‘They have no value to us, Admiral,’ said the youth in all innocence. ‘We give them to our offspring to play with, if we pick them up at all. Be satisfied with what you have – oh, I beg your pardon, that is another thing that humans are unable to do, is it not?’
‘Most of us,’ Slovo politely agreed. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem a trifle inadequately briefed.’
The youth nodded casually. ‘Possibly so. The tuition I received was sufficient but my attention to it less so. By and large, we find discussion of your kind rather disgusting.’
‘I see,’ said the Admiral.
‘For instance, I think I must now turn the conversation to your personal reward for these endeavours; failing which you will become disaffected.’
‘Yes; what’s in it for me?’ said Slovo, going along with the racial stereotyping for weariness’s sake.
The beautiful youth appeared pleased to find his prejudices confirmed. ‘The King sent you this,’ he said, drawing from his purse a tiny cylinder of green-discoloured bronze. ‘One month advanced, remember. Do not fail us or there will be no more.’ So saying, he handed the cylinder to Slovo and was off.
He need not have hurried for the Admiral’s mind was now elsewhere. Most rare of events, Slovo was obliged to struggle to control his actions. With nigh-on trembling fingers and an expression threatening to break on his face, he unscrewed the cylinder into its component parts. He didn’t pay attention to the masterly craftsmanship or the intricate scenes carved on its side. All of the Admiral’s thoughts were concentrated on the scrap of vellum within. It was the merest corner of a most ancient page, roughly torn across.
Admiral Slovo stood oblivious in the middle of the street and studied the Classical-Latin text: … like the castle of a Parthian … do not accumulate distress but instead, contemplate the meaning of man’s existence which is that …
Slovo fought and won a titanic inner battle and, in victory, was accordingly proud of his adherence to Stoic principles. ‘How frustrating,’ he said calmly.
‘One month from now,’ said Admiral Slovo.
‘Difficult, perhaps …’
‘Quite recently,’ said Slovo matter of factly, ‘I had the good fortune to find the Emperor Caligula’s golden sword, and sold same to Cardinal Grimani for an indecent sum. Accordingly, I have here a bearer-payable draft of deposit upon the Megillah Goldsmith’s house in Rome which should put any such difficulties in proper perspective.’
After the armourer had fetched his wife to read the bond, he wholeheartedly agreed that all difficulties had evaporated like Florentine Citizen militia before Swiss pikemen.
‘I will employ every skilled worker in Capri,’ he said with a proud flourish. ‘If need be, I will subcontract across to Naples. Your arquebuses will be ready in time, honoured Admiraclass="underline" trust me.’ With this, the armourer, doubtless envisaging villas, farms and a secure old age, grew expansive; almost familiar. ‘Capri has never known an order like it,’ he rejoiced, breaking out a wickered jug of (it transpired) quite impermissible wine. ‘So many hundreds of guns! Before this, I made one or two a year but now, with your patronage, with the apprentices I’ve indentured, the blue sky itself cannot contain me or my good fortune!’
Oh, yes it will, thought Slovo, frowning at his wine, and, sadly, sooner than you think. He looked at the happy armourer and if he had not trained himself otherwise he would have been filled with compassion. Naturally, the fellow could not survive the contract’s completion: that was yet another thing that would have to be arranged. He could not, alas, offer any reprieve or sympathy, so instead he praised the wine.
‘We grow or diminish,’ said the King, ‘in direct proportion to our power – in the tales of humankind, that is. Once we were giants and titans, now we are merely tall. I do not doubt that before long people will disbelieve in us altogether. Your literature will have us as mere pixy figures suitable for the ends of your gardens.’
Admiral Slovo smiled pleasantly and thought to himself that the King was considerably behind the times. As the serried ranks of Elf soldiery in the valley below fired off another practice volley, it occurred to him that a lot of people were in for a shock.
‘And that’s another thing,’ continued the King angrily, ‘this garden business! Everywhere your species goes: gardens. Why must you try and improve on what Nature has provided?’
Nature made it our nature, thought Slovo but said: ‘It is not my place or inclination to defend mankind, Your Majesty. I am merely your gun-runner.’
The King turned to look at him, his yellow cat-eyes burning out from within his bronze helm. ‘And quite a good one – for a renegade; I think we might run to a full page for you this time.’
Admiral Slovo controlled his excitement and looked impassively around the training site. From their high vantage point he could see the tops of the forest trees running on to what seemed like infinity. Rome was a long way away. Slovo had never been so far from sympathetic civilization before. He was therefore comforted to find he did not particularly mind the lack.
Down in the clearing, the Elf warriors fired again, tearing into the facing fringe of trees. Slovo had seen better displays of marksmanship, but recognized that it was early days yet. Noting the clumsiness as they proceeded to reload, he hastened to forestall the King’s next demand.
‘The iron content is at absolute minimum,’ he said. ‘A greater proportion of bronze would have caused performance problems too tedious to elaborate. Your people’s aversion to iron is known to me but in this respect, if no other, you must defer. It was for my weaponry skills that I was hired.’
‘That and your humanity,’ agreed the King. ‘Man’s knowledge of us is not so faded that I could send my own golden-eyed folk to commission myriad guns of bronze for long-limbed sinistrists. Besides, you understand the money thing and the ways of tradesmen. Your high Vatican position is excellent cover and your lack of racial loyalty so … stimulating. You were the obvious choice.’
‘Your Majesty is too kind,’ said Slovo, bowing slightly.
The King gazed away into the middle distance. ‘We will learn to tolerate the burning touch of iron,’ he mused. ‘We were dispossessed by iron and with iron (well, a proportion of it) we will regain the land. No more flint and copper against blades of steeclass="underline" this time we will be as deadly as you …’
Having lately been in charge of the Roman state-armoury inventories, Admiral Slovo took leave to doubt this – but said nothing. He was toying with the alarming discovery that he found some of the lithe Elf youths sexually attractive.
‘I know what you are thinking,’ said the King.
I hope you don’t, thought the Admiral.
‘You are thinking that we are few for such an enterprise; that our martial skills and arquebuses notwithstanding, your Swiss, French, English and German soldiers …’
‘Italians also fight on occasion,’ protested Slovo.
‘… will overrun us by the weight of numbers. You are thinking that your kind swarm and breed quickly whereas we reproduce only with effort and good fortune: is that not so?’
‘No,’ replied the Admiral truthfully, ‘my mind was not resting on that.’
‘Well, even so,’ said the King, refusing to be deprived of his speech, ‘should you be planning to think of it, you would be wrong.’
‘Doubtless,’ said Slovo obligingly.
‘We are a vanguard, Admiral. This is an unprecedented array. Here I have the very best of all the scattered feuding tribes. All those who dare clutch the iron and dream of restitution are coming to me; the old chieftains are powerless to stop them. No more skulking in the wild places and fleeing your expansion. We are learning from you. Unheard of amongst the Old Races, an Over-King has been crowned and I am he. Our old ways and institutions are being remoulded by my dream. We will arm and learn to use your guns. Our day is returning and when we are ready we will take a human town and kill all within it so that not one usurper is left. And when that is heard abroad, all the hidden Elf Nations will unite and rise!’