‘I dislike sentiment,’ said Admiral Slovo. ‘I despise it with a passion in paradoxical opposition to my Stoical beliefs. Your journey from your land of rain and emotional dysentery has been wasted, I fear. I could happily have had my bath not knowing this burning news you’ve brought me.’
‘It was suspected as much,’ the man said, ‘and so mere farewells are not all I have brought. I have The Book with me – or at least a copy of it.’
‘Ah …’ said the Admiral rapidly re-evaluating, ‘that may be different. The complete work?’
‘Alpha to Omega, first to last page, unsullied by excision.’
‘I see …’ mused Slovo. ‘That alters things.’
‘I hoped it might.’
‘You are more senior than you seem – to be so entrusted.’ The Admiral eyed the stocky young Welshman with more respect.
‘One sees more of true human nature as someone of no apparent import.’ The man shrugged, ‘And no, your unpredictability is well known of old; you couldn’t ply that famous stiletto blade of yours and just take The Book. In such an event it would simply self-combust. If preparation is of any value at all then I am proof against anything you can muster.’
‘Fine,’ said Slovo, still engaged with the output pouring from the computer-forerunner that he had made of his mind. ‘Very well. I will talk with you. I won’t fill the bath with my blood just yet.’
The Welshman nodded agreement. ‘Excellent. I think we will both learn thereby.’
The Admiral smiled sadly. ‘I fear the only things I could tell you would shrivel up your soul and make you a thing of stone,’ he said.
‘Like you? Well, yes, I have hopes of that.’
‘Whereas I,’ said Slovo, ‘am curious merely to hold The Book, to learn from it to what precise end I have devoted my life.’
‘Then the bargain is struck,’ grinned the Welshman.
‘It was struck long ago,’ disagreed the Admiral, ‘and I suspect it was not fair-dealing. One side or the other was rooked.’
‘There’s commerce for you,’ came the answering quip. ‘Now, shall I call some of your ganymedes to help you robe or is there anything I can do for you?’
‘They are more used to assisting with the opposite process,’ responded Slovo magisterially. ‘As to yourself – yes, go and fetch a bottle of good wine. We’ll sit in the garden and drink it while we discuss the end of things.’
They issued out into the sunlight arm in arm. In passing, Slovo ordered a servant girl, who was almost dressed in a white silk chiton, to usher his children indoors. His distant affection for them dictated that there were some things they should not see or hear.
Both men were conditioned to admire the excessively formal gardens of Italian Renaissance high culture. In other circumstances they might have wandered Villa di Slovo’s symmetrical paths with relish. Indeed, the entire estate was designed for the promotion of calm and stately thoughts in both beholder and those who dwelt within. The close proximity of the ruins of the Villa Jovis, Emperor Tiberius’s notorious pleasure-palace, merely emphasized the point; their sad state evidencing the reassurance that all things will pass and the folly of unrestrained passion.
The sun was climbing fast in the cloudless blue sky and there was every indication that the day would become sultry. The Welshman, left to himself, would have hurried to the hill-top summerhouse. The Admiral, however, was more used to the direct and relentless kiss of Sol. It had baked the galley decks he had trod long ago and now it was a friend that warmed the aging limbs which his sluggish Slovo blood betrayed. Therefore he took his time and made inventory as he went, admiring his gardener’s savage corseting of nature. Everything he wanted to see was present and correct: the box-hedges and laurels, the potted palms, the orange and lemon trees. Indeed the deliberate gaiety of it all might have seduced him into delusions of normality, as if today was just another day and tomorrow would be likewise. He tried hard to recall that this was not the case and quickened his pace accordingly. There was just a last item of business to be dealt with, best seen to speedily, and then he could be off.
With his companion, he headed for the replica of a classical temple that had slender fluted columns and gleaming cupola, all made of marble. At the centre, round the pedestalled bust of Jupiter the Unconquered Sun, the interior was marvellously cool and airy. Admiral Slovo fetched another chair so that they could sit either side of a tiny table bearing dishes of drying fruit. The Welshman opened the flask of wine he had procured and filled them each a glass.
‘It’s good!’ he said eventually, licking his thin, pale lips.
‘What is?’ asked the Admiral. ‘The wine? The view? Your mission?’
‘Them all,’ came the answer. ‘Your wine is robust and spicy. The view over the gulf to Naples is all one could wish. And I enjoy my work.’
The perspective over the Villa di Slovo, taking in the Palace of Tiberius, the blue of the sea and a distance-blessed image of the seething hell of Naples, was exquisite. Admiral Slovo had always intended that he would finally take stock of the world from such a place. Whole summer days had passed, remote from family and ordinary things, without him leaving its precincts. Now he sipped his wine expecting consolation but, like rebelling outposts of a failing empire, his taste buds were joining in the swift erosion of his faculties. Everything tasted sour nowadays – even this specially sweetened vintage. Still, to be positive right to the end, it was better than the Falernian.
‘I’m glad you are made happy by my hospitality. Is there anything else I can get you?’
The visitor leaned back in the wicker seat and downed another cup. ‘I am content,’ he said briskly. ‘Are you?’
Admiral Slovo had had ample years in which to tire of the verbal games of young men. Only his philosophical beliefs kept a note of tetchiness from entering his reply. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You must know my history and why that should be so.’
‘Intimately,’ came the agreement. ‘I have read both your case-file and your memoirs.’
‘How so?’ Slovo interrupted, referring to the latter. ‘I possess the only copy.’
The man turned to look at the Admiral with a pitying smile. ‘Come, come, Admiral,’ he said gently, ‘you, more than anyone, know our ways.’
Slovo nodded. ‘You are everywhere you want to be,’ he said heavily.
‘And see everything we want to see,’ the visitor added. ‘Don’t be bashful, Admiral, these memoirs of yours are excellent stuff. They deserve to be printed for a wider public.’
‘Although they never will be,’ Slovo said before the Welshman could.
‘No,’ the man agreed. ‘We can’t permit that.’
‘So may I see this “case-file” – since you have read my version of the same events?’
‘Sorry, no, Admiral. I have come to give you a fuller story, admittedly – but not the full story. I’m sure you’ll understand.’
‘But you do have The Book.’
‘Yes indeed.’
‘I’m honoured.’
‘I should say so!’ The answer was an exclamation. ‘There’s been a mere handful similarly favoured the last few centuries.’
‘May I see it then?’
The man considered. ‘It is your first sight, is that not so?’ he asked.
‘That’s correct,’ replied the Admiral, looking away. ‘It was discussed on the occasion of my initiation, but otherwise …’