‘Oh yes,’ replied the stocky, red-faced man sitting opposite, ‘I should think so.’
Slovo heaved a silent sigh of relief. In his brief trudge around Rome he’d feared that the short list of those who’d make such a confession was already exhausted.
‘After all,’ the man continued, ‘it was you that secured me permission to reside in Rome. You’ve been to good old England; we’ve shared a few flasks together and outfaced that … unnecessary duelling charge. If that’s not friendship, what is?’
‘What indeed?’ smiled the Admiral in return, thankful for the simpler standards of the Northern races. ‘You know, you’re an interesting case, Harold Godwine: your Italian grows less barbarous each time we meet. Not many English could have settled in so fully.
‘Ah well,’ said Godwine, acknowledging what he took to be a compliment, ‘I have a pressing reason for doing so. As you well know, I did not come to Rome to enjoy myself but to save my soul!’
Admiral Slovo was mildly troubled. ‘Whilst not a priest or theologian,’ he said gently, ‘I would still advise caution on your proximate sanctity theory, Harold.’
‘It makes sense to me, Admiral. Being so close to so many people striving for holiness, bang next door to God’s chosen representative, some benefit’s bound to rub off. Besides, it’s got to be easier for me here – no Scots or Welsh!’
‘Ah, yes …’ said Slovo, fearful that he’d unwittingly lit a fuse. It turned out he had.
‘I’ve had a good life,’ said Godwine, rehearsed-reflectively. ‘I make no apologies for it (except when I’m in church). I’ve killed lots of Scots and Welsh: almost as many as one could wish for.’
Slovo tried half-heartedly to stem the tide.
‘I have encountered these remnant Celtic peoples …’
‘The Scots are not Celts, Admiral,’ interrupted Godwine, on, over and through Slovo’s comment. ‘They’re blood of my blood, which just makes it all the more interesting. I mean to say, I’ve nothing against them personally (well, maybe the Welsh …). Individually, I rather like them. It’s just that when they’re gathered in convenient clumps I can’t resist the desire to chuck the whole quiver amongst them. That’s just the way it is, I’m afraid. Scotsmen are what the longbow was invented for, that’s what I say.’
‘Absolutely, Harold …’ said the Admiral, swept along.
‘I mean, I’d rather kill Welshies instead. But they mostly threw the towel in long before my time so there’s not much chance of a decent ruck there. See what I mean? If the Scots weren’t neighbouring my country, I could probably leave them alone – but they do – so I can’t …’
‘Indeed,’ agreed the Admiral politely, wondering what was for dinner.
‘Mind you, it was Flodden Field[20] that finished me. I overindulged myself so much there, there was no place left for me to go, no professional mountain left to scale. Might as well spend the rest of my life in the Borgo[21], praying for forgiveness I said – so here I am. Borr! Flodden! Now, there was a battle, never mind a flukish Bannockburn … Did I ever tell you about Flodden, Admiral?’
‘I believe you may have, Harold; perhaps once …’
‘Save us! What a sight that was. They lost – now listen to this – their King, James IV: twelve Earls; nineteen Barons; three hundred-odd Knights and lairds; the Archbishop of St Andrews; two assorted bishops; two abbots and the Provost of Edinburgh. Oh – and most the army as well. We just stood off their schiltrons[22] and poured in the old clothyard till they were collapsing in waves and there weren’t no room for the dead to fall. Talk about “Flowers of the Forest”, ho ho! What do you think about bagpipes, Admiral?’
‘Well, I try not to let the subject rule my life but …’
‘I hate them. The Scots play them constantly, you know – and some North English too – which makes ’em honorary Scots in my book. Anyway, when we eventually got stuck in – at Flodden, this is – I made a point of seeking out the pipers – just to let them know what I thought of the noise they make. And I got me two clan chiefs as well; their claymores are up in my trophy room along with all the other family treasures. I took their ears as well but they went all nasty and I couldn’t keep ’em.’
Admiral Slovo thought he had spotted the glint of a possible escape from the present carnival of carnage.
‘You mentioned your family, Harold; were they also soldiers and travellers such as yourself?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Godwine, ‘wanderers, soldiers and crusaders all – very sound on the Scots, too. There was Tostig Godwine, for instance. Now, he was a Varangian[23] and only got out of Constantinople by the skin of his axe when the 1204 Crusaders came rampaging in. Then there was Gash “Death from Wessex” Godwine who … But look, why just talk, when I’ve got this huge family tree I can show you in the trophy room. Come upstairs and see it; the light’s better up there anyway.’
‘Billed and bowed’ into submission, Slovo mechanically followed Godwine up the cramped stairway. Despite all the inducements to doze, he could not be at peace: something was troubling his mind, something preventing a merciful switching-off.
Then, as he trod on the top step it occurred to him. ‘Why,’ he asked, ‘is the light better in the trophy room?’
‘Because,’ answered Godwine brightly, ‘of what Tostig the Varangian got out of Constantinople with. The Family’s held on to it ever since and I’m quite attached to the thing. I mean, it’s not only valuable but practical too. Look, it holds seven bloody great big candles …’
‘I am sorry to hear of your friend Godwine,’ said Pope Clement VII. ‘A tragic accident.’
‘Thank you, Your Holiness,’ said Admiral Slovo. ‘Stilettos are dangerous things to set about cleaning by mere candle-light; people are always accidentally falling on them.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t know it was loaded,’ tittered a Cardinal whom relative career failure had made bold. The Pope silenced him with a glance.
‘And you have the Menorah secure, Admiral?’
‘It was, of course, Godwine’s dying wish that I take custody of the object. It is now with my savings, Your Holiness – and there are few places more secret and secure than that. All that remains is to restore it to its proper siting.’
‘Which is where?’ asked Clement with genuine curiosity.
‘I’m seeking advice on that, Your Holiness,’ said Slovo.
‘Give it to ussssss …’ lisped an oily black Eel/Man crossover, leaning casually on the back of the Papal throne. ‘Give it to ussssss!’
With difficulty, Admiral Slovo averted his gaze from the Dybbuk’s emissary who was, it became obvious, invisible and inaudible to all bar him.
‘I beg your pardon, Holiness?’
‘I said, Admiral, that my nocturnal sufferings are much abated now that the Menorah is at least in our custody. All that remains is to make them cease altogether.’
‘I shall not rest until that is so,’ said Slovo, affecting just the right amount of weariness-acquired-in-the-course-of-service.
‘No!’ said the Eel-thing, advancing menacingly down the Hall. ‘You will give it to ussssss.’ Slovo noticed that its mouth was improbably packed with teeth.
‘Then go about your business, faithful servant,’ said Clement. ‘Relieve me of my dreams and you shall have all that was promised you.’
Admiral Slovo sprang the trap. ‘The Lordship of Capri?’ he asked. ‘Public absolution for all my sins?’ The latter raised a gasp from the assembled clergy and advisors. It was a lot to ask for.
20
Flodden Field. 9/9/1513. Battle between the English and invading Scots near Branxton, Northumberland. Possibly the most crushing of all the Scottish defeats.
21
The English quarter of Rome since the first Anglo-Saxon pilgrims. The name derives from the English for Borough.
23
The Byzantine Emperor’s axe-wielding ‘foreign legion’ and bodyguard unit, largely composed of North Europeans and, after 1066, Englishmen.