by Jon Tracy
Bless you, gifted artisans from the temple of Venus Libitina.
Bless all of you who have put your judgement aside and now prepare me to stage a dignified escape from my death.
I see familiar faces around me.
My family and friends are dressed in the dull mourning wools of vestes pullae, their bodies unwashed, their hair uncombed, their nails uncut and clothes unchanged since I passed.
Flutes play outside in the darkness where they are waiting for me. The conclamatio has begun.
I hear my name being chanted.
Cassandra… Cassandra… Cassandra…
One by one they bend over me to say their final farewell, my extremum vale.
Musicians lead the way as they carry me feet first with my face respectfully covered.
The female praeficae follow. Their tearful funereal dirge further chills the cool night air.
Sadly, there will be no stopping in the forum. My redemption in death is not complete and the honour that should befall me as the wife of a senator has been denied because of my unjust shame.
The walk to my resting place is a long one. Way beyond the city walls, as decreed by the code laid down in the Twelve Tables.
The dirge has stopped by the time we reach the ustrina, the sacred enclosures. Those who have carried me are tired but do their best not to look pained or drawn.
Much work has been done to observe proper ceremony. My husband has shown me more attention in death than in life.
My altar is high. Four equal sides of strong timber. A fine exit.
In the dead of night, the pyre is lit.
The flames rise endlessly into the night sky and reach beyond the earth.
So does my spirit.
Cassandra is unshackled.
8
Paris
Just after midnight, in a cobbled back street off the Champs-Elysees, Tom Shaman finds himself cradling a bottle of Mexican beer in a dubious club. It’s the type that privately promotes gambling and other pursuits that even in Paris aren’t legal.
Jean-Paul has been coming here for more than a decade. He leads his friend away from the crowded main bar to the back of the club, where raucous cheers come from behind a long row of black curtains.
‘Do you know what savate is?’ shouts the Frenchman over the top of the crowd noise and the froth of his own beer.
‘Not a clue.’
JP leans closer, ‘It is the boxe francaise, the only martial art to originate in Europe. It has been shown in an X-Men film, featured in Captain America and even Tintin.’ He laughs. ‘It is very select – very famous.’
‘A kind of kickboxing?’
‘Yes, if you like. It is a style of fighting with foot and fist made famous by Napoleon’s troops. Now it is something of a back-street sport, with heavy wagers. Do you want to see?’
It’s his last night in Paris; Tom is up for almost anything. ‘Sure.’
JP digs one hundred euros entrance money out of his jeans pockets and pays a burly, bald-headed man in a black suit to pull back the curtains. They’re ushered through a door that leads to what was once a large loading bay. Now it is filled with close to two hundred people, clutching drinks and gathered around a large, one-rope ring.
Tom soaks up the scene. He’s not a violent man, never has been, but there’s something about boxing that attracts him. It’s a personal failing. An indulgence of one of his baser instincts. Some overdeveloped survival gene craving release through physical combat.
On the right-hand side of the room, a small, scruffy man in his late twenties is taking bets, marking odds and writing names in felt tip on a whiteboard easel. A metre away, some better-heeled business types are torn between watching the bout and checking on the shifting odds.
In the ring, a hopeless mismatch is under way.
A Neanderthal the size of a house is kicking lumps out of a kid who must only be in his late teens. Judging by the throwback’s face, he’s been in some nasty fights in his time. Part of his right ear is missing – probably punched or chewed off in a street brawl. His nose has been broken enough times to leave it crooked, and shiny snakes of scars slither across both his cheeks and forehead. The kid is well muscled and gym fit, but gives away more than a foot in height, fifty pounds in weight and around twenty-five years in experience.
JP points to the fighters. ‘Originally, the aim of savate was to kick at the shins and legs, up to waist height. You could strike blows to the head only with the palm of your hand. Now you see many high kicks and maybe even sumo wrestling.’
Tom puts his beer down on a thin shelf on the back wall. ‘It’s a freak show. That kid would need a stepladder to high-kick the giant there.’
‘True. But this is part of the entertainment, no? David and Goliath.’
Tom notices something else. ‘Why are they standing strangely?’
‘The stance is from fencing. You must remember that at one point this was a very noble art, fought not only here but across Europe, and especially in England too.’ Jean-Paul warms to his subject, ‘There was one famous French fighter, Michael Casseuse, who made the sport his own. He was very powerful. To frighten his opponents he used to carry a cannon over his shoulders as he entered the ring.’
‘A canon? You mean like a bishop or cardinal?’
The Frenchman laughs. ‘Fool! A cannon like a ship’s cannon.’
The kid in the ring takes a terrible kick to the face and drops unconscious. Blood spatters the sawdust floor. There are beery cheers. The business types high-five each other and some lackeys drag the boy to the corner and splash him with water. Neanderthal circles the ring, chin up and arms aloft, parading like he’s won a championship belt.
‘Shouldn’t the big guy fight someone his own weight and size?’ Tom’s eyes never leave the ring.
‘Indeed, and in a proper public bout the beast would be wearing gloves and would only fight people of his own grading. But this is a little wilder, no?’ JP points to a line of bare-chested young boys waiting their turn to step into the ring. ‘You put a hundred euros down and win five hundred if you can last a single round with the beast over there.’
‘And what if you beat him?
‘You do not beat him.’ JP studies Tom’s face with interest. ‘You do not even think of beating him.’
‘No, seriously, what if you beat him?’
A voice from behind them answers. ‘Then I give you ten thousand euros.’
They both turn to find a tall, thin black man in his mid thirties smiling at them. He’s exquisitely dressed in a charcoalgrey Christian Lacroix suit with a crisp white shirt and pink silk Hermes tie. ‘I am Sebastian Civrais. The beast – as your acquaintance calls him – has never been beaten.’ He looks Tom over, ‘Now you, my big American friend, I imagine that you could tempt people to wager high that you had a chance to do so.’ He flashes a broad grin, ‘So, I tell you what, I’ll give you five thousand euros if you can last three rounds with him, ten if you can beat him.’
Loud cheers erupt from the ring.
Another slightly drunk and very foolish teenage boy steps on to the canvas and heads to his slaughter.
Jean-Paul is worried. ‘Tom, it is best to watch, not to participate. Ten thousand euros will not buy you a new eye or repair a broken jaw.’ He glances towards the ring, ‘I do not think the brute can only beat small boys. I imagine if we both fought him we would still end up losing.’
Tom isn’t so sure. The big guy is really just a bully. ‘Okay,’ he tells the promoter, ‘I’ll fight him. But my friend here holds the money. I’ve seen too many films where the under-dog never gets paid. And I want to fight next. I don’t want to see any more kids being hurt by your caveman.’
Civrais looks amused. He doesn’t have to go anywhere to get the cash; he opens his jacket, pulls out a wad of purple five-hundred-euro notes and peels off the stake. ‘Ten thousand.’ He slaps it in Jean-Paul’s hand. ‘You try to run off with this, mon ami, and I’ll have people hit you so hard we’
ll be able to spread you like pate.’
It doesn’t take the beast long to swat his latest challenger like a fly. While the boy is being scraped from the ring, the promoter announces the night’s surprise new challenger.
Tom walks over to where the other innocents are lining up. He kicks off his black shoes and grey socks, takes off his casual blue shirt and rolls up the bottom of his faded Levis.
Two ring lackeys lead him beneath the rope and into a corner, where there’s a small three-legged stool. They’re jabbering to each other about how they’d never set foot in the ring with the monster in the opposite corner.
None of it bothers Tom.
He’s staring at the money being raked in, fistfuls of it being stuffed into a big red bucket as the odds are taken. Young Civrais certainly knows how to turn a quick buck.
Sitting on the tiny stool, the one thing Tom does regret is the several beers he’s had.
He’s nowhere near as sharp as he should be.
He must have been crazy to have talked himself into this.
Someone pulls him upright and whips the stool away.
A bell dings behind him. The noise of the crowd evaporates.
It’s just Tom and the beast.
Face to face across the canvas.
Neanderthal lets out a roar and smacks his clenched fists together.
A kick slaps into Tom’s thigh. It’s a good shot, plenty of weight, and delivered deceptively quickly for a big man.
The giant Frenchman looks pleased. He smiles and shows off two lines of broken teeth. Massive shelves stacked with ivory trophies.
He thunders forward and swings a haymaker of a punch at Tom.
It misses.
He swings again.
Tom sidesteps it.
The crowd shouts encouragement and it seems to fuel the beast’s anger. He snaps another kick against Tom’s thigh. The leg muscle starts to deaden. The big guy’s not as dumb as he looks. Another kick like that and Tom knows he won’t be able to stand, let alone trade blows.
The beast is thinking the same thing. Another grin and he goes for it. Harder and more vicious this time, a brutal kick aimed at bringing the action to a quick close.
But it doesn’t connect.
Tom steps inside it. He slams the palm of his hand under the big guy’s heel and lunges forward.
The giant doesn’t topple, but he wobbles precariously. Tom drops to the floor and delivers a sweep kick to the back of his standing leg.
Now he goes down.
The whole ring shakes. The crowd goes crazy.
Tom bounces on his toes, fists up, ready to fight when the beast finally gets back on his feet.
But that’s not going to happen quickly.
The bell rings for the end of the first round.
Tom walks back to his corner feeling pleased. He got hit twice but at least he didn’t end up on his back like the other mugs.
Shame the bell went; he was getting the measure of the brute.
The satisfaction is short-lived.
Tom never makes it to the stool.
A punch like a wrecking ball cracks into the back of his head.
Tom stumbles sideways.
A kick slaps into his kidneys and drops him to his knees.
The crowd explodes.
Instinctively, Tom drops totally flat and rolls away.
The beast aims a rugby-style drop-kick at his head, but only connects with his shoulder.
Whatever rules there were have now vanished.
Tom stops rolling. Most fighting is done with your brain, not your hands and feet. He thinks about what the beast will do next.
He’s either going to kick at his ribs or, more likely, stamp on his face.
He goes for the stamp.
Tom guessed right. He shifts his head and grabs the outstretched ankle. He hooks his forearm around the back of the knee and pulls like he’s heaving the root of a giant tree from a swamp.
The beast goes down.
Tom rolls to the centre of the ring and gets to his feet.
The beast gets up quickly and produces a flurry of high kicks and low punches.
Tom takes one in the mouth and feels his lip split.
But it’s worth it.
He ducks inside and delivers a sledgehammer blow to the stomach and a perfect uppercut to the jaw.
The Frenchman stands flat-footed. The crowd holds its breath.
Tom feigns a right-hander and then delivers a left-handed punch to the side of the head that would topple a factory chimney.
The beast’s eyes go glassy.
His knees shake.
Finally, his legs crumple and he falls.
A rush of primitive energy goes through Tom. He stares at his opponent and prays the guy won’t get up.
For his own good, please Lord don’t let him get up.
Suddenly the ring is full of people.
Shouting. Cheering. Slapping Tom’s arms.
Even embracing him. The beast is down and staying down.
Maybe he’s not so stupid after all.
9
They gather my bones and ashes.
Loyal fingers seek out every part of me – what I was, what I am, what I shall be.
They search for the stone. The sacred triangle stolen from around my neck by the thief at the Bocca.
It is gone.
When they discover what has happened, they will find him. Find him and recover the precious scalene.
Then they will kill him.
They poke among the embers of a pyre that was soaked in cups of oil and bouquets of perfume.
My husband is not among the grubbers.
He is no doubt in our matrimonial bed, slaking his thirst for wine and boys.
Arria is here, of course. Sweetest Arria. She will be among the first to remember me at Parentalia. Was not Dies Parentales made for women with faces as sad as Arria’s?
The urn they have fashioned for me is a cheap one. From its lack of elegance I know already that they will not carry me to my husband’s tomb.
I am pleased. Lying with him in death would be even more unpleasant than in life.
I shall not wait for him beyond the three canine heads of Cerberus. I pray to Pluto that his wasted flesh sticks in their jaws and is chewed for eternity in Hades.
Before me I see my sisters. The others of the spirit world. Those who have for ever been and will for ever be.
They are the keepers of the secrets.
The prophetesses. The betrayed. The goddesses.
They surround me as the mortals take my burned remains to their dank resting place in the Columbarium. Here among the shelved peasantry is my place in the potted history of poorest Rome. My niche in society.
No ornately engraved plaque marks my spot. No statue or portrait. Nor any message of love.
Just a number.
My sisters and I wonder if beyond the grave they can hear us laughing.
The number is X.
10
Rome
It’s Saturday morning, so at least Valentina is spared the indignity of walking into a packed office and explaining why she looks like a victim of domestic violence. She can barely begin to think of all the sexist jokes there would be at her expense. Hopefully, by Monday, some good make-up and judicious head-bending will get her through the day without too much embarrassment.
For now, though, the bathroom mirror is telling a different story.
Although the swelling is going down, her lips still look awful. Bloated and discoloured, as though a Botox injection has gone horribly wrong. The prisoner’s head butt has left a very unattractive scab on her lip.
And all this on the day of her big date.
Not that she’s thinking of her celebratory get-together with Tom Shaman as a date. She keeps telling herself that they’re ‘just friends’.
But of course, there’s always the possibility that he feels like she does.
She checks the clock on the wall of the small kitch
en in her apartment.
Midday.
Four hours before Tom’s plane lands and she needs to be at the airport to pick him up. Valentina takes another glance in the mirror.
Maybe some of the swelling will have gone down by then.
She decides to coax an espresso out of her coffee machine and turn her attention back to work.
Earlier that morning she spoke to Federico and learned that there was still no trace of a victim.
Assante had already set up a rudimentary incident room and had ensured that all local hospitals had been called. No one with a missing hand had been treated.
Valentina checks her cell and fixed-line phones and finds that there are no missed calls.
She rings the local station and asks to speak to the custody suite.
They tell her that the woman prisoner slept most of the night. No doubt knocked out by sedatives. She refused breakfast. A doctor saw her mid-morning, and within the next hour she’s due to be moved to a secure room at the Policlinico Umberto for a full psychiatric assessment.
It takes another twenty minutes of calls and an extra espresso to find out that the medical examiner working the case is a woman, Professoressa Filomena Schiavone, and she happens to be in the morgue at the Policlinico working another case. With a little luck – and a quick dash to the hospital – Valentina will catch her.
The short drive to the Quartiere San Lorenzo is pleasant enough. It’s late October and the leaves are falling; rugs of reds and oranges have been thrown down by giant maples and sycamores filtering the day’s golden sunlight.
Policlinico Umberto 1, to give it its full name, is the largest public hospital in Italy and one of the largest in the world. Named after the Italian king who ruled from the late 1870s, it’s academically and physically intertwined with the famed Universita La Sapienza, and as a result is so large it’s really a city within a city.
After a few false turns, Valentina finds signs to the morgue near to the unit for tropical diseases over at the Viale Regina Elena entrance. It’s almost opposite the gates where she came in.
She parks and walks past several patients in gowns smoking in the doorways to distant wards.
