Popes and Phantoms

by John Whitbourn

  ‘I should say so,’ now replied Luther. ‘A monk’s life should be austere but nowhere do I find it justified that it should also be miserable. If it were not wrong to impute bad faith, I would say Von Staupitz was out to upset us for reasons of his own.’

  Not knowing whether to be impressed by the monk’s perspicacity or shocked at the crudity of the Vehme, Slovo pushed the flask towards the monk. ‘I should have a drink,’ he said, oh-so reasonably. ‘You’ll enjoy your time with us more. Wine dulls those parts of man which discern pain and boredom. Conversely, it awakens the inner eye for joy.’

  ‘Life is crap, so drink and forget,’ added Father Droz, nudging the container even further forward till it threatened to topple into Luther’s lap.

  Strangely, the monk seemed to appreciate these last words and he was thereby persuaded. Downing the wine in one mighty convulsion of the throat, he smacked his lips and drew a pudgy hand across them to mop up the residue.

  Admiral Slovo was both encouraged and repelled. Not even the pirates he used to know consumed brain-stunning liquor with such indecent relish. Wine was, he realized, a powerful weapon against a man used to drinking in beer-quantities. The monk’s defences were now breached and open to the attack of new ideas and sensations.

  ‘Right then,’ Slovo said, gathering together his gloves and scrip, ‘since your colleague is off enjoying himself with death-by-a-thousand-sausages, we shall be away. What would you like to do?’

  Luther looked about, symbolically taking in the mighty City, one-time home of Empire and now the hub of Faith. The first assault of alcohol was making it all seem full of infinite possibility. ‘I should like,’ he said, ‘to … go to church.’

  Admiral Slovo saw propriety win a momentary victory during the monk’s hesitation. It didn’t matter. They’d planned for just such eventualities …

  It had taken an inordinate amount of money and the calling-in of several favours to get Numa Droz to dress as a priest. Not only did he have a low opinion of the cloth, he was also much attached to his rainbow silks and flamboyant hats.

  Admiral Slovo had won him over eventually but it’d been an uphill struggle. The Admiral did not number any six foot eight inch clerics among his acquaintance and so had to commission the necessary disguise as a special – and expensive – secret. But this had proved to be simplicity itself compared with coaching the mercenary to behave in a manner even distantly approaching that expected.

  However, Droz was warming to the role and beginning to enjoy the pantomime. After Mass at the Church of the Repentant St Mary the Egyptian, he sat with Luther and the Admiral outside a nearby Neapolitan baker’s-cum-resthouse, enjoying a lunch of pizza15 and watching the lively life of the adjacent Bordelletto.

  ‘I enjoyed that sermon,’ said Numa Droz. ‘It certainly stuck the knife in the Pelagian heresy!’

  ‘Is that why you kept shouting “Orthodox”?’ asked Luther.

  ‘Well, you can’t clap in church, can you?’ answered the Swiss, giving Slovo a who-is-this-yokel? look. ‘It reminded me of a talk I once gave to a load of captured Janissaries. My oath! Nigh on half of ’em renounced Islam on the spot!’

  ‘And the other half?’ asked Luther.

  ‘We stuck ’em on stakes, matey!’ Suddenly Droz recalled who and what he was currently meant to be. ‘I mean, that’s what they do to us – and anyway, they were all apostates!’

  ‘The Janissaries,’ explained Slovo to the monk, thinking a little interlude wouldn’t go amiss, ‘are recruited from a levy of Christian children imposed on the territories conquered by the Ottomans. They are raised as fanatical moslems and serve as the Sultan’s elite troops.’

  ‘I have heard of them,’ said Luther, ‘but would question whether the term “apostate” is appropriate. Full consent to salvation can only be given in adulthood.’

  ‘Can it?’ said Droz innocently. ‘If you say so.’

  The monk looked a little shocked but let it pass. He was plainly more exercised by the proximity of the church in which they’d just worshipped to Rome’s throbbing red-light district. Admiral Slovo noted the direction of his burning gaze.

  ‘Is something troubling you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said the monk, creasing his brow. ‘Do you see what I see?’

  Admiral Slovo and Numa Droz obligingly looked but saw nothing untoward.

  Luther turned to them in some agitation, not all, Slovo suspected, of innocent origin.

  ‘I’ve just seen men openly consorting with women of easy virtue,’ gasped the monk. ‘Look! He’s negotiating with her! They should be whipped!’

  ‘Well,’ observed Droz amiably, ‘maybe they will be, though it costs a little extra, I understand.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ said the monk. ‘I refer to this open … traffic – and beside a church as well. To think that next door to a House of God wherein the sanctuary light shines before the Body of Christ, they are performing such enormities!’

  ‘It’s how you got here,’ said Slovo, disarmingly.

  ‘Are you saying my mother—’ roared Luther, rising to his feet.

  ‘My reference was to the mechanics of the procreative act, not your personal antecedents’ came the calm reply. ‘In a city where men of quality tend to marry late, you are somewhat intolerant of the demands of human nature.’

  ‘I am mortified to hear you speak like this,’ said Luther, shaking so much with indignation that he had to sit down again.

  ‘It so happens that I am singularly well qualified to do so,’ claimed Slovo.

  ‘Are you admitting that you—’ interrupted the monk, ‘with the taste of communion still in your mouth?’

  ‘No,’ said Slovo, annoyingly failing to join in with the mounting wave of emotion. ‘I am not admitting what you might think, though there would be little shame in it if I did. It just so happens that my tastes are more restrained.’

  ‘And specialized,’ added Numa Droz candidly.

  ‘What I was referring to,’ the Admiral continued, ‘was that one of my early occupations in His Holiness’s service was the supervising of the great Social Register. This involved enumerating all the whores plying their trade in Rome, but, being lazy, I gave up counting after nigh on seven thousand freely answered to that calling. All that, mark you, in a city of fifty to sixty thousand souls. Ultimately, for fear of scandalizing both His Holiness and posterity, my finished return included only the true professionals of fourteen hundred or so. Of that number,’ he went on, ‘nigh on five hundred were foreigners, especially imported. And since it was obvious that none of these “unfortunates” starved from lack of trade, it must be accepted that they were well patronized. That being so, if a sin is so universally practised, is it any longer sin?’

  Before Luther could make the predictable point that murder and theft were pretty widespread too, but that didn’t make them all right, Admiral Slovo waved Numa Droz on to say his piece. The polished double-act caught the monk on the hop.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Droz in his priestly role, ‘I’ve got this theory. The purpose of the sexual act is breeding, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Luther agreed cautiously. ‘Such is the Church’s teaching, based on natural law.’

  ‘So, a sexual act is a procreative act and, conversely, a procreative act is a sexual one. Well then,’ said Droz triumphantly, pleased at having remembered his lines all the way through, ‘by that formula, any act which excludes procreation isn’t sexual, is it? If you take precautions or venture some of the more daring stuff the ladies over there offer, there’s no chance of a baby, and thus no sexual business and thus no sin, geddit?’

  ‘Um …’ replied Luther, frowning monstrously. Slovo saw that he oh-so wanted to embrace this radical revision of developed natural law but stubborn honesty was bringing him back, time and again, to the flaws within it. Pretty soon, worrying away at the edges, he’d be able to drive a coach-and-four through one of the resulting gaps. The Admiral therefore prepared some propositions to meet t
he monk if and when he emerged. Slovo was determined that the weary hours spent coaching Droz to carry out his very first abstract argument should not go to waste.

  Fortunately, at that exact moment, when all was in the balance, the powdered mushrooms that had been covertly introduced to Luther’s wine took effect. Slovo merely wished to make him more liberal and welcoming than hitherto, and it had been simplicity itself, for someone who’d spent two decades in the company of the Borgias, to doctor Luther’s drink. The monk’s attention had been seized by a passing Puttane with endless legs in gold hose; in a trice the deed was done – and the world thereby changed.

  Luther looked at Slovo and Droz anew, a fresh vivacious light in his slit eyes. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said slowly. ‘Hadn’t ever thought of it that way before. So you could say it’s the intention that counts, not the deed, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ replied the Admiral, not really listening any more, confident his job was done.

  ‘I mean,’ Luther sprinted on, ‘if ever a monk got to Heaven by monkery, it ought to be me. I’ve done my bit, ruined my knees in prayer and gone without beer and sausage for days on end to save my soul.’

  ‘And a lifetime without the flushed-pink diversions over there,’ smirked Droz. ‘No wonder you’re so worked up!’

  ‘You’re right, agreed the monk. ‘I reckon God should be more forgiving than man is, and men forgive almost anything. So, as long as you believe—’

  ‘The Just shall live by faith,’ mused Admiral Slovo, and – catching the monk’s chemically affected mind at just the right moment – inadvertently supplied the cornerstone of a whole new theology. Unknown to Slovo, the idea that would split Europe in two and put the Grim Reaper on to overtime had just been born.

  ‘Right!’ shouted Luther, standing up in his excitement. ‘Justification by faith alone – Ooo-wee!’ He punched the air and gyrated his bovine hips in a masterful, four centuries premature, impersonation of James Brown, ‘godfather of Soul’.

  ‘I feeeeeeeeeeel goooooooooooooooood!’ he sang, and the nearby ladies stared at him.

  ‘Over to you, I think,’ said Slovo to Droz. Things had gone terribly well – now for phase two of the plan.

  ‘I have some business to conduct elsewhere,’ Slovo explained to the dancing German. ‘However, Father Droz here will be with you for the rest of this little outing. He will take good care of you.’

  ‘S’right,’ rumbled the Swiss, pleased that things were now moving into his specialist sphere. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve brought a spare sword …’

  Unwilling to actually witness the spiritual squalor of what Numa Droz called a good night out, Admiral Slovo went home and occupied himself with the sort of things he did when people weren’t watching. He was awaiting the inevitable.

  It came at dawn in the form of a Burgundian Officer of the Watch. ‘Would the honoured Admiral be so good,’ he’d asked, puzzled but pleased to find Slovo dressed and waiting, ‘to attend the Castel Sant’Angelo and vouch for two malefactors who dare to claim acquaintance?’

  Admiral Slovo followed on at his leisure, having advanced in the world beyond blind obedience to the summons of some mercenary. In the Palazzo del Senatore, he waited until the coast was clear and then gave the contents of his moneyscrip to an old beggar-lady who was crouching in a doorway. Then he hurried off before anyone spotted the shameful deed. It would not do for his painfully acquired image to be compromised by public knowledge of pointless kindness. One of his many enemies might conclude he was getting soft and make a move against him.

  Even so, he’d felt impelled to make the gesture. Doubtless he would be richly rewarded, as usual, by the Vehme; land and money, and access to people and pleasure seemed to be theirs in infinite supply. There remained, though, some guilt about his compliance with their demands. Only a little, however …

  Then, mentally braced against the tedium of active life, he entered the Sant’Angelo – and found Numa Droz and Martin Luther holding court.

  The Watchmen, who were only hireling shepherds after all, were wary of Droz and had not attempted to disarm him. He was, Slovo straightaway realized, in that most unpredictable of phases where the waves of euphoria are set to crash against the cliffs of hangover. The Admiral accordingly kept communication to the minimum. The Swiss looked back red-eyed and noted the acknowledgement of a job well done. He felt pleased, but these things were tricky to judge.

  Luther, by contrast, was making noise enough for three, reliving the night’s exploits under the amused eyes of the Watch. He plainly had no idea how to hang or handle a sword, was boastful drunk and didn’t know or care that he’d split his monk’s habit from neck to arse.

  ‘Hello, Admiral,’ he shouted, weaving about unsteadily. ‘What a time we’ve had!’

  ‘We finally caught up with them making a fighting retreat from the Bordelletto,’ said the Burgundian, smiling wryly. ‘There’s probably two dead and a lot more who’ll need patching, no one of any importance though. You obviously know them and your word’s good with me. What’s it to be, sir, the informal garrotte, a proper hanging or shall I let them go?’

  Admiral Slovo paused for a few seconds before replying – just out of sadism really. Martin Luther sobered considerably in the interval.

  ‘The last option, I think,’ the Admiral said eventually.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ replied the Burgundian, signalling to his men to clear the way. ‘But if they’re either priest or monk, then I’m a Frenchman!’

  ‘No,’ admitted Slovo, to the man’s evident relief. ‘You’re not a Frenchman.’

  Outside in the comparative cool of the morning, Luther started to come off the boil. Slovo had chosen the ‘Thousand Star’ mushroom because of the reportedly gentle and benign return to earth it gave. Never again would the monk feel as good or live so fully as he had done these last few hours, but the warm memory would linger on, like the fading perfume in a lost loved-one’s clothes. It would keep him going for a while – long enough for it to be too late to turn back.

  ‘Ah – Admiral,’ Luther rhapsodized as they walked along. ‘I don’t know what to say …’

  ‘Good,’ said Slovo, but to no avail.

  ‘I’ve had the best night of my miserable life, I have. Mind you, I’m scandalized that a priest of Rome should know what Father Droz knows!’

  ‘Please,’ said Admiral Slovo, raising his black-gloved hand, ‘no details, I beg of you.’

  ‘We had opportunity for thought as well, you know, amidst all the … doing,’ said Luther, pouting and offended. ‘It was strange, my perception of time seemed to go funny; the hours stretched on and on.’

  ‘They did when you started talking!’ complained Numa Droz, raising his eyes to Heaven.

  ‘Father Droz is like a soldier in many respects,’ the monk went on regardless. ‘He has their fatalistic attitudes, most unlike a normal priest.’

  ‘All I said,’ protested Droz, ‘was that if a pike-head’s got your name on it, it’s got your name on it and there’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘It’s just so in accord with my new insight,’ said Luther, ignoring him. ‘We live by faith alone. If you’re justified by faith you’re saved, if you’re not, you’re not – and there’s nothing you can do about it! See?’

  When Luther added to himself, ‘I must think about this some more; it has such profound implications …’ then Slovo knew that the deed was done.

  The monk would be given all the opportunity to think that he wanted. Johann Von Staupitz was under orders to cherish Luther upon his return and allow him free rein. The German Augustinian Order would have switched dramatically from over-severity to discreditable laxity when Brother Martin got back to Efurt. In order to disorientate, he who had been his sausage-stealing enemy would become his patron, friend and teacher.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Admiral to monk, transfixing Luther with cold eyes, ‘to think your own thoughts, become sure of them and then don’t budge. Nail your colours to
the mast.’

  ‘Nail … to the mast!’ echoed Luther, fixing the advice in his befuddled brain.

  Admiral Slovo was no prophet or seer, but perhaps long association with the Vehme had granted him gifts of insight. Whatever the cause, he saw ahead and felt impelled to add: ‘Well, nail them to something anyway.’16

  ‘What could we say, Admiral?’ asked the Welsh Vehmist. ‘Your name was cropping up at nigh on every Council meeting and the praise was getting wilder.’

  Admiral Slovo was looking at the distant activity in and around his villa and thinking how marvellous it was at last to be free of care. ‘Was it actually all that much?’ he queried, albeit without great interest. ‘Didn’t you have myriad other agents burrowing away through the woodwork?’

  ‘None so gloriously favoured by success and omen,’ replied the Vehmist. ‘You were featuring in The Book with monotonous regularity, once we could see it, slipping with perfect fit into the predicted roles; those man-shaped spaces in history we’d allocated to be filled by one of our own. A Council member told me there’d not been such fulfilments of scripture since Attila appeared on the scene.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Slovo, ‘that the comparison is altogether flattering.’

  ‘Everyone has different parts to play,’ explained the Welshman. ‘We don’t necessarily approve of everything that’s predicted, but what is written is written and some of it you just can’t get round. You, however, we could applaud. You were worth all the tolerance and patience expended on you.’

  ‘You think so?’ said the Admiral, tracking the movements of a tiny fishing smack on the glittering waters below. He was jealous of the fisherman’s short and ignorant life.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ answered the Vehmist, wondering what was so absorbing about a stupid plank-and-rope boat when they were discussing the turning of the world. ‘After the event, we saw how needful it was for you to be there for the inspiration of Thomas Cromwell. It was awesome to see the fulfilment of Pletho’s words in so small a way – I mean – flowers and a branded bum! Fancy those insignificant things wreaking, by the gears and pulleys of position and power, such mighty violence on history!’