by Jon Trace
‘Indeed,’ agrees the ME. ‘The liver’s the largest gland and internal organ in the body and, like the heart, you can’t survive without it. A marvellous piece of work, really. It does everything, from detoxification, to protein synthesis and digestive functioning.’ He holds his hands together. ‘It’s quite heavy, too: easily one and a half kilos. In adults it’s about the size of an American football.’
Tom picks up his cue to continue. ‘But aside from the medical reasons, livers and hearts have long held supernatural values. There are reports from as far afield as Costa Rica about Satanists using the hearts and livers of goats, sheep and even horses in black masses and initiation ceremonies. And they’re not alone in attaching symbolic power to such organs. The Egyptians embalmed the heart separately so it could be weighed on Judgement Day. If the heart was heavy with sin - or had been already cut from the body - then you were denied passage into the afterlife. The Etruscans - your ancestors - considered the liver even more important than the heart. In humans, they thought it to be the place where the soul was centred and in animals, it was the sacred organ used to divine the will of the gods.’
Vito scratches the tip of his nose, a nervous habit when thinking. ‘Why would someone remove Monica’s liver?’
Tom struggles to answer. ‘Satanists fixate on all manner of body parts, both of sexual and symbolic importance. Usually the sexual fixation is for immediate personal pleasure, but when they focus on other parts, such as eyes, ears and organs, then it’s generally connected with much older, almost ancient rituals and defilement.’ His eyes wander again to the unclosed wounds on Monica’s naked body. He’d imagined that after the PM examination the pathologist would have sewn her back up, but that’s clearly not the case. What’s left of her insides are still visible from the outside. It’s darkly shocking. The body is now just a shell, giving no hint at all of the person or her own unique spirit and personality. ‘Taking a young soul is the ultimate insult to God. If your killer has Satanic connections, then the motive of removing the liver is to defile God by defiling the human form he created. You can also assume the killer wanted the organ for some sick private or group ritual.’
There’s silence in the room. They’re all looking at Monica. The only sounds are the low hum of the refrigeration system and the crackle of flies dying on electrical insect grids dotted around the room.
Major Carvalho peels off his latex gloves. ‘Tom, I know Valentina told you that this meeting would be the last thing we asked of you . . .’ His face finishes the sentence for him.
Tom knows what’s coming. ‘But it isn’t.’
The major smiles gently. ‘No, it isn’t. We need your help. Both on the religious aspect of this investigation and anything you can unearth from Etruscan times that might be of use.’
‘For how long?’
‘Not long. A week. Maybe two?’
‘I’m not sure I can be of much use.’
‘Sadly, I think you will be.’ He looks to the gurney. ‘She needs you to help us, and I need you to help us.’
Tom nods his consent.
The major shakes his hand, then turns to Montesano as he makes to depart: ‘Professore, molte grazie.’ He takes a final glance at the corpse. ‘Grazie, Monica. Dio la benedica.’
CHAPTER 26
Riva San Biagio, Venice
Vito Carvalho takes a call on his cell phone as he’s leaving the morgue. He insists no one else is informed, especially not Valentina.
Inspection crews are already dredging the choppy waters of the lagoon for the remains of Antonio’s old family boat as Vito arrives. What follows is a succession of shocks. As experienced as he is, Carvalho struggles to take it all in. Death is bearable, providing it’s not personal. Antonio was his protégé. He was proud of him. At times he thought of him as a son.
The major sits on the quay and processes the information. Antonio is dead. An explosion on his boat. As yet, no one knows what caused it. Yes, they’re sure about the ID. Yes, he can see the body for himself. No, no one has told Pavarotti’s family. Valentina? No, no one’s told her either, or at least they’re not supposed to have. It will leak, though. Soon, very soon.
Vito’s still in a trance as he follows a young officer to a white tent where the corpse is laid out.
It’s Antonio. No mistake.
He says nothing, just nods his confirmation and swallows hard. Such a loss. Such a horrible, awful loss.
Vito crosses himself and walks away. He heads from the quayside, thinking that it will take them all day and probably most of tomorrow to recover the engine block, electrics and anything else that might give a clue to what happened. Fires at sea are rare, explosions rarer still. Yet to Vito, there seems no obvious reason why the young officer should have died in anything other than an accident.
He takes it upon himself to break the news to Antonio’s parents. He doesn’t want strangers doing it. Doesn’t want anyone but him handling what he knows is going to be the worst moment of their lives.
As experienced as he is, Vito still pauses outside their apartment door and takes a long slow breath.
The TV is playing. Vito hears a man shout as he presses the bell. Through a frosted-glass pane he sees a woman’s shape heading his way.
Antonio’s mother opens the door and keeps hold of it with her left hand as she looks to see who it is. Any other time he’d tell her to fit a safety chain.
‘Signora Pavarotti?’
‘Si?’ She looks worried. She can sense that something is wrong.
‘My name is Vito Carvalho, Major Carvalho.’ He holds up his Carabinieri ID. For a second Vito sees the relief as she thinks perhaps it’s not the call she feared, the one she’s always been afraid of. Then her brow furrows as she reads the look on his face, an expression that says it all.
Camila Pavarotti’s knees buckle.
Vito catches her before she hits the floor. She’s heavier than he thought. ‘Aiuto! Signor! Aiutarmi!’
Angelo Pavarotti is there in a flash.
Vito sees he’s shocked at finding a strange man bent double holding his collapsed wife. He flashes the ID that’s still in his hand and explains who he is.
They manoeuvre Camila into the living room and on to a settee.
The major sits opposite and watches patiently while Angelo gets water for his wife then kneels alongside her as she comes round. She sips tentatively.
She’s groggy and pale.
Vito looks away while her husband wipes her mouth. Photographs of Antonio are everywhere. Gap-toothed ones of him in his first school clothes. Wild-haired ones of him as a teenager. Handsome ones in his Carabinieri uniform. The major looks back to the settee and they’re both staring at him.
The time has come.
‘Your son, Antonio . . . I am sorry - he is dead. There’s been an accident. The motor boat he was piloting across the lagoon exploded. We don’t yet know what caused it.’
The boy’s father looks bemused. It’s unbelievable. Ridiculous. His face bears a pained smile, as if it is surely a mistake. ‘This can’t be. Are you certain it is our boy? Antonio Pavarotti. He—’
‘Quite sure, signor. I identified his body myself.’
The two parents look at each other.
Disbelief gives way to shock.
‘I’m very sorry. Very sorry indeed.’ Carvalho knows he has to draw a firm line in the sand, establish the dreadful truth and stop their world from spinning. ‘Antonio was a good man. A wonderful officer and much loved by his colleagues.’
Angelo nods bravely. The major’s fine words should count for something, maybe even make him feel proud. But right now, they make no impact.
‘Some of my colleagues will come to you, tomorrow. They will make arrangements for you to see his body, if you like.’ Carvalho watches the agony on their faces. ‘Some investigators will come too. They will want to talk to you about Antonio, his movements, who he was seeing, and of course the boat.’
Camila grips Angelo’s hand and h
er face crumples again. ‘Valentina? How is she?’
Carvalho grimaces. ‘She doesn’t know yet. No one has told her. I came straight from the scene and you are the first people to be informed.’
‘You will tell her? Tell her personally?’ It’s more of a plea than a question.
Carvalho fastens his coat. ‘Of course. I’ll see her as soon as I get back.’
They both start to get up.
‘No, please. I can show myself out.’ He waits a second while they sit back down. ‘Again, I’m so very sorry for your loss.’
They nod at him and fold themselves together. An embrace they never wanted.
Vito places a card with his contact numbers on the small table in front of them and drifts from the room like a dark fog.
CAPITOLO XX
666 BC
Atmanta
Tetia is cutting herbs in front of the hut when he arrives. She watches as The Punisher dismounts from his great white stallion and strides her way. A shiver trickles down her spine like ice melting on a cave wall.
She hadn’t thought it would be so soon.
It’s only a day since she saw Pesna.
Larth holds the reins confidently and pats the animal’s head. ‘I have come to take you to Mamarce, the silversmith.’
‘Now is not a good time.’ Tetia motions to her hut. ‘I have a sick husband to attend.’
‘Now is the time. I have come and you must go.’ The look on his face warns her there is no room to argue.
Tetia nods. ‘I need to tell him. Make arrangements for him to be looked after.’
Larth slants his head towards a trough. ‘You have until I have watered the horse. No longer.’
Tetia hurries away.
Finding Teucer sleeping, she kneels and puts the palm of a hand to his face. ‘Husband.’ Her voice is gentle to begin with, then firmer: ‘Teucer, can you hear me, my sweetness?’ His skin feels warm and unshaven as she strokes it.
His lips finally move and for a split second his eyelids open. There is only a milky deadness where once there had been a spark that set her senses ablaze.
It breaks her heart to see him like this. ‘Teucer, can you hear me?’
He smiles sleepily. ‘I am blind, not deaf. I fell asleep again. Now that I cannot see, my mind seems to seek the solace of sleep more often.’
‘Magistrate Pesna has sent a man for me. He is outside and I have to go with him. I will be gone for some time.’
Apprehension shows on his face. ‘Why? The magistrate knows of my condition. Your skills are more likely to be needed for my tomb than his.’
‘Do not say that!’ Panic rises in her chest. ‘You were the one who told him about my work. Yesterday he said he would think of what he wanted. I suppose he’s sent for me now because he’s made up his mind.’ She tries to sound excited. ‘This is a big chance for us, Teucer. Pleasing the magistrate will benefit us both.’
Teucer says nothing. He feels he no longer has any power. He has become an object, to be moved around as and when people wish.
‘I will ask your mother to look in on you.’ She squeezes his hand. ‘I’ll be back quickly. Wish me luck.’ She kisses his forehead.
He wishes it had been his mouth. Wishes there was only him and his wife, no horror growing in her stomach, no guilty secret to try to forget. ‘May fortune smile upon you.’
She doesn’t hear him as she rushes away and almost collides with Larth. It’s clear he was about to enter her home and fetch her.
Tetia steps past the giant. ‘I have to see his mother, then I will come,’ she calls over her shoulder, not daring to look back. To provoke Larth’s temper is to unleash a violence so terrible that even the bravest in Atmanta would cower. She steels herself for the roar of fury, the fist, the boot, but it seems the monster is curbing his anger for once. Even so, she moves quickly, and the moment she has secured Larcia’s promise to look in on Teucer, she’s running back to Larth, gathering her robe so it doesn’t catch in her old leather sandals, while at the same time trying ensure no glimpse of thigh should awaken his lust.
He mounts the stallion and pulls her up one-handed behind him.
Before Tetia has even settled, the horse is at full gallop and she has to cling to Larth’s waist in order not to fall.
They head north, riding hard. First along the city’s cardo, then the decumanus, the east-west road. The crossing point of the roads is a special place, solemnly divined by Teucer when the settlement was first established and housing planned out and around the main routes. They don’t rest until they come to the easternmost of Pesna’s silver mines.
‘Mamarce’s workshop is part under the earth,’ explains Larth as he fastens the horse to a fence stake and pulls Tetia down. ‘I will show you, but I will not go in there with you.’
Tetia looks at him. ‘Why not? You are afraid to do so?’
He grabs her by the elbow and walks her quickly from the horse. ‘I am afraid of nothing mortal. Journeys below earth are for rodents, and I am not given to the company of rats.’
The mine buildings form a dog-leg, part set in the cliff with the remainder running away at a forty-five-degree angle before disappearing below ground.
Larth tugs open a battered door to reveal a dim, musty corridor lit by torches. They flutter as the wind is sucked in.
‘I will be here when you have finished. Mamarce will call for me.’
CAPITOLO XXI
The Eastern Silver Mine, Atmanta
The mine door flaps closed behind her.
Tetia walks a short way and then enters another door on her right. The room seems as big as a village and smells worse than a sulphur pit. Men of all ages are busily ferrying white-hot iron crucibles of molten metal from one workplace to another. They look like thieves stealing pieces of the sun.
The air is filled with the deafening thud of hammer on anvil. Huge fires roar in stone kilns that stretch all the way through the ceiling of rock. The heat is overwhelming.
Tetia feels perspiration trickle down her back and breasts.
She walks carefully, fearful of bumping into one of the passing men and being burned by their incandescent treasure.
A sudden loud hissing sound makes her jump. A man is dipping a crucible of molten metal into a vast water trough. Tetia catches her breath and moves on.
She sees a string of almost naked children, sitting like a row of dirty pearls with their backs to an undulating black wall of rock. They are scrabbling in huge bowls jammed between their knees, picking specks of silver from ground ore, their calloused and bleeding fingers rooting out non-precious metals, salts and debris.
Another door leads to a second cavernous chamber.
This one is guarded by two large shaven-headed men with thick leather belts dangling with chains and knives. The guards are identical, except one has a scar on his left cheek and right forearm, the unmistakable aftermath of a blow from a broadsword.
‘I am Tetia, wife of Teucer, the netsvis. Larth, the servant of Magistrate Pesna, brought me here to see Mamarce.’
Tetia waits for an answer but the men give none. They look her over, then the one with the raw red scar steps aside and swings the door open.
This room is cooler. The light more even.
A boy, somewhat older than the others, sits cross-legged in the far corner and cautiously observes the new visitor.
Mamarce doesn’t look up from his work. He seems to be about the same age as Teucer’s father, but very different in every other respect. He is a mere wisp of a man, thin and small with no muscles, a fuzz of white hair and a bushy grey beard. He is bent double over a wide bench that Tetia has never seen the like of. It is part wood, part iron. A series of big and small metal jaws protrude over its edges like the mouths of hungry dogs yapping for scraps.
When Mamarce speaks, his voice is slow and soft, as if muffled by his facial shrubbery. ‘Sit down. I cannot stop. The metal is almost hard and I am not yet done.’
Tetia perches on a wobbly
wooden seat across from him and drinks in her surroundings. The bench between them is strewn with knives, files and hammers not unlike her own, but smaller and even more delicate. A strange long stone catches her eye; it seems to have been smeared with different shades of something shiny. She guesses it’s a touchstone, an instrument used to compare samples from the highest-known quality of silver to those of new and undetermined qualities.
‘I am finished!’ Mamarce announces triumphantly, looking up at last. ‘So, you are the mystery sculptress. My, my!’ He steps down from the high wooden chair and is now so small that he all but disappears behind the bench.
Tetia stands and walks round to meet him. He barely reaches her shoulders. ‘I am Tetia, wife of Teucer, daughter of—’
He flicks a hand dismissively at her. ‘I know who you are, and I am not the least interested in who your husband or father is. Let me look at you. Show me your hands.’
She extends them, palms down.
‘No, no, not like that, child. That tells me nothing.’ Mamarce twists them palms up and holds her by the wrists. ‘Aaah. Artist’s hands. Good, good. You have a gift from Menrva herself.’
He smiles kindly at her and Tetia can’t help but warm to him. ‘Thank you.’
Mamarce traces a thin bony finger horizontally across her left palm. ‘The Greeks believe all these lines are prophecies of your life. Your fingers here are your first world - the world of what goes on in your mind. This middle part of your hand is your second world - it governs the material things that you own and do in this life on earth.’ He runs his nails from the tip of her thumb to the inside of her wrist, ‘And here is the third world - your hidden, elemental world.’
Tetia is fascinated. ‘You understand such things? You are a seer?’
Mamarce smiles enigmatically. ‘All artists are seers. We view more than only earthly things. I note your work, too, has visionary elements. You must explain them to me.’
