Then, in answer to a higher, inaudible command, the trio fell instantly silent and fixed their gaze upon Slovo and Megillah. A great quiet prevailed until even Admiral Slovo felt it oppressive. Eventually the first figure spoke.
‘I, Titus,’ it said, and then drew slightly back into the Arch.
‘I, Vespasian,’ said the second and likewise retreated.
‘I, Josephus,’ said the third; and the other two returned.
‘We burn!’ they shouted in unison. ‘We suffer! We suffer in Hell!’
‘For what I did!’ soloed the Emperor Titus.
‘For what I took!’ added his predecessor, Vespasian.
‘For what I wrote!’ said Josephus, the renegade and historian.
‘Help us! Save us! We burn!’ the chorus was renewed and with desperate gestures they indicated one particular part of the now mobile frieze surrounding them.
Admiral Slovo tracked along the line of sight.
‘They are stretching for the Menorah,’ he observed to the awe-struck Megillah.
‘It is time!’ howled Titus, clearly in great pain.
‘Put it back!’ gasped Vespasian.
‘It is tiiiiiiiiiime!’ agreed Josephus and the others joined in his screech.
The three, suddenly seized with renewed panic, struggled all the more vigorously but to no avail. Try as they might, they could not free more than head or hands, nor reach a finger’s width nearer the tiny engraved symbol of their desires. As before, they seemed to have heard some secret signal and it was not long in being enforced.
From the Arch’s unguessable depths came claws and grapples which fastened on to the unfortunate three, tearing their flesh and drawing blood. Slowly but inexorably, though fighting with the strength of fear, they were drawn back until lost from sight. A final pitiful sob issued from one as the stone surface closed over his mouth and then all was quiet once more. The Arch was no longer alive.
‘Blah blah blah, blah-blah,’ said a nearby voice in due course, allowing Slovo to revive from his reverie and thus notice that he had returned to the world he knew.
‘Your presence is required,’ repeated the voice. ‘I’ll say that just once more and then: violence.’
The Admiral recognized the tone, and the tracing of its owner gradually grew as a priority in his mind, thus compelling him to re-set his thoughts.
‘Master Droz?’ he said, turning to face the giant Swiss Captain. ‘How are you?’
‘Exasperated,’ replied the Swiss, ‘but implacable. Why will you not listen to me, honoured Admiral?’
‘I was deep in thought, Droz; pondering the course of the wise man in response to curious messages.’
‘Ah, well, I can settle that for you, Admiral. He responds to them promptly; particularly when I am the bearer. What’s up with that Jew?’
‘He is pondering likewise, I suspect.’
‘He could at least say hello. No good comes of all this thinking, you see. That is why God granted us instincts: to save us from slavery to fallible reason.’
Admiral Slovo, who, if he cared for anything, cared for his Stoic beliefs, suppressed a shudder. ‘I propose a deal, Master Swiss,’ he said swiftly. ‘I will comply with your wishes in every single particular and, in return, you spare me your natural philosophy. How’s that?’
‘Done, Admiral – though you deprive me of my rebuke regarding your treatment of my sergeant-at-arms in the wineshop. This from you, Admiral – a man I call my friend!’
They both laughed, the Swiss with a bellow, the Admiral with a dried-up bark of amusement, at the absurdity of the notion of friendship between such as they. Then Slovo allowed Numa Droz to lead the way, leaving Rabbi Megillah still rapt with shock before the silent Arch.
‘Don’t fret, Master Droz,’ said the Admiral, consolingly, ‘life is full of disappointments. However, on this day of portents, you may escort me to yet another.’
‘Admiral,’ said Leo X, Christ’s senior (recognized) representative on Earth, ‘you have kept us waiting!’
Admiral Slovo parried this demand for an explanation by treating it as a statement of fact – thereby letting down the massed courtiers, priests and guards, who had been anticipating his discomfiture. They should have known of old that the Papal Investigator was poor sport in the tormenting stakes.
‘Everything comes to him who waits,’ said the Admiral politely, lazily selecting one of the more shop-worn phrases out of his vast collection of clichés.
‘Not poxing well fast enough, it doesn’t!’ roared the Pope. ‘Ach! Sit on this, you Caprisi … Admiral!’
Slovo affected not to notice the Pope’s insulting thumb gesture, whilst registering that there was sadly little left of Giovanni Medici, ‘the Golden Florentine’, son of Lorenzo the Magnificent and youthful companion of Michelangelo. Life had turned him into Leo X, in whom appetite had prevailed over reason in Admiral Slovo’s stern judgement, and there was now a permanent sheen of grease on his chin to prove it.
Leo looked ill and his short temper bubbled forth from deeper springs than the revenge of over-indulgence. The effect was so profound that the Admiral drew modestly from his drying well of human sympathy and actually felt sorry for his master.
‘If I had someone else with a brain whom I could call on,’ said the Pope, petulantly flinging a fig at his advisors, who shied from it as they would a cannonball, ‘someone with better hearing and more obedient legs, then rest assured I’d do so. However, I’m stuck with you, aren’t I, Ad-mir-al?’
Slovo sensed that, even for him, this might not be the best time for a witty remark. There was more ill will than sunshine in the room as far as he was concerned. Any one of the career or just plain personal enemies gathered there would have been both swift and happy to implement any Papal decision to deal with him. Moreover, something so novel as to be interesting was afoot and he preferred not to miss it. So Admiral Slovo smiled and said nothing, and the Pope’s acid twinge passed like a cloud.
Leo was uncharacteristically deep in thought and was obviously troubled. ‘I have a dream …’ he started – it was a standard opening recommended by the rhetorical schools of the day, a perennial favourite. ‘In fact, I get it all the time now,’ he continued in a less elevated rush. ‘At first I put it down to the cucumber brandy, but the same thing kept coming back, again and again. It’s burning me up, Slovo. I tell you, somehow, I don’t know how, but it’s been revealed to me I’m going to die, that I’m hellbound, if this thing isn’t solved!’
‘All this in the month since we last met?’ Slovo asked, unable to accept the change in the once robust Pope.
‘I’ve kept things from you,’ answered Leo weakly. ‘But I can’t hide or ignore the matter any more: I want you to stop these Menorah dreams.’
‘And the thrust of these nocturnal visitations is that you should replace the said Menorah, I assume,’ Slovo said coolly.
‘Yes …’
‘And you wish me to do so on your behalf,’ Slovo went on, enjoying the stance of omnipotence.
‘Yes,’ answered Leo coldly. ‘And if you persevere in such prophecy, I may conceive that you are, in fact, there in my dreams and possibly even conducting them. If I were to come to such a conclusion, Admiral, it would not be a happy day for you.’
Slovo gave way with a good-natured bow, and Leo pressed on.
‘I do indeed wish you to locate and replace this relic. For better or for worse, I have no one else to whom I can entrust such madness. Pirate you may be—’
‘Ex-pirate,’ protested Slovo mildly, ‘and mostly under Papal licence.’
‘A Stoic …’
The Admiral stoically accepted the charge.