The Vehmist laughed with a peculiarly liquid chuckle. ‘Nonsense, Admiral. That’s just the Dybbuk speaking. None of your sins or virtues were little ones. At certain times, and in your own quiet way, you bestrode the globe like a titan.’
‘If you say so.’
‘We do. You swayed the course of history a degree or two. Who else set a Reformation in motion, commissioned the Sistine Chapel ceiling and defeated two gods – Dybbuk and Te Deum – and glued the Tudors to a shaky throne? But for you the World would be a very different place and much less to our liking.’
‘It somehow fails to comfort,’ said Slovo.
‘Do not shrink away from your creations; they are your children, Admiral,’ said the Vehmist. ‘Admit paternity with pride! Would you perhaps be convinced of your value by the knowledge that a statue of you is commissioned for the Hall of the Vehmic Citadel where you experienced your initiation all those long years ago? There you will stand, in marble depiction of classical dress, beside Mars and Horus-Hadrian and oversee the new generations of our people. We will tell them of you and you will see the light of admiration in their eyes.’
‘Just as long,’ replied Slovo, not so impressed or grateful as he ought to be, ‘as they do not detect any similar light of life in mine.’
‘Well, it is possible,’ admitted the Vehmist. ‘After your demise it’s our intention to draw down your ka, your residual essence, to inhabit the image of stone. The book of Hermes Trismegistus has provided us with the means and it has worked before. We do not like to lose our most illustrious servants. Your imprisoned semi-divinity will be able to discern potential greatness in those who pass before it – as occurred with yourself. Better that than the Hades or oblivion awaiting the rest of your soul, surely?’
‘Not at all,’ said Admiral Slovo. ‘I absolutely forbid it!’
‘Sorry. It’s non-negotiable. Do you want to see The Book now, before you go?’
Slovo saw no point in further protest, but found that curiosity lingered on even in a mind that hadn’t long to live. ‘Since you’ve brought it,’ he said.
The Vehmist made a conjuration with his hands and from nowhere a vast tome appeared, resting firmly upon nothing. Around and about, the air was agitated with half-glanced swirls of red and purple: signs of The Book’s demonic-guardians.
‘Read and learn,’ Slovo was told. ‘You’ve deserved it.’
After token hesitation, Admiral Slovo arose and walked to where this great honour was waiting. The filaments of colour, sensing permission, made grudging way for him, leaving an odour of carrion.
To touch, it was like any other book in Slovo’s library, though bound so as to last for whole civilizations of use. He lifted the heavy front board and, caring all too little for the past, made straightaway for the volume’s hinder parts.
The Vehmist came round to join him. ‘Ah – now this,’ he said, pointing to a particular verse, ‘concerns what is yet to come.’
‘St Peter,’ read Slovo, albeit with difficulty, for he had neglected his study of the earlier forms of Greek, ‘shall be … shown the Sun, Sol Invictus, and taken on a … tour of Rome. The churches?’
‘Places of worship,’ nodded the Vehmist, like a tutor pleased with his pupil. ‘But yes, essentially churches.’
‘The churches shall be filled with light and then be silent.’
‘Very good,’ said the Vehmist, betraying some surprise at the lack of assistance required. ‘The Great Analytic Council of the Vehme interpret it all thus: that the body of St Peter will be discovered beneath the great construct bearing his name, and it will be exhumed in disgrace and dragged through the streets of Rome by the mob. All the churches, chapels and cathedrals will be set ablaze and then left, burntout and abandoned. We will find other, less defiled, sites for our neo-temples.’
‘I see …’ said Slovo.
‘Before this you will find predicted three great universal conflicts, each more savage than the last, bringing half the world to ruin. None appear to be of our making but all serve our ultimate advantage.’
‘But of course,’ replied Admiral Slovo.
The Vehmist seemed a little disappointed by Slovo’s reaction and was anxious that he be properly impressed.
‘The concluding pages are sealed even to me,’ he confessed, ‘but looking ahead as far as permitted, we find reference to a time when man lives elsewhere than Mother Earth, though where or how that can be we cannot presently conceive.’
Slovo prevented the Vehmist’s hand from speeding forward through the pages. ‘Just at the moment,’ he said, politely apologetic, ‘I am more intrigued to see those pages which refer to me.’
‘Oh?’ said the Vehmist, surprised and discountenanced by such unexpected, self-regarding myopia. ‘Very well then.’
He turned back in The Book to a section with which he was plainly familiar, and left Slovo to peruse as he wished, whilst he reinvestigated the pleasures of the view over the Gulf. After all, the Admiral had a tongue in his head should he encounter difficulties in translation.
Admiral Slovo read for a long time and saw, in neat array, his entire life foretold. Long before he was even born, the writer had travelled in Slovo’s most private thoughts and foreseen all his days from birth to death, today. Slovo couldn’t help feeling that he needn’t have bothered to have actually lived his life.
He wished with all his ice-coated heart that he could find some fault, some fall from perfection, in the Vehme’s consummate cycle of prediction and fulfilment – and for the first and last time his prayers were promptly and properly answered.
‘This line here,’ he asked, succeeding in concealing the rising excitement from his voice, ‘what does it mean?’
The Vehmist leant over to read. ‘And he will hold the key,’ he pronounced, with ease born of prior acquaintance, ‘and the usurper will thus not prevail. That’s a reference to your crucial role in the matter of the Dybbuk and its attempt to bring on the end of everything. The key, that’s you; the usurper, that’s the Dybbuk – and due to you, it didn’t prevail, did it?’
‘I see,’ said Slovo and savoured a moment of quiet triumph. ‘However,’ he then went on, as though musing aloud, ‘might there not be an alternative reading of the text?’
‘No,’ said the Vehmist, returning to his vigil over the water to Naples.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Slovo persevered. ‘Might not “the usurper” be the Vehme – you do seek to usurp, don’t you? Might not “the key” be this?’
The Vehmist whirled about to see Admiral Slovo holding up an elaborate key, secured on a stout chain about his neck. The Welshman made to speak … thought on, and then sought to speak again – but could not, as his universe crashed in ruins about him.
‘To the prison of the gods?’ he quavered, when he could at last muster sufficient voice to talk. His wide eyes never left the elevated key. ‘To the chamber below Rome?’
Admiral Slovo nodded but was kind enough not to smile.
‘But … but you said the door was sealed – secured with a seal.’
‘I did and it is,’ agreed Slovo. ‘But that’s just wax – a ruse. Didn’t you ever wonder about the Cross-Keys symbol of the Papal emblem? One key to the Gates of Heaven for sure, but the second to some other place. What an unobservant lot you turned out to be! Yes, sirrah, the objects of your ambition and worship are held by lock and key, hapless captives of a Church that’s wiser than it looks. What a shame I never paid it the attention it deserves! Still, that’s life. No, you’ll never liberate your masters without permission – or without this key.’