‘And every night since,’ confirmed Admiral Slovo. ‘Though my conscience has scant right to it, I continue to sleep the sleep of the just.’
‘From what you say,’ mused the Rabbi, ‘it would appear that His Holiness, did he but know it, has grounds for thanking Cesare. The Borgias need someone to purge their line of stupidity.’
Admiral Slovo agreed. ‘I’m almost tempted to feel that Cesare sees it that way,’ he said. ‘If Duke Juan had been the better man, by Borgian standards, I honestly believe that Cesare would have stood aside.’
‘Duke Juan was a most unreasonable young man, wasn’t he?’ said Rabbi Megillah.
‘Indeed,’ replied Slovo, ‘and a good thing too. His unreasonableness was my salvation, if you’ll excuse the term. As I pointed out to him, making demands on those of us still in the wicked world; requiring justice in a society he well knew to be far from just; expecting higher standards of behaviour than those he practised whilst alive: it was certainly unreasonable. Worst still, it was sinful – and that could only prolong his Purgatorial perambulations. Ditto the anger required to drag me to him – and his desire for revenge from beyond the grave. He was in a self-perpetuating dilemma. Either he could renounce his quest for what he called “fair play” or face an eternity of wandering, never fully purging himself of sin and thus gaining release.’
‘And from your continued nocturnal bliss,’ said Rabbi Megillah, ‘one must assume that he has taken the path of wisdom.’
‘So it seems,’ nodded Admiral Slovo. ‘And speaking of paths, I also kindly pointed out that he should be following the pathways sloping upwards rather than the contrary. “It might well be easier to go down all the time,” I said, “but what’s the merit in reaching the wrong destination by however an easy route?” He whined a great deal about that and bewailed the ground he would have to retrace.’
Rabbi Megillah tut-tutted. ‘Young people these days,’ he said. ‘You do everything for them and they’re not the least bit grateful.’
‘You’re right,’ said Admiral Slovo unselfconsciously. ‘There’s no justice, is there?’
The Year 1498
‘I offer hospitality, but for which Notre Dame would become a Mosque.’
‘They think you did well,’ said Fra Bartolommeo della Porta, looking over the top of his sketching board. ‘I suspect they have high hopes of you.’
Admiral Slovo, irked by standing still so long, was not minded to accept compliments. ‘My primary concern was survival,’ he said, ‘rather than advancing the career of Cesare Borgia – whatever store the Vehme might set by him.’
‘I’m not so sure they do,’ replied della Porta, continuing with his furious sketching. ‘You hear rumours he’s just a temporary protege to be ditched later on. The word is they’re more keen on this Florentine chap called Machiavelli, who’s going to write a book inspired by Cesare. You never know with them, do you?’
‘No indeed,’ answered Slovo civilly.
‘Keep your head still, damnit! Anyway, whether you intend to please them or not, you always seem to end up doing so. I’ve found that time and time again. They manoeuvre you into positions where your interests and theirs align. You wanted to live and Borgia wanted to skip the murder rap, see? Left arm up a little higher.’
‘I hear they gave you a close shave with Savonarola,’ countered Admiral Slovo. ‘Is that why you have that facial twitch?’
Della Porta glared at Slovo.
‘Presumably,’ he said, applying the charcoal stick with extra vigour. ‘I didn’t have it before I was in the Convent di San Marco when the mob stormed in to get him out. Even now, I’m not sure how I survived.’
‘Be thankful you didn’t end up like your master. They hanged and burnt him, didn’t they?’
‘What was left after the torture, yes,’ agreed Fra Bartolommeo, with a vigorous twitch. ‘I got off with painting a load of nobodies in the Florentine State. “We shall look for your famous perception of the ideal in forms,” they said. I ask you, Admiral, how do you depict the “ideal” in a collection of politicians and porcine bankers?’
Admiral Slovo intimated, as far as a stock-still man can, that he didn’t know.
‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘in the same way that you are foisting grace and poise on to the dry old stick currently posing for you.’
‘Oh no!’ laughed Fra Bartolommeo. ‘You’re going down just as you are. I’m going to use you in my great The Last Judgement as one of the damned in torment.’[4]
‘Many thanks,’ said Slovo dryly. ‘And for what sin am I to be shown as suffering?’
Fra Bartolommeo looked impishly up at the Admiral.
‘Can’t you guess?’ he said. ‘Though it’s boys and women for you nowadays, I hear …’
Admiral Slovo looked out of the window over the endless roofs of Rome and, choosing his moment, slid in the coup de grace. ‘And what is it you’ve been told to do now?’
Della Porta grimaced. ‘They want me to be a monk – a real one – in Florence. I mean, I’ve been very good about the celibacy thing so far but now they want me to make it life-long. Apparently I’ve got to go the whole hog, be genuine and everything. It’s not much of a reward for supervising the whole Savonarola episode.’
Slovo smiled consolingly. ‘Perhaps your painting will blossom when it is the sole outlet for your energies.’
Apparently della Porta still wasn’t impressed. ‘Mebbe so,’ he conceded insincerely. ‘They’re very keen for me to go on painting.’
‘There you are then,’ concluded the Admiral. ‘Now, before you go—’
The monk-designate at last got the message. ‘Oh, so there’s no meal then? So much for Roman hospitality …’
‘I’m not a Roman,’ said Admiral Slovo guilelessly. ‘And besides, I should have thought, with the prospect of the monastery stretching before you, you’d be wanting to make the most of your time. I recommend you make your way to that network of alleys we call the Bordelletto. Alternatively, if your purse is even more meagre than your costume suggests, there is always the Ponte Sisto, near the Hebrew ghetto.’
‘I take it that’s not a personal recommendation,’ said della Porta waspishly, grunting with the effort of hefting on his pack.
‘You may take it which way you like,’ answered Slovo, ‘as will the denizens of the Bordelletto. Is there anything else?’
The painter turned back at the door, glad that the Admiral had provided the excuse to do so. ‘Yes. They want to know what you thought of The Laws,’ he said.
So, the Vehme were aware that he had acquired a copy of Pletho’s most celebrated work. Presumably they had an eye upon – or even within – his household. It could not be prevented and what cannot be cured must be endured. Slovo therefore ignored the revelation.
He would have liked to say that he had been … enthused by the Greek philosopher’s prescription for Utopia. However, that would not have seemed like him and would have aroused interest.
‘Tell them I was convinced,’ he said, and Fra Bartolommeo, by the moving of his lips, showed he was committing the reply to memory. It was positive enough to allay doubt.
‘Oh, one other thing, Admiral. Do you know of a Turk, a Prince apparently, resident at the Papal Court?’
‘There is one,’ advised Slovo, ‘Alamshah, son of Sultan Bayezid the Second. He’s a hostage here whilst His Holiness and Daddy conduct some high-level funny business together.’
4
Fra Bartolommeo della Porta’s portrayal of Admiral Slovo, in his