Fabrizio heard a dog barking and the sound of a chain running back and forth over a wire strung between the two buildings. A car was driving up and the dog was letting his master know. Who could it be so late at night in such an isolated place?
The vehicle looked like an old van. It stopped in the middle of the courtyard and a woman got out. At first, Fabrizio could not make out her features, but then the door opened and lit up her face. It was the woman from behind the bar at the Le Macine tavern!
Fabrizio realized immediately that a lot of his questions were about to be answered but unless he got closer he would miss whatever happened. He searched through his pockets and backpack for something he could pacify the dog with, but found nothing, not even a crust of bread. He aimed his binoculars and found himself witnessing – although he could not hear a word – an argument that soon degenerated into a violent quarrel. The woman stormed out, slamming the door behind her, got back into her van and drove off.
Strangely, during the whole time that the woman was inside, maybe ten minutes or so, the dog had never stopped barking. On the contrary, his yapping had become so fierce and insistent that Fabrizio could hear him distinctly, even at this distance. The dog continued to bark for a couple of minutes after the vehicle had disappeared, then stopped. Fabrizio could hear the chain sliding back and forth for a while, then nothing.
He decided to pluck up his courage and approach the man inside the house. He started up the car and drove it down the little lane with only his parking lights on. He stopped at the edge of the courtyard and got out as the dog started barking again and running up and down the muddy yard. Almost immediately the door opened and the man appeared as a dark shadow in the doorway.
‘Are you back?’ he shouted. ‘Get out, I told you! Get the hell out of here!’
‘My name is Fabrizio Castellani,’ was his answer. ‘You don’t know me, but—’
He was not given the opportunity to finish.
‘Get out!’ repeated the man, and this time it was clear that the order was directed at him.
‘I’m not a thief or a prankster,’ started up Fabrizio again, ‘and I need to talk to you, Mr . . . Montanari.’
‘I know full well who you are,’ responded the man. ‘You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Get out. Leave here. Get as far away as you can, if you don’t want to come to a nasty end. A horrible end.’
Fabrizio felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Hearing the same threat twice in the same day from two people, under such disturbing circumstances . . . that phrase suddenly struck home with all its ominous implications. He felt alone and defenceless, the potential victim of a mess of his own making. He struggled to control himself and, after a moment of hesitation, took a few steps forward. The chained dog instantly charged at him, barking furiously, but when it was almost upon him, it stopped in its tracks and began to yelp as though it recognized him. Fabrizio, prey to so many conflicting emotions, managed nonetheless to stay calm and not take to his heels.
‘I’m not afraid,’ he said in a firm voice. So firm, in fact, that he even convinced himself.
The man approached and looked him over from head to toe. He turned to the dog, which was still whimpering softly, as if waiting to be petted, and then back to the young man. He shook his head and said, ‘You’re crazy, all right . . . but, if you have to, come in.’
Fabrizio followed the man inside the house and found himself in a bare room with peeling, mouldy plaster. A light bulb hung from an enamelled iron plate in the middle of the room. On one of the walls was an image of the Immaculate Heart of Mary printed on a piece of cardboard that was curling at the edges with the damp. On the other walls were more sacred images, a little incongruous under the circumstances: St Rocco with a dog licking his wounds, and St Anthony the Abbot, with a horse, rooster and pig. Opposite the door stood a small cupboard topped by a glass case. Sitting on the cupboard top was an old phone, greasy and dirty. A table with two straw-bottomed chairs and nothing else. A strong odour of mildew saturated the room, a wretched place that reeked of abandonment.
Fabrizio’s gaze was drawn instinctively to the glass case and on the shelf directly over the telephone he noticed several fragments of archaeological objects, in particular some bucchero pottery with traces of a painted swastika motif, the same as he had found near the tomb of the Phersu.
‘You’re a tomb robber,’ said Fabrizio, looking straight into the man’s eyes with an affirmative rather than interrogative tone, and deliberately addressing him with the familiar ‘tu.
‘In a certain sense.’
‘You’re the one who found the slab with the inscription.’
‘I did.’
‘And you turned it over to the NAS. Why? For the money?’
‘It’ll make a nice nest egg.’
‘But you won’t be getting any of it until you say where the missing piece is.’
‘So they say.’
The man filled his glass and gestured at his guest to offer him some as well. Fabrizio declined politely with a shake of his head.
‘Where is it?’ he asked.
The man gulped down the wine in a single go and poured himself some more. Fabrizio was close enough to smell his sour breath.
‘You think I’d tell you?’ asked the man with a smirk. But behind his bravado, Fabrizio thought he could see a desperate need to talk to someone. To relieve himself, perhaps, of an intolerable burden.
‘Probably not,’ replied Fabrizio calmly. ‘But I can tell you that you’re the one who tipped off the police about the Phersu tomb. You were almost certainly there at the site with those poor wretches who ended up with their throats ripped out. But you slipped away before the Finanza team got there.’
The man suddenly leaned in closer. ‘Then it’s true that you’re dangerous!’ he said, gulping down more wine.
‘Who told you that? The woman from the Le Macine tavern?’
‘You know her? But how . . .’
‘Yeah, I know her. And so do you, I see.’
The man was increasingly surprised and confounded by Fabrizio’s words. He lowered his head, letting out a long breath.
‘I wish I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I’d be better off if I’d never met her.’
‘Same here. But why did she come here to see you in the middle of the night?’
The man sighed again. ‘Nightmares also come to visit in the middle of the night,’ he replied. ‘Since I found that inscription, she’s changed completely. She’s turned into another person.’
‘She’s the one who told you where the inscription was, isn’t she?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Was it her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she has kept one of the pieces after she got you to break up the slab?’
The man nodded.
‘So she instructed you to notify the National Antiquities Service.’
‘That’s my own fucking business!’ the man responded with a flash of pride. ‘They were supposed to give me a pile of money. And I was having problems making ends meet . . . I was in prison.’
‘She’s also the one who told you where you’d find the tomb.’
The man nodded, submissive again.
‘And she’ll tell you where the seventh fragment of the inscription is . . . when she decides.’
‘No. She’s already told me.’
‘Tonight?’
The man nodded again.
‘Why were you arguing?’
‘Because . . . I’ve had enough. I can’t take it any more. I won’t .
Fabrizio looked at him closely. His face was sallow, his brow damp with sweat. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. His eyes were wide and filled with fear. He was a sick man.
‘Tell me where it is,’ tried Fabrizio in a commanding tone.
But the man just shook his head convulsively, as if he were the prisoner of a force that dominated him completely.
‘Tell me!’ insisted Fabrizio, gra
bbing him by the shirt. ‘You absolutely must tell me! Many human lives may still be destroyed unless you do. Can’t you understand?’
The man yanked free, took a long breath and seemed to be about to say something when a long howl echoed, frighteningly close, followed by a deep snarling growl. The two men looked at each other with sudden, acute distress.
‘My God,’ said Fabrizio.
11
FABRIZIO SEARCHED the other man’s face but found only bewilderment and a touch of madness.
‘Do you have a weapon?’ he asked.
The man lowered his head. ‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘This time it’s come for me. I should never have refused.’
Fabrizio grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. ‘A man like you must have a gun somewhere, damn it! Get it and defend yourself. It’s only an animal. Ghosts don’t rip people apart the way he does.’
But as he spoke he felt like his voice was coming from someone else’s mouth, as if those weren’t his own words. This feeling of alienation made him profoundly uneasy.
‘You must have a weapon,’ he insisted, trying hard to pull himself together. ‘Get it and cover me while I try to reach my car. My rifle’s inside and it’s locked and loaded.’
As he spoke he could see the soft reflection of the burnished barrel in the darkness, smell the glycerine oil mixed with the persistent scent of gunpowder. All his senses were enhanced as he sought a point of focus.
The other man finally shook himself out of his trance. He got up, went towards the glass case and tried to control the trembling of his hands as he opened it. At that same moment the howl of the beast sounded even closer and was joined by the hoarse, furious barking of the dog outside. They heard the chain snapping back and forth, back and forth along the wire, followed by a fierce snarl and an immediately suffocated yelp. Then silence.
The man covered his mouth with his hand in a gesture of despair. ‘He killed my dog,’ he said softly. ‘He’s already here.’ Then, with a sudden flash of conscience, he pushed Fabrizio towards a door at the back of the kitchen. ‘You can get out this way. The regional road is just 100 metres away. There’s always a car passing. Run.’ He searched Fabrizio’s face fleetingly, but then his eyes turned blank. He walked mechanically to the door that led to the courtyard and was outside before Fabrizio could stop him.
Fabrizio heard a shriek of terror, followed by the same growl he’d heard a few nights before, suffocated as the animal sank his snout into flesh and blood. He ran through the kitchen, down the hall and out the back door. He could see his car out of the corner of his eye; he knew he could make it. But as he was about to make a dash for it, he saw two headlights flare at the far end the courtyard and Francesca’s little Jeep pulled up. He heard her voice calling, ‘Fabrizio! Fabrizio, are you there?’
Fabrizio felt his blood turn to water and, gripped by panic, he shouted out at the top of his voice, ‘Francesca! Francesca, no! Lock yourself in! Don’t move!’
And he sprinted towards his own car, partially illuminated now by Francesca’s headlights. But the beast instantly looked up from its victim and lunged after him. Fabrizio could feel its hot panting at his back, but he was sure he could make it. The car was there and Francesca was alive, though he could hear her terrified screaming. He opened the door, grabbed the gun, spun around and pulled the trigger. In the beam of the Jeep’s headlights he saw the creature’s terrifying bulk, its hackles raised, its bared bloodied fangs, and he understood he had failed in the same instant in which horror nailed him fast to the ground, slowed, almost paralysed his movements but left his mind free to race at an insane speed towards his own death.
He had no idea what was happening when the courtyard was swept by the blinding glare of another set of headlights. The dilated space of that unreal event was ripped through with agitated shouting and a burst of deafening explosions. He finally separated a voice he could recognize. It was Lieutenant Reggiani, yelling, ‘Fire! Fire! Shoot to kill, damn it. Don’t let it get away!’
Fabrizio heard bullets whistling in every direction, saw the dark sky streaked by vermilion tracers. White-hot stones scattered about him, filling the air with the sharp odour of burnt flint. A black mass made an impossible leap, cleared the squad-car blockade and disappeared into nowhere. Without noise, weightless, shape without substance, it seemed, until you saw the trail of blood it left behind. The man with his throat torn out was still bleeding in the glow of the headlights, his corpse jumbled up with the body of a dog, a brave little creature killed in the line of duty.
Fabrizio thought his head would explode. He called out, ‘Francesca!’ and the girl ran to him, threw herself into his arms and clung to him, crying the whole time.
Fabrizio touched her hair, caressed her cheek. ‘Do you believe me now?’
‘Looks like we got here just in time,’ rang out Reggiani’s voice to his right.
Fabrizio turned to face him. He was wearing combat fatigues and held two smoking pistols, one in each hand. The officer turned to the corpse on the ground.
‘To save you, that is. It’s over for this poor devil . . . Christ, what a horrifying death!’
Exhausted by so much emotion, Fabrizio put an arm around Francesca’s shoulders and walked her back to her Jeep, trying to calm her. He turned to Reggiani. ‘Could someone take my car home? Francesca can’t drive,’ he said, adding, ‘She’s in shock.’ As if he were fine and in complete control of all his faculties.
Reggiani didn’t miss a beat. ‘Right. You go and take care of her. We’ll take care of the car. Tonight or tomorrow morning.’
Fabrizio got into the Jeep and drove off at a slow pace, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and the other around Francesca’s shoulders and saying, every so often, ‘There, there. It’s all over now. You’ll be OK.’
‘Stay with me tonight, please,’ said Francesca as soon as she had calmed down.
‘Yes, I’ll stay with you. That’s why I asked Reggiani to have my car taken care of.’
He crossed the regional road and turned off on to the local road that led to Francesca’s house.
Once inside, she prepared some herbal tea, poured it into two cups and sat at the table opposite him. Her cheeks were still streaked with tears, her hair was messy and her eyes were red and yet she was beautiful, with a quiet, unselfconscious beauty she seemed totally unaware of.
He drank small sips of the tea until it was gone, then got up and said, ‘Come on. Let’s go to bed.’
THE NEXT MORNING Fabrizio woke up early and feeling fairly normal, surprisingly so. Perhaps he had Francesca’s herbal tea to thank. She was already in the kitchen, making breakfast. He could tell that last night’s ordeal had affected her but not prostrated her. She was not the type to let her emotions run wild. Fabrizio was sure she was already rationalizing what had happened and searching for plausible explanations.
‘Why did you follow me last night?’ he asked her suddenly.
‘I tried to call you, half an hour after you left, and you didn’t answer.’
‘That’s impossible. My mobile phone never rang.’
‘I’m sure you never heard it ring. You left it here!’ she said, opening a drawer. ‘I turned it off and put it away for safe keeping.’
Fabrizio shook his head, took the phone, turned it on and put it into his pocket.
‘When I realized your mobile phone was here, I wanted to let you know and I called your home number. It rang and rang. You forgot to turn on the answering machine.’
‘That’s likely.’
‘I tried ten minutes later, thinking you’d got held up somewhere or had a flat. Still no answer . . . so I put two and two together. I drove by your house anyway to make sure. The lights were on inside but your car was missing. I realized you’d gone in and out in such a hurry that you’d forgotten to switch off the lights. At that point I had no doubt – I figured you’d gone looking for Montanari.’
‘Right. And the carabinieri got on your tail.’
&nb
sp; ‘I think they were already on yours. I’m sure Reggiani’s keeping an eye on you.’
‘Hmm. They’re good at it. I hadn’t even noticed. But why were you trying to call me in the first place?’
‘Because I’d discovered something.’
‘After I’d left your house? Are you kidding me?’
‘No, not in the least. Hold on tight: Balestra’s inscription is opisthographic.’
‘What do you mean? That there’s writing on both sides?’
Francesca was all calm and composed. She took the coffee pot off the stove and poured out two cups, then proceeded to scramble three eggs while a couple of pieces of thick Tuscan bread were toasting in the oven.
‘How can you say that?’ insisted Fabrizio, trying not to appear impatient.
‘I have a copy of the tape I gave you and after you left I got curious. I couldn’t resist taking a look. I was fast-forwarding it when the cat starting miaowing from behind the door. I got up to let him in and opened a can of cat food. As I was putting it in his dish, I realized I’d forgotten to pause the VCR. When I got back, the tape had gone beyond the point at which you could see Balestra’s transcription of the Etruscan text, which was the only thing I had considered, and it picked up other images.’
‘What images?’ urged Fabrizio. ‘Francesca, don’t make me drag the words out of your mouth!’
‘My camera kept filming for five minutes longer and captured a sequence of images that look like they were created by a scanner. Balestra has one that recognizes sixteen million tones of grey. For some reason that I couldn’t fathom at first, he had photographed the back side of the inscription and then scanned the photo.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely sure. The bronze surface is perfectly recognizable. It’s fairly even but a little rough. You can even see where the inscription was photographed. It looks like an NAS warehouse, probably the one in Florence. There’s not much depth behind the slab, but enough to let you see beyond it. I imagine that Balestra noticed something strange about the back of the inscribed slab and decided to try to get a scanned image. So what to the bare eye must have looked like shadows actually came out as lines of writing, thanks to the resolution of the scanning equipment. Look’
The Ancient Curse Page 13
