Popes and Phantoms

by John Whitbourn

  POPES AND PHANTOMS

  John Whitbourn

  www.sfgateway.com

  Enter the SF Gateway …

  In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

  ‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

  Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

  The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Gateway Introduction

  Contents

  Being Chapter Headings and Topic-titles, sole remnants from the otherwise lost: ‘THE NEW MEDITATIONS: MEMOIRS OF A STOIC PIRATE, PHILOSOPHER AND PAPAL GHOST-HUNTER’, BY ADMIRAL SLOVO OF CAPRI, ROME AND ELSEWHERE.

  VATICAN MISC. INCOMPLETE PAPERS – 16th century. Library 2.

  Stack 23. Shelf 15.

  Attrib: Slovo (floreat 1460?–1525?).

  Collection of: Bishop Fredo Dionisotti of Palermo (1685-1780).

  The Year 1525. ‘How did I get to here from there and was it really worth all the trouble? The consolations of flesh and philosophy.’

  The Year 1486. ‘SWIMMING LESSONS: After a sad and lonely childhood, cast as an orphan into the wicked world, I discover my vocation and philosophy of life. Piracy suits me very well.’

  The Year 1487. ‘I find service with a Master of my chosen trade and meet new and frightening people with my best interests at heart.’

  The Year 1488. ‘By possession of a beautiful bottom (but not my own) I secure a new position in life and acquire respectability and a wife!’

  The Year 1492. ‘INSTALMENTS: In which I become impatient and incite some nostalgics to ambitions of destroying the human race. Little by little, I learn something.’

  The Year 1493. ‘I die in Germany. Afterwards, I am enrolled in a conspiracy.’

  The Year 1497. ‘A STAB IN THE DARK: I apply liberality to the dispensing of Justice and assist a soul in torment.’

  The Year 1498. ‘I offer hospitality, but for which Notre Dame would become a Mosque.’

  The Year 1499. ‘GREAT EXPECTATIONS: I save a dynasty, dabble in racial politics and have my portrait painted.’

  The Year 1500. ‘In which some stony-hearts confide that I am important.’

  The Year 1506. ‘BE ASSURED, HE IS NOT THERE: I commission a masterpiece of Western art and learn the key mystery of Mother Church. A friend is glad to hear he has not wasted his life.’

  The Year 1508. ‘PUTTING OFF THE EVIL DAY: In which I render a god homeless, mingle with Royalty, learning their dark and disgraceful secrets, and do the world a great favour for which it is not particularly grateful.’

  The Year 1509. ‘In bed with the Borgias. Cannons and cuckoldry in Northern Italy. An ordeal not entirely in accord with my tastes.’

  The Year 1510. ‘THE FLOWERING OF THE REFORMATION & FATHER DROZ’S LITTLE OUTING: A symposium on faith, carnal lust and sausage. I guiltily sow weeds in the fields of Mother Church.’

  The Year 1520. ‘A LIGHT TO (AND FROM) THE GENTILES: In which I decide the fate of the Universe and become Lord of the Isle of Capri.’

  The Year?. ‘ENVOI: The Devil’s gift-box contains only unsweet sorrow. A comfortable life, another wife and additions to the tribe of Slovo. A bath seems increasingly attractive however.’

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  Notes

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  Copyright

  The Year 1525

  ‘How did I get to here from there and was it really worth all the trouble? The consolations of flesh and philosophy.’

  In the year 1525 yet another European nation – Denmark – discovered the joys of Lutheranism and the ex-friar Luther discovered the joys of matrimony (with a former nun). At the same time, Admiral Slovo, Lord of Capri, Papal Knight, sometime Gonfaloniere (banner-bearer) of His Holiness’s armed forces and subject of ‘death-on-sight’ notices in Venice, Geneva and sundry other places, decided it was time for his bath.

  True, the sunrise was beautiful, the sound of his little children playing most diverting, but they were no longer sufficient to delay him. That bath, so long put off, now seemed overwhelmingly attractive. Gathering his heavy black gown about him he hobbled down from his seat on the hill and into the grounds of his villa. The gardens were quite superlative, not a bloom or blade of grass out of place. It was, in fact, that one day of the year that comes to all well-kept gardens when there is not a thing left to be done and perfection hangs in precarious balance. An auspicious time for my ablutions, the Admiral thought.

  Inside, he smiled at the antique statue of the Roman Emperor, he smiled at the handsome grooms and pretty maids who comprised his household staff. Had she chosen to show herself, Admiral Slovo would even have smiled at his young wife but, as ever, she was keeping out of his way.

  The bath was sunken and made of the whitest marble. His love of antiquity had made him lavish vast sums on it to recreate the old Roman bath-house style, but even all that gold had captured only the shape, not the spirit, of the thing. The whole concept had turned out to be a disappointment, like so much else.

  Whilst painted lads and lasses hurried with steaming water at his command, Admiral Slovo limped about to check that he had all that he would need. There within easy reach was the sponge, the strigil, the tub of cleansing grease, a towel. Beside these was his writing tray with vellum, quill and inkpot (in case inspiration should strike) and the special wax-treated, steam-and-water proofed, bath-time copy of the immortal Meditations that he’d had made.

  ‘No, not today, thank you all the same,’ said the Admiral to the implicit query of the Tuscan brother and sister who’d poured the last great terra-cotta amphora of water into the brimming pool. This was one occasion when company, for whatever purpose, would be inappropriate.

  When these two had left the chamber, Slovo stooped down and placed the one remaining necessary item beside all the others. It was vital that there be a razor to open his wrists.

  Before immersing himself, Admiral Slovo recalled the bottle of Falernian he had spent a prince’s ransom on some years before and which had been recovered from a shipwreck of the Imperial Age by sponge divers off Carthage. A Castilian middleman had known enough of the Admiral’s tastes to seek him out and earn the means to retire. The seal was good, the contents unblemished (so far as could be told) and Slovo was unable to resist the temptation to partake of a vintage such as Horace or even the divi
ne Marcus might have known. To enjoy it now seemed happily in accord with the moment.

  In the event it was disgusting. The bouquet that escaped the bottle’s fifteen hundred years of meditation could have stripped the villa’s walls of their painted murals; the contents seemed capable of dissolving the bricks behind them. The appropriate response to the Judas concoction would have been to dash it to the floor but, now more than ever proof against the storms of emotion, Admiral Slovo merely placed it down and wandered off, naked, to fetch a flagon of rough Capri red.

  At the bathroom door he came face to face with a stranger and knew straightaway that all his plans, his bath, his dignified exit from the world, were now postponed.

  Because of all he had done and the causes he had served, Admiral Slovo’s home was surrounded and penetrated by subtle security. Cold-eyed soldiery supervised every movement in and out of Villa di Slovo. There was even an outer band of vigilance based in Naples Harbour, monitoring access to Capri itself. However, this man in black had walked through them all and thus whatever he might have to say demanded respectful attention.

  Admiral Slovo did not fear for his life since he had been about to take that himself. Anyway, the visitor did not appear in the least malign but merely curious. Peering past Slovo’s head at the scene behind, his gaze was caught by the utensils laid out by the bathside.

  ‘It seems I’ve arrived just in time,’ he said, his voice betraying only indifference at this turn of fate. ‘Our calculations suggested events would not be so far advanced …’

  Admiral Slovo, knowing full well who this man was although they had never met before, felt relieved that here at the close of play, one short step from boarding Charon’s ferry, he was not so much a puppet as to be entirely predictable. ‘As you can see,’ he said politely, ‘I am about to embark on a journey. If you have further work for me you’ve left it too late.’

  The man held up his hands to express exaggerated horror at such a misunderstanding. The sleeves of his cowl fell back to display, to the Admiral’s surprise, the cold pale flesh of the northern barbarians. ‘Goodness no!’ The man spoke as before in impeccable Italian. ‘I should not wish to disturb you by suggesting that you can be of any further use to us.’

  ‘Just as well,’ said Slovo, turning back to the bath. ‘My days of doing are done.’

  ‘And so they should be. You have achieved so much for us, our Masters could hardly ask for more.’

  ‘Your Masters,’ corrected the Admiral. ‘I was never more than a jobbing-contractor, a mercenary in their service – nor wished to be.’

  The visitor plainly disagreed, but hid the spirit of discord from his unkind blue eyes. ‘Let us not quarrel today of all days,’ he said. ‘It would not be seemly to part on bad terms. My superiors would not lightly forgive me for that.’

  ‘Forgiveness hardly being one of their principal traits,’ said Slovo, matter of factly.

  ‘No,’ the man concurred. ‘Or yours, come to that – from what I’ve read.’

  Slovo shrugged, accepting the charge lightly.

  ‘Your present nakedness doesn’t inhibit you, I note. Does that also stem from your admiration for Romano-Hellenic culture – along with the Stoicism1 and all that?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the Admiral, with the mildest of grimaces. ‘Along with the Stoicism “and all that”. Besides,’ he added in acid tones, ‘in all the cultures I’ve ever encountered, it is customary to disrobe before bathing. Is that not the case in your … England?’

  ‘Wales, actually.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘I beg to differ. Look, Admiral, I appreciate that I have interrupted a matter of surpassing importance to you but my purpose is not an idle one. Realizing that you were likely to soon depart, our Masters sent me to convey the gratitude that I have hinted at. I am entrusted with a final message as to the warmth of their sentiments for you.’

  ‘I dislike sentiment,’ said Admiral Slovo. ‘I despise it with a passion in paradoxical opposition to my Stoical beliefs. Your journey from your land of rain and emotional dysentery has been wasted, I fear. I could happily have had my bath not knowing this burning news you’ve brought me.’

  ‘It was suspected as much,’ the man said, ‘and so mere farewells are not all I have brought. I have The Book with me – or at least a copy of it.’

  ‘Ah …’ said the Admiral rapidly re-evaluating, ‘that may be different. The complete work?’

  ‘Alpha to Omega, first to last page, unsullied by excision.’

  ‘I see …’ mused Slovo. ‘That alters things.’

  ‘I hoped it might.’

  ‘You are more senior than you seem – to be so entrusted.’ The Admiral eyed the stocky young Welshman with more respect.

  ‘One sees more of true human nature as someone of no apparent import.’ The man shrugged, ‘And no, your unpredictability is well known of old; you couldn’t ply that famous stiletto blade of yours and just take The Book. In such an event it would simply self-combust. If preparation is of any value at all then I am proof against anything you can muster.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Slovo, still engaged with the output pouring from the computer-forerunner that he had made of his mind. ‘Very well. I will talk with you. I won’t fill the bath with my blood just yet.’

  The Welshman nodded agreement. ‘Excellent. I think we will both learn thereby.’

  The Admiral smiled sadly. ‘I fear the only things I could tell you would shrivel up your soul and make you a thing of stone,’ he said.

  ‘Like you? Well, yes, I have hopes of that.’

  ‘Whereas I,’ said Slovo, ‘am curious merely to hold The Book, to learn from it to what precise end I have devoted my life.’

  ‘Then the bargain is struck,’ grinned the Welshman.

  ‘It was struck long ago,’ disagreed the Admiral, ‘and I suspect it was not fair-dealing. One side or the other was rooked.’

  ‘There’s commerce for you,’ came the answering quip. ‘Now, shall I call some of your ganymedes to help you robe or is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘They are more used to assisting with the opposite process,’ responded Slovo magisterially. ‘As to yourself – yes, go and fetch a bottle of good wine. We’ll sit in the garden and drink it while we discuss the end of things.’

  They issued out into the sunlight arm in arm. In passing, Slovo ordered a servant girl, who was almost dressed in a white silk chiton, to usher his children indoors. His distant affection for them dictated that there were some things they should not see or hear.

  Both men were conditioned to admire the excessively formal gardens of Italian Renaissance high culture. In other circumstances they might have wandered Villa di Slovo’s symmetrical paths with relish. Indeed, the entire estate was designed for the promotion of calm and stately thoughts in both beholder and those who dwelt within. The close proximity of the ruins of the Villa Jovis, Emperor Tiberius’s notorious pleasure-palace, merely emphasized the point; their sad state evidencing the reassurance that all things will pass and the folly of unrestrained passion.

  The sun was climbing fast in the cloudless blue sky and there was every indication that the day would become sultry. The Welshman, left to himself, would have hurried to the hill-top summerhouse. The Admiral, however, was more used to the direct and relentless kiss of Sol. It had baked the galley decks he had trod long ago and now it was a friend that warmed the aging limbs which his sluggish Slovo blood betrayed. Therefore he took his time and made inventory as he went, admiring his gardener’s savage corseting of nature. Everything he wanted to see was present and correct: the box-hedges and laurels, the potted palms, the orange and lemon trees. Indeed the deliberate gaiety of it all might have seduced him into delusions of normality, as if today was just another day and tomorrow would be likewise. He tried hard to recall that this was not the case and quickened his pace accordingly. There was just a last item of business to be dealt with, best seen to speedily, and then he could be off.

/>   With his companion, he headed for the replica of a classical temple that had slender fluted columns and gleaming cupola, all made of marble. At the centre, round the pedestalled bust of Jupiter the Unconquered Sun, the interior was marvellously cool and airy. Admiral Slovo fetched another chair so that they could sit either side of a tiny table bearing dishes of drying fruit. The Welshman opened the flask of wine he had procured and filled them each a glass.

  ‘It’s good!’ he said eventually, licking his thin, pale lips.

  ‘What is?’ asked the Admiral. ‘The wine? The view? Your mission?’

  ‘Them all,’ came the answer. ‘Your wine is robust and spicy. The view over the gulf to Naples is all one could wish. And I enjoy my work.’

  The perspective over the Villa di Slovo, taking in the Palace of Tiberius, the blue of the sea and a distance-blessed image of the seething hell of Naples, was exquisite. Admiral Slovo had always intended that he would finally take stock of the world from such a place. Whole summer days had passed, remote from family and ordinary things, without him leaving its precincts. Now he sipped his wine expecting consolation but, like rebelling outposts of a failing empire, his taste buds were joining in the swift erosion of his faculties. Everything tasted sour nowadays – even this specially sweetened vintage. Still, to be positive right to the end, it was better than the Falernian.

  ‘I’m glad you are made happy by my hospitality. Is there anything else I can get you?’

  The visitor leaned back in the wicker seat and downed another cup. ‘I am content,’ he said briskly. ‘Are you?’

  Admiral Slovo had had ample years in which to tire of the verbal games of young men. Only his philosophical beliefs kept a note of tetchiness from entering his reply. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You must know my history and why that should be so.’