The Venice Conspiracy

by Sam Christer

  ‘Good idea. Thanks. Do I need a password or anything?’

  ‘Nope.’ She smiles and points to the desk as she heads to the bathroom. ‘It’s all fired up. Just pour me a glass of wine for when I get out, okay?’

  ‘Sure. White?’

  ‘Please. There’s some Sauvignon Blanc in the minibar. Spoil me with some ice as well.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Tom goes to the computer first. His theological studies give him a head start on the Etruscan research. He already knows the importance attached to the liver in their culture, and the fact that they were an incredibly organised and advanced society. From around 900 BC they were governed by predestination – a belief that every aspect of their fate was in the hands of a collection of deities. Their fortunes depended on remaining in favour with the gods, heeding omens and offering sacrifices to appease angry deities or win favour. To this end they relied heavily on the guidance of a seer or augur, known as a netsvis or, in the later Roman culture, a haruspex. Both the Romans and the Catholic Church eventually adopted elements of Etruscan ritual and garb; the crooked staff of modern-day bishops was derived from the lituus, a ceremonial stick employed by the netsvis.

  As Tina sings in the shower, he digs deep into the ancient art of liver-divining. An academic treatise describes how the organ was divided into many zones, each representing a particular deity and the position it held in the sky. For example, if the section of the liver associated with Tinia, Etruscan god of thunder and weather, was torn or damaged in some way, the netsvis might interpret this as an omen that a raging storm would devastate crops and wreck fishing boats.

  ‘I’m out of the shower!’ shouts Tina. ‘You want to help dry me?’

  Tom doesn’t hear her. He’s engrossed in a photograph of the Piacenza Liver, a priceless, life-size, bronze model of a sheep’s liver made some three centuries before the birth of Christ. Discovered in Gossolengo near Piacenza way back in the late nineteenth century, it is believed to have been a teaching aid for augurs. Peering at the markings, Tom wonders what messages the seers of old might have deciphered as a result of their studies.

  Tina appears next to him. ‘Okay, no help getting dry, I can put up with that. But no wine?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Tom jumps up from the desk. ‘I just got carried away.’ He scurries to the fridge and pours two glasses of white.

  ‘You find what you want?’

  ‘Kind of.’ He looks at her – really looks – for the first time since he came in.

  She’s dressed in a soft white robe with a towel around her wet hair. When she notices the way he’s studying her she smiles. ‘What? I look scary without make-up and blow-dried hair?’

  ‘Far from it. You look even more beautiful.’ He steps closer to her. Kisses her lightly. Feels excited by the touch of her wet hair, her freshness and the softness of her mouth.

  He puts his arms around her waist and starts to untie the robe’s belt.

  She pulls away and puts her drink on the dressing table. ‘Come sit on the bed with me a minute. I’ve got something I want to say to you.’

  ‘Oh. This doesn’t sound good.’

  Tina takes his hand as they sit. ‘I’ve got to leave, Tom.’

  He looks at her like he doesn’t understand.

  ‘Another job’s come up and I have to leave here pretty quick. Very quick, in fact.’

  He frowns at her. ‘What job?’

  She looks away from him, tries to hide her awkwardness. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t really say. It’s – well, it’s an exclusive – and the magazine has this confidentiality policy. I hope you understand.’

  ‘No, not really. Don’t we have something that goes a bit beyond a magazine article? Or am I really just naive?’

  ‘You’re not naive.’ She looks more cross than sympathetic. ‘Tom, it’s business. Business is business. If you were still a priest, you wouldn’t tell me what someone had said in the confessional, now, would you?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t believe you said that. If I was still a priest we wouldn’t have been having sex, would we?’

  Now it’s her turn to be annoyed. ‘Oh, like Catholic priests never have sex?’ She unconsciously tightens her robe. ‘I’m a professional and I stick to my principles. I guess you can respect that, can’t you?’

  Tom hopes his anger and disappointment don’t show. ‘Okay. Let’s stop arguing. I’m sorry. When do you have to go?’

  Her face stays hard. ‘Tomorrow. First thing in the morning.’

  CAPITOLO XXXI

  666 BC

  The Eastern Silver Mine, Etruria

  The nobles are in. The doors shut. Pesna’s plan is in full swing.

  The man who dreams of being king of the new territories of Etruria stands at the end of the silver-laden table. His position ensures that, should their concentration wander, then their eyes will inevitably fall upon the riches laid out in front of him.

  ‘Noblemen, it is my privilege to welcome you here. I thank you all again for your time and the honour of being your host.’

  ‘The honour is ours!’ booms a jolly-faced man whose vast belly bumps against the table. ‘And we’ll be even more honoured when you let us fill our pockets with these glittering works of beauty.’

  A chorus of laughter breaks out.

  Pesna waves them quiet. ‘In good time, in good time, dear friends.’ He trails a hand across the table, catching chains and bracelets in his fingers.

  ‘And not only today, not only with these small gifts, but I hope for the rest of your days.’

  The nobles laugh again.

  ‘After we have feasted, I will speak to you of how we – together – can build new cities, open new mines and reap riches far greater than the modest trinkets twinkling on this table.’

  The audience cheer.

  A small underground rumble makes the earth shiver. Pesna sees concern on their faces. ‘Nothing to worry about, my friends. Aranthur, explain to our guests the slight tremor they just experienced.’

  The works manager’s face fills with the smugness of one who relishes being centre stage but rarely gets the chance. ‘The vibration is underground blasting. We build large fires under sections of rock where we know precious ore is ingrained. The rock heats up to an unimaginable ferocity, then we douse it with freezing water channelled from the ground above. The rapidly cooling rock then cracks and caves away.’ He makes a splitting gesture with his closed hands. ‘There follows a collapse of stone, rock, ore and earth. Then our men move in and dig the silver out.’

  An elderly noble from Velzna looks concerned. ‘Do many of your slaves get killed?’

  ‘Some,’ answers Pesna, matter-of-factly. ‘It is dangerous work.’ He waves a hand over the table. ‘But the risks are richly rewarded and well worth the loss of a few slaves. This mine is the first and biggest of six that I own.’

  There are mumblings among the nobles – speculation as to the extent of Pesna’s wealth rather than concern at the dangers.

  ‘Please!’ The mine manager tries to recapture their attention. ‘Please – be so kind as to follow me across the room.’ He walks towards rough tables erected in a far corner. ‘Here are samples of the latest ore we have recovered. See how rich the seams are?’ Aranthur steps back so they can examine the precious metal for themselves.

  ‘Most of our silver is easy to extract.’ He walks to another small table. ‘Slaves have to do little more than shovel it, wash it and harvest it from the dusts of the earth. But these easily grabbed riches tend to be on the small side.’ He holds up a nugget the size of his thumbnail. ‘It’s when we dig deep into the groins of the hills that we find the bigger prizes.’

  Another explosion makes the ground tremble again.

  All eyes flick to Pesna. He gives them another reassuring grin. ‘It is the sound of the gods applauding our latest find. Now come, enough of Aranthur’s tedious lesson, let’s share out the wonderful presents you have been admiring. I have had gifts handcrafted for each a
nd every one of you. My noble friend Kavie has a list detailing which piece belongs to whom.’

  Another rumble.

  This time no one flinches. They’re too absorbed in the sound of wealth being distributed.

  Kavie starts with the smallest presents and least important guests. ‘It is my honour to pass these gifts on to you. First, to my old friend Arte of Tarchna, I am pleased to present this signet ring, beautifully engraved with his initials …’

  The nobles applaud as Arte works his way through the throng to receive his present.

  But he never gets it.

  The whole wooden structure of the outbuilding creaks and shakes.

  Parts of the roof break away. Daylight bursts through. Clapping turns to silent, open-mouthed fear.

  They are all looking up as the entire roof collapses. Hands cover heads as timber and metal rain down.

  Now the ground disappears.

  Opens up beneath their feet.

  Like a trapdoor to hell.

  Hands cling to the edge of a crumbling crevice. Fingers claw frantically, but the soft earth yields and they slip away.

  Screams echo from the gaping hole. The nobles tumble into a murderous torrent of cleaved rock.

  Roaring through the complex of six mines is a fireball of methane, set off by fires in the cliffside.

  Those who survive the drop are burned to death in the inferno.

  From his vantage point on the hillside, Larth watches the mushroom cloud of dust and black smoke rise high in the afternoon sky. His men did well with the fires, brilliantly arranging them to set off the chain reaction that tore through stagnant chambers filled with the earth’s noxious gases.

  As he leans against the busted chariot wheel and looks down at the three precious silver tiles in his hands, he allows himself a smile that even Pesna would have been proud of. The tablets are the key to great things. He must keep them safe. Guard them with his life. Guard them until his new master is ready for them.

  CAPITOLO XXXII

  Larthuza’s Hut, Atmanta

  Tetia is unconscious by the time Venthi gets her to the healer’s hut.

  The old man fears the worst.

  After such a huge loss of blood she is on the brink of death.

  Helpers and well-wishers crush inside the healer’s hut as Venthi rushes back for his son. Larthuza lays Tetia out on a rough treatment bed, and quickly gathers cloths and a pot of water that perpetually simmers on the fire.

  ‘Thank you! Thank you! Time for you all to go now. Give me space. Give me room to work.’ He flaps the watchers away, as though he’s shooing a flock of unwanted geese.

  Cafatia, a village seamstress of Tetia’s age, stays and helps mop her skin.

  The old man examines the swollen stomach pumping blood. Though the wound has missed the womb, he knows the chance of him saving either mother or child is remote. ‘Wipe! Wipe here!’ he instructs Cafatia as he quickly examines another wound, a flap of gaping flesh on Tetia’s right arm. ‘May all the gods assist us, this is beyond the stitching or healing of mere mortals.’

  He wraps a length of hemp rope tightly around Tetia’s bicep to stem the flow of blood as Cafatia finishes removing the patient’s clothing and wiping her stomach wound.

  He sees it clearly now.

  It is deep.

  Too deep for her to live. He puts his wrinkled old hand near Tetia’s mouth to check her breathing.

  Barely anything.

  A noise and change of light makes him turn.

  Venthi fills the doorway.

  His dead son lies across his arms. ‘He is alive, Larthuza. Teucer is still alive! Treat him quickly!’ He lays him down next to Tetia.

  Larthuza need look no closer. ‘Venthi, he is dead. Let me try to save Tetia.’

  ‘No! Save him, Larthuza, save my sweet boy.’

  The old man’s voice grows soft and kind. ‘He is gone. He is with the gods he served so devotedly.’

  Tears stream down Venthi’s face. ‘At least examine him! I beseech you.’

  Larthuza grabs him by the arms. ‘Venthi, I do not need to – he is gone! I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do for him. Now, let me attend his wife and child.’

  Tetia’s eyes flick open.

  A shot of pain jolts through her and her good hand clutches at the healer.

  Larthuza rips off the last of her blood-soaked tunic. He bends and parts her shaking pale knees. In his mind he is praying – begging – Thalna, the goddess of childbirth, for help. He glances at Venthi with a thin trace of a smile. ‘I can see the child’s head. I can see the baby.’

  Tetia’s eyes bulge. She howls like a wounded animal.

  Larthuza tries gently to work his fingers around the soft bone of the child’s skull.

  Tetia can barely pant. Her breath is shallow and limited but she’s prepared to use the last of it to deliver her child to safety.

  The healer looks up at her. Her face is as white as a corpse. Her eyes as milky as those of her blinded husband.

  Larthuza feels tiny shoulders in his fingers. Now the delicate bones of the baby’s back and ribs.

  Tetia lets loose an inhuman roar.

  Her head drops.

  Her legs collapse.

  She is dead.

  For a second everything stops as the shock of her passing fills the room. Larthuza breaks the trance. ‘Venthi, lift her legs! Do it quickly! Take her beneath the knees and keep her legs open.’

  The big man does as instructed.

  The healer’s hands work quickly. Fingers hook around the armpits of the child, and slowly he pulls.

  The baby slithers out of his dead mother’s body, a bloody snake of umbilical cord trailing behind.

  All eyes are on the child.

  The silent, non-breathing, baby boy.

  Venthi can see the healer needs room. He takes his knife, slices the cord and pulls Tetia out of Larthuza’s way. He lays her cold body gently against that of his dead son.

  Larthuza ties the cord. Tips the baby face down in the palm of his hand and works one of his bony fingers into its mouth.

  Its bloated little belly stretches to bursting point.

  Then –

  A splatter of dark fluid and mucus sprays from its mouth and nostrils.

  But no cry erupts. Just short breaths, like an animal snuffing.

  Larthuza smiles. ‘You are a grandfather, Venthi. This little man is breathing.’

  ‘Let me hold him,’ Venthi stretches out his hands. ‘He is the only blood that will now survive me.’

  Larthuza gently passes him over. ‘Careful, he is very weak. I will get something to wrap him in.’

  Venthi kisses his grandson. He is perfect, bar a small tear-shaped birthmark beneath his left eye. He kisses the child, then folds Teucer’s arm around his dead wife and places the baby between them. ‘These are your parents, newborn. Though you never saw them, I will make sure you never forget them and you in turn will ensure the generations that follow you will always remember them.’

  PART FOUR

  18TH CENTURY VENICE

  CAPITOLO XXXIII

  26 dicembre 1777

  Piazza San Marco, Venezia

  Sunset turns the Canale Di San Marco into an endless stream of spilled Chianti.

  Masked courtesans totter carefully from their boats to ply their trade inland. Hungry eyes peer out from behind the soft velvet of full-face Moretta masks, most held in place by a button on a thread, clenched between the teeth.

  Some of the wearers are young and beautiful. Some old and diseased. Rich women dress as paupers. The poor borrow disguises to spend the night as nobles.

  In Venice, anyone can be anyone.

  Everything is possible.

  Nothing is certain.

  It is the day after Christmas. The Feast of St Stephen. The start of Carnevale.

  The most decadent festival in the history of the world is only hours old and it is screaming its arrival like a newborn child.

  Six mon
ths of wild indulgence is born.

  Music. Art. Sex.

  And more decadent things.

  Darker – deadlier – things.

  Piazza San Marco is already a dance floor. Embroidered coats, Carnevale capes and shimmering new costumes swirl in the crisp winter air as mingling and flirtation commence against a backdrop of string musicians. Vivaldi is dead but the Red Priest’s music is more in fashion than when he was alive. Inside a café, female violinists play ‘La Tempesta de Mare’, and for a fleeting moment a group of men pause and listen before heading on towards Il Ridotto, the state-run gambling house at San Moise where most of their wages will disappear.

  From behind his long-nosed, deathly white mask, a man known as The Boatman watches them all.

  He is in the centre of it but not part of it.

  Piazza San Marco is the magnet for decadence, the epicentre of European sexual tourism. This is the place the poet Baffo dubbed the barking ground for bitches of all breeds to come and lift their tails.

  At the far end of the square a street theatre performs on a raised platform. Centre stage is a broad-chested actor playing the role of the adventurer, Capitano Scaramuccia. He is dressed in a feathered hat, flowing black cape and thick belt with steel sword. From behind a small silver mask finished with a long ivory nose he is regaling an already drunken audience with tales of beating the Turkish army and running off with the beard of the Sultan.

  The Boatman drifts away from the crowd’s laughter and wanders the streets, drinking in the sexual aroma of the early evening.

  He decides to dine well.

  A hearty zuppa pomodoro, followed by a rich, roasted haunch of lamb. But no wine. Not yet. He needs a clear head.

  Afterwards he will walk off his feast and be ready for business.

  He meanders north-east through backstreets and over stone bridges towards the brothel at Santa Maria Formosa. From there he’ll head into the finer quarters of Sestiere di Dorsoduro.

  He fastens his coat as a biting wind blows in from the canal, and hears someone say there’s a stormy high tide on its way. He doesn’t think so. Most forecasters are fools. They don’t have the sense to predict that night follows day. The Boatman knows more about the elements than they ever will.