‘And a sodomite, so one hears.’
Once again, Slovo thought it perhaps best to say nothing.
‘But useful,’ Leo concluded. ‘Besides,’ he went on, mustering a hollow laugh at some unshared knowledge, ‘you come highly recommended from a source you’d doubtless admire.’
‘A reference to the Pagan Emperors appearing in your dreams, I take it?’ ventured the Admiral.
Leo X, vague amusement instantly forgotten, gripped the arms of his throne and tried to catch Slovo’s eye, looking for he knew not what.
‘A lucky guess,’ said the Admiral innocently. ‘And yes, I will do this thing, Your Holiness. By all appearances, it would seem I have been chosen.’
At this Leo waved on a loitering attendant and Admiral Slovo discovered that he knew him well.
‘Hello, Leto,’ he said brightly. ‘So you haven’t been burnt yet, you old bugger!’
Giulio Pomponio Leto, foremost classical scholar in Italy, frowned at the Admiral from under his sword-straight Roman fringe. As so often with kindred spirits, he and the Admiral cordially hated each other.
‘Hello, Admiral,’ replied Leto, his face forcing a smile but his voice full of stiletto-messages. ‘How gratifying to see you once more.’
‘The Menorah! The Menorah!’ roared Leo impatiently, catching Leto on the back of the head with a well-aimed fig. ‘Less of this chit-chat! Tell him about the Menorah and let me get back to normal. Don’t you know there are forests full of deer and boar out there waiting for me? My cellarman is dying of boredom and my mistresses are getting out of practice (or so they tell me).’
Thus prodded, Leto began. ‘The Menorah,’ he recited, looking through and beyond Admiral Slovo, ‘the sacred candelabrum of the Hebrew people, removed from the Temple in Jerusalem by the Emperor Titus after the fall of that City in the seventieth year of our era. Subsequently stored in the Temple of Jupiter on the Palatine Hill and in all probability sacrilegiously looted from there during the sack of Rome by Alaric the Goth. Thus departing from the clear light of history, it enters into legend and subsequent reports of its fate are various. These are—’ and Leto fastidiously began to count off the options in what he thought to be suitably gruff Roman terms. ‘One: loss in North Africa during …’
But by then, Admiral Slovo had tuned out all except the salient points (distinguished by the speaker’s sudden loss of interest).
Leo X, to whom history was merely tragedy best decently forgotten, listened in wonder, amazed that Leto’s students could bring themselves to attend to him, let alone (allegedly) sleep with him. He picked up another fig, intending to spur matters on again, but then charitably thought better of it. He might not be able to repeat his last direct hit.
‘So there you are, Admiral,’ Leo interrupted a supposedly elegant anecdote about Visigothic government, ‘an impossible task to be accomplished without delay. My advisors tell me it’s one of the great mysteries of the age – though people seem to have been happy enough to leave it unsolved up to now. Hard master that I am, I give you one year, calculating that I’ll last just about that long. If you’ve not resolved things by then, don’t bother coming back. Dead or alive, I will have arranged a welcome you’d not enjoy. So stay in Mauritania or Syria or wherever you end up. My shade will come there to torment you and tell you what a bad servant you are and then, in due course, you’ll die and go to Hell.’
‘That all seems fair enough,’ said Admiral Slovo concisely.
‘You think so?’ replied Leo, raising one eyebrow. ‘What an easy-going man you are! There is, of course, a plus side to all this for you. I will provide every form and type of document, making all Christendom your playground. You are not to want for any material assistance, I assure you. And if things do get sorted out through your good offices, then …’ The Pope reflected deeply but soon lost patience. ‘… Oh, anything you like: money, pardons – whatever,’ he said irritably. ‘So long as it doesn’t outrage posterity or let in the Turks.’
‘Done!’ said Admiral Slovo and turned smartly on his heels so that Leo might not see the wide smile on his face. Within seconds, he had taken a score of long-legged strides to the great double door and put his hand upon its latch. ‘This commission will see me out!’ he exulted. ‘With all the books – and all the sex – and all the opportunities for selfless good’ (Stoicism finally making its stern voice heard) ‘that I have ever wanted! I can tell the Vehme to go and—’
And then, quite inexplicably, in leaving the Papal throne room, Admiral Slovo re-entered it.
He never knew if it actually was the room he had just left or a perfect copy. He felt inexplicably old and tired as he tried to work it all out and took a few steps forward.
‘Hello, Slovo,’ said the vast demon-creature squatting on and all over the throne, its voice like a juicy chime. ‘I don’t suppose you planned on meeting me so soon!’
Far away, an inner version of Admiral Slovo was petrified and screaming, but it was ignored in favour of the victorious Stoic whole. ‘That depends,’ he managed coolly. ‘Who are you?’
The demonic servitors, swarming about their master, howled and crashed their wings. The sense of outrage at Slovo’s non-recognition was palpable, but overshadowed by the dripping steam and sulphur. Already the priceless wall murals were beginning to peel.
‘My name,’ screamed the demon, ‘is … changing!’ Giant tears of bronze seeped from its hooded eyes and fell to the floor, crushing those beneath. ‘Your friend, the Rabbi, would call me … The Dybbuk, and that will suffice. As to whom I am: look about!’
Admiral Slovo accepted the invitation. For the first time he noticed that there was more of death than life – however loosely defined – in the room. Vast tumuli of ill-treated bodies, some of them almost human, lined the walls in undignified fashion. A few component parts of them still moved feebly, thus catching the attention of the roving demonic soldiery who then rushed in to finish the job.
The Admiral had seen battlefields before and was quite comfortable with them. In this case however, he would have been a lot happier had the blood pools been a nice, normal red.
‘There is war in Hell,’ smiled the Dybbuk. ‘And now a New Order prevails!’
A flying thing flew down close to Slovo’s face and lisped, ‘New Order! New Order!’ to make the point. It had the head of a beautiful girl on a body of indescribable leathery horror.
The Dybbuk daintily adjusted the Papal Tiara hat adorning its warty head and fixed most of its eyes on the Admiral as though awaiting some response.
‘Congratulations,’ said Slovo eventually.
‘Thank you, Admiral,’ the Dybbuk replied. ‘You’ll soon notice the difference, I’m sure.’
Slovo languidly waved his arm to indicate the throne room in general. ‘Have I not already done so?’ he queried, swiftly withdrawing his hand from the rapt attentions of a multi-jawed orange nightmare.
‘Exactly,’ agreed the Dybbuk. ‘Your puny presence here confirms it. We are not the lazy old-guard, waiting for the Book of Revelation to get rolling in its own sweet time. No, we are the Young Turks!’
‘Turks?’ said Slovo, somewhat puzzled. True, the Dybbuk looked as unsympathetic as some of the Ottomans he’d met and/or killed, but he couldn’t quite see the connection.
‘The phrase comes from after your time, man-creature,’ explained the Dybbuk loftily, ‘but you get the general drift. We are the ones who get things moving!’ The Dybbuk gestured with his titanic head, causing the mock Papal Crown to fall. Another instantly appeared in its place.
‘And is there anything I can do for you?’ replied Slovo politely.