Popes and Phantoms

‘Wotcha, stony-face! What’s the problem?’

Admiral Slovo turned his chilly gaze to see a crop-headed docker.

‘Cheer up mate, it might never ’appen,’ said another.

For Slovo ‘it’ had already happened. He had been ordered forth from his sunshine, books and comforts, out into the wild North and the company of barbarians with bad teeth and manners. ‘It’ was personified by the human slab who had mocked him, a person now the merest impulse away from stiletto-time.

‘Slovo, ho!’ shouted a mildly more cultivated voice, breaking the spell.

The Admiral swivelled round to find himself hailed from the far end of the quay by a small group of horsemen. The one thing he really hated was having his name bellowed out in public – a deplorable breach of security, enough to set nerve endings ablaze. It was a bad end to a bad trip.

Their obvious leader, a red-faced military type, trotted up to within polite talking distance, only now taking the trouble to wipe some odd white-ish foam from his spade-beard.

‘Slovo?’ he barked again. ‘The Roman? Is that you?’ His Latin was as bad as his manners.

‘I am he,’ said the Admiral quietly.

‘Sorry we’re late: been waiting long?’

‘A matter of a few hours, three or four at the most. There has been opportunity to study Pevensey’s Roman Castilia and its surrounding hovels. The rain was almost refreshing.’

The military man nodded absently. ‘Still, you had your baggage to sit on, eh?’ He pointed to Slovo’s sea-chest. ‘And good old England to look at. Only we got delayed on the road, see.’

‘The English beer, it is so good and irresistible,’ offered the second prominent horseman – as clearly an alien as the others were obviously English. ‘We had to stop and indulge.’

The old soldier gave his plump companion a blackish look. ‘Yes, well … anyway,’ he said, ‘this is de Peubla, Spanish Ambassador sort of chap; as to me, I’m Daubeny – Giles – Baron. The rest are your escort. Are you fit?’

‘Reasonably so,’ answered Slovo. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I mean are you ready to go? We’re paying you by the hour I understand.’

‘Few things would give me greater pleasure than departure from here, my Lord.’

‘Well, you’re easily pleased then,’ said Daubeny. ‘We’ve brought a horse, so jump up and say farewell to Pevensey Port.’

Admiral Slovo mounted up, earning his first plus points in the Englishmen’s eyes by his ease of doing so. He looked round at the rain-damp little houses, the ruinous castle, and dull, copper sea, suppressing a shudder as he did so. ‘Farewell, this side of the grave, please God,’ he muttered.

But from his new prominence on the war-horse, Slovo caught sight of the surrounding and sombre marshy levels, and suddenly English domestic architecture possessed newfound attractions.

‘What of my sea-chest?’ he asked briskly for fear his opinion of the view be sought.

‘Oh, it’ll be sent on I expect,’ said Daubeny airily. ‘The dock artificers will deal with the matter.’

Slovo looked dubiously at the swarming dock workers and in a valuable Stoic spiritual exercise forced himself to bid farewell to his possessions.

‘Best hoof forward then, Roman,’ said Daubeny, leaning close. ‘There’s no time to lose.’