He moves closer to Tetia. Close enough for her to smell old meat and rough wine on his breath. Close enough for him to hold her chin between his manicured thumb and forefinger and make a bead of sweat roll down her brow.
'So what is it be, young Tetia? Will you make your peace with the gods and my netsvis? And tomorrow – when I assume you have finished this divine work – will you bring it to me? Or will you take your blind and useless husband and leave for ever?'
CHAPTER 19
Present Day Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice 'How creepy!' Tina walks from the bathroom in her hotel robe and sits at the dressing table. 'I've never been to a morgue. Actually, I've never even seen a dead body – except on Six Feet Under. You think you can ring your new cop friends and ask if I can tag along?'
Tom stares at her reflection in the large oak-framed vanity mirror. 'You're joking, right?'
'No. Not at all. I'm curious. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but it really would be something to write a piece on a murder investigation in Venice.' She picks up a brush and starts to work it through her wet hair.
'I thought you were a travel writer.'
'I am. But I'm a writer. A journalist. I'll cover cookery, sport, fashion – even murder, if the cheque is big enough.'
Without thinking, Tom finds himself standing directly behind her, lifting her hair, enjoying the feel of it. 'Oh, so this is now a money-making opportunity?'
'Yeah. Of course it is.' She smiles at him in the mirror, and puts a hand up to touch his on her shoulder. 'That's how we strange folk out here – the poor souls on the other side of the church walls – have to live. We do things, and then people give us money for doing them.'
Tom drops his hands from her hair, looks curiously at her. 'You think priests don't work? You don't know when you've got it made. An average parish priest works close to a hundred hours a week. I was pretty much on call twenty-four seven.'
Tina puts her brush down. 'Doing what?'
He gives her an exasperated look.
'No, go on, tell me, I'm interested. What is there to do, besides patter out a pound of prayers and croak along to some very bad karaoke songs – sorry, hymns – in return for a plate of tips at the end of each performance?'
'You're being deliberately provocative, right?'
She smiles at him. 'Right. You're getting the hang of it now. That's what we women – especially us wicked women journalists – do. We like to be pro-voc-ative.'
Tom can't help but smile back. 'But, am I also right in detecting that you're not religious? You're not a believer – are you?'
'Sorry. No, I'm not. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I have lived thirty-two years and I confess I don't believe one fucking word of it. I think all churches are a con. All religions are businesses. And all those damned TV preachers asking for my money should be locked in one big cell so they can bore each other to a slow and painful death.'
'The last bit I might go along with. The rest, well, we're going to have to agree to differ.'
Tina goes silent for a second. She thinks it's best to bite her tongue. But then the journalist in her blows up. 'How can you defend religion after you turned your own back on it? Threw in the towel and said, "I'm outta here, I don't believe any more."' She looks at him in the mirror and sees she's hit a nerve. 'Listen, I think it's a good thing you did. Otherwise you wouldn't be here in my room, but-'
He cuts her off. 'Tina, I didn't quit believing in God. I quit believing in myself. There's a difference.'
'Then believe more in yourself.' She swivels sideward so she can see him properly. 'I for one believe much more in you than I ever will in any god.' She puts out her hands and takes hold of his. 'Let's not fight about this stuff. Life's too short.'
He kisses the top of her head. 'I'm sorry. I'm a bit on edge. You know – I came here to get away from things. Death, to be precise. I came to Venice to get away from death. And here I am, up to my post-dog-collared neck in a murder enquiry.'
Tina stands up next to him. 'Tom, you're doing good. You're helping. Doing the right things. That makes you feel better, doesn't it?'
He forces a smile. 'Sure, but I can't forget that "doing good" is what got me into a very bad place.'
Tina wonders why men – all men – even ex-priests, apparently – are such pessimists when it comes to personal issues. 'Listen, you have a choice here. Say no to the damned Carabinieri and their Rocky Horror Morgue Show.' She points to the bedside phone. 'Ring them up and say, "Sorry, I just can't do it."'
'I can't do that.'
She puts her hands on his waist. 'I know you can't.'
He looks amused. 'So why suggest it?'
'Because' – Tina can't help but laugh – 'because it's the way women get men to realise that they're doing the right thing.'
He frowns lightly. 'Are women really that tricky?'
Her face lights up. 'Oh, honey, you have so much to learn.'
He lifts her wet hair again, kisses her lightly on the mouth, then slides his hands inside the front of her robe. 'Then teach me.'
CAPITOLO XVI
666 BC
Larthuza's Hut, Atmanta Larthuza the Healer is hardly an advertisement for good health.
Today he is looking all of his many years. His bones are hurting, his head pounding and his hands shaking. On top of all that, his memory is nothing like it used to be.
'Where is it?' Larthuza angrily scratches a straggly nest of white hair that is indistinguishable from his long, matted beard. He moves stacks of jars, some large, some small, some so old he cannot remember what he put in them. 'Aaah! I know, I know!' His toothless mouth breaks into a wide crescent of a smile. Barely a stride away from where Teucer's parents are sitting at their son's bedside stands a small, narrow-bodied amphora. One of its handles has broken off. It is undecorated but well used and covered in oily finger marks. 'I remember now, I put it here, closest to Teucer so I would not get it mixed up with the other medications.'
'A shame you do not have a potion to stop forgetfulness,' jokes Venthi.
His wife pushes his shoulder playfully. 'Then, husband, you should ask Larthuza for a big jug for yourself.'
The old healer extends the pot in his hands as if he is presenting a prize of Olympian magnitude. 'This is the finest oil of rough bindweed.' He glances back towards his many rows of lotions, potions and drugs. 'The last I have… I think.' He places it gently into the slack-skinned hands of Larcia, a round-faced, round-bodied woman with hair almost as white as his own. 'The oil must be applied with feathered gentleness. Let it roll over the lesions and then wipe it away with a touch lighter than a sun-kissed cloud.'
Venthi looks around the hut. 'Larthuza, do you know where Tetia is?'
The healer shakes his head. 'An errand of some sort, she said.'
'She is in her husband's home.' The answer comes from a stranger's voice. 'Forgive the intrusion. I am Kavie, counsel to the noble Pesna.'
The magistrate follows, a pace behind him. 'We have come to see our netsvis. To wish him well for a speedy recovery.'
Venthi stands like a wall. He is a full head and shoulders taller than anyone in the room. A former Etruscan soldier, he'd won his lands and freedom through his bravery. Right now, his instincts tell him he is being visited by men more likely to be enemies than allies. 'You are too generous, noble friends. A messenger would have sufficed. I fear my son is too sick to properly appreciate your presence.'
'I am fine, Father,' Teucer mumbles weakly from his makeshift bed.
Kavie looks challengingly at Venthi. 'Then with your consent, may we have a moment alone with our priest?'
Teucer's father addresses Pesna. 'Why at this moment do you seek such urgent counsel with my son? Can you not see that he needs to rest?'
'We will not be long.' The magistrate steps close to him. 'We have important matters that need but a very short – and private – time with him, alone.' He flashes a diplomatic smile and claps the old man's arm. 'The sooner we begin, the sooner we are gon
e.'
Larthuza coughs and motions Teucer's parents to the doorway. 'Perhaps you could help me pick herbs from my garden? I need thyme, pimpernel and root of gentian to make an infusion to speed his recovery.'
Reluctantly, Venthi and Larcia follow him outside.
Kavie and Pesna take positions either side of Teucer. The magistrate speaks first. 'So, young priest, how came you to be so injured? The word among commoners is that you were blinded in the curte. This kind of tale augurs badly for your popularity and the success of the task I set you.'
Teucer chooses his words carefully. 'Commoners never care for the entire story. It is true that while in the curte I was hurt by the fire I had built. My injuries are solely the will of the gods.'
Kavie and Pesna exchange disturbing looks.
'But what the commoners do not know is that I was there entirely on your business and that before my punishment the gods revealed to me why I must suffer such pain.'
'What do you speak of, Netsvis?' Pesna leans close to him. 'I am not a man amused by riddles. If you have a divine message for me, then out with it.'
Teucer replies tonelessly: 'Before a mighty force threw me into the flames, the gods set my eyes on the temple. They told me they were angry you had stopped work on their home in order to increase output at your mines. They did this to me to punish your short-sightedness.'
Pesna glances towards Kavie and reads the anxiety on his face. 'Your insolence is only forgivable because of your illness. If this is an act of the gods then they are communicating their wishes through you, so tell me, what needs be done to please them?'
Teucer manages a thin smile. 'Their temple needs to be finished and due homage must be paid in the form of gifts and sacrifices. If you please the gods in these ways then they will reward me by returning my sight and will grant you the peace and prosperity you so urgently seek.'
'And if they are not pleased?' asks Kavie.
Teucer cannot see the men, but senses their apprehension. 'If the gods are displeased then they will leave me blind. And they will wreak most terrible vengeance on you and all you hold dear.'
CHAPTER 20
Present Day Venice Tom and Tina take dinner at the kind of restaurant only locals know about – the kind that even travel writers keep secret from their readers. Tina pauses until the waiter is out of earshot. 'So' – she fights back a cat-got-the-cream-smile – 'I hope you don't mind me talking about this, but was I really your first?'
He looks up from his spaghetti vongole and pretends not to understand, 'My first what?'
'You know…' She slices steak piazzella, and whispers, a little louder than intended, 'Your first full sexual communion? '
Tom slugs a jolt of chilled white wine and shoots her a disapproving look. 'Sex and communion are words that don't really go together.'
She arches an eyebrow, 'Oh, I don't know, I could see you in those long purple robes, nothing on beneath, me kneeling at your feet and-'
'Don't go there!' He puts up a hand. 'Don't even think it. You're a very sick girl.'
'Mister, you can't begin to imagine! I'm a journalist, I was born sick,' she apologises with a soft smile. 'And hey, you've still not answered my question.'
Tom fiddles with his wine glass. 'Yes.' He looks up at her. 'Yes, you were.'
'Phew.' She rewards him with an approving tilt of the head.
'Is that a good phew, or a bad phew?'
'It's like a wow, phew.'
'A "wow, phew"?' He laughs. 'I've never had a "wow, phew" before.'
'I guess that's because you've never had sex before.'
'Point taken.'
'So, describe it, then. What's it like, first time?'
Tom drops his cutlery in mock exasperation. 'Oh, come on! Give the boy a break. You've had your own first time, you know what it's like.'
'A long time ago.' She half laughs, picks up her wine glass, stem between middle fingers, a glisten of condensation outside a bowl of golden fluid. 'Actually, now I remember, it was horrible. Hurt like fuck and I thought I'd never want to do it again.'
Tom looks shocked.
She pins her smile back on. 'Not that bad for you, I hope.'
'No. Not bad at all.'
She feigns offence. 'Charming. I've never had a "not bad" before.'
He finally twigs. This is about emotion. Feelings. Communicating. Building a relationship. The spiritual side. The very thing he should be good at and is now blundering around at. 'I'm sorry. I guess I'm spectacularly poor at this.' He pauses and makes sure she's looking at him, staring straight into his eyes, the proverbial windows of the soul. 'Sleeping with you-' he corrects himself: 'Having sex with you – is something I'll never, ever forget.'
'Of course you won't. No one does.'
'No. Not because it was my first time, that wasn't what I meant. I didn't rush out of the church and think, whoopee, now I can have sex. It wasn't like that.'
She's taken aback, reaches for a glass of water rather than her wine.
'I'll never forget it because I felt closer to you at that moment than I've ever felt to any human being. Never mind the rush, the adrenalin, the desire. There was all that. And more. And thank you, God, for the intensity of it all. But there was more.'
Tina feels embarrassed. She'd raised the topic to be playful, to tease him, to spice up the dinner. Now she's somewhere she hadn't expected to be. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be crass, earlier.'
Tom smiles; the inquisition is over. He picks up his glass again. 'You weren't.' He takes a calmer sip this time. 'Talking about it was good. The right thing to have done. So what now? What happens next?'
Next? Tina had never thought about next. She disguises her shock by looking away. Now she reaches for the wine and she hopes there's no panic on her face when she turns back to him. 'Don't expect too much, Tom. Please don't. I have an awful habit of letting people down.'
CHAPTER 21
Isola Mario, Venice The historic mansion on the private island owned by reclusive millionaire Mario Fabianelli is in the news for all the wrong reasons.
Formerly a respected seat of Venetian grandeur, it is now a hippy commune. Its manicured lawns are overgrown and neglected, and the only hint of affluence comes in the presence of the black-uniformed security guards who patrol the perimeters.
The guards are in good spirits as they end their shift inside an ugly grey Portakabin surrounded by a crop of cypresses at the rear of the mansion.
'Another day over – another cheque in the bank.' Antonio Materazzi slumps against a door-jamb and lights a cigarette. The four guys in the locker room, including their supervisor, think he's an out-of-work bouncer from Livorno. None of them have a clue his real name is Pavarotti or that he's an undercover cop. Luca, the supervisor who gave him the job, is a big friendly guy who's taken a liking to him – maybe even sees a bit of his old self in the well-muscled kid. 'Antonio, come eat with us,' he shouts as he struggles to tie his laces beneath the heavy sagging stomach that's he's keen to fill. 'Spumoni makes the best tortellini in Venice, come with us.'
Antonio blows out cigarette smoke and waves him gently away. 'Another time. Thank you for asking me, but today I promised my new girlfriend-'
Marco, the unit's weasel-faced number two, wags a long finger and leers. 'Haah! We know exactly what you promised your girlfriend!' He slaps a tattooed hand on his bicep and snaps his arm upwards. 'Why should you be eating pasta with old dogs like us, when you can be at home eating young pussy, hey?'
'Enough, Marco! You're a fucking pig.' Luca glares at him, a supervisor's stare of death. He turns towards Pavarotti and adopts a more fatherly look. 'Another time, 'Tonio. Remember, you're working mornings – twelve on, twelve off for the rest of the week, okay?'
'Si. Va bene. I'll remember.' Antonio gives his boss the thumbs-up and focuses his attention on his cigarette until they all head off for the waiting water taxi.
The commune is set in the middle of the island with four major landing stages for boats, the main
one being close to the guard house. Water from the lagoon has been channelled in various tributaries around and through the island. Numerous bridges arch decorously over waterways that lead to footpaths and forests planted centuries ago.
The undercover cop watches the water taxi head across the lagoon, flicks the dog-end of his cigarette into a metal bin and begins to amble around the mansion's northern perimeter walls. If he's right, Fernando, the exterior night guard is now exactly at the opposite end of the island. He's got a good half-hour to do his snooping before they're likely to bump into each other.
Antonio's already noted that the walls are covered with anti-vandal night cameras and anti-glare high-def day cameras. An introductory shift designed to teach him how to monitor the feeds and archive video from the hard drives was enough for him to spot several weak areas. Nothing wrong with the system, nothing at all. The German-made Mobotix IP high-res set-up is one of the best in the world. But the flaw Antonio has found is a human one. It hadn't been fitted by Mobotix, it'd been installed by Mario's own team and they hadn't quite got all their angles right. Forty overlapping camera views cover four long walls and any nearby internal and external activity. But the video sweep on the south wall, the one opposite the guard's complex, seems to his expert eye to have been poorly rigged. It lazily misses a whole section of the mansion's grounds. Well, to be precise, it's not so much the grounds it misses as the waterway access and the building that lies behind it – the area they've been told is strictly out of bounds – the boathouse.
Antonio sticks close to the wall. As close as the climbing ivy that's bound its pink tendrils into the whitewashed mortar. The boathouse is top of his list of places to check out. If drugs are being run in and out of the island, then this place is going to be the centre of activity.
The Venice conspiracy ts-1 Page 9
