He feels hurt. He's waited for what seems an eternity and now dreads that she'll be cross with him. 'As you wish.'
A thought strikes her. 'How did you know it was me coming in?'
He laughs lightly. 'I recognise your sounds now. Your steps are short but your breathing long. My father's feet make thunder – and he groans because of his knees.'
Tetia laughs. For a moment things are as they were: two lovers amused by things that only they understand.
'And my mother, she shuffles quickly like a small dog trying to bite its tail. As for old Larthuza – you cannot hear his feet because he mumbles constantly like a mountain stream.'
She finds the jug. 'So, even in the darkness you are learning a new way to see.'
'More than you might imagine. Come lie with me.'
'I'm just getting water. Would you like some?'
'No, I am fine.' He listens to the glug of the jug as his wife takes several thirsty swallows.
Tetia's lips are still cold and wet when she tiptoes lightly across the room to kiss his cheek. The gentle shock makes him smile, and for a moment that makes her happy too. 'I'm sorry I was so long. Really I am. How are you feeling?'
He puts his hand up to touch her hair. 'The pain has all but gone, yet still I am afraid. Later this morning Pesna will come and my bandages will be removed. What if I am for ever blind?'
She puts an arm around him. 'Larthuza says your sight might take much longer to return.'
'And if it doesn't?'
'Then we will manage. I know we will.'
'Pesna will want another netsvis. It is understandable. The best we can hope for is that he will let me live and both you and I will be able to leave.'
Tetia takes a deep breath. It is time to tell him the truth.
Or at least some of it.
But no sooner is a confession on her lips than she realises that if Teucer should remain blind, then her troubles are over. He will never see what it is she has made for Pesna, and never realise what he's being asked to bless at the temple. Even more importantly, he'll never be able to hurt the child inside her.
CAPITOLO XXIII
Northern Etruria Caele, son of Sethre and Arria, is thinking of the distant shore that has just come into view over the dipping glimmering water. He's imagining the sand beneath his feet and a willing woman between his legs. With a fair wind, he'll have both before the day is out.
Four months at sea is far too long for a young man with his needs. He has sailed south down the Adriatic, north-west up the Tyrrhenian as far as Pupluna, and then, to the amazement of his crew, Caele had commanded they sail past their home port of Atmanta and head east across the mouth of the Adriatic, before finally turning for home.
The journey had been an eventful one. They'd fought Ligurian pirates and they'd moored and traded with Egyptians and Greeks. In the process, they'd suffered the loss of four good men. Two in a storm. Two through sickness.
Hinthial – 'the Spirit' – had fared well, though. Despite the name, she was one of the biggest merchant craft in Etruria. Her squat body cuts an ugly shape in the water as she passes smaller and more streamlined craft heading into the harbour, but she was built to carry the maximum load. Usually her cargo consists of various olive oils and wines stored in giant one-piece amphorae, secured to long vertical shelving stacks by ropes running through the handles. Lately, however, she's been carrying other things too. Smaller, more precious cargo provided by his old friend, Pesna. The magistrate's silver comes both in the form of raw precious metal and as finished goods, fashioned into the finest jewellery. Gifts fit for princes and princesses, kings and queens. Cargo valuable enough to get you killed by your own crew, should they suspect the treasures contained within the hold.
The wind dies down and the two giant square sails sag mournfully. It's no problem. Hinthial is now close enough to dry land for Caele to almost taste the mead on his lips. He gives instruction for the oarsmen to be roused in order to bring her to shore.
But scarcely have they struck up a rhythm than he sees something in the water.
Floating. Bobbing. Drifting.
Grain sacks.
Five, six, seven of them.
From their awkward buoyancy, it's clear they are not stuffed with oats or rice or barley.
What then?
Perhaps something far more precious.
Caele shouts for his captain and points to the flotsam. 'Have someone heave it out. Bring it on deck. It may be loot, dropped by fleeing pirates. Sacks that size cannot accidentally end up so far from shore.'
A small boat is jerkily lowered on ropes and several slaves, eager to please, dive from the decking to recover the sacks.
Caele walks to the stern and sits close to a giant stone weight that is roped and inscribed with his name. It was his countrymen that had invented the anchor and during recent journeys he's sold more than twenty of them.
A bank of slaves strain away on large steering oars. They sweat and work even harder when they see the ship's owner within whipping distance of them.
The captain approaches him with a face like thunder. 'The gods have brought you no fortune. The sacks contain nothing.'
Caele shakes his head. 'There is no such as nothing. I have told you this many times before. And should you ever find nothing, then it truly would be worth something. So tell me, what did the men recover?'
'A man. Or rather, should I say, many parts of a man. Chopped like meat for a feast of sea demons. Bagged, sacked and thrown to great Triton for his supper.'
'Triton is a Greek sea god, you fool. You are back in Etruria now. Know your allegiances. It is the great Nethuns who determines our fortune.'
'Then he has determined you should benefit from the surprise delivery of many dismembered limbs.'
Caele gazes at the wet haul. 'Check to see if there is anything precious among the flesh.'
The captain starts to leave.
'Wait! Perhaps the find is an omen. A portent that some form of death is about to visit us. Have men stay with the small boat and search the water. Make sure nothing is missed. If indeed the deities are sending us signs, I don't want the sloppiness of slaves to lead to misinterpretation. Now, get us to shore as quickly as the gods will speed – and make sure you tell no one what we have seen.'
CHAPTER 28
Present Day Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice Gondolas rock like giant cradles on moonlit canals blessed by the soft warmth of a perfect summer evening. Across Venice, classical musicians take to the boats and cast song bait for the shoals of romantic tourists snapping at the water's edge.
Tina watches it all from the bedroom window of the hotel, and can tell Tom is in no mood to join in.
She'd gone out soon after breakfast and he'd forgotten the key she'd left for him. Forgotten the cell number she'd written down and pushed into his hand. It seems he'd forgotten absolutely everything, except seeing a dead fifteen-year-old on a slab in a mortuary.
She'd planned a special surprise to lift his spirits when he returned from the morgue, but he'd made straight for the desk in the far corner of the room and had festered there ever since. There's no point springing the surprise when he's in this state of mind. The time has to be exactly right for these things, or you might as well not bother.
She flicks on CNN. Some political row over Obama's economic policy. She scowls at the screen and leaves Tom to scribble on hotel notepaper at the desk. 'Damned Republicans and Democrats, I really wish they'd just stop fighting each other and pull together to get us out of this shit.'
He manages a grunt.
'Hey, I forgot to tell you. I want to go hear some Vivaldi – either tomorrow or the night after. Would you like to come? Or is that not your kind of thing?'
He stops writing. 'Sure I'll come. I'm more Nickelback than Vivaldi, but yeah, I'd love to go. Widen my horizons.'
Tina turns down the sound, carries a leaflet over and drops it on the desk. 'I got it from reception. The concierge has a friend at the Ateneo di San
Basso who can fix good tickets. It's the San Marco Chamber Orchestra, and they're supposed to be the best.'
He glances at the leaflet. It tells how Vivaldi had worked in Venice as a violin teacher, then went on to write more than sixty works and became director of the Sant'Angelo theatre. Tom puts it down. 'I only know The Four Seasons, and for much of my life I even thought that was a hotel chain.'
Tina laughs. 'Time to educate you, then. What are you scribbling?'
'Just some thoughts. Something a cop said at the morgue has been going round in my head.'
She slips behind him and rubs his shoulders. 'Maybe Paris or London would have been better options after all.'
'You're telling me.'
'So exactly what is going round in that lovely head of yours?'
He writes down four letters and underlines them. 'C-U-L-T – I think what we might be looking at is the workings of a cult. Part Satanic, part mired in old pre-Christian worship and mythology.'
'A new cult, or an old cult?'
He looks up at her. 'Good question. That's what the Carabinieri are going to have to work out.' He puts an arm around her waist and eases her on to his lap. 'Listen, I'm sorry I'm not very pleasant to be with today. This thing is eating at me.'
She kisses him. 'I know. I understand. It's good that you're the kind of guy who tries to help out.' She stands up, grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet. 'Get off your sad ass for a minute and come see something.'
She drags him across the room, past the TV, the dresser and newly made-up bed that she can't wait to unmake again. 'Shut your eyes.'
He feels foolish.
'Hands over them. No peeping.'
Tina's too small to check if he's cheating. She stands on tiptoe to try, and then takes his hand again and walks him a few more steps to his left. 'Okay. Now you can look.'
He does.
He's standing in front of her open wardrobe, staring at racks of blouses, skirts, dresses, pants and shoes. So many shoes!
'To the left, stupid.' She uses both hands to turn his broad shoulders.
Now he gets it.
More clothes. Men's clothes. New clothes for him. Just for him.
'I didn't buy you any altar robes,' she says, instantly feeling clumsy about the comment. 'I guess even if your bag turns up, you probably won't be needing them again.'
Her generosity leaves him stuck for words. He runs his hand across the hangers: two pairs of lightweight trousers, three crisp cotton shirts, two V-neck lamb's wool jumpers and a black wool jacket, lined in silver and styled to wear formal or casual.
He turns round to say thanks – and maybe even to reveal that no one's bought clothes for him since his mother died. But Tina's not there.
She's over by the bed. Stretching a pair of Calvins between her thumbs. 'Come here. I need to see if your sad but perfectly formed ass fits in these.'
CAPITOLO XXIV
666 BC
Atmanta It is the moment Teucer has been dreading.
The unveiling. The removal of his bandages.
Time to find out if he's still blind.
Tetia and his parents have gathered in the healer's hut, their faces sagging with the weight of expectation.
The magistrate has sent his emissary Larth, who sits on a small wooden stool near the bed where Teucer lies. 'Pesna commands me to inform you that the temple is complete. He moved slaves from his mines and they have worked ceaselessly through the changes of sun and moon to finish it on time. The hallowed halls shine like gold, and only await your offerings and blessings.'
Teucer doubts Pesna redeployed many workers and suspects the workmanship to be shoddy. 'The deities will be pleased,' he says sarcastically.
Larth grabs his arm. 'Do not humour me, Netsvis. If you could but see the man I am, then you would not be so foolish as to chide me like a child.'
Venthi steps forward to intervene, but Teucer, anticipating the move, tells him, 'Father, please, do nothing. I am in no danger.' He puts a hand on Larth's vice-like grip: 'Stranger, I need no eyes to see you. I know you are an enforcer, a torturer, filled in equal measure with ambition and resentment. If you do not wish the gods to curse you, then you will let go of me.'
Larth loosens his grip. Teucer can feel where the fingers have bruised his skin as Larthuza moves closer. 'Lie back, please.' The healer's hands guide him down on to the bed. 'Cover the window, Tetia. Bright light must not fall upon his pupils.'
Tetia closes the rough shutters inside the room, struggling to fasten the latch because the wood has warped and no longer lies flush to the wall.
Larthuza lights a candle and places it to one side. 'Teucer, I do not want you to open your eyes. Not until I tell you to.'
Tetia squeezes through to stand beside him. She takes her husband's hand as Larthuza starts to unwrap the bandages. They stick to the sweat on his face and leave white crease-lines on his pink skin. The healer dips wool in a wooden water bowl and cleans his eyelids. He dries Teucer's face and then prays:
'I beseech Turan, the great goddess of love, health and fertility to favour Teucer in this, his time of need. I implore all the great gods known and still unrevealed to show their kindness and love by gifting Teucer the return of his sight.'
Then he kisses his fingertips and places them lightly on the netsvis's eyebrows. 'You may open your eyes now.'
Teucer doesn't move. 'Thank you, Larthuza. Before I put myself to this test, I have things to say, and those gathered here must bear witness to my words. I speak as a netsvis and not as a mere man. In my world of blackness I have seen more than in my many years in the light.'
Venthi puts a hand on his shoulder. 'Be careful, my son.'
'Etruria is in danger. It grows richer by the hour but a great loss awaits it. One which the gods are powerless to stop.'
Venthi stoops and whispers in his ear. 'Enough, Teucer. These are things you should not say with strangers around you.'
Teucer lifts a hand to silence his father. 'I have seen a demon that has set its eyes upon Atmanta. A deity so powerful it sends Aita and his sprites running like scared children.'
'Enough!' Venthi turns to Larth. 'My son is still not well. The healer's herbs have affected his mind.'
'My mind is clear, Father.' Teucer opens his eyes.
Everyone stoops and stares. No one speaks.
Tetia can already tell.
So too can his mother.
'We all know from our silences that I cannot see. Nor will I ever see again.'
Larthuza brings the candle close to Teucer's eyes.
The netsvis flinches. 'Please, Larthuza, you will set fire to me with that candle. I may not be able to see it, but I can feel its heat.'
The healer backs away.
Teucer beckons to them. 'Now, Stranger, you with the hurtful grip – I imagine you did not come all this way merely to be a messenger. So help me up, and take me across the fields to Magistrate Pesna so I may speak with him of this curse. We have an urgent matter to settle.'
CHAPTER 29
Present Day Venice Maria Carvalho, the forty-two-year-old wife of the Carabinieri major, has been helped into bed by her sister Felicia. She's already asleep by the time Vito eventually makes it home.
Maria has multiple sclerosis. It mugged her on a Wednesday morning eleven years ago, when her physician gave her the life-changing explanation for her tremors, balance problems and blurred vision.
Maria's illness is the reason her husband quit his job in Milan.
As a high-flying homicide detective he'd just been offered promotion but opted instead for a sideways move to the backwaters of Venice. He never told Maria what he'd turned down. He said there were cutbacks, reshuffles in the unit, and he was out of favour. A move would be good for him. A clean start.
Work and Maria are the two most important things in Vito's life, but not in that order. And not for one second has he regretted his decision to leave Milan.
But tonight, he's feeling rusty. Slow.
A murdere
d fifteen-year-old.
A killer on the loose.
These things were bad enough.
But a dead colleague. One whom he'd mentored, thought of like a son. Well, this is too much to cope with.
He flaps down a cupboard door in a cheap teak wall unit and grabs a bottle of brandy and a tumbler. These are his two friends for the evening. They know him of old.
He takes a long slug of a '76 Vecchio. Lets it set fire to his mouth. Feels it roll like lava into the pit of his stomach.
The apartment is small. The living room almost silent. Sadness seems to amplify every sound. A clock on the fireplace clunks. Maria's tiny movements upstairs in bed make the floor-boards creak and groan. Even his own swallows of brandy sound like drains emptying.
Vito puts the glass down and stares at the ceiling. He tries not to recall the faces of Antonio's parents as he broke the news. Tries not to remember how Valentina struggled to be brave in front of him.
Gradually the brandy sinks in and he starts to unwind. There's a chance he would have fallen into a comfortable sleep at the table, had his cellphone not rung.
The major grabs it quickly so it doesn't wake Maria. 'Pronto.'
The caller is Nuncio di Alberto. A young officer working the night shift in the murder incident room. Vito listens carefully. The news instantly sobers him up.
Things are going from bad to worse.
'You're sure of it? There's no mistake?'
Nuncio says he's as sure as he can be. 'I tried Lieutenant Morassi, sir, but she's not picking up on her cellphone.'
'Don't bother her again. She can pick things up in the morning.' He glances at the clock. Midnight. His day should be finished, not just beginning.
CAPITOLO XXV
666 BC
The House of Pesna, Atmanta The giant map that Pesna studies on the floor of his private office is made of linen, not papyrus. The magistrate, like many Etruscans, likes to make his mark in a manner noticeably different to that of the Greeks. Their texts are on scrolls and are stored rolled, while Pesna and other nobles across Etruria prefer to use linen and fold the finished works. The Etruscan alphabet, written back to front, is already different from its Greek counterpart, and Pesna has no doubts that by the end of his life there will not be a Greek alive who will be able to read it.
The Venice conspiracy ts-1 Page 13
