by Jon Trace
Teucer doesn’t notice her, he’s now caught in the full flow of the ceremony.
Thunder booms in the darkening morning sky. Not the type of thunder that announces an important event, nor that of a celestial warning. It is the anger of the gods. Black crows break in bellowing squawks from the treetops.
Lightning comes.
A jagged bolt that cracks the clouds. A strike straight from the hands of Tinia, chief of the gods. A bolt blessed by Dii Consentes, the superior gods, and Dii Involuti, the hidden gods. It seems all of heaven is enraged.
Teucer and his wife are pinned to their spots in the curte. He vows not to lose his nerve. Not now. Not with so much at stake.
He sprinkles another handful of henbane over the fire. The granules turn into a thousand sparks and then die. He inhales the smoky aroma and feels tension drift from his temples, forehead and shoulders. The pain in Tetia’s stomach is worsening but she doesn’t shirk her task; shakily she pours water into an earthenware bowl. Teucer dips his fingers into it and flicks drops on to the fire.
Black clouds move like spectres across the horizon. A long breeze rustles the sun-crisped leaves of surrounding trees.
Teucer pours wine into a long-stemmed ceramic chalice. He makes a sign over it with his hand - mirroring the four celestial quarters of the sky - then sips the dark-red elixir. As red as the blood that flowed from the rapist’s wounds.
‘Gods of the skies, noble rulers of our unworthy lives, I call upon you now to show me your merciful will.’
The seer’s hands tremble as he pours oil of valerian - a powerful narcotic - into the wine. It will further steady his nerve. Open his doors of perception. He downs the draught and drops more kindling on to the fire.
Another crack of thunder, louder and more ominous.
Perhaps out of fright, perhaps on pure impulse, Teucer turns to the west, home of the more hostile gods. He closes his eyes and waits.
Then it happens.
From his inner blackness comes a screaming vortex of demons.
Aita, lord of the underworld, in his warrior helmet carved from the head of a wolf.
Charun, the blue-skinned, feather-winged demon.
Phersipnei, queen of the underworld.
They fly around him. Pass through him. Ripping at his courage and sanity.
Thunder booms like an explosion across the hillside behind him. Forked lightning cracks the blackened sky.
With a single high-pitched scream the demons depart in a trail of blood-red vapour. But there’s something left.
Whatever chased them away - something far more terrifying - has stayed behind.
CAPITOLO VIII
The fire in the sacred circle reaches its climax. Great orange tongues of flame lick skywards. On one side of the blaze, Teucer acts like a man possessed. On the other, Tetia lies still. She has collapsed. The pain in her stomach is unbearable, the violence of the child within her feels almost demonic.
Demonic.
She can think of no other word for it. The more pain the child inflicts upon her, the more the clouds darken and the thunder booms.
Teucer shouts and stabs the ground in a frenzy, slashing and digging with his ceremonial knife as if he’s trying to kill something.
She looks at the thick red clay at his feet, expecting to find a random, gouged mess. Instead she sees a precise, deeply carved symbol. An oblong, sharply divided into three, covered with hundreds of stab marks that look like slithering snakes.
Tetia pulls herself to her knees. She knows her husband is in danger. Something deep within tells her that when he has finished whatever he’s doing, his life will end.
The child.
The thought terrifies her. But the child does seem to be the only explanation. It wants him dead.
Through the flames she sees the flash of Teucer’s knife. His face is twisted with pain as if every nerve in his being is burning. The god that chased the demons away is revealing himself, showing Teucer his will.
And Teucer can take no more.
The baby kicks hard. So hard Tetia screams. So violently she can’t breathe. She sees Teucer stand. He staggers to his feet, puts his hands to his head and bangs his temples, as if to stop the awful visions in his head. But still the pain will not cease.
He looks down at the evil signs he has made, walks a step and pounds again at his face.
Tetia’s heart goes out to him, she wants to hold him, love him, protect him.
Another kick. So vicious, she vomits. All she can do now is watch as Teucer falls to his knees. The child’s movements seem almost in sync with her husband’s, as though one is passing pain to the other, through Tetia.
Summoning the last of his own free will, Teucer gets to his feet. He moves towards the sacred fire like a drowning man grasping for a rope.
Sudden pressure erupts in the centre of Tetia’s back, a pain she’s never felt before.
Teucer staggers, as though being pulled away from the flames.
Tetia heaves for breath. The child is hurting everything now - her ribs - her stomach - even her spine.
Teucer lets out a roar.
Hands stretched to the sky and eyes wide open, he hurls himself forward into the white-hot centre of the sacred fire.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 14
Present Day
Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice
Sleeping with a woman for the first time is strange. Waking beside her in the morning is even stranger.
Tom Shaman is coming to terms with this strangeness as he lies on his back staring at the ceiling in Tina Ricci’s king-sized bed.
His head’s a mess. A real mess.
He urgently needs fresh air and some time to work out what the hell is going on.
While Tina sleeps snugly, Tom carries his clothes to the bathroom and dresses in the light of the shaving mirror.
He takes the room key, quietly shuts the bedroom door and walks the streets for the first time since discovering Monica Vidic’s body.
It’s already 9 a.m. and he can’t remember the last time he’d gone to bed so early and woken so late.
The morning light is as rich as honeycomb. The temperature a comfortable eighteen degrees. Everywhere he looks, couples are sharing coffee, croissants and newspapers at pavement cafés. It certainly seems as though the world was built for two.
He walks along the front of the Bacino di San Marco and doubts there is a better view of the canal in all of Venice. Crafts of every shape and size jockey for position in the waterway - gondolas, ferries, trade boats, a Carabinieri cruiser and vaporetti.
As he prepares to turn left at the Ponte dei Sospiri a funeral boat passes, slowly ploughing its way to the historic cemetery on Isola di San Michele. The flower-laden vessel jolts memories of Monica and the monster who murdered her.
It’s not something he wants to dwell on.
He pilots his thoughts back to Tina. A few days ago he hadn’t even known she’d existed; now she’s assumed a central role in his life.
The first woman he’s slept with. He’s sure it would have been no big thing for her. But for Tom, it’s a landmark. He struggles to define exactly what kind.
One to be proud of? Or ashamed?
He really isn’t sure. Years of Catholicism do that to you. They make you uncertain about how you should feel about anything pleasurable, especially sex.
Like most priests, Tom tried hard not to think about being intimate with a woman. And like most of his colleagues, there were times when he failed.
In those moments, he’d imagined such a relationship would start off slow - a warm kind of friendship - and then gradually grow into something deeper and more passionate. He’d never dreamed that he would end up behaving like a hopeless teenager and losing his virginity in a drunken one-night stand.
But then again - if he was honest with himself - he hadn’t been that drunk. Tipsy - yes. Loose and uninhibited - certainly. But so drunk that he couldn’t have stopped himself? No, not at all.
And now? In the full glare of the morning light - what did he think now?
Need it be a one-night stand? Is that what she wants? What he wants?
He can’t answer any of the questions. It all seems so horrendously confusing. And to think he’d spent years counselling parishioners on their marital problems. The thought brings a smile to his face. How hopelessly unqualified he was.
But Tom has no regrets. None at all. Whatever happens next, he knows it is all part of the new person he is becoming. A person who, overnight, has allowed a complete stranger into his life. And in giving her the most precious thing he’d had left, he’s allowed her to become an intimate player in his new life.
But for how long?
The question haunts him as he meanders back towards the hotel.
CHAPTER 15
Cosseted in a cocoon of a quilt, Tina Ricci squints sleepily at the half-open bedroom door.
Tom finishes sneaking in. ‘Sorry. I was trying not to wake you.’
She struggles to speak. ‘Errrm - hi. I kinda thought you’d gone.’
He moves gingerly towards the bed. ‘I didn’t think I was supposed to.’
‘You’re not.’ Then in an instant she finds herself defensively adding: ‘Not unless you want to, that is.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then come back here.’ She pats the cool side of the mattress. ‘Give me a chance to show you the real meaning of Morning Service.’
Tom lifts a crumpled brown bag. ‘I bought coffee and croissants. A small repayment for lunch yesterday.’
‘Great.’ She straightens the pillows and sits up a little. ‘But I warn you, I’m famished. We missed dinner - and burned off a lot of calories - so I’m gonna need more than you’ve got there.’
‘Understood.’ Tom takes out the coffees, rips open the bag of croissants and spreads the paper to catch crumbs. His face gives away that he’s going to awkwardly switch subjects and say something about last night. ‘Listen, I’m really new to all this, so please forgive me if I’m very awkward and say all the wrong things.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘Or more likely, don’t say the things that I should.’
She takes a coffee from him. ‘Tom, there are no rules. Just say what you want - anything you feel like saying.’
Right now, saying what he feels turns out to be harder than he ever imagined it would be. ‘Okay. Then help me out here. How do you feel?’
‘I think you’re sweet.’ She pauses, then adds, ‘And special. Not because you used to be a priest and we fucked.’ She looks horrified. ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to say fucked, I mean—’ Now she looks embarrassed. ‘Listen, you’re special because you’re a good guy. An honest guy. A nice guy. And I think it must be quite something to get to know you - really know you.’
He looks tense. ‘Thanks, I hope we get the time to do that.’
‘And you?’ There’s a hint of mischief in her eyes. ‘You don’t get out of answering that easy. What do you feel?’
The sun is blazing outside the window. He can hear Italian voices laughing and chattering on the street below. The world seems perfect. ‘Complete,’ he finally answers. ‘You make me feel wonderfully complete.’
CAPITOLO IX
666 BC
The Sacred Curte, Atmanta
Tetia drags Teucer from the fire.
His face is badly burned and she fears for his sight. She brushes burning embers from his flesh as she leads him from the curte, screaming for help.
Teucer’s father, Venthi, rushes down the hillside. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
Her knees are buckling from the weight of supporting her husband and she struggles to speak. ‘He - fell - in the sacred fire - we were making divinations - for Magistrate Pesna. Look at his eyes!’
Venthi stoops. Terrible blisters are appearing on his son’s cheeks, in his eye sockets and on the lids. He scoops his son into his arms and carries him - legs dangling - as though cradling a child who’d grazed his knee.
They are only minutes from the home of Larthuza the Healer. The old man is standing at his door, drinking wine and watching life go by, when he sees them approaching. ‘Take him through to the back. Lay him on the bed by the hearth.’
Venthi ducks through the doorway, Tetia following closely. No one quite knows Larthuza’s age but many believe the gods have extended his stay on earth solely because of his extraordinary powers of healing.
‘Pour me water, Tetia. There are jugs and bowls outside. Be quick!’ He barks commands from his toothless mouth before he even reaches the place where Teucer lies.
The young netsvis is clutching his face and moaning.
‘Teucer, Teucer let me help you. You must let me move your fingers and treat you.’
Seeing the healer struggling to prise away the young priest’s hands, Venthi takes over. He kneels and holds them in his own, something he’s not done since Teucer was a child. He leans close to his son’s ear: ‘Larthuza will help you, my son. Trust him. Do as he says and let him work his magic.’
The healer moves about the room, gathering cloths from one corner, then oils and herbs from another. He washes his hands in water Tetia pours for him, then he dries them on a rough, clean scrap of cloth, praying all the while to the gods.
Larthuza rubs tincture of root of arum on Teucer’s forehead to dull the pain and help him relax. He layers wet ram’s wool on his face and instructs Tetia to keep checking the dressings. ‘When they become warm to the touch, remove them. Squeeze them out and then dip them into a clean bowl of water and re-lay them on his face.’ She diligently follows instructions while Larthuza searches for his metals - thin instruments fashioned from silver and blessed not only by Teucer but by many preceding seers. The healer’s shelves are stacked with salt, garlic, leaves of rue, plants of Sabine and other herbs, but he cannot find the instruments. He is becoming forgetful. ‘The wounds show anger,’ he calls to Venthi, as it is customary for the head of the family to be informed and his approval sought for all the healer’s actions. ‘You should say your own private prayers for forgiveness to help calm the fury on his face.’
Finally he finds what he wants. A small wooden box filled with silver probes, knives and grips. ‘Tetia, leave those wools and pour hot water from the hearth into a metal bowl.’
He empties the instruments into the bowl and bids her rinse them in water. ‘When you’re finished, drain off the water and pass them to me.’
Slowly he peels back Teucer’s right eyelid. Ash and splinters of burning wood have pierced the pupil. Larthuza begs the gods to steady his fingers as he uses the silver grips to pull out the remnants. Teucer flinches. ‘Boy, you must keep still! Venthi, hold his head, please. I must not make a mistake here.’
Huge hands grasp Teucer’s delicate head. His legs shake with pain as Larthuza pulls fragments from his scorched eyes.
By nightfall the cleansing is completed.
Once more Larthuza layers cool, wet ram’s wool over the seer’s damaged face then makes him drink a long potion of valerian and pomegranate. Both doctor and patient are exhausted.
‘He will sleep now - and sleep for a long time,’ the healer whispers to Tetia. ‘We will leave him here and you may stay with him. Throughout the night the wool must be changed regularly, you understand?’
‘I know my duties. I will not forget them nor sleep until they are completed.’
‘Good child.’ He looks towards Teucer’s father. ‘At dawn I will apply a poultice of feverfew and some essential oils. At nightfall I will give you oil of rough bindweed that must be massaged into the skin. And then, if the fury within him has died away, you may take him home.’
Venthi has been sitting, knees bent, back against the wall near his son. He rises now, old joints cracking as he does. ‘I am thankful for your work and will bring you payment on the morrow.’
Larthuza waves a hand dismissively. ‘There is no need. My only desire is that young Teucer is well again. Like myself, he is chosen to serve.’
Venthi’s strong face becomes vulnerable. ‘Tell me, on the word of Turan, the great goddess of health and love, will my son ever see again?’
‘My old friend, that is up to her and the other deities. I have done all I can. Now we must pray and offer sacrifices. His vision is solely in their hands.’
CAPITOLO X
The House of Atmanta
After feasting for hours, Pesna and his closest companions are in the spa, being washed and oiled by whores and servants.
Most of the magistrate’s coterie are fools, but he tolerates them because they are pretty fools. Some, like Larth, are deadly fools. What Larth lacks in wisdom he makes up for in menace. As chief of Pesna’s guards he is cruelly adept at dispensing any punishments the magistrate decrees.
The wise ones, like Kavie, are rare. Always quiet, always thoughtful, seldom wrong in his counsel, Kavie as usual has separated himself from the crowd. Less drunk than the rest, he is being bathed in the far corner by two of the prettiest pages Pesna has ever employed.
‘If I do not celebrate more,’ proclaims the magistrate, ‘there is a danger that when I die I will have amassed too many riches to spend even in the afterlife.’
His cronies laugh sycophantically.
‘Perhaps there is an afterlife after the afterlife,’ suggests Hercha, a local woman who has become a regular in his bed. Her hair has been freshly braided by servant girls and she constantly plays with it as she speaks. ‘If I am correct, then maybe you are well advised to hold back some of your vast wealth so you will perpetually be able to live in the manner to which you have grown accustomed.’
Pesna slips off his robe and steps into the steaming water alongside Kavie. ‘Since when did I allow a mere woman to give me advice? I advise you to keep your mouth solely for my pleasure and not for publicly flaunting your stupidity.’ He beckons a servant: ‘Girl, bring me wine. Cold wine from the fermenting rooms beneath the courtyard. Make sure it is not tepid. If it is, then Larth will whip your hide.’
