As they rowed home with unusual will, Slovo dallied at the stern and considered what problems this change of heart would bring. His words to the Venetian about inter-Christian piracy had not been idle ones and should their companion remain, a leech-like embarrassment, when they came to dock, then … difficult questions would be asked.
Still, never mind, thought the Admiral at length, never one to worry long. Better the chance of a Papal scaffold than the certainty of mutiny. He even waved to the Venetian with his newly acquired reading book, The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.
‘This is good stuff,’ he shouted. ‘I’m much obliged to you.’
Slovo was awoken by the sound of a ragged rattle of oars and a lack of progress. He had only to raise himself up from the deck to discover the reason for both.
Half a league off and silhouetted against the dawn was the Venetian, standing on the water and blocking their path.
Order took a bit of time to restore, even with the flat of a sword, and in the end it was easiest just to tell them to put about. That at least, the crew were glad to do.
One bank of oarsmen fidgeted on their benches whilst the other furiously tore at the sea and, bit by bit, gradually turned the galley’s back on the sodden, silent, watcher. Then, using their joint efforts, they sped away from home into deep water, for once not needing the strokemaster’s hypnotic call.
Admiral Slovo, seated at the stern, studied the swiftly receding Venetian and the compliment was returned in kind. Then, mission apparently fulfilled, the corpse slowly slipped back, inch by inch, beneath the waves, its guessed-at gaze never deviating until the water closed over its green, floating locks.
Bosun shuddered, not caring who saw him do so.
‘I’ve not seen the ship move so fast since that encounter with the Ottoman harem-ship,’ said the Admiral, jocularly. Bosun appeared not to hear him and Slovo felt entitled to allow his disgruntlement a further outing. ‘I spent what was it?’ he mused, ‘on the Satan’s-head ram which adorns the prow of this ship. Why then, Master Bosun, did we not employ it to sunder apart this persistent little man who dogs our steps?’
Before Bosun could reply, the look-out called out. ‘Ahoy! He’s back!’
They saw that this was so. The swimmer had returned.
‘Might is right – but not always applicable,’ said Bosun in reply to Slovo – inadvertently revealing, in his agitation, hidden depths and a secret taste for metaphysics.
‘You could just be right, you know,’ said the Admiral, making a note to keep an even closer eye on this dark horse. ‘Perhaps philosophy is the answer. Tell them to up oars.’
Very reluctantly, the rowers were persuaded to desist whilst their Captain came to stand before them. He delayed a moment to achieve the required mental downgrading to permit communication.
‘It’s like this,’ he said when finally prepared for the contamination. ‘We’re being chased – us, chased! Us wot as faced the ships of Sultan Bayezid and put holes in the galleons of the Mamelukes! Now, tell me, is this right? Is it proper?’
He paused for dramatic effect. No one answered. Only from beneath the ship came the sound of urgent knocking.
The following day, Admiral Slovo woke to the more than usually sullen stares of the crew and knew straightaway that something had happened. He enquired as to the state of play from Bosun.
‘As soon as we get too far for his fancy, he blocks our way and the crew put about, orders or no. We’re going nowhere fast.’
‘Ultimately, life is like that,’ said Slovo sharply. ‘As a philosopher, you should appreciate that.’
‘And the look-out is gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Sometime during the night and silent as you like. Only I should say, he’s not entirely gone.’
‘How so?’
‘The Venetian left half the rib-cage behind.’
Slovo refused to be out-cooled. ‘That was considerate of him,’ he said. ‘At least we’re left in no doubt.’ Then, quoting from The Meditations, he said, ‘It is not the thing that disturbs thee, but thine own judgement about it?’
Bosun looked ruefully towards the rising sun. ‘This is quite some “thing” we’re facing here, Admiral,’ he said. ‘Do you reckon Look-out made his judgement of it before it got him?’
Eventually Slovo was called on by name and he was glad of it. It was undignified being harried back and forth, subject to the impertinences of a restive crew, and far better matters should end this way rather than in death by thirst or mutiny.
The Venetian, afar off and a mere matchstick figure, clung to an ancient buoy and added his voice to its doleful bell.
‘SLO-VO! he called, over and over, in time with the bell-note. ‘SLO-VO! Despite the distance his voice was loud and clear.
Without being bidden the crew had upped oars and thus declared themselves spectators while the galley drifted, becalmed.
The prisoner of his professional image, Admiral Slovo remained impassive. Lolling in his Captain’s chair, he called across to the Venetian, confident that in nature’s present suspension his unraised voice would carry. ‘Well then, hello again,’ he said. ‘And what can I do for you?’
There was a long pause before the Venetian replied. ‘MY BOOOOOOOOKS!’ he howled at last.
Slovo had anticipated this. He signalled to Bosun that the prepared cask of book-booty be cast overboard like its former owner.
Before the noise of the splash had died away the Venetian called again, ‘AND THE MEDITATIONS OF AURELIUS …’
The Admiral grimaced. That particular book had spoken to him on levels he did not know he owned. He’d very much wished to keep and finish it.
‘So be it,’ he answered eventually and, fetching the text from its hiding place, flung it over the rail.
The quiet returned. Slovo fancied the Venetian was savouring his post-mortem triumph. In order to spoil this gloat, he resumed the conversation. ‘And what now?’ he asked.
Another long pause and then: ‘NOW I’D LIKE YOU TO SWIM WITH ME.’
Most of the crew turned their attention to the Admiral. How he dealt with this would determine his position in the Mediterranean pirates’ hall of fame.
‘I can’t swim,’ he answered simply.
There was no shame in this. Most mariners of the time preferred not to learn how to prolong the agony should Mother Sea claim them. Not a bad point, judged the crew and looked back at the Venetian.
‘YOU’LL MANAGE,’ he shot straight back. ‘YOU’LL FIND, AS A CORPSE, YOU HAVE A CERTAIN FACILITY IN THE WATER.’
His shipmates were still reeling this one in as Slovo countered, ‘You are not being a reasonable man.’
‘THANKS TO YOU,’ came the reply, ‘I AM NO LONGER A MAN AT ALL.’
There was no real answer to this and Slovo subsided into his seat.
From below the galley there erupted the hammering of many hands. Unlike hitherto, the Venetian remained visible. It seemed he could now call on helpers.
‘IT IS TIME,’ came the call. ‘COME TO ME.’
The pounding on the hull rose and threatened to turn it into matchwood. Slovo realized that between the vengeful ghost and the fearful crew there was little to choose: his life was over and all that remained was to leave it with style. When he rose and snapped his finger at the Venetian, by nods and mumbles the crew signalled their approval of this defiance in the face of despair.
The sea erupted and bubbled. All around the galley and for some distance outwards, the water was alive – no other word for it – with floating corpses.