The Venice Conspiracy

by Sam Christer

  The piece is fired and finished.

  Tetia reflects on the work and the duplicity involved in completing it. Last night Teucer had been moved back to their hut to finish his recovery. She’d dutifully tended him until he’d fallen asleep. Then she’d returned to the clay, carefully baking it in a new kiln pit she’d dug in the earth, filled with dried manure, chopped wood, sea salt and dried leaves. As the blaze had grown stronger she’d covered it with logs and clay off-cuts to trap the intense heat, timing everything so she would remove the ceramic at the first glimpse of dawn.

  It was a relief to find it hadn’t cracked. Though, when she looked closely, she could see hundreds of fissures, like the snakes she’d etched, crawling conspiratorially across the surface. The clay had not been pure. Poisonous deposits and odd minerals had seeped into it. At one point she’d been convinced the poisons would break the clay during the firing. But they hadn’t. And, looking at it now, it is indeed everything Magistrate Pesna said it would be.

  Magnificent.

  The greatest of all her works.

  And she is loath to give it away.

  Tetia takes time to gently clean it. She stores it at the back of the hut and feels a strange sensation in her stomach.

  A bubbling.

  Like hunger. Only different.

  She puts her hands across the bulge. Unless she’s mistaken, even her child seems pleased that she’s finished.

  She covers the tablet with cloth and starts to chop fruit for breakfast. It makes her remember how usually when someone is ill neighbours bring small gifts as gestures of goodwill to speed a full and fast recovery. Fruits, cheeses, juices, or even talismans. But none have been brought for Teucer. No one has even visited.

  Sharp shafts of sunlight begin to flood the hut and come to rest on Teucer’s face.

  Eventually the warmth wakes him.

  He drags himself upright and instantly reaches out for his wife. ‘Tetia!’ There’s a hint of panic in his voice.

  ‘I’m here.’ She goes to him and strokes his matted hair. ‘Are you feeling better? You have slept long and deeply. Had you not been making the grunts of a bear, then I may have taken you for dead.’

  He smiles and puts his hands to his head, close to where she’s been touching him. ‘I do feel a little stronger.’ The bandages are all loose and the poultice has fallen off. ‘Though my eyes feel as though they are full of sand.’

  Tetia can see that his dressing has slipped, his pupils are uncovered. He’s looking straight at her.

  But he can’t see anything!

  She steps closer. Looks for a flicker of recognition.

  Nothing.

  Teucer senses something. Perhaps it is her silence. Perhaps he somehow picks up her thoughts. ‘What are you doing?’

  She swallows hard. ‘Nothing, my love. I had mislaid your things. Lie back down and I will change those dressings for you.’

  Teucer lowers his elbows and lies back.

  Tetia pours water into a bowl and uses ram’s wool to gently wipe away crusts from his eye lashes and sockets. She sits astride his thighs, and for a moment both of them think back to when they last made love like this. He smiles up at her and she feels him harden beneath her. He reaches out so his fingers touch the falling curtains of her hair. ‘Thank you, my sweetness. Thank you for being here with me and for not deserting me. I thought the other day that you had decided that if the gods had abandoned me, then so should you.’

  ‘Shush!’ She puts a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t say such things.’

  Teucer falls silent, his fingers frozen like icicles in the soft waterfall of hair.

  She bends her face low to kiss his dry lips. She moistens them with her tongue and feels a soft moan stirring within him.

  Gently she removes her clothes and kisses his chest and penis. She’ll make love to him. Slowly. Caringly. Then she’ll tell him. Tell him she has to go to Pesna.

  CHAPTER 23

  Present Day

  Hotel Rotoletti, Piazzale Roma, Venice

  Lieutenant Valentina Morassi picks Tom up at his own hotel a little after 8 a.m. She’d left a message there the previous night, and also at the Luna Baglioni.

  The weather’s cooler than it’s been for some time, and Valentina is dressed in brushed-cotton, black Armani jeans, a short jacket of soft red Italian leather and a grey cashmere jumper over a long-collared white blouse. She has a weakness for clothes. More of her money goes on them than on food, which she thinks is probably a good thing, given that if it was the other way round she’d never fit into any of the stuff she likes to wear. It follows, then, that when Tom appears she instantly notices he’s still wearing the same jeans, grey tee and grey hooded sweat-top that she first saw him in.

  ‘Buongiorno!’ he chirps, as he gingerly steps on to the deck of the Carabinieri craft. ‘I’m not a seafarer, I’m afraid. My legs prefer a little terra firma.’

  ‘And you an LA guy?’ Valentina teases, steadying his arm as he lurches on to the back of the boat where the Italian flag flutters in a fresh breeze. ‘I had you down as a Californian who’d spent most of his teenage years in the ocean.’

  Tom flinches. ‘You’re way off the mark, Lieutenant. Truth is, I can barely swim. I’m almost phobic about it, actually.’

  She looks at him quizzically, not sure whether he’s toying with her. ‘Come inside, I’ve got some coffee.’

  Tom has to almost fold himself double as he follows her through a tiny door into a long, narrow cabin at the back of the wheelhouse. ‘My best friend got killed by a jet ski at Malibu when I was a kid. I was in the water with him at the time.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thanks. We got far to go?’

  ‘Five minutes. Maybe ten. Depends on the traffic.’ She undoes a steel Thermos flask and pours black coffee for them both.

  Tom’s amused by the idea of a traffic jam on the water. But as they make their way out from the midst of water taxis, gondolas and work boats around the Piazzale, he can see what she means.

  ‘Major Carvalho and the medical examiner, Professore Montesano, will meet us there.’ She thinks about mentioning his clothes, especially his lack of fresh ones, but checks herself. ‘Have you been in a morgue before?’

  Tom nods. ‘Unfortunately, several times. Not for crime investigation reasons, but to accompany relatives of the newly deceased. Sometimes to identify a dead gangbanger or gutter bum who had no one else to stand for them.’

  She smiles apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. The morgue is really not a good place to start your day.’

  Tom shrugs. ‘I’d rather not go to one at all, but if I have to, then I’d prefer to start the day there than finish it there.’

  Twenty minutes later the words come back to bite him.

  Gowned up and standing alongside the bleached body of fifteen-yearold Monica Vidic, he feels almost as low as the night he killed the two street punks in LA.

  He’s heard what Major Carvalho has just said. Understood it very clearly. But he still has to ask the question. ‘Someone cut out her liver?’

  Valentina looks guilty. ‘Si. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this earlier. It seemed more appropriate to wait until you came here.’

  ‘Are you all right, signor?’ says the ME, registering the distress on his face. ‘Perhaps we take a little break?’

  Tom shakes his head. ‘No. No, I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.’ He glances at Valentina, who looks away as if she knows he’s remembering her comment that after this meeting the Carabinieri would be finished with him – completely finished. Well, it doesn’t feel like that any more. Far from it. It feels like they are only just getting started.

  CHAPTER 24

  Riva San Biagio, Venice

  The early-morning sun is masked by cloud as Antonio Pavarotti guns up the old family motorboat moored near Riva San Biagio and sets out for Isola Mario. A glance at his watch tells him he’ll arrive about twenty minutes early, long enough to stray a little and get a
water-level view of the boathouse. He throttles up as he eases his way into one of the lagoon’s well-defined navigation channels.

  The boat’s an old twenty-seven footer, bought by his father Angelo almost twenty years ago and gifted to his son on his twenty-first birthday. It’s been cherished over the decades and in recent years almost completely overhauled by Antonio. His latest labour of love was fitting new windows and reconditioning the trusty old diesel engine. Next on his list is another repaint of the ever-needy blue hull that’s now bouncing over some particularly choppy waves. He soon sees the reason why. He’s following in the wake of the Number 41 waterbus heading out to Ferrovia and Murano. Get caught in the tracks of one of those and it’s about as comfortable as being pulled naked across a ploughed field by your ankles.

  Antonio opens a flask of tea he’s brought with him and sticks it in a holder at the front of the wheelhouse. It’s a beautifully restored and fully covered area, resplendent in French-polished wood and freshly cleaned brass. It opens up into a good-sized galley kitchen complete with a temperamental gas oven and two-ring burner that in their time have heated up a lot of his mamma’s home cooking. At the rear is a seating area that doubles as a bunk or two.

  Through the spray and thinning mist, Isola di San Michele bobs into view – but for once Antonio’s thoughts are not on his grandparents and the other souls lying in their island graves. He’s thinking of the happy times he’s had on the craft. His first trip with his mother and father. Fishing with college friends. Precious, private time with his girlfriends before he moved out of his parents’ apartment and got a place of his own.

  The last memory lingers and brings a smile to his face as he clicks a self-firing ring on the stove to get a light for his first cigarette of the day. He’ll give up soon. Maybe when this undercover job is over. Mamma will be pleased when he finally quits.

  For a split second something seems wrong.

  The air in the cabin feels like it’s disappeared. Sucked away by a giant invisible straw.

  Antonio’s ears burst with pain and his body shakes.

  Metal from the stove becomes shrapnel and rips into his face.

  He sees it all in slow motion, the moment of realisation when he knows what’s happening but can’t do anything about it.

  He’s blind and dizzy.

  The thunderous roar of the gas explosion ripples across the open sea.

  Antonio feels the splash of waves in his face but can’t see anything.

  Tourists on the back of the waterbus gawp slack-jawed, the full horror yet to sink in.

  A raw orange fireball corkscrews into the grey mist, followed by palls of thick black smoke.

  Wooden planks and chunks of plastic fill the sky, then drift apart on the waves.

  Passing boats kill their engines. In the eerie silence, onlookers stare and wonder if it’s safe to head over.

  The flames die down.

  Among the glistening oil and splinters of shattered craft, the shape of Antonio Pavarotti can be seen floating amid the debris.

  CAPITOLO XIX

  666 BC

  The House of Pesna, Atmanta

  Tetia feels bad about lying to Teucer.

  She’s told him her journey to Pesna’s house had been commanded by the magistrate to seek commissions for his tomb. Teucer was so tired and weak after their lovemaking that he didn’t argue.

  The marital deception is the latest in a line that started when Tetia swore she’d destroyed the markings he’d made in the curte, a line that stretches now all the way to Pesna’s grand chamber where she’s about to hand over the ceramic she made from the engraved clay.

  Hercha wanders into the room where Tetia waits. She makes a caustic appraisal of the pale, small-breasted woman in front of her. ‘You’re not his type. Fat with child, small and dirty. Most definitely not.’

  The sculptress ignores her. She’s admiring row after row of amazing pottery. Hook-handled Greek vases with curvilinear patterns and intricate silhouettes of gorgons, griffins, sphinxes and sirens. Wide-brimmed pots with red-gold figures set against polished black backgrounds.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Hercha strides closer. ‘Pesna prefers his women to have a certain sophistication and substance. Rag women are not to his taste.’

  Tetia tilts her head and bends low to inspect two elegant, long-necked alabastron flasks with no handles, decorated with exotic multicoloured birds on almost opaque backgrounds. Her eyes widen as she spots a whole series of older works – Greek oil flasks with loop handles and long cylindrical bodies gracefully tapered to their bases. Then her eyes feast upon fabulously painted kraters with short handles like pig ears made from a glistening metal that she is sure is silver.

  Hercha flounces from the room muttering: ‘The strumpet is no doubt deaf and dumb as well as fat and stupid. Definitely not the type of a noble.’

  Tetia doesn’t even notice her go. She looks down at the slab of cloth-covered clay in her hands. In the presence of all these magnificent works it is no longer an inspired piece of art, it is a crude lump of earth cobbled together by the careless hands of an amateur.

  Pesna enters.

  He is barefoot and dressed in a tunic cut from the same cream cloth as Hercha’s. He smells of recent sex and is eating a leg of roasted chicken off a beaten silver platter. ‘Have you seen anything you like?’

  Tetia stares at him. ‘Everything!’ she blurts out. ‘There is nothing here that doesn’t thrill the eye.’

  ‘Does that include myself?’ He pads silently closer to her, the walk of a hungry wolf, ready to drop the meat of one victim and feast on another.

  Sensing danger, she steps back a pace. ‘Magistrate, I have brought this.’ She holds out the bundle of rags in her hands. ‘I have finished it, and had thought it suitable, but now, after seeing all of the marvels in this room, I doubt it will please you.’

  Pesna loses interest in her. His eyes begin to undress the package in her hands. ‘As I told you last time we met, I will be the judge of that.’ He saunters to the right-hand side of the room, where there is a long oak table pressed against a wall. ‘Bring it over here. I need to wipe my hands.’ He steps through a doorway and Tetia follows his orders. In her haste, her old sandals catch on a raised stone slab. She stubs her toe and stumbles. The ceramic doesn’t crash to the floor, but it does drop heavily on to the table. Far more heavily than is healthy.

  She steadies herself. Fears the worst.

  Tentatively she unwraps the greatest creation of her life.

  Her heart sinks.

  It has broken.

  Even before she has fully unfolded the cloth she knows what has happened. It has cracked. It’s broken cleanly down the two deep lines Teucer had drawn to divide the oblong into three.

  To her horror, Pesna reappears. He has abandoned the platter of chicken and is rubbing his hands on a thick fold of linen. ‘So, let’s see this wonder.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She unfolds the last layer of rough cloth and steps back. ‘I’m so deeply sorry.’

  Pesna is silent.

  He stands back and stares.

  ‘Sweet mother of Menrva!’

  He all but leaps on it.

  ‘This is astonishing!’ He pushes Tetia away. ‘The raw clay you had worked on was promising, but I never expected this. You have created three equal and separate scenes that look wonderful alone but together create one glorious piece.’

  Tetia looks close and sees he’s right. Teucer’s visions lie side by side, now separated by her carelessness, but one easy push will bring them together again, like completing a puzzle.

  Pesna looks delighted as he slides the pieces around. ‘This is an inspired and visionary piece. It tricks the eye and unchains the imagination. Remind me, what title do you give it?’

  Tetia hesitates. Then Teucer’s words tumble out. ‘It is – The Gates of Destiny.’

  ‘Of course.’ The title seems to energise him even more. He steps back in slow wonderment. Raises his hands to his
face. ‘But, my talented young Tetia, it is not quite finished.’

  Tetia frowns. ‘How so, Magistrate?’

  He smiles knowingly. ‘Silver.’

  Her brow furrows.

  ‘To do it justice – to do you justice – you must work with my silversmith and lock its beauty in silver and preserve it for ever.’

  ‘But—’

  Pesna silences her with an upheld hand. ‘Mamarce is the best in Etruria. From your clay he will make casts and we will cover your vision in the richest silver we can mine. I will have Larth arrange it immediately.’

  Tetia begins to worry.

  It was bad enough to contemplate giving the piece to the magistrate, but if he immortalises it in silver, then it is bound to be talked about and such chatter would surely get back to her husband. ‘Magistrate, when it is finished, what will you do with it? Will you keep it here, in this room with your other works?’

  Pesna’s eyes are alight. ‘I don’t yet know. Firstly, your husband will bless it at the opening of the new temple, then I will decide. Perhaps I will let it stay there for a while, in gratitude to the gods.’

  Tetia drops her head. She can see how her deceptions and lies are in danger of catching up with her. ‘Magistrate, I have thought again. I really think I must give this work to my husband. I will make something finer, something much grander for you.’ She tries to wrap the pieces in their cloth.

  ‘Cease!’ Pesna roars. ‘How dare you!’ His eyes are ablaze. ‘You will do as I tell you, when I tell you.’

  A pain suddenly shoots through her stomach and she feels her legs go.

  She steadies herself against a wall and breathes deeply.

  Pesna doesn’t care about her discomfort. His face is scarlet, his eyes wide and angry. ‘I told you once to make your peace with the gods and with your husband about this. You must do so. Now leave! Get out before I have you and that useless netsvis gutted and fed to my swine.’