‘That’s impossible!’ shouted the public prosecutor. ‘It’s only an animal, for Christ’s sake. You’ve got dogs, vehicles, helicopters, scores of men.’
Reggiani lowered his head to hide his anger and took a deep breath before he answered. ‘You see, sir, all of the means that you’ve just mentioned have been used without achieving the slightest result. I’ve put my best men out in the field and on investigations. This is not just any old case. There are other matters that concern me as well and I need your help.’
The public prosecutor nodded, with an air of condescension.
‘I would like you to make a personal call to the directors of all the local papers and ask for a news blackout. I’m sure you can convince them that this is necessary due to the unique, extremely serious nature of the matter. I will arrange to inform local residents regarding the nature of the threat and the precautions to be taken. A lot of unverified stories are already going around. I’ll tell them the truth. Luckily, this isn’t a big city. There are a given number of families that must be informed. At the same time I will reorganize my investigation, starting from another angle.’
‘What angle might that be?’ asked the public prosecutor.
‘I want to start from the tomb,’ replied Reggiani. ‘From the man who opened it and excavated it. I think that’s where all this began.’
FABRIZIO took a bunch of keys from the hook and went down into the storeroom. Sonia had been so excited at seeing the pictures that she was eager to start immediately. He wanted to make sure that all the material would be ready for her to begin her work. If he got this out of the way, he’d be free to return to his own studies and forget about the rest. If that was an option.
He descended a couple of floors from street level and realized he was in the middle of the ancient city: tufa walls, old substructures in ruins, foundations made of huge blocks, surely from the Etruscan age. He switched on the light and walked down a long corridor covered by a barrel vault ceiling. On either side lay the dusty odds and ends typical of the cellars of the museums and NAS facilities all over Italy: chunks of marble and stone, column segments, fragmented sculptures waiting patiently to be restored, handles and necks of vases, floor tiles and boxes. Hundreds of boxes. Yellow and red plastic stacks, each with its own label reporting the name of the excavation, the sector and the layer where the finds contained inside had been found.
The materials from the Rovaio dig, except for the alabaster sarcophagus, which had been taken to another warehouse outside the city, were at the end of the hall, sitting on top of a shelf carved of stone which created a niche in the wall. Fabrizio laid a plastic sheet on the floor and started first of all to pick out the more scattered and splintered pieces of the human skeleton. He taped to the wall an enlargement of the digital shot he had taken inside the tomb, then switched on a portable mechanic’s light and began to gather the fragments, one after another, piecing them together with difficulty, seeking the lines of recomposition of a body almost disintegrated by a ravaging fury.
He patiently reconstructed shoulder and collar bones, lined up the phalanges of the fingers which were strewn in every direction. Every now and then he would glance at the blown-up photo on the wall and that awful image, that horrible tangle of bones and fangs, created a mounting sense of anxiety in him that he tried in vain to overcome. His fingers seemed to move on their own, brushing the man’s skull, part of the temporal bone still bearing a strip of the sack in which his head was enclosed during the cruel ordeal. The emotion that had been simmering inside of him exploded with uncontrollable force. Those bare bones electrified him, filled him with a clear, distinct vision of those atrocious moments: suffocated, breathless panting, the crazed beating of a heart gripped with terror. Fangs sinking into live flesh as the man screamed in pain, writhing about blindly, futilely wielding the sword tight in his fist. Blood that with every bite spurted out more copiously, soaking the ground, blood that made the animal more and more excited and aggressive, feeding its thirst for slaughter. He heard the sinister crunching of bones, yielding abruptly to those steel fangs, smelt the nauseating odour of intestines ripped from the man’s belly and devoured still throbbing, while he was alive and screaming, shaking violently in the throes of agony.
Dripping with sweat, Fabrizio could not control the furious beating of his own heart, nor the tears that were pouring from his eyes and running down his cheeks, nor the convulsive fluttering of his eyelids, which were fragmenting that tragedy into thousands of bloody shards that were pricking every centimetre of his body and soul.
He cried out in a hoarse, suffocated voice, the scream of a man dreaming, and he had the impression that his cry had snuffed out the bulb, abruptly plunging him into the gloom of the underground chambers. But soon that silent darkness was pierced by a mournful dirge and became animated by shadowy, sinister presences: ghosts cloaked in black carrying a litter which bore the bloody tatters of a large dismembered body. Behind them growled the beast, its eyes phosphorescent in the dim light and its mouth foaming, held tight by ropes and tethers, yanking its keepers this way and that with immense strength. They were dragging it to its final destiny: to be buried alive with the human meal that would have to satiate it for all eternity.
Fabrizio screamed again and then, tired of fighting it off, let himself sink into a well of silence.
HE WAS unaware of how much time had passed before a light stung his eyes and a voice shook him fully awake: ‘Professor! Professor! Good Lord, what has happened? Are you ill? Shall I call a doctor?’
Fabrizio got to his feet and wiped his forehead. The confused image peering out at him slowly took on the familiar features of a person he knew well: Mario, the security guard.
‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘There’s no need. I must have fainted. There’s nothing wrong, I feel fine, I promise you.’
Mario looked sceptical. ‘Are you sure? You look pretty awful.’
‘Perfectly sure. I was working down here, but it’s so damp and there’s no air . . .’
‘You’re right. This is no place for you to be working.’ The security guard lifted his eyes to the blown-up photo on the wall. ‘Good heavens! What on earth is that?’
‘It’s nothing, Mario,’ said Fabrizio, swiftly rolling up the enlargement. ‘Just bones. Lord knows how many you’ve seen.’
Mario got the hint and changed the subject. ‘Listen, they’re looking for you upstairs.’
‘Who’s looking for me?’
‘That carabiniere lieutenant. His name’s Reggiani.’
‘Do you know what he wants?’
‘He says it’s just to talk with you . . . I’ll bet you anything it’s about that second bloke they found murdered. He’s already asked me not to breathe a word about it. I don’t know how he knew that I know.’
‘That’s his job, Mario.’
‘Anyway, I haven’t spoken to a soul, but people know about it. Word gets around. People are scared.’
‘That’s understandable.’
‘You said it. So should I show him to your office?’
‘Yes, do that. Tell him I’ll be right there.’
Mario walked back up the stairs and Fabrizio turned to look at what he’d accomplished. Only the upper part of the human skeleton was reassembled, and only partially. He realized he might have to ask for help from a technician with expertise in osteology or he’d never manage to finish the job. There was still a lot of work to do, especially on the small fragments that were difficult to identify, and he hadn’t even started on the animal, whose entire skeleton seemed to be present and was in near-perfect condition, except for some cracking and splintering probably due to exposure to freezing temperatures through the millennia. Fabrizio bent over the bones and saw that one of the four huge canine teeth had become detached from the top jaw, most likely jolted loose during transport. He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket, with the intention of observing it carefully and measuring it. He then walked up the stairs, switched off the light a
nd closed the door behind him.
Lieutenant Reggiani was waiting in his office. When he entered, the officer got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Dr Castellani,’ he started. His expression made it clear that this was no courtesy call.
‘Hello, Lieutenant. Please make yourself at home,’ said Fabrizio in greeting, forcing himself to appear normal. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? From the dispenser, I mean.’
‘That’s fine with me,’ said Reggiani. ‘It’s not as bad as it used to be.’
Fabrizio left the room, then returned a few moments later with two espressos and two packets of sugar. He sat down at his desk.
Reggiani took a sip of the steaming coffee and began: ‘Dr Castellani, I’m sorry to be taking up your time, but the circumstances won’t allow me to do otherwise. You know what has been happening in the fields around Volterra . . .’
‘I don’t know all the details, but let’s say I’m aware of the situation.’
‘You don’t want to know all the details. Unfortunately, the situation is far from being under control and I’ve come here in the hopes that talking with you might give me some new perspective. Let me tell you briefly what’s been going on. On Wednesday at about two a.m., a Finanza police team surprised three individuals trying to break into an Etruscan tomb, the one that you have since become acquainted with.’
‘That’s right.’
‘One of them, a person that both we and the Finanza have been watching for some while, a certain Armando Ronchetti, was found dead the next day not far from the site of the break-in. The guy’s throat was basically ripped out. The coroner, who’s certainly used to seeing dead people, vomited his guts out.’
‘I can believe it.’
‘At first we thought he’d been attacked by a stray, but that seemed unlikely from the start, since Ronchetti had no doubt roamed those fields at night for years, given his line of work, and would certainly have known how to handle any dog. In fact, he had a torch with a flasher in his pocket, along with a pistol, a little 6.35-calibre Astra Llama.
‘As far as we can tell, whoever murdered him didn’t even give him the time to put his hand on the gun. Then, on Thursday evening, while you were completing your work at the excavation site, we found a second corpse in even worse shape than the first, slaughtered in the same gruesome way. According to the papers we found in his pocket, he was one Aurelio Rastelli, a resident of Volterra. Like his father, he had a market stall and sold items of clothing. Nothing in his background that could justify such a bloodthirsty murder, except pure chance.’
‘What you mean,’ said Fabrizio, ‘is finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘We have evidence, nonetheless, that Rastelli, like Ronchetti, had been involved – although we don’t know with what frequency – in the clandestine excavation and marketing of archaeological artefacts. You see, in this area, raiding tombs is like a second job for a number of people; a way to earn a little extra cash on the side. We and the Finanza do what we can, but there aren’t enough of us – the territory is quite vast and the locals aren’t always willing to lend a hand. I’ve talked to our anti-trafficking squad down in Rome and they confirm that Rastelli was picked up a few years ago for possession of stolen archaeological objects.’
‘Which doesn’t necessarily make him a professional tomb robber,’ observed Fabrizio. ‘I’m assuming you have no proof that he was at the Rovaio site with Ronchetti that night. Or do you?’
‘I’ve had the soil from the soles of his shoes analysed and yes, it does correspond to the soil in that area. But, unfortunately, it’s the same soil you’ll find anywhere around here, including the neighbourhood where Rastelli lives.’
‘So you’re back to the starting line?’
‘Yes, we are. He might have been present at the break-in, but then again, he might not. But let us suppose for a moment that, since we can’t exclude the possibility, Aurelio Rastelli was at the Rovaio tomb site on Wednesday night with Ronchetti and with a third individual we have not as yet identified. At that point, the two murdered men would have something in common – that is, they teamed up in the attempt to plunder an Etruscan tomb.’
‘All you need to do, then, is uncover the identity of the third man. You put a couple of well-armed units on his tail and wait until the killer – man or beast – shows up. Then you capture him or take him out.’
‘I could hire you as an investigator,’ Reggiani complimented him.
‘Yeah, an archaeologist is a bit like an investigator, Lieutenant, but there’s a difference. You arrive at the scene of a crime a few minutes or at most a few hours after the fact. We don’t get there until centuries later.’
‘That’s true. I never thought of that. But, as I was saying, we are unfortunately not certain that the second victim is actually connected to the first and we can’t afford to wait until we find the third. I’ve got too many people breathing down my neck.’
‘How can I help you, then?’
Reggiani lowered his head as though he were too embarrassed to express his thoughts in words. ‘I don’t know how to say this . . . Well, I have the impression that all this originated from the opening or, if you prefer, the violation of the Rovaio tomb. I know this will make you laugh, but I can’t help but wonder if . . . somehow . . . if it’s not the fault of some . . .’
‘Curse?’ offered Fabrizio, without a trace of sarcasm in his tone.
‘Well, I don’t know how to explain this . . . but I can tell you that sometimes, when we don’t have a scrap of information to go on, we’ve resorted to consulting certain individuals – you know . . . psychics, to be blunt. I can assure you that the results have been astonishing at times. It’s done abroad as well, in France, the US . . .’
‘Confidentially speaking, Lieutenant, there are archaeologists who consult psychics as well, though I’m not sure with what kind of success rate. Personally, I’ve never believed in them,’ Fabrizio went on, ‘but I must admit you have quite a problem on your hands. You don’t know where to turn.’
‘You’re right. We have no trail to follow, no evidence to examine. Nothing to go on, in short.’
Fabrizio thought of what he had imagined while he was at work below and he felt a chill go up his spine. Reggiani noticed his shudder.
‘What about that chase the other night?’ asked Fabrizio to distract the officer from his own reaction. ‘You had your guys out in full force.’
‘Right, and that attracted a little too much attention. We tried to pass it off as a man hunt after a robbery. Anyway, we turned up nothing. Like looking for ghosts. There’s nothing we haven’t tried. This morning I saw an anatomopathologist and spoke to our medical examiner, Dr La Bella. He’s a man of few words but great experience, and the results of his autopsy were, simply put, horrifying. Both men were slaughtered by an enormously powerful wild animal with huge fangs. We’re talking six or seven centimetres.’
Fabrizio scowled and remembered the canine tooth he’d picked out of the box downstairs. He stuck his hand in his pocket and felt it there, long, smooth and sharp, as if twenty-four centuries had passed without making a dent. He pulled it out and showed it to Lieutenant Reggiani, holding it by the tip.
‘Like this one?’ he asked.
6
LIEUTENANT REGGIANI stared in amazement at the sharp fang between Fabrizio’s index finger and thumb, then raised his eyes and held the archaeologist’s gaze for a long, tense, silent minute before saying, ‘Yes . . . I would say so. What is it?’
‘I should have an answer for that,’ said Fabrizio. ‘But I don t. A colleague of mine who is an expert in palaeozoology should be arriving soon from Bologna. She has studied a vast number of ancient bone fragments and skeletons of every species, both wild and domesticated. If she can’t figure this one out, I know of no one else who can. This tooth belongs to a complete skeleton of which I’ve sent her a photograph by email, but she seemed quite puzzled. She thought it was a canid, but wouldn’t hazard anything e
lse. It’s the dimensions which are astonishing, along with its uncommon anatomical features.’
‘Where did you find it?’
Fabrizio opened his desk drawer and pulled out a photograph, setting it down on the table for the officer.
‘In a roughly carved sarcophagus, without an inscription of any sort, inside the tomb I excavated at the Rovaio site.’
‘How extraordinary,’ exclaimed Reggiani as soon as he had managed to work out what he was looking at. ‘But . . . what is it?’
‘It’s the first and only physical proof we have ever found of the most frightful rite of the Etruscan religion. This is the tomb of a Phersu. Until now, we’ve only suspected its existence from iconography – most notably, a fresco in the Tomb of the Augurs in Tarquinia, along with a couple of others. But we’ve never had tangible evidence and certainly nothing so explicit.’
‘Go on,’ prompted Reggiani, as if he were interrogating a witness.
‘Habitually it was a sort of human sacrifice dedicated to the soul of a high-ranking person who had died. The rite has very ancient roots and was performed by diverse civilizations. Even the Greeks, in the most archaic age. Do you remember the Iliad?’
‘A little, here and there. I haven’t read it since high school,’ said Reggiani, certain that the professor was about to give him a lecture on classical culture.
‘You must certainly recall the funeral games honouring Patroclus, including a sword fight between two men. The referee, who is Achilles in this case, interrupts the combat at first blood. But it’s thought that in more ancient cultures the duellers were forced to fight on until one of them died, so that his soul could accompany into the afterlife the dead person for whom funeral rites were being celebrated. In later ages, these duels were purged of their bloodier components and became purely athletic competitions, converging in great sporting and religious performances like the Olympics. In Italy, on the other hand, the duels maintained their violent connotations and evolved into the gladiator fights of the Roman age.’
The Ancient Curse Page 6
