Confident that all his other needs – transport, food and weaponry – would be equally met before he was dismissed, Admiral Slovo let himself be led from the Hall.
At the upward sloping exit, sister portal to that from the maze, stood two vast colossi from ancient times, marble effigies of Mars and Horus-Hadrian, one to each side. On a night of such abundant wonders, Slovo barely noticed them and walked through, burdened with thoughts of history-in-the-making.
He was alone in such carelessness, however. Even the other initiates now knew enough to study each departure through the living sentinels with intense interest. So, when yellow light flared in the eyes of neglected god and dead Emperor, and each stone titan groaned as though straining to track the Admiral’s path, it did not go unnoticed.
Throughout the great Council Chamber of the Holy and Ancient Vehme, though there was so much of great import to talk about, every conversation died.
The Year 1497
‘A STAB IN THE DARK: I apply liberality to the dispensing of Justice and assist a soul in torment.’
‘To my mind,’ said Juan Borgia, Second Duke of Gandia, Prince of Teano and Tricarico, Duke of Benevento and Terracina, freshly appointed Gonfaloniere of the Holy Church, ‘the realm of Venus is, more than any other, ripe for … conquest.’
‘For taking – and despoilment!’ agreed his sycophantic, masked friend.
‘Just so,’ said the Duke, licking his lips. ‘Its frontiers are invitingly open, its forces so weak as to invite violation. As a youth I probed its outer provinces; now, as a Prince, I am invading in force!’
‘I bear witness to this,’ said the masked man. ‘Duke Juan’s three-pronged thrusts against the orifices of womankind advance on and in every day!’
They both laughed heartily and then Juan snuffed out his amusement as if it were a candle, resuming his normal vicious disgruntlement. ‘And what think you, Admiral?’ he said sharply. ‘What is your opinion of my military metaphor?’
The small group in the vineyard set aside their drinks and delicacies and turned to regard Admiral Slovo.
‘I have been a most infrequent visitor to the land of which you speak,’ he said equably, unconcerned by the general scrutiny. ‘Its scenery can be beguiling, I grant you, but extended stays are, I feel, a greatly overrated pastime.’
‘The Admiral feels,’ said Cesare Borgia, hitherto silently vigilant, ‘—and I tend to concur with him, that Queen Venus does not merit the diversion of a whole campaign. She does us no harm, poses no threat and pays tribute and lip service to our efforts. I cannot understand the spirit of aggression towards her.’
Duke Juan, ever on the precipice of malevolence, sulkily adjusted his gaze from Slovo to his own younger brother. ‘Is that so …’ he said icily.
Cesare considered the question with exaggerated care. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘that is my opinion and also, I suspect, that of our Father. It strikes me that he would prefer his Gonfaloniere to concentrate his energies elsewhere: for example, on the campaign which is the pretext for this party.’
‘I am ever indebted for your advice, little brother,’ said Juan, wearing a smile that was worse than any sneer. ‘You know how I hunger and thirst to live up to your expectations. Ah, here is Mother come to quiet us.’
The conversational rack suddenly relaxed two or three notches as Vanozza Dei Cataneis approached them.
Cataneis had never been accounted beautiful or witty. However, she bore sons and, rarest of all qualities in her time and place, was loyal and discreet. For nearly thirty years these virtues had endeared her to Rodrigo Borgia (latterly Pope Alexander VI) although his more urgent affections now wandered elsewhere (and everywhere). The lady also possessed the preserving sense, innate to noble Roman Houses, of knowing, before even the participants did, when talk was turning deadly.
‘Sons, gentlemen,’ she said softly, ‘I have detected a certain tension in the air, dispelling the evening calm and the scent of the vines. Surely that cannot emanate from this vicinity?’
‘Absolutely not, Mother,’ said Duke Juan, so profoundly dissembling as to shock Cesare and Slovo, inspiring new respect in them. ‘We were discussing martial stratagems; a matter most relevant in the context of my imminent departure to war.’
Even the most skilful deceit is wasted on a man’s mother. Madame Dei Cataneis was unconvinced. ‘Then how fortuitous, Juan, that a military man is present to make informed comment on your opinions: Admiral Slovo, how are you?’
Slovo bowed graciously. ‘Well, my Lady. And my eyes remove the necessity of enquiring after your own health.’
Cataneis favoured him with a frugal smile. ‘And do you still kill Turks on the seaways, Admiral?’ she said.
‘But rarely, Madame – the occasional foray from my native Capri …’
‘I thought you were a Florentine,’ said Duke Juan, interrupting instantly as the information mismatch registered. ‘Or was it Milan?’
Admiral Slovo’s expression did not change. ‘On one side,’ he said, ‘yes, possibly – however, to answer my Lady’s question, nowadays I sail less predictable waters.’
‘So one hears,’ said Cataneis. ‘You have been a most useful right hand, I gather, first to one Pope, then another …’
‘They come and they go, Popes do,’ said Joffre Borgia, the youngest present – and then coloured up, realizing what a stupid, perhaps even dangerous comment that was.
However defective their morality, the manners of those present were exquisite and they passed over the teenager’s gaffe in decent silence.
‘One endeavours to be useful,’ said Slovo, ‘and adaptable.’
It was a complete explanation for everything. Nobody of the company’s time and class would have dreamt of disputing such a statement.
‘A universal maxim!’ agreed Cesare, draining any feeling from his voice. ‘We all aspire to its demands, do we not? Take my brother, Juan, for instance; one day, Duke of … some place or other in Spain; the next, Gonfaloniere sent to re-educate the Orsini and Umbrian kinglings for past misjudgements.[3] It is but the merest wheel of fortune and we must bow to its turns.’
‘Whilst wishing Duke Juan every good fortune as you do so,’ said the Lady Cataneis firmly, staring blankly into the middle distance.
‘Just so,’ agreed Cesare smoothly, thereby returning his mother’s powers of focus.
Admiral Slovo was impressed. The venerated Lady had quietly established mastery in this potentially disruptive corner of her vineyard – or almost so.
‘And your companion, Juan,’ she said, ‘his festive mask is most amusing, but seems a little too permanent. Tonight we celebrate with family and friends – and those that they can vouch for. There is no need for concealment.’
‘Alas not so, in his case,’ replied Juan airily. ‘My Spaniard acquired a blade’s kiss in my service and he now fears to distress gentle ladies and children of the quality with its aftermath. I retain him for his loyalty – and besides, he amuses me.’
This last, the Duke added hastily as he detected a slight communal shiver of disapproval at his display of sentiment.
There the stream of conversation ran underground and could not be found again. Cataneis was content in her victory, just as Duke Juan was discontented by his feeling of defeat. Admiral Slovo had long ago trained himself to relish silence, and anyway no reading of Cesare Borgia’s chilly nerve circuits was humanly possible. Joffre, being inadequate, and the masked man, being a servant, were not entitled to contribute to the progress of intercourse – or lack of it.
3
The great Roman House of Orsini, as well as many Italian cities, made the understandable (but not forgivable) error of supporting Charles VIII’s seemingly invincible but ultimately unsuccessful invasion of Italy in 1494.