julian the Apostate. What is significant about the Müller codex is the reference to the ‘illuminated’ who alone, it was explicitly stated, could look upon the writings or face of the Vehme. Quite what ‘illumination’ was shed, on what subjects, and for whom, is nowhere elucidated and looks likely now to remain forever unknown.
The post-war Nazi ‘Werewolf’ organization claimed to carry on the Vehmic tradition but in reality it seems likely that the group, conspiracy, belief or whatever it was, did not survive the social tornado of the Reformation and Thirty-Years War.
The Archaeologist looked ecstatically into the middle distance (circa twelve inches away in the context of his tent). So, maybe the dry old bones they’d uncovered under the slab today and neatly bagged in plastic, had once been clothed in ‘illuminated’ flesh. Or perhaps they belonged to a Vehme victim and so were unworthy of the Archaeologist’s doggedly Marxist-leaning sympathies. Either way, for good or bad, the Vehme, whoever they were, seemed to have chosen to mark the old boy’s grave with their sign. What a brilliant footnote to his report it would make!
Turning off the bug-encrusted solar lamp, he laid his bearded head to rest, well pleased.
The report was never written. Slovo’s grave remained obscure, though his bones got to fly to London, for cursory study – and then covert disposal in a Holborn dustbin. Some of the nicer finds were gifted to London museums that were prepared to take them.
Meanwhile, the Archaeologist, still troubled by the howl of the libido and the unavailability of Joy, slowly succumbed to the siren call of Capri. A mere week into his ensuing pleasures with the island’s abundantly available wallet-related love, the poor man contracted the HIV virus that would more than fully occupy the remainder of his short life.
The Year 1492
‘INSTALMENTS: In which I become impatient and incite some nostalgics to ambitions of destroying the human race. Little by little, I learn something.’
‘Almighty Lord, on the reasonable assumption that you exist and that your wishes for Mankind are actually as related by the various revelations honoured by my time and culture, please forgive me for the things I have done, do, and will do. Generally speaking I mean well – except when I mean ill; which is probably too often (although my employers are usually responsible for that). Please keep my melancholia within acceptable bounds. Overlook my ambivalent attitude to Judaism: conversion is not, you’ll surely agree, a practical course of action at present. Look kindly on my adherence to Pagan Stoicism: I mean no disrespect. Bless my wife, I suppose, wherever she is. I’m mostly sorry about the people I’ve killed this year …’
A confident tap on his shoulder interrupted Admiral Slovo’s prayers. He turned swiftly, his thumb poised over the spring release on his blade-loaded opal signet ring, to see that a long-haired young man was standing behind him.
‘No thank you,’ whispered the Admiral, remaining on his knees.
‘To what?’ replied the elegant youth, puzzled.
‘To whatever you are selling: yourself (currently fashionable in Rome so I’m told), your sister, choice sweetmeats or indulgences. Whatsoever it may be, I’m not interested.’
‘You are being offensive,’ said the youth; more hazarding a guess than making an accusation.
‘And you are interrupting my prayers,’ said Slovo. ‘I will have to go back to the beginning now.’
‘So?’ the young man replied. ‘Each moment spent in proximity to a Christian place of worship costs me dear. Even this brief conversation will have shortened my lifespan by perhaps one hundred of your years. Another five minutes so close to consecrated ground and I will die.’
‘And?’ asked Slovo, unconcerned.
‘My message will require more than that time to relate. I am not asking for sentiment, Admiral, it is merely a matter of practicalities.’
‘I am a reasonable man,’ said Admiral Slovo, slowly rising to his feet. ‘We will adjourn elsewhere.’ Speaking to God he said, ‘Please overlook the interrupted prayers, but this Elf wants to talk business.’
The young man did not actually mean to swagger, but his natural grace, compared to the other citizens of Rome, made it appear so. Once out of the Church of San Tommaso degli Inglesi, he replaced his broad-brimmed hat, arranged his red locks upon his shoulders and then set off briskly down the Via di Monserrato. Admiral Slovo kept pace, well aware that despite his childhood deportment training he appeared like a shambling ape beside his companion.
It was early evening, the between-time before commerce ceased and revelry began. The crowds were thin and incurious, the humanity-generated humidity bearable.
‘Issues have developed,’ said the youth, not deigning to turn his head. ‘Elements mature beyond expectation. Your commission is accelerated by one of your months; extra funding will be provided. At your lodgings,’ he continued, maintaining the same seamless conversation, ‘you will find delivered an oaken cask. Within is a jewelled tiara, formerly the possession of Queen Zenobia of Palmyra; together with a solid gold sword used by the Roman Emperor Caligula for purposes that you would doubtless consider disgraceful. We are not expert at determining human pecuniary values but it is judged that these items, once realized into currency, will be more than adequate for your purposes.’
Admiral Slovo could hardly contradict that assertion but remained less than content. ‘Always these curios,’ he said. ‘Solomon’s breastplate, Attila’s gold spittoon, Cleopatra’s intimate utensils: do you realize how famous I am becoming for selling such things? Questions are being asked by antiquarian professionals. And my wife, who is Genoese and highly acquisitive, shrieks to retain such valuables. Why can’t you fund me with gems? Those I could hide from her.’