The Rome Prophecy

by Jon Trace

  Valentina turns the wheel and takes them across the Ponte Garibaldi, a fast modern carriageway that speeds traffic both ways across the Tiber.

  For the next half-hour or so they loop back and forth over this causeway and the Ponte Cestio, a bridge that runs to Tiber Island from the south side of the river, leading to the Ponte Fabricio, which in turn connects the island to the eastern bank. During the day it’s a walkway teeming with musicians, artists, hustlers and pickpockets.

  Now it’s deserted.

  They park up and walk back and forth along the bridge and both embankments.

  Just after midnight, a cruel winter wind begins to swirl off the Tiber and hits their faces like a million skimmed stones.

  Tom insists Valentina and Louisa go back to the Fiat to get warm while he does a final search on the walkways running north and south of the old bridge.

  They don’t argue.

  Tom isn’t exactly sure what he’s looking for.

  A sign, he supposes.

  Some strange clue, like the one he and Valentina found in the Sacro Cuore del Suffragio.

  Anything that links the harsh, cold reality of this winter’s night to the ramblings of some mentally ill woman he’s never met.

  He tries to tune out the modern world – the street noise, the cars and the fashionably dressed couples hurrying home arm in arm. He wants to imagine the early days of Rome, the fear of the Sabines during a time when rape and pillage were as common as breakfast and supper. It was a savage age. An era when a pantheon of gods was thought to guide every mundane act and superstition cast its shadow over everyone and everything.

  Walking the pavement along the Lungotevere, he realises that if, like Claudia, he was on the run from soldiers, he’d be on much lower ground, on the eastern bank of the river, so that he couldn’t be seen from the vast open plains around.

  A steep flight of stairs takes him down from road level and opens up on to a wide, potholed gravel path. To his right is Tiber Island. Straight in front of him is an isolated ancient arch in the middle of the Tiber. Behind him, the Ponte Palatino.

  He begins to head towards the Fabricio, then on instinct turns and heads south. Close to the edge of the lower walk-way, he sees there’s a further drop on to a banking of rocks.

  In places it’s almost sheer, and threatens a comedic slip into the fatally icy water. Gradually it becomes less treacherous, and eases out into a gentler incline that he’s able to work his way down.

  Being next to the roaring black beast of the Tiber makes him nervous.

  The river is astonishingly fast and dangerous.

  He can easily envisage its spectral claws grabbing his ankles and sweeping him away to an unseen death.

  Tom looks off into the darkness towards the Field of Mars, the place where centuries ago the most formidable army on earth trained for battle.

  Lights of apartments flicker now where there were once the camp fires of soldiers.

  He gets out the Maglite that Valentina gave him and shines it along the banking.

  Soon he reaches the point where the Ponte Fabricio joins the Lungotevere dei Pierleoni. Out in the furious flow of the river there’s a giant scrub of land between the bank and Tiber Island. Centuries ago, before it was eroded by the relentless Tiber, it was probably connected to either the bank or the island.

  Tom turns away and steps over some rocks.

  He shines the torch beam in front of him to make sure he doesn’t twist an ankle and take a tumble. The ray catches something pink to his right.

  Flesh.

  A human face.

  His heart jumps.

  ‘Vaffanculo!’ A male voice shouts at him.

  A hand comes up to dark, angry eyes.

  Tom can see the man now.

  He’s sitting on a patch of grass with his back against some rocks. His trousers are around his ankles and a woman is bent attentively over his crotch.

  Tom diverts the light and walks on. He wonders whether the closeness to the murderous water adds a fetishistic frisson to the sex act he’s just fleetingly witnessed.

  He starts to work his way up the banking towards the street.

  There’s no grass now, just mounds of rocks, gathered as a sort of breakwater for the tide. He crosses them as you would stepping stones in a small stream, moving sideways almost as much as forward.

  The bouncing Maglite picks out another couple.

  No, not a couple, just a man.

  A tramp sleeping off too much booze, or perhaps he’s just sheltering from the wind and the abuse on the street.

  Tom plays his light over the hobo.

  At first his mind tricks him.

  He thinks he can see all of the guy’s outline.

  But he can’t.

  He can only see a leg – and part of the man’s right side and arm.

  The rest of him is buried.

  He’s dead.

  Tom puts the torch down.

  It rolls off a rock and blackness hides everything.

  He feels around for the Maglite.

  Re-positions it.

  The beam illuminates the corpse.

  He steps closer to the body.

  Carefully he pulls away several boulders and stacks them so they don’t roll down into the river and lose any evidence that might be attached to them.

  He still can’t see the entire corpse, but he sure can smell it.

  His own body momentarily blocks the light and his hands touch something.

  Something soft and broken.

  The skull has been caved in.

  He fingers a crawling moist mass inside the shattered cavity and jerks his hand away.

  Something is still slithering over his fingers.

  Maggots and crustaceans that have been feeding on the brain.

  He furiously rubs his hands on his jacket and feels them turning sticky and dry.

  It takes almost a full minute for him to catch his breath and calm down.

  He reaches for the torch and plays the light across the exposed cadaver.

  It’s bloated. Swollen. Pumped up.

  Tom feels his stomach flip. He turns away and vomits.

  He spits his mouth clean and tries to suck in fresh air.

  He can’t help but feel ashamed at his revulsion. His thoughts should be of sympathy and respect for the stranger who died in this barren place.

  The ex-priest leans over the body, joins his hands and briefly prays. ‘O Lord, let perpetual light shine upon this poor soul and may he rest in peace. Amen.’ He crosses himself and looks around.

  He knows he should step away now and phone Valentina. He certainly shouldn’t touch the corpse or disturb the scene any more than he already has done.

  But he can’t do that.

  The curiosity is too great.

  He has to see.

  He turns the body over.

  Even in the darkness, it’s obvious what’s happened.

  There’s a gaping hole in the man’s abdomen.

  He’s been stabbed to death.

  37

  The next hour is a blur.

  Time speeds up to a frightening pace. Tom feels like he’s caught in one of those trick photographs, the only static image in the centre of a blur of dashing bodies and streaky car lights.

  After Valentina briefly inspects the mutilated body, she calls Federico. He informs Central Control and actions her request for a support unit.

  A taxi is called to take Louisa Verdetti home.

  The entire scene is cleared of civilians and secured.

  The automatic machinery of a homicide investigation clicks into gear.

  An officer is posted to control access and keep a log of anyone who comes and goes.

  A police doctor arrives to pronounce death.

  The duty pathologist turns out.

  A crime-scene photographer starts snapping away.

  Forensics set up arc lamps and strategic walkways to access the corpse, and ensure the crime scene isn’t compromised
or contaminated any more than it already has been.

  Officers begin working the street, taking statements from nightclub stragglers and local residents, who’ve already started to gather around the taped-off area.

  Tom sits with Valentina in her Fiat.

  He’s still dazed. ‘Is this going to be awkward for you?’

  She manages the outline of a smile. ‘Very.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He reaches out a hand and squeezes hers. ‘What will you tell your bosses about us and how I came to discover the body?’

  She shrugs. ‘Everything. Or maybe nothing.’ She turns to him. ‘I won’t lie to them, Tom. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of and I’m not going to deny we’re having a relationship.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Stop saying that. Without you, we would never have found this body. You’ve done nothing to be sorry for. Far from it.’

  She knows he’s right, though. Explaining how a foreign civilian came to be at the centre of a criminal investigation and found a mutilated corpse won’t be easy.

  Valentina looks through the windscreen and sees Federico. The collar of his long wool coat is up, Elvis style, and he’s blowing balloons of cool breath up into a blood-orange dawn sky.

  She gets out of her car and walks over to meet him.

  ‘Buongiorno, Capitano.’ He rubs his hands together for warmth. ‘Working with you really isn’t conducive to getting any beauty sleep.’

  She ignores the small talk and walks towards the body. ‘We’ve got a dead male, pre-mortem injuries to the head and stomach, lots of post-mortem injuries as well, due to the fact that rocks were stacked on him. He’s somewhere in his twenties or thirties – given his state, it’s hard to tell.’

  ‘Decomposed?’

  ‘Not completely, but I think he’s been in and out of the water. I guess the body was left when the tide went out, and of course it got covered later when it came in.’

  ‘That would follow.’ Federico starts to duck under the tape. ‘How was it discovered?’

  Valentina hesitates. ‘A man walking by the river found him.’

  ‘Vagrant? Down-and-out? You get a lot of them around here. They shelter from the wind and use the Tiber as a toilet.’

  She still holds back. ‘No. He’s respectable. A foreigner. American.’ Impulsively she starts to take the plunge. ‘He’s sitting in my car.’

  ‘Great.’ Federico senses an early trip home. ‘You’ve already interviewed him then, taken a statement?’

  ‘No. And it’s best if I don’t. You should do it, or have someone do it for you.’

  Federico senses her awkwardness. ‘Why?’

  She stops walking. ‘Look, I hope this can stay between us. I know the man. He’s staying with me at the moment.’

  He looks confused. ‘Staying with you?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a friend. Someone I’ve known for a long time.’

  ‘Known as in sexually known?’

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ she snaps.

  ‘Well, actually it is.’ He points to the body. ‘It seems I’m investigating a murder, and it turns out the corpse was found by the lover of the officer in charge.’

  Valentina has no real response.

  ‘Can we discuss this later?’ She rubs her arms. ‘It’s cold, I’m tired and I need you to examine the scene and interview a key witness. Okay?’

  Federico thinks about pressing for more information, but decides to leave it. She’s his boss. Admittedly a very strange one, but nevertheless, still his boss. ‘Bene.’ He straddles the wall and crabs down the banking.

  It’s an area he knows well.

  Most people born in the city do. He waits for Valentina to catch him up and sign them through the log point. He points to the nearby bridge. ‘This isn’t just a crime scene,’ he says. ‘You’re standing at the very birthplace of Rome. This is the focal point of the greatest legend in all our history.’

  38

  By the time Tom has been interviewed and he and Valentina return to her apartment, it’s already gone six a.m.

  Going to bed seems pointless.

  Valentina showers and changes for work.

  Tom cooks scrambled eggs and brews coffee.

  An old paint-splattered radio on the windowsill plays Europop into the brown ears of a dead plant.

  The winter sun slowly warms up a spot at the breakfast bar where they both wearily settle and eat, hunched opposite each other.

  Valentina is famished. ‘Mmm, good egg!’ she manages between her second and third forkful.

  Tom laughs. ‘Me or the scrambled?’

  ‘Scusi?’

  ‘It’s a joke. There’s an American – or maybe British – expression, in which you call someone a good egg if they’re a really nice person.’

  ‘Sorry. I think I may have left my sense of humour down by the Tiber.’ She reaches across and touches his hand, ‘Then you too are a good egg.’

  ‘Grazie.’

  Tom suspects she left more than just humour down there. A cop friend once told him that every murder scene stole a piece of his spirit.

  He briefly takes her free hand and squeezes it. ‘You okay?’

  She smiles at him, ‘It’s a long time since anyone asked. I’m fine. You?’

  He nods. ‘Did I hear someone say that the place that poor guy’s body was found is the exact spot where Romulus and Remus were supposedly found by the she-wolf?’

  ‘That’s what Federico said.’ She places her fork on her clean plate and gives him a satisfied look. ‘Very good egg.’ She grows thoughtful. ‘Why? What are you thinking?’

  ‘That island – Isola Tiberina – what was so special about it? I mean, I know the bridge is very old, and there’s the legend of Romulus and Remus on the banks, but what about the island itself?’

  He rises from his seat, still chewing. ‘Mind if I use your laptop?’

  ‘At this time? Shouldn’t you be off to bed, try to get some sleep?’

  Tom laughs at the idea. ‘I’m so wound up, I may never sleep again.’

  He flips up the screen of her Vaio, clicks it off standby and Googles Tiber Island.

  While he’s searching, Valentina clatters away in the small kitchen area, collecting dishes and running a bowl of hot soapy water to leave them in. With any luck, Tom will wash and dry them later.

  ‘Okay. This is interesting, come and see.’

  She pads over and can’t resist wiping soap bubbles off her hands across the back of his broad neck.

  ‘Hey!’

  She rubs them off, kisses the wet patch and drapes her arms over his shoulders.

  ‘It’s the only island in the Tiber River,’ says Tom, reading from the on-screen text. ‘Linked – as we know – by the Fabricio Bridge, which joins it to the Field of Mars, and also by the Ponte Cestio.’ He jabs the monitor. ‘Now look here, another legend.’

  ‘Don’t get so excited; there is a legend in every corner of Rome.’

  ‘You may be right. This one concerns one of the last Etruscan kings. He was overthrown and his body dumped in the Tiber, a final act normally reserved only for lowlife sinners. Folklore has it that Tiber Island was created from a mound of silt and driftwood that formed over the body of the tyrant king.’

  ‘Nice.’ Valentina can’t resist a sick pun. ‘At least even after death he had his own form of king-dam.’

  Tom might have laughed had he not been reading on. ‘Listen. For centuries the island was a dumping ground for the worst of criminals and the contagiously ill. Then when Rome was hit by a plague, some sibyl – which I think is a Latin adaptation of the Greek word sibylla, meaning prophetess – recommended that a temple was built there to Asclepius in order to stop the diseases spreading.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Asclepius, Greek god of medicine and healing.’

  Valentina is impressed. ‘You knew that?’

  ‘I did. You remember the other night you said sex was the panacea for all ills?’

 
; She blushes a little.

  ‘Well, Panacea was Asclepius’s daughter. While her name is used – and abused – much more in modern life, it was her father who dominated Roman and Greek times. The Rod of Asclepius is still a powerful astrological symbol and is the thirteenth sign of the sidereal Zodiac.’

  ‘What’s so special about it?’

  ‘It’s a staff entwined with a serpent.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she exclaims with high melodrama, ‘not more snakes and devils.’

  ‘It’s not what you think. Not Satanic. Asclepius was a brilliant physician, so brilliant that he reputedly brought people back from the dead. You’ll find his symbol is still used in America by the Medical Association, the Academy of Psychiatry and Law and the US Air Force Medical Corps.’ Tom suddenly thinks of more organisations, ‘In fact, the British Royal Army Medical Corps also use it, as do the Canadian Medical Association and even the World Health Organisation.’

  ‘Okay, I surrender under the weight of all those mighty medical bodies. But what’s your point? What’s the significance of the serpent and the staff in relation to our case?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can give you a perfect answer. But consider this: Asclepius left the legacy of a powerful cult that has influenced the most important medical minds in the world. The serpent and the staff are symbolic references to the oxymoronic fact that medicine is built on using drugs that in small doses heal but in big doses kill. In short,’ adds Tom, ‘in the modern world, doctors play god. They’re the ones with the everyday powers of life and death.’

  39

  Louisa Verdetti arrives at work exhausted.

  She hasn’t slept.

  The first thing she does is head to Valducci’s office and tell him everything about her overnight adventure with the Carabinieri.

  The administrator says little as she explains about the body and possible links to the patient on their ward. ‘I’m sorry. I should have called you and informed you of the police request for me to accompany them.’