‘And,’ said the Swiss Captain, Numa Droz, as they rode along, ‘when the Turks captured Otranto in the August of 1480, they tortured and killed half of the twenty-two thousand souls within and enslaved the rest. There were really interesting piles of bodies, you know: not just the usual ones you find on battlefields. Then the Archbishop and the Town Governor got publicly sawn in half so as to awe the infidel.’
‘And did it, Master Swiss?’ asked Admiral Slovo, feigning interest.
‘Did me! I apostatized then and there; made the profession of faith to their top turban and was put on the strength.’
‘Indeed,’ observed Slovo dryly, ‘and yet you seem passing young for a man present at such a long-ago event.’
‘It was my first venture out of Canton Uri, my Lord Admiral. I was a mere stripling. I ended up as a Master of Artillery and Janissary Procurer for a Macedonian frontier fort, and that was quite a nice time. The Mussulman religion is also … interesting … but nothing like the real thing,’ added the Swiss, part sincere, part in sudden recollection of his present employer. ‘So I deserted, made full restitution to Christ in Ravenna …’
‘And how expensive was that?’ enquired the Admiral, for his own reference purposes.
Numa Droz looked shocked.
‘The price, Admiral,’ he said firmly, ‘was long hours on my knees – and the hard acquisition of true repentance. Money is weightless; mere base metal in questions affecting the soul. Contrary to what you might think, I’m a true son of the Church; albeit prone to lapses.’
Slovo managed to keep his surprise to himself – there was a need for care. All Swiss met outside their natural boundaries were controlled mass-murderers, specially exported for that reason. The two of them were alone together on the Florentine road and Numa Droz could at any time surrender to his national passion for blood. Slovo discreetly loosened the stiletto concealed in his saddle.
‘And then I took employ with Ferdinand I of Naples,’ Droz continued, the little difficulty apparently forgotten. ‘Now, there was an interesting man. He kept a sort of gallery of his dead enemies, stuffed and mounted, and all dressed in their finery, for him to promenade around from time to time, musing on the shortness and vagaries of life. One day, when I was in special favour, I was given a private viewing …’
‘So was I,’ said Admiral Slovo. ‘The Duc’ de Praz-Ridolfi of Romagna looked better than he did in life, I thought. I complimented Ferdinand on it and he actually smiled!’
‘Ridolfi?’ said Droz. ‘The slim one, hooked nose, yellow doublet?’
‘With jewelled dagger poised in left hand, yes, the same,’ confirmed Slovo.
‘Oh … well, we have that much in common then, Admiral.’
‘And also service with his Apostolic Holiness,’ added Slovo, quietly mortified to find even two points of similarity with this barbarian.
‘Oh yes, I should say so! What happy days, Admiral. I can tell you; as soon as I heard the stories that he was unchristian, warlike and intemperate, I said farewell to Naples and sped to Rome. There’s not been a peaceful day since, I’m glad to say.’
‘My recollection is much the same,’ said Slovo crisply.
‘He’s been a good father to mercenaries everywhere – for and against him. I was put on the strength right away, you know; full pay from day one whether you kill or not – and you don’t get that sort of consideration just anywhere. Oh look, there’s a strangled man in that ditch.’
‘So there is.’
‘And Julius even got that Michel-angel fellow to design us Swiss lads uniforms. Do you like it?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither. Still, I expect it’ll grow on people. Mind you, before then, I’ll have earned and stolen a packet and be back in Uri with the wife.’
Admiral Slovo studied the sky without much hope of consolation and, finding none, pressed on.
‘You are far from home, Master Swiss. Suppose your wife has not waited?’
Numa Droz shrugged and flicked at his horse’s ear.
‘Then I’ll kill her and marry afresh. Her sister’s quite juicy, now I think of it. Either way, there’s a wife at the cabin door.’
Far along the road, Admiral Slovo’s constantly roving eye had detected a lone horseman. Numa Droz spotted him at the same time and suddenly all thoughts of home were forgotten.
‘A demi-lance, riding hard, alone,’ Droz said in clipped tones. ‘We stand.’
The two men, forged in different but equal fires, did not visibly prepare to meet the rider but adjustments were made all the same. Most encounters on the road were innocence itself but mistakes could not be undone.
‘Admiral Slovo?’ said the man when he drew near (but still politely far enough away).
Slovo smiled whilst remaining inscrutable. ‘Possibly,’ he replied.
The rider did not take offence. He was familiar with the etiquette of the time.
‘I am Peter Anselm,’ he said, with as much of a bow as his armour would permit. ‘Or Petro Anselmi to you, condottiere in the service of Florence, sent to greet and hasten you.’
Admiral Slovo raised one inquisitive eyebrow, confirming nothing, but signifying the very slightest interest in pursuing the ‘Slovo’ identification.
‘This Michelangelo business – it draws to a head,’ explained Anselmi, ‘the Seigniory see cause for speed.’
Admiral Slovo did not approve of qualities like speed; cousins as they were to the unforgivable: carelessness. ‘And what is the news, Condottiere?’ he asked pleasantly.
‘All good!’ the man replied. ‘There could be a war!’
‘The Seigniory sent for me and said, “We do not want to go to war with Pope Julius because of you. You must return; and if you do so, we will write you letters of such authority that, should he do you harm, he will be doing it to the Seigniory.” Accordingly, I took the letters and went back to the Pope.’
‘The Republic of Florence,’ said Admiral Slovo, breaking the news as gently as he could to someone he suspected of naivety, ‘will not risk the losses incumbent in war, solely for you. The strong order the weak, who in turn direct the powerless. I invite you to speculate on your own position within that hierarchy. In short, the Seigniory will at our request, charmed by a little money, spew you forth to whatever fate has in store.’
‘That is the way of the World,’ added Petro Anselmi with a grin. ‘My little son knows that and he’s only three! Where have you been all your life, Artist?’
Sheltered from the gales of reality by two small but talented hands, thought Admiral Slovo – but forbore to say as much as he watched Michelangelo look from Slovo to Droz to Anselmi. Bags of nerve, judged the Admiral, or maybe just bad temper allowed free rein.
‘I disagree with the Admiral,’ said Michelangelo, his agitated voice going up and down the scales like a monkey on a stick. ‘I doubt Florence can ever afford to defer to such an aggressive Pontiff for fear of the demands, yet unformulated, that would follow in train. It is my belief that the Seigniory have chosen a field on which to stand and fight.’
Admiral Slovo smiled and leant forward to replenish his goblet with wine. Numa Droz remained impassive, his gaze shifting lithely back and forth between Anselmi and the Sculptor – thus passing the little test Slovo had set him.
‘I detect the echo of another’s voice behind your own, Master Sculptor,’ said Admiral Slovo patiently. ‘May I be so bold as to enquire whose?’
Michelangelo’s ugly young face coloured. ‘I have taken counsel with a certain officer of the Republic,’ he said briskly.