The Venice Conspiracy

by Jon Trace

  Telthius is unconscious by the time Larth has scorched all his head and body hair. ‘Cut him down,’ he calls over his shoulder as he walks away. ‘Give him to his bitch of a wife to cosset and mend.’

  The assistants climb the platform. The younger one asks in a horrified voice, ‘In the name of the gods, how much silver did this fool steal?

  ‘Shush!’ says his companion, fearing they’ll be heard. ‘Not silver. Not even a scraping from the mine. Telthius took only food. Stale bread that he thought no one would miss. And he only took that because his wife was too ill to bake.’

  At the end of the wall Larth throws his torch into the dirt. He hurries away to find himself a whore upon whom he can vent the last of the delicious rage still burning inside him.

  CAPITOLO XIV

  The Sacred Curte, Atmanta

  Tetia feels strangely nervous as she makes her way down the hillside to the groves near the settlement walls.

  The sound of hammering spills from the temple in the adjoining curte. Squinting into the sun, she can see the silhouettes of slave workers moving like crabs along the roof as they pin tiles to timber frames.

  She’d long anticipated the day when her husband would consecrate the completed temple in front of her family and all the other villagers. Now, for the first time, she has a sensation of dread.

  Will Teucer be able to see by then? Will he ever see again? Will the elders and the nobles and the magistrates still want him as their netsvis?

  She sees the sacred circle. Without Teucer, it doesn’t seem sacred any more. She walks clockwise outside it, her thoughts trailing behind her like a long robe. The grass is all trodden down. The blaze that claimed her husband’s sight is nothing but a blackened hole in the turf. The frenzied marks made by Teucer’s lituus are still visible - as is the small but distinctive oblong he scraped in a clay patch in the west of the circle.

  She senses something. Someone close to her. Behind her.

  She wheels around.

  Nothing.

  No one there.

  Her baby kicks as she crosses the line of the sacred circle, almost as though it remembers what occurred the last time they were here. Now she can clearly see the small patch of reddish clay where her husband made his knife marks. Tetia has brought her own sculpting blades to erase his impressions, but she can’t resist letting her artist’s eyes examine them.

  They’re stunning.

  So precise, so detailed and intricate. She’d have never thought him capable of such beauty.

  She drops to her knees and the baby makes her stomach groan.

  ‘Incredible,’ she says to herself. The snakes are so vivid she can almost picture them moving. The evil demon doesn’t look that evil to her, in fact there’s a certain majesty to him. She smiles, the netsvis even bears a passing resemblance to Teucer. She bends closer to examine the final revelation. It’s magnificent. The couple look so peaceful, so happy. And the baby - surely he is everything she could hope for in a son.

  Tetia feels happier than she’s done for months. She runs her light, sculptress fingers over the indentations. They even feel pleasurable to touch.

  She unwraps a cloth containing her work tools. Selects a broad knife. Takes a deep breath and meticulously begins.

  Only she no longer intends destroying the markings. She’s decided to keep them. Lift them from the ground and keep them for ever.

  CAPITOLO XV

  Tetia carries the slab of clay from the curte as though it’s the most precious thing in her life. She goes straight to her work space at the back of her hut, rather than to Larthuza’s where her husband is recovering. This clandestine and selfish act makes her feel guilty, but the emotion is forgotten when she looks again at the beautiful object in her hands, the carving of the Gates of Destiny.

  Using water and her own fine picks and knives, she accentuates the rough cuts made by Teucer. Very quickly she becomes immersed in her task. Consumed by it. Possessed by it.

  Time flashes by.

  Her cuts are bold, broad, intricate, dashing, decisive. It’s as though her hand is being guided. The clay begins to turn leather hard, no longer malleable. She drizzles water on to the surface to keep it workable, wipes tiny fragments of waste from her blade after every cut and polishes the sharp tip on her tunic.

  Lost in her art, she is oblivious to the daylight fading. The grey ghosts of night start to gather.

  First, a rustling noise. Then the sudden presence of a strange man’s feet.

  Tetia looks up.

  ‘I am Kavie, noble colleague of Magistrate Pesna. We have come to see your husband, Teucer.’

  Tetia shakes back her hair and looks up at the dark-haired and slightly built stranger. ‘He is not here. He is at the home of Larthuza the Healer.’ She notices Kavie is not alone. The magistrate is standing behind him. She gets to her feet and brushes down her tunic.

  Pesna nods an acknowledgement at her. ‘Aah, the sculptress wife. What is it that you are making?’

  Tetia tries to shield it from him. ‘It is nothing. A rough design. Not nearly of fine enough quality to grace your noble eyes.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

  Tetia doesn’t move. ‘I have many fine vases, plates, statues, urns. I store them outside, behind the kiln. I would be honoured to show you.’

  ‘I’d like you to show me what you are attempting not to.’ He pulls her away from the clay. ‘What piece of fancy can be so important that it must be created while your husband lies ill on the floor of a healer? What muse so powerful that it drives you to work at a time like this instead of being at his side?’

  Pesna stoops to see.

  He notices the lavish intricacy of the etching and kneels. ‘My, but this is good.’ He stretches out a hand. ‘Very good.’

  ‘Do not touch it!’ Tetia fears she has overstepped her position. ‘Please, Magistrate, I beg you! It is not finished. It will break if you handle it, and I wish it to be a surprise for my husband.’

  Pesna does everything but touch. He examines it from all angles. ‘It is a rare piece. Perhaps unique. You have a talent, child.’ He lifts his head and stares straight at Tetia. ‘I see many qualities in this visceral work. Explain it to me. What was your intent?’

  Tetia hesitates.

  ‘Come on, girl! I do not have all day.’

  ‘They are visions.’

  ‘Visions?’ He looks intrigued. ‘Extraordinary. Finish it. Make sure you complete it quickly.’

  Kavie bends to take a closer look. He does not share his friend’s love of art and sees nothing visionary. ‘I am no expert, but I think this is not the cheeriest of objects to present to your husband.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Pesna stands up and brushes his knees. ‘It is not suitable for a sick man. When you have finished it, I will buy it from you.’

  ‘I cannot.’ Tetia feels her heart thump. ‘I am sorry. It would not be right for me to sell to you something that I have made for my husband. What would the gods think of me?’

  Pesna claps a hand on the finely robed shoulder of Kavie. ‘She is clever, is she not?’ He turns back to Tetia. ‘I had come here to tell your husband that he is no longer fit to be our netsvis. That his blindness is a divine act of displeasure from the gods and that once the temple is completed he and his wife - you - should seek pastures outside the walls of our settlement. But this—’ he points at the clay, ‘this is the most striking art I have ever seen. My home is filled with beauty, originality, curiosity - the rarest that Greek and Etruscan artists can muster - and this piece belongs there. Indeed, your own husband told me I should acquire more spiritual works.’ He takes one final, stooping look at the clay. ‘To me - this is a positive sign from the deities - a sign that its creator and her husband should also remain near to me. Protected by me. Patronised by me.’

  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 gone.’

  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.’