‘Yes, that must be him. Well, the Vehme say they want you to buy him a drink.’
‘Then, with Italy burnt and conquered, we’ll re-invade Spain, consolidate there for a few years, convert the Christians and include them in our forces. After that we could invade France in a pincer movement. Two more years would see us at the Channel Ports, and a year after that in London. Peace and the Crescent would reign from the Atlantic to Indian Oceans.’
‘I think you’ve missed out a few countries, Prince,’ observed Admiral Slovo politely.
‘There’d be some mopping up to do, I grant you.’ conceded Prince Alamshah, nodding his bristly black beard. ‘The odd island here and there like Malta and Sardinia, a few insignificant outposts like Hibernia or Iceland. They would have to wait a little longer for the blessing of the Prophet’s rule. It’s their loss.’
Admiral Slovo considered the outline of Armageddon laid before him and wondered which side he would wish to prevail. There was much to admire within the Prince’s faith, an equal amount to deplore. Against its attractive simplicity were to be weighed some of its more arbitrary prohibitions.
‘A worldwide empire without the solace of wine would be short-lived, I fear,’ said Slovo.
The giant, energetic Ottoman had anticipated any number of objections from his latest chaperon but not this one. ‘Wine?’ he said, somewhat puzzled and brushing an imaginary blemish from his rainbow silks. ‘The stuff people drink here so they can fall over and vomit down the front of their clothing? No, I can’t see that its lack would topple what I seek to construct. We’ll uproot the vines of Europe and put their owners to honest work.’
‘I see,’ answered Slovo, unselfconsciously taking another sip at his cup and considering whether his might be the last generation able to imbibe so freely. It was a thought to conjure with certainly – the price of wine would rise astronomically and smuggling it would make certain men rich …
‘All I wish,’ continued Alamshah, ‘is that my father would get on with whatever it is he’s up to with your Pope-person. I want to go home and prepare for the struggle to come.’
‘You are a very single-minded young man, if I may say so,’ commented the Admiral.
The Prince took that as a compliment. ‘Islam has been compared to a sword,’ he said. ‘It is as simple and shining and useful as that. I make myself just such a sword in Islam’s service. What you call mono-mania, we call conviction: that is why we will win.’
‘I’ll grant you,’ Slovo said, ‘that the tide seems to be running in your favour. You captured Constantinople shortly before I was born; Otranto was sacked when I was a young man and now you draw near to Vienna. Christendom is riven with dynastic and doctrinal division, whereas you are happily united and eager to press on.’
‘Don’t stop,’ said the Prince, closing his eyes and basking in the flow of good news from the enemy’s lips.
‘I’m afraid that must suffice,’ said Slovo, spoiling the moment.
‘Well, Admiral, even so, if I ever appear at the Gates of Rome with an army, it would sadden me to separate you from life – particularly since you would be unsure of Paradise. So why don’t you convert and save me from the dilemma?’
Admiral Slovo managed to look suitably grateful. ‘That’s very kind, but no thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m happy as I am.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ said the Prince in a two-plus-two-equals-four voice. ‘You are not blind but you do not see. I tell you, Admiral, it is time for a new dispensation to sweep the world. And since there is nothing better for me to do during my period of Papal hospitality – I like to dream aloud of it. There’s no harm done.’
Admiral Slovo smiled. ‘You like to dream, do you?’ he asked as innocently as he was able.
‘I do,’ maintained the Prince stoutly. ‘Each of my best notions have been harvested from periods of contemplation.’
‘And your dreams of conquest and conversion derive from this, I take it?’
‘I cannot remember a time when I did not entertain visions,’ said Alamshah, obviously recalling fond memories. ‘However, it is thanks to this present holiday that I conceived my most exact plans. Before you are dead, Admiral, should you perchance live a natural span, you might hear a finer sound from the spires of your churches and cathedrals, your Oxford and Sorbonne; something more wholesome than the dead clanging of bells: Hayya alas salah – Come to prayer. Assalatu Khairum minan naum – Prayer is sweeter than sleep! I really think I can achieve that!’
‘I’m almost minded to agree with you,’ said Slovo encouragingly, and he signalled for one of his servants to attend him. A boyish maid in a short red doublet and tights swiftly appeared in the garden and bent forward to receive her master’s whispered instructions. After departing in haste, she was back within minutes, struggling with two large sealed amphorae.
‘Take these as a gift from me, I insist,’ said the Admiral to the Prince. ‘And think kindly of me when your day comes.’
Alamshah scowled. ‘If the contents of those jars are what I suspect,’ he said brusquely, ‘I should prefer to have the girl.’
‘In Christendom, Prince, our servant’s virtue is not ours to command,’ answered Slovo quickly, almost convincing himself. ‘What I can offer is a container of the very best vintage that my estate in Capri has ever produced. You will never taste better.’
‘I will never taste it at all!’ protested Alamshah. ‘And tell the girl to begone!’
With a flick of the fingers, Admiral Slovo did so but as instructed, she left the amphorae behind.
‘I know of your religious scruples,’ said Slovo, ‘but believe me, Prince, there is no wine in the world like this for the promotion of reverie and dreams—’
‘Admiral,’ interrupted Alamshah wearily, ‘you are entirely aware of the Qur’anic prohibition and …’
‘Perhaps, Prince, since your scheming is all to Islam’s advantage, the rule need not be strictly applied in your case – if all you seek is to enhance your speculative faculties. Such was my reasoning at least …’ Alamshah half smiled, as if to say he appreciated the Admiral’s tender concern. ‘Besides,’ the Admiral continued, ‘not all of your brethren have been so consistent. Al-Motamid, poet and last Moorish King of Seville, went so far as to mock in his verse all those who forsook wine for water. I further call to mind the great poet Principe Marwan – also a Moor – who found sunshine in the fruit of the vine.’
‘I am familiar with the Diwan of Principe,’ said Prince Alamshah, the merest fraction, it must be said, less convinced and adamant than before. ‘He was a heretic, Admiral.’
‘It’s true,’ said Admiral Slovo sadly, ‘that your Holy Book appears to exhort forbearance from the fruit of the vine. With that in mind, I arranged that the second of the two amphorae contain nothing but the finest Roman beer. You will permit, I trust, that that at least is quite innocent of any contact with the forbidden grape.’
‘Mere sophistry, Admiral,’ said Alamshah. ‘Our religion denies us all reason-depriving intoxication, and reserves such pleasures for Paradise alone.’
‘All that may be so, Prince,’ said Slovo. ‘I had only your interests at heart in making the proposal. It just occurred to me, up to now you’ve only dreamed of entering Paris as a conqueror. But after consuming just a part of these two jars, you’ll think you’re actually there!’
A week later, Admiral Slovo received a discreet note at home. Purely in the interests of plotting Islam’s ultimate triumph, Prince Alamshah wrote, did the Admiral have any more jars of haram?