‘Thank you,’ replied Admiral Slovo, more than usually stony-faced, not actually offended at all but simply ashamed at the recollection of his tears in the tunnel of light. ‘So that’s all, I take it. No dark secrets? No blood-curdling oaths?’
‘No,’ confirmed Enver Pasha. ‘None at all. Some people will have them but in your case we don’t feel it necessary. You already have the required reverence for the antique world, you are too self-contained to be impressed by blood vows and threats. We tailor each initiation to the individual. After what you have undergone, the orthodoxies of the outer world will seem even less attractive to you than hitherto, I assure you. You have been made receptive to wider sympathies and that is sufficient for present needs.’
‘Though,’ queried Slovo, ‘you have told me nothing about yourselves. Surely I need to know what I am meant to be serving?’
Enver Pasha considered the point at some leisure. ‘There’s no need for it,’ he mused at last. ‘You’re not one of those we’ll drill and browbeat, because that would be counterproductive. In fact, you’re free to go. However, it’s your day, and I’m willing to humour you. Come with me.’
He waddled off through the throng and Admiral Slovo dutifully followed, taking the opportunity to snatch a further drink of wine and a handful of pastries en route. As they went, the Vehmist casually pointed people out, saying, ‘Do you get the picture? We’re anyone and everyone, a coalition, a family, an alliance of interests against the world.’
In this way they arrived at the wall of the great chamber, which was hung with tapestries depicting common themes from classical mythology. Clearly familiar to the point of contempt with the temple’s layout, the Vehmist brushed one section of covering aside to reveal a door. Slovo coined the suspicion that it was not the only such concealed entrance or exit and that this vault was perhaps only one in a series.
Enver Pasha unlocked the door with a rusty key and waved Slovo in. Once the door closed behind them the noise of the party ceased with alarming abruptness. ‘Well then,’ he said, indicating the object holding pride of place in the antechamber. ‘What do you think that is?’
‘It’s a large ball,’ Slovo said in due course, ‘with a cartography printed on its surface. I recognize the Middle Sea and Italia – but the curvature distorts reality and …’
Enver Pasha shook his head sadly and waved Slovo to silence. ‘Observe,’ he said testily, ‘and learn something from this Earth-Apple. Here,’ he pointed at a point on the globe, ‘in Cathay, we have propagated the ultra-conservative Confucian philosophy amongst the bureaucrats of the Ming dynasty court. Liu Daxia, who is one of ours – and, incidentally, the War Minister, has ordered the destruction of the vital navigational charts that permitted Chinese junks to contact Asia, Afrique and Indonesia. He explained to the Emperor that contact with foreign “barbarians” can only dilute and weaken the Chinese culture. Accordingly, the home of that culture will stagnate and decline, lost in a dream of self-sufficiency and past glories. Therefore, when the fleets of the West – those lands you presently call Christendom – one day reach out to the East, they won’t be barred from the Indian and Pacific Oceans.
‘Further, look here. This is Songhay, the Kingdom of Gao and Timbuktu, a centre for caravans and trade in gold. We caused Sonni ali Ber, its most alarmingly able Emperor, to be drowned in the River Niger only last year. He was returning from great conquests in the South but there will be no more victories for Songhay. The Portuguese are being … influenced into ambitions in North Afrique: Sonni ali Ber’s successors will rule a land-locked, isolated territory that will fall sooner or later – spears and arrows against gunpowder. We have decided against the prospering of Afrique.’
Having fought against the Southern ‘Horse Warriors’ at the behest of Khair Khaleel-el Din, while resident in Tripoli, Slovo’s indifference at this geo-political meddling knew no bounds. ‘Are you quite sure you really need me?’ was all he asked. ‘Things seem to be going smoothly already.’
Enver Pasha idly span the globe, trying to avoid sight of his Turkish homeland, knowing full well what the Vehme had in store for that. ‘Individually, no, of course not,’ he said. ‘Although some of our elders claim to discern strange destiny in you. However we do require numerous talented men, and women, our wonders to perform.’
‘And how will I recognize them?’
Enver Pasha caused the globe to cease its revolutions, something he occasionally wanted to do in reality. ‘You won’t,’ he said. ‘Not unless they wish you to. All I would say is that you may look for us amongst the high and wise.’
‘The two conditions are not often combined,’ said Slovo wryly.
‘Then perhaps,’ countered the Vehmist, ‘that will be their identification.’
‘There are one or two other things; may I?’
‘You might as well, Admiral. I doubt we’ll meet again.’
‘Well, primarily, what is it that you want?’
The Vehmist looked up at Slovo. ‘We are a coalition of ambitions, as I have told you,’ he said. ‘However, there has emerged a consensus in aims; we all of us hope for the restoration of older and better days, and ways.’
‘Elf-days, Imperial days, Pagan days?’ queried Slovo.
Enver Pasha smiled tightly but refused to be further drawn.
‘Well, are you sure it’s all worth it?’ said Slovo, trying another tack.
Enver Pasha had apparently never considered that point. ‘Possibly not, Admiral,’ he said eventually, ‘but the project has achieved a momentum of its own after such a time. And besides,’ he added cryptically, ‘we are guided by The Book …’
‘Which is not Holy Scripture or even the Qur’an, I take it?’
‘Nothing so prosaic, Admiral. This is our own book; we wrote it and we observe, with joy, its prophecies fulfilled page by page. Do not exercise your curiosity too much, however, I doubt you will ever do more than glimpse its cover.’
‘That good, eh?’
‘Beyond all attributes of praise, Slovo, it is the story of times from misty past to equally misty future. All the same, I don’t wish to send you forth entirely unappeased; you would only undertake private research and bring our investment in you to ruin. It has the summation of the ancient Delphic and Amun Oracles, the Eleusinian and Dodonan Mysteries and the Cumaean and Sibylline Books, I will tell you that much. Within living memory it has been added to by the blessed Gemistus Pletho – and since you’ve failed to ask – yes, it was he whose image decorated your initiate’s cell. It is possible for you to acquire some of his less radical, openly available, works and thereby see the merest ghost of our project. Consider that as your homework.’
It was pointless trying to conceal the awakening of interest at the mention of bookish learning and so Slovo did not bother to try. ‘I shall do so,’ he said. ‘What else must I do?’
‘Nothing and everything, Admiral, you are not one of our aimed missiles. We expect benefit from whatever field you may cultivate. Simply go out and live, Slovo. Make friends and influence people.’
With that the Vehmist indicated that their conversation was at an end. He gently guided Admiral Slovo back into the Great Chamber where the reception was still in full swing. A black-clad servant was awaiting them bearing the Admiral’s discarded clothes, now neatly laundered and folded. Slovo was not to know that they had also been cunningly loosened, if only by a stitch or two, and then expertly resewn. The Vehme would spare no effort, however painstaking, to ensure that their initiates departed home feeling that, in some indefinable way, they were not the same person as before.