‘He expects a great deal of this life,’ said Rabbi Megillah in surprise. ‘But what a Pope wants, he must have.’ The Rabbi had ample, sad evidence of that law in his own short experience as ghetto leader.
‘That or an acceptable substitute, Rabbi. Regrettably, what I presently have for His Holiness is very far from acceptable – to him or me.’
‘You have a perpetrator!’ exclaimed Megillah.
‘Oh, yes.’ Admiral Slovo smiled for the third or fourth time that evening (possibly a record). ‘Let us just say,’ he mused, ‘that I had a word in someone’s ear.’
‘Thank you for agreeing to this interview,’ said Cesare Borgia, ‘and for maintaining a suitable reticence regarding same.’
Admiral Slovo bowed and graciously accepted the thanks.
‘Would you care for refreshment, Admiral?’
‘I think not, my Lord.’
‘You need not fear poisoning, Admiral; my reputation is exaggerated.’
‘As is my thirst for intoxicating drink, my Lord. Besides: I recognize that there is currently no advantage to be accrued in my removal.’
Cesare, Protonotary of the Church, Treasurer of Cartagena Cathedral, Bishop of Pampeluna, Archbishop of Valenzia and Cardinal-Deacon of Santa Maria Nuova, sat stock still, quietly reviewing something in the ultra low-temperature conducting machine he had made of his mind. ‘Ah yes,’ he said in due course, ‘I recall now; you’re the Stoic, are you not?’
Admiral Slovo signalled his indifference to that or any description.
‘If such serves to distinguish me from His Holiness’s other investigators, I am happy with the tag,’ he said. ‘You might be judged likewise – if you will forgive me – by anyone noting your sombre black garb.’
Cesare smiled. ‘Yes, I will forgive you. I acknowledge the connection. There are advantages in the self-control appertaining to your philosophy but the reasons for my habitual choice of dress run deeper.’
‘As does my philosophy,’ riposted Slovo.
Cesare abruptly shifted his direction of advance in the manner that, militarily, was later to make him famous. ‘And how deep do your present investigations run, Admiral?’ he said.
‘River deep, mountain high, my Lord,’ replied Slovo. ‘But that is not something I should discuss before any other than His Holiness – or possibly close family.’
‘Ignore Michelotto,’ said Cesare, indicating the swarthy and similarly black-clad man sitting at his side. ‘He is mine; I trust him with life and death.’
Admiral Slovo looked at Michelotto and the long-haired, bulky retainer politely inclined his head. His wide and innocent eyes deprived him of the look of an assassin – which must have been of some advantage in that trade.
‘Very well,’ said Slovo. ‘I can inform you that my investigations are complete, that my presentation is prepared and my provisional conclusions drawn.’
‘And would it be a culpable betrayal,’ said Cesare, weighing each word, ‘to prematurely reveal those conclusions to any other than His Holiness, the Pope?’
‘Most certainly it would.’
‘But nevertheless?’ prompted Cesare, the very rarest sliver of doubt embedded in his voice.
‘Nevertheless,’ confirmed Slovo, ‘all things being considered …’
‘I will not insult you with offers of gold and patronage,’ said Cesare swiftly, not wishing to snatch defeat from the jaws of unexpected victory.
‘No, do not,’ said the Admiral. ‘There are motives for betrayal other than the mundane – but you, of course, know that.’
Cesare Borgia modestly waved the compliment away and economically used the same gesture to urge events on.
‘Your brother,’ said Admiral Slovo, leaning back in his chair, ‘I need hardly remind you, left your Mother’s party saying, in effect, that the night was yet young and other pleasures awaited him.’
‘In effect,’ agreed Cesare, allowing a modicum of contempt to surface. ‘The regions below the belt-line controlled Juan’s life; that was well known.’
‘So the most cursory enquiries revealed,’ said Slovo, equally dismissive of such weakness. ‘Now; he was accompanied on the occasion in question by a groom and the masked Spaniard who had been his constant companion and buffoon for the month previous. He left us; a night passed and then the Duke’s household reported his absence from home. His Holiness did not take alarm, reasonably assuming that he was holed up with some other man’s wife and reluctant to be seen leaving her abode by daylight.
‘After the succeeding day and another night passed, His Holiness appointed me master of all things relating to the issue and by late afternoon of that very next day, I had located Duke Juan’s body.’
‘You are a most perspicacious man,’ said Cesare in an absolutely neutral tone. ‘Any Pope – or Prince – able to retain your services would be fortunate indeed.’
‘I could not term the task pleasurable,’ Slovo continued, ‘but it was most certainly educational. To illustrate this, permit me to recount one anecdote from my investigation.’
Cesare warily waved him on.
‘In the continued absence of Duke Juan, I turned naturally to the Tiber – it being the conduit for every kind of unwanted thing. I interviewed a timber merchant who, on the night in question, had kept watch on his water-side yard from a boat on the river. In response to a certain memory-jogging, he remembered, in increasing detail as my patience wore thin, how a group of men had brought a body to the river bank and disposed of it near the sewage outfall. I asked him why he had not reported the occurrence and he told me that in the course of his brief tenancy he had seen upward of one hundred such short-shriftings. No one had troubled him concerning those, he said, therefore why should he think this one any different? Such is the world we live in, my Lord. I thought the man’s point a reasonable one and so let him keep his left ear.’
Cesare indicated his approval of the Admiral’s liberality.
‘We dredged the area,’ Slovo continued, ‘and Duke Juan was revealed, all cut about and gory, as the street balladeers already say. Thus rewarded, I turned to the matter of responsibility and was spoilt for choice for candidates with personal or political motives. The body had thirty ducats on it, and therefore I knew Juan was not the victim of some thief. Actually,’ said Admiral Slovo, in unchanged voice, ‘to my surprise, your own name was mentioned. For example; as a rival with Duke Juan for the favours of your younger brother’s wife, Donna Sancia.’
Cesare laughed. It sounded like distant cannon shot.
‘Precisely,’ said Slovo. ‘I knew that the lady’s favours are too widely and generously given for anyone to fight over them. However, another whisper portrayed Juan and you, together with His Holiness, your Father, as incestuous competitors for the hand – and other parts – of your sister, Lucrezia. That rumour I will pass over in silence other than to say I traced its origin to one Giovanni Sforza, formerly married to your sister but divorced on the humiliating grounds of impotence.’
‘I will note that,’ said Cesare, smiling again.
‘And assuming you have at least the barest familiarity with inheritance laws, I discounted the notion that you sought to acquire your brother’s Dukedom,’ granted Slovo.
‘Which passes to his eldest son,’ agreed Cesare.
‘Just so, my Lord. But to sum up, none of these proposals satisfied. So I was accordingly driven back to my own resources and deductions.’
‘Which were?’ said Cesare, as if he set little store by any expected answer.
‘Which arose,’ persisted Slovo, ‘from forcibly preventing the immediate washing and laying out of your brother’s corpse – as strongly insisted upon by certain Borgia servants. I was therefore able to detect the tiny token of blood present in Duke Juan’s right aural cavity and postulate from that the entry point of the professional assassin’s needle-stiletto. Such a blow putting the matter beyond issue, it became clear that the other visitations of the blade were post-mortem, designed to mislead.’