The Ancient Curse

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

‘What about the seventh?’ she asked.

  ‘The part I’ve managed to translate is here,’ said Fabrizio, showing her a notebook page full of arrows and corrections.

  ‘Can you read it to me?’

  Fabrizio read, his voice hoarse:

  ‘The seventh death will [never] stop

  The beast will continue to kill

  [as long as] there is blood [to drink] in Velathri.

  ‘Do you know how many people have been killed? Six. All Volterrans of many generations.’

  ‘Good God. It feels like I’m living in a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.’

  ‘Here, take a look at this yourself.’

  Francesca’s eyes glazed over with tears.

  ‘Then this little boy shows up. No one knows who he is or where he comes from. But he says that in that awful place, in the palazzo, is his father.’

  ‘The man in the painting, Jacopo Ghirardini,’ offered Francesca.

  ‘If it is him in the picture and if he is Angelo’s father. It seems that no one knows anything about Jacopo Ghirardini. Unless, perhaps, Ambra Reiter, but I can’t see her telling us about it, unless Reggiani manages to convince her somehow—’

  As he was speaking, the phone rang. Fabrizio lifted the receiver and mouthed to Francesca, ‘Guess who?’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Reggiani’s voice at the other end.

  ‘I said, “Speak of the Devil and he will appear”,’ answered Fabrizio. ‘We were just talking about you.’

  ‘Saying bad things, I imagine.’

  ‘Obviously. What’s up?’

  ‘That little boy you’ve got there—’

  Angelo.’

  ‘If that’s his name. He arrived in Volterra five years ago when he was four, or perhaps a little less, with Reiter, who claimed to be his mother. They say that she was quite a beautiful woman, and that there was something between her and the count . . .’

  ‘No kidding! What else did you find out?’

  ‘About the child? Very little. We’re sending out a photo that one of our computer guys has touched up to make his face look five years younger. The program he’s using was developed by headquarters and they say it’s uncannily good. We’ll be sending the image around to all the police and carabiniere stations and to Interpol abroad. Maybe he’ll be recognized.’

  ‘That seems like an excellent idea,’ said Fabrizio, looking over at the sleeping child. The thought that they might find out who Angelo really was and that he’d have to be given back made him unhappy and uneasy, and he imagined that Francesca felt the same, from the way she was gazing at him.

  ‘Listen, there’s more, but not over the phone. I’ll come by to get you. I’m already in the car . . . I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Be ready. We don’t have much time.’

  He hung up.

  ‘So what did he say?’ asked Francesca.

  ‘Angelo arrived in Volterra five years ago, when he was more or less four. So it’s very unlikely that he’s Jacopo Ghirardini’s son. Although there may have been a relationship later between the count and Ambra Reiter. She certainly has the keys to the palace, the boy told us that himself. She’s the one who locked us in, no doubt about it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Francesca. ‘But then, who is the child’s father?’

  ‘He knows that his father lives in the palace, but the only image he’s ever seen is the one in the painting. There may be another reality that he can’t even imagine . . .’

  ‘No, you can’t be thinking what I think you are,’ objected Francesca. ‘That’s pure folly, Fabrizio!’

  ‘You think so? Then how can you explain that that bloodthirsty monster pulled up short like a puppy dog in front of the boy? You saw it yourself. Didn’t we both think we were staring death in the face just a moment before? And how do you explain a nine-year-old child standing up to a murderous beast? It was as if a supernatural force were watching over him. Any other kid his age would have become hysterical or passed out.’

  ‘He almost did.’

  ‘No. In reality, he dominated the situation. He moved as if he knew exactly what to do. He actually ran towards the beast while you and I were paralysed with fear. And the mark that he has on his right side where his liver is, it’s in exactly the same place as the spot that comes out when you X-ray the statue. Francesca, I think I understand. Do you remember the big underground chamber cut in the tufa underneath the Caretti-Riccardi palace?’

  ‘Where we found Angelo?’

  ‘Right. It was reworked in medieval times, but it’s still recognizable. It’s a large Etruscan chamber tomb from the fifth century BC. It must have been the Kaiknas necropolis.’

  ‘You know that’s impossible. The necropolises were always outside the city.’

  ‘Exactly. What makes you think that the area of the Caretti-Riccardi palace was inside the walls of the Etruscan city? Didn’t we see a section of the walls underground? Anyway, it’s easily checked. I’m sure the survey records will prove me right.’

  ‘That might be,’ agreed Francesca, very confused now.

  ‘I’m sure of it. The animal’s den is down there because there’s an Etruscan graveyard down there. The Kaiknas family tomb. Where Turm would have been buried had he died honourably, with his sword in his hand and his shield on his arm. As a warrior instead of as a scoundrel with his head tied in a sack, torn to pieces by a starving beast . . .’

  Fabrizio stopped because Francesca’s eyes were staring and flashing a message at him. A warning: be quiet.

  Fabrizio turned instinctively and found the boy behind him. On his feet, his eyes wide open and filled with pain and surprise.

  ‘Angelo, I-I . . .’ he stammered.

  Just then, the roar of an engine was heard and the screeching of tyres on gravel. Francesca went to open the door for Reggiani.

  ‘No time to waste, friends,’ the lieutenant called out, without even crossing the threshold. ‘Are you ready, Fabrizio?’

  Fabrizio had a moment of uncertainty. He looked at Angelo and then at Francesca, who gave him a quick nod of reassurance.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I’m ready.’

  He took his leather jacket from a hook, gave Francesca a kiss and touched the boy’s cheek, then got into Reggiani’s car, slamming the door hard. It was only a few seconds before the roar of the powerful engine faded into the distance.

  Francesca stood at the doorway with Angelo, who was squeezing her hand. She closed the door then and knelt to talk with him.

  ‘You looked scared before. Fabrizio was telling a story of something that happened a long, long time ago. You needn’t be frightened.’

  Angelo did not answer.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘Do you want to go back to bed? Are you still tired?’

  Another shake.

  ‘OK. Then just sit down here for a little while and wait. There’s something I have to do.’

  She went to the computer, opened the files with the inscription and the comparison chart and began working on the last two lines of the text. Fabrizio had already put the words in sequence and had hypothesized a grammatical structure. All that remained was to give meaning to the words. There had been no time to analyse the shadows of the opisthographic Latin text on the back of the slab. They could only work on the basis of the part that had already been translated, so Francesca hoped she wouldn’t run into any words that had not already appeared.

  Angelo sat in front of her with his hands on his knees, without moving, for the entire time she was working on the inscription. It was late afternoon when Francesca had managed to decipher enough terms to understand the general meaning of the last part of the text. She picked up where Fabrizio had ended:

  The beast will continue to kill

  [as long as] there is blood [to drink] in Velathri

  [Only] if the beast is separated from the man

  will vengeance be served [be placated]

 
[Only] if the son is [returned] to the father.

  Francesca turned to the child with her eyes full of tears, while somewhere in the distance, at that same moment, rose the howl of the chimera. Angelo jumped a little and turned in the direction of that long beastly lament, then looked back at Francesca.

  ‘We have to go,’ she said. ‘There’s not a minute to lose.’

  She scribbled a message on a sheet of paper, left a bunch of keys on top, took the child by the hand and left the house, closing the door behind her.

  17

  ‘DO YOU REMEMBER the yellow mud?’ asked Lieutenant Reggiani as soon as they turned on to the regional road.

  ‘Of course. I noticed it right away.’

  ‘You were right. I searched Ambra Reiter’s place at Le Macine using a metal detector, with the guys from the archaeological protection agency, and we found a shitload of stuff down there: bucchero pottery, candelabra, shields and helmets, incredible jewellery, even a war chariot.’

  ‘Yeah, I suspected as much.’

  ‘We also have pretty solid proof that the slab of Volterra was stored in that underground room for a number of days, perhaps even several weeks. There are traces of oxide on the damp mud and I’ve had them analysed. They were left by a bronze slab of an approximately rectangular shape.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. How did she get in and out?’

  ‘From behind the bar counter. That’s how she appeared that day from out of nowhere.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She wasn’t there when we searched the place, and I’m glad she wasn t. My plan was that if we found nothing, we would leave on tiptoe as we’d come in. But since all that treasure was found, I left Massaro there with three of the guys in hiding. When she waltzed in they arrested her; she’d been caught red-handed, all the objects were still in place and there was no way she could deny anything.’

  ‘Have you already interrogated her?’

  ‘No, I had her taken to headquarters. I’d like you to see the underground chamber and then, if you like, you can sit in on the interrogation. Undercover, that is. I know how tired you are, but I think it’s essential that you be there . . . then I’ll let you sleep.’

  ‘Sleep,’ groaned Fabrizio. ‘I don’t even know what the word means any more.’

  They turned off on to the country lane that led to Le Macine and Reggiani parked in the courtyard. Sergeant Massaro was there waiting for them at the door. He put a hand to his visor and offered Fabrizio an embarrassed hello, mindful of the hours he’d spent guarding an empty house.

  ‘News?’ asked Reggiani.

  ‘Bonetti has nearly completed his inventory, sir.’

  ‘Good. Let’s let Dr Castellani have a look.’

  Fabrizio went underground and exchanged a few friendly words with Bonetti, who was busy scribbling in a notebook.

  ‘Do you know where this stuff comes from?’ asked Fabrizio.

  ‘I’d say it’s all local, except for a few objects imported from other cities, perhaps in ancient times. Like that candelabrum, which looks as if it comes from Tarquinia,’ replied Bonetti, eager to share his technical competence with someone who knew what he was talking about.

  ‘Yeah, I’d say so,’ said Fabrizio without enthusiasm. Then he turned to Reggiani. ‘Do you want me to call Balestra?’

  The lieutenant hesitated a moment. ‘Maybe not. Not yet. I’d like to finish interrogating Ambra Reiter first. Do you feel up to joining me?’

  Fabrizio nodded and the two men returned upstairs and made their way to carabiniere headquarters, which was swarming with packs of journalists and television crews. As soon as he got out of the car, Reggiani was surrounded by a forest of microphones and TV cameras. The international press was already starting to show up as well.

  The same questions were shouted at him from every direction.

  Was it true that a monster was roaming the fields around Volterra? How many people had died? Ten? Twenty? Why hadn’t they called in the army?

  Reggiani raised his arms in a gesture of surrender and said, loudly enough to be heard by all, ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, there’s nothing I can tell you now. In just a few hours, certainly before evening, I’ll be calling a press conference and you’ll have all the answers you want. Right now, could you please let us through? We have urgent business to attend to.’

  He managed somehow to elbow his way through the crowd, followed by Fabrizio, and to enter the HQ building.

  Ambra Reiter was sitting at a desk. She had her legs crossed and was smoking. She seemed perfectly calm and her only movement was an occasional shake of the cigarette over the ashtray. Reggiani had Fabrizio shown to an adjacent cubicle with an interphone, so he could hear what was going on in the interrogation room.

  ‘Are you going to give her the third degree?’ he asked Reggiani.

  The officer shook his head with a half-smile, as he took off his cap and black leather gloves. ‘That’s only on TV. You’ve been watching too many old Clint Eastwood movies. All we’re doing here is asking questions. That may go on for hours. Even days. Only we switch off, while the person being interrogated can’t.’

  ‘Doesn’t she have the right to call a lawyer?’

  ‘She certainly does. But she doesn’t have a lawyer and the court-appointed counsel won’t be here until tomorrow. He’s just had a tooth extracted and he’ll be in the clinic until tonight, if there are no complications. Let me repeat this: we’re not doing her any harm. It’s only a few questions. Sit down and you’ll hear for yourself that no one is being tortured.’

  Fabrizio approached the listening console; Reggiani entered his office and sat down on the opposite side of the desk and rested his cap and gloves on the table.

  ‘I’m Lieutenant Reggiani,’ he said. ‘We’ve met before, at Le Macine, if I’m not mistaken.’

  Ambra Reiter nodded.

  ‘Your counsel will be here tomorrow. You have the right to remain silent. But I can tell you that if you collaborate with us you’ll have considerable advantages in negotiating a plea agreement. As you can see, we’re making no recording of this session and nothing you say will be held against you.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘I’ve committed no crime.’

  ‘Illegal possession of archaeological material worth millions is not a crime?’

  ‘I just work at the bar. How do I know what’s underground?’

  ‘You certainly do know. When Dr Castellani and I came calling, you appeared behind us. You’d obviously emerged from the hatch behind the bar counter.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Of course it is. I immediately noticed your shoes were caked with yellow mud, the same soil we found in the underground chamber.’

  Fabrizio couldn’t help but smile at how Reggiani was taking credit for something he hadn’t noticed at all, but he obviously wanted to make an impression on the woman as far as his investigative skills were concerned.

  ‘In any case,’ continued the lieutenant, ‘if you are not responsible for the underground treasure trove, you’ll have to tell me who is. I doubt that people can come through your tavern carrying vases and candelabra, shields and helmets, without you ever noticing. Tell me this. How did they dig up the chamber without you knowing?’

  ‘Evidently it was already there, dug before I took over the tavern.’

  ‘You know that’s not true, Ms Reiter. We’ve already taken samples of the concrete on the walls and before evening I’ll be able to show you an expert’s technical report that demonstrates that the chamber was created no more than one year ago. What do you say to that?’

  The woman gave him a hard stare. ‘I have nothing to say, and won’t say anything until I have a lawyer.’

  ‘As you prefer, ma’am, but you must know you’re running a great risk . . .’

  The woman did not seem to acknowledge his threat and lit another cigarette.

  Reggiani took a packet from his inside jacket pocket. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked. />
  But Ambra Reiter had withdrawn completely and gave no answer.

  ‘As I was saying . . . you’re putting yourself in grave danger,’ Reggiani continued, lighting his own cigarette. ‘You are aware, I’m sure, of how Pietro Montanari died.’

  ‘Yeah. I heard about it,’ said the woman after a few moments of silence.

  ‘Yes, you must have been quite upset, seeing that you knew him so well. Unfortunately, you were the last person to have seen him before he was found murdered.’

  Reggiani’s suggestion seemed to startle her. ‘You’re making things up to frighten me and trick me into saying things that aren’t true. Your tactics won’t work with me.’

  ‘They won’t?’ Reggiani pressed a button on the interphone and said, ‘Massaro, can you bring me the La Casaccia file please?’

  The sergeant came in and laid a file on the table. It contained several black-and-white photographs as well as some transparencies developed from digital images.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Reggiani, showing them to the woman. ‘These are your tyre tracks. And we have a witness who saw you enter and then exit from Montanari’s house at ten thirty p.m. The cadaver was found, in horrific condition I may add, shortly thereafter. Moreover, your fingerprints were present in multiple locations throughout the house, as were footprints that match shoes found in your home. Fortunately for us, and unfortunately for you, Montanari’s courtyard was quite muddy . . . And that’s not all. Tracks left by the tyres of your vehicle were also found at La Motola, not far from where Santocchi was murdered.’

  Ambra Reiter seemed shaken.

  ‘What’s more,’ Reggiani added, ‘both Montanari and Santocchi were found with their throats ripped out, exactly like the other victims who died both before and after they did. Which would suggest a serial killer. No judge would believe the cock-and-bull story the papers are putting out about a werewolf prowling around the fields of Volterra. They will find the evidence I’ve produced much more convincing. It all adds up against you, doesn’t it? If my past experience is any indication, you can be reasonably certain of spending the rest of your days in prison. I’d guess that you’ll be serving hard time in one of those maximum-security prisons, obviously, since you seem to be in perfect mental health. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy actually . . .’