‘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
divine 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
Stoicism[1] 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.’
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1
Ancient philosophy placing an emphasis on life lived in accordance with
the awesome order perceived in Nature, on restraint and
self-containment, and virtue as a duty and its own reward. In the Roman
context, and indeed to the present day, it is associated with a certain
stern-mindedness and what might be termed the ‘republican virtues’. Its
appeal seems to rest upon the opportunity for a rational ordering of
life, and an escape from the pointless storms of human nature. ‘…
whenever the virtues begin to lose their central place, Stoic patterns
of thought and action at once reappear. Stoicism remains one of the
permanent moral possibilities within the cultures of the West.’
(Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue, 1981)
On the other hand, the great classicist Professor E. Griffiths brutally
dismisses it as ‘the shield of the despairing; mere gift-wrapping round
the death-wish.’
