‘Capri certainly’, replied the Pope hesitantly. ‘I shall have to see about the other thing – there may be scandal.’
Slovo was content. Possession of the sybaritic island was in any case merely an open invitation to a fresh universe of sin.
The Eel creature, now perilously close, leaned forward to whisper noisomely in the Admiral’s ear. ‘Give it, through free-will, to us,’ it said, ‘and you shall have every book and bottom you have ever desired.’
Admiral Slovo was thus given cause to think anew all the way to the door – which once again opened on the unexpected: this time there was a walled expanse of lawn, decorated in the fashionable precision of the age with generous quantities of flowers and fruit trees, and presided over by none other than Rabbi Megillah.
‘Hello Rabbi,’ said Slovo, like the veteran he was, ‘what is beyond these high walls I wonder?’
‘Nothing,’ said a wizened old man, emerging from his place of concealment in a bush. ‘I have looked, and a blue void extends infinitely in all directions. We are quite adrift.’
‘I know you,’ said Slovo, gesturing dismissively with the stiletto he had instantly drawn. ‘I heard that you were dying.’
The old man smiled thinly. ‘So I am,’ he said. ‘In fact I am presently on my death-bed – but also granted one last great chance to be here.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Slovo, ‘for your life was not attended by any real success. I am, you see, quite familiar with your career, Master Machiavelli. We even met on one occasion; whilst jointly making diplomatic supplications to the King of France.’
‘I do not recall you,’ said Niccolo Machiavelli, his smile the merest bit thinner than before.
‘That’s unsurprising, sir, given the ignominious end to your mission and my part in securing same. Now; what was it the Florentine Seigniory’s enquiry said of you? He has advanced the frontiers of blithering ineptitude to hitherto inconceivable limits. Or something like that.’
‘I have been constantly attended by ill-fortune,’ snapped Machiavelli. ‘But I am a man of affairs and action. I have been called here today for that very reason.’
‘To do what?’ enquired Rabbi Megillah.
‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Machiavelli.
‘Nor me,’ echoed Megillah.
‘And I am too indifferent to explain,’ said Admiral Slovo. ‘So shall we merely stroll and admire the flowers?’
A noise like a demon’s sigh filled whatever universe or thought-construct they were within and sudden illumination fell upon Slovo’s companions.
‘I will take the Menorah,’ offered Megillah quietly, ‘and arrange safe custody. It will be held ready until called for in the proper course of things. I now know why I am here, the very reason for my creation, and I offer my fate and the lives of my descendants to this noble end. Give it to me, Admiral, and to him whom I represent.’
‘Whereas I,’ said Machiavelli, looking on Megillah with disdain, ‘am deputed to argue the contrary. I have been granted wisdom about you, Admiral Slovo, and what I am told points implacably to you making a different and bolder decision. Seeing what you have seen, Admiral, are you really willing to have events played out in God’s good time? Are you really going to act to preserve the status quo? I think not.’
Megillah and Machiavelli’s eyes were fixed upon Slovo’s impassive face. He was looking out into the blue yonder, considering his alternatives.
‘I have reviewed your lifetime, Admiral,’ continued Machiavelli, plainly enthused by his task, ‘your battles and sacked cities, your murders and acts of betrayal. I sense a certain … ambivalence in you concerning them. There is disgust, yes – but at what? You have acted in the World that the enemy has made. He now calls on you to extend it for ever – the gall of the creature! However, dull reason has not totally subdued you, has it? There is a certain beauty to a burning town that you have noted – is that not so? You have appreciated the uncomplicated pleasure of placing someone in the Tiber on a permanent basis. In short, Admiral, you have heard my Master’s call in the groans of the World, and you long to respond.’
‘The Admiral is a Stoic,’ interrupted Rabbi Megillah, ‘and therefore immune to—’
‘Men justify surrender to failure and call it philosophy,’ laughed Machiavelli. ‘I am talking of a wilder, older way here, Hebrew; something that satisfies all that goes to make a man, not merely the skin called civilization. Give the Menorah to us, Admiral Slovo; give it of your own free-will and we will have such times, such clarity.’
Slovo was seen to lick his lips.
‘On the one hand,’ Machiavelli sped on, scenting victory, ‘is offered more of the same tedious mess that passes for normality. But where is the passion? Where is the drama that quickens the pulse on waking? On the other hand, however—’
Machiavelli stopped speaking because Rabbi Megillah had felled him with a kick and a vicious chop to the throat. Incongruous as a whale with a musket, the Rabbi produced a blade and watered the Dybbuk’s lawn with Machiavelli’s life-blood.
‘The Lord strengthens my arm,’ Megillah said by way of explanation, straightening up most unlike a Renaissance man in his seventies, and levelling the knife at Admiral Slovo’s Adam’s apple. His cold eyes were a summation of all the Admiral’s worst enemies combined. It was very impressive. ‘Give me the damn thing,’ he said, ‘and now!’
Admiral Slovo smiled. ‘The one great fault I’ve perceived in life,’ he said, ‘is that, up to now, the good have always lacked conviction. It’s yours.’
‘We shan’t meet again,’ said Megillah. ‘Not in this World.’
‘No,’ agreed Admiral Slovo in a neutral tone, looking around him at the bustle of Ostia Port.
‘I am sorry about the knife business,’ continued the Rabbi. ‘It must have seemed very unpleasant.’
‘But necessary,’ replied Slovo easily. ‘Think no more about it, Rabbi: all my friendships seem to end in knife-play sooner or later. But turning aside to more practical considerations, are you sure you don’t require an escort? I can arrange a galley within hours.’
‘Thank you, but no, Admiral. We are well fortified already – and it is best you do not know where we sail.’
Slovo saw the truth in this and suppressed his curiosity. In the week since their sudden return from the Dybbuk’s garden, matters had been more than fully discussed, and now there was little left to say. The Papal afflictions had ceased, and it was therefore assumed that the arrangements made were approved of. The burden of the Apocalypse had passed from the Admiral’s hands and all that remained was to forget and to work hard upon his temporary weakness as revealed by Machiavelli’s blandishments. He thought there would just be time for that before he, in turn, was called from life. As Lord of Capri, meanwhile, there would be consoling sights and sensations enough.
‘There are sanctuaries available to us,’ continued Rabbi Megillah, seeking to apologize for his need for secrecy, ‘citadels of holiness and powerhouses of prayer, against which the Evil One (save in the final days) strives in vain. The Menorah has only to reach such – be it in Zion or Muscovy or Ukrainia – to be safe until called upon.’
‘But getting there?’ countered Slovo, who, more than most men, knew the Sea as the mother of Chaos and confounder of all plans.
‘We have Yehuda,’ said Megillah, stretching to tap the shoulder of the smiling gentle-giant of a simpleton beside him. ‘The Evil One (may his name be blotted out) has no power against the innocent. Thus, till we reach our destination, the Menorah will not leave the pack secured to Yehuda’s back. And, I have the guns Pope Clement provided, so, we have done what we can and all else is left to God.’