by Jon Trace
Tetia drops her head, anxious not to be pressed.
Mamarce picks up on it. ‘Well, perhaps later, when we know each other better. First, come with me and I will show you what has been done with your sculpture.’ He pulls up a second high chair and ushers her to sit alongside him. ‘I took your creation and Vulca’ - he points a bony finger at the boy - ‘impressed them into moulds of fresh clay. I then poured our purest silver into the moulds and we sealed them against blocks of cuttlefish before binding them tightly.’ Mamarce reaches to his right and drags a fold of sacking in front of him. ‘Here they are. They need cleaning, but are already quite extraordinary. Are you ready to see?’
Tetia sucks in a nervous breath. ‘I am.’
The silversmith unfolds the sackcloth and a wide smile illuminates his wrinkled face.
Three solid silver tiles gleam. Tetia’s pulse races. Half of her is amazed at their beauty and the other half horrified at how wilfully she disobeyed Teucer and effectively immortalised the very thing he wanted destroyed.
Mamarce slides the slabs across so she can see more closely. ‘There is burring on some edges. They all need to be gently filed away and then properly polished. I thought perhaps you’d like to re-cut some of the lines, give them greater definition.’
Tetia’s fingers slide over the silver. Cool and shiny, almost like ice that will never melt. ‘They’re so smooth. So rich. They feel like slices of heaven.’
Mamarce smiles and remembers the first time his master let him touch the precious metal.
Tetia is mesmerised. Pesna was indeed wise. Her work had been far from finished when she’d shown it to him. The addition of silver seems to have breathed life into every figure in every scene. She peers closely. The face of the netsvis shows even more doubt than she’d remembered. The unknown demon is larger and more menacing. There is so much desperation and finality in the embrace of the lovers that it makes her shiver.
There seems only one flaw.
The burring from the mould has left three tiny marks on the face of the baby at the lovers’ feet - one that looks like a teardrop and two that look like horns. Tetia puts a hand to her stomach to quieten a rumble.
Mamarce’s wise old eyes watch her every move.
He scratches his beard and wonders if she will trade the secret of the Gates of Destiny in return for what he has seen in her palm, but has not told her.
Her own destiny. A bloody but momentous one.
CHAPTER 27
Present Day
Carabinieri HQ, Venice
From the moment she enters the cool shade of the police building, Valentina knows something is seriously wrong.
Voices are hushed. All laughter and lightness have been sucked from the corridors.
Maybe the top brass are visiting. Or worse - some politician has announced further cuts in force budgets.
She climbs the stairs and turns towards her room. Office Manager Rafael de Scalla is heading her way. ‘Carvalho is looking for you.’
‘Why?’ Valentina takes her bag off her shoulder.
He doesn’t stop, frightened his face might give away the snippet of awful gossip he’s heard from the Control Room. ‘You best talk to him.’
She hangs back and checks her cellphone. Damn! Three missed calls from her boss.
The major’s door is open. She walks in with the phone held high. ‘Sono realmente spiacente. I put it on mute at the morgue, and I’ve only just noticed.’
He looks up from an untidy desk. Tired eyes. Deep wrinkled forehead. Three plastic coffee cups, one used as an ashtray. Valentina thought he’d given up smoking years ago. It must be worse than she feared.
‘Sit down. Please.’ He waves her to a chair.
Her heart drums. She wonders if she’s done something wrong - seriously wrong.
Carvalho bites at a thumbnail and looks pensively at her. ‘Antonio is dead. Your cousin is dead. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this.’
Valentina has to replay the message in her head. ‘Scusi?’
‘A boating accident this morning. He was heading out from the mooring at Fondamenta San Biagio, out into the laguna.’
Valentina stares at the wall behind her boss’s head. She’s heard that sometimes people feel numb at times like this, but never really understood what numb meant.
Until now.
‘I don’t understand. What happened?’
‘We’re not really sure yet. It looks like a gas cooker exploded in the cabin. That’s what the boat crews think.’ He pauses to censor his thoughts, to leave out that the blast was so intense it severed his torso and shredded most of his body. ‘Forensics and engine squads are all over the debris. There’ll be a full investigation.’
She bites her lip. Way down inside she feels the first stab of pain. ‘Antonio? You’re sure? There’s no mistake?’
His face tells her there isn’t. ‘No, I saw his body myself.’
Shock starts to roll over her. Leaves her speechless. Carvalho watches it ripple through her. ‘Can I get you something?’ He searches for water and tissues.
Valentina snaps out of her silence. ‘Have you - have you - spoken to Antonio’s parents?’
He flinches. ‘I’ve just come from there.’
‘Are they okay? Is his mother all right?’
Vito sighs. ‘No, she’s not all right. Nor his father. Nor you, by the look of things.’ He moves around his desk, takes her by the shoulders. ‘I’ll fix for a driver to take you home. Or to your aunt and uncle’s, if you prefer.’
Valentina winces. His touch of reassurance somehow unlocks the floodgates. The pain is there now all right, but she won’t let it show. ‘No, I’m fine, grazie. I can drive myself.’ She knows he can see the tears in her eyes, but still she’s determined to be strong. Professional. ‘What about the funeral?’ she asks, taking a tissue just in case.
‘Scusi?’ Vito is shocked.
‘The funeral. I need to tell his parents and the rest of the family about the burial, the release of the body, what arrangements can be made.’
‘Later, Valentina. These things can wait.’ He pauses while she blows her nose. ‘Personnel will be in touch. They’ll help you all. The force will show its respect and honour him properly.’
The last comment scares her. The thought of uniforms, guards of honour, gun salutes - it all makes everything horribly official. Permanent.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to get someone to take you home?’ He starts to lead her to the door.
‘No. No, I’m fine,’ she snaps. ‘Really, I can manage on my own. Molte grazie.’ She pulls away from him. ‘I appreciate you telling me personally, here in private. It was considerate of you.’ She hopes she’s not being rude or ungrateful as she heads for the door. She holds her breath all the way down the corridor and almost falls as she rushes down the back stairs. Only when she reaches the garage does she let out the tears, and when she does, it feels as if they’ll never stop.
CAPITOLO XXII
666 BC
The Eastern Silver Mine, Etruria
It’s almost daylight when an exhausted Tetia emerges from the silversmith’s workshop. Although her task is completed, she senses that Mamarce wished her to stay. That there was something left unsaid between them.
Larth doesn’t speak as they ride through the breaking dawn and she can’t help but doze against his broad back.
The journey gives her time to think.
Pesna will be pleased with the finished pieces. They will overshadow all his other treasures and make her the envy of artists across Etruria.
But there is still the problem of Teucer. Soon she must confess that she disobeyed him. Thanks to her, his awful visions have come to life and have been immortalised in silver tiles, which the magistrate now expects him to bless.
The depths of her deception make her sad. Their lives are drifting apart.
Larth pulls the stallion to a halt. ‘We’re here.’
Tetia doesn’t move. Her mind is o
n the Gates of Destiny. Already they represent the greatest thing she’s created and her worst betrayal - lying, cheating and deceiving her husband when he needed her most.
‘I said we’re here. Now get down - I am tired and still have to ride back.’
Tetia dismounts. She is so drained - part from the work and part from her pregnancy - that her knees buckle and she falls over.
Larth glances at her. Tugs the stallion’s reins, wheels round and rides off without a word.
The grass is damp but Tetia stays down. She watches as the great horse’s hooves carve up the ground, turves flying in its wake. Snorts of white breath are caught against a pink sunrise, the rider bent forward in his saddle, muscular arms working hard, hair flowing.
She’s still thinking about how brutal and handsome Larth is as she gets to her feet and tentatively enters the hut. She smells the fire burning in the hearth before she even sees it. Teucer is sitting cross-legged, the flames illuminating his face. His head tilts her way as she enters. His voice is soft and without any trace of anger. ‘Magistrate Pesna asks too much of my wife. You have been gone so long, I was growing worried.’
Tetia stops moving and looks pitifully at him; she’s going to have to lie again. ‘I am sorry, he had me make some things while I was there. A sort of test, I think.’
Teucer doesn’t want a row; he tries to sound interested rather than annoyed. ‘What kind of things?’
‘Oh, nothing grand. Just small objects. Then he had me work with his silversmith and the old man changed everything I’d done, so I can’t even describe what the things looked like when he’d finished.’
Teucer senses the tension in her voice. ‘Well, I hope Pesna is as generous with his rewards as he is greedy with his demands on your time.’
She looks for a jug of water. ‘I hope so, too. Teucer, I am bone-weary and our child kicks me like a mule - can we please not speak of the magistrate any more.’
He feels hurt. He’s waited for what seems an eternity and now dreads that she’ll be cross with him. ‘As you wish.’
A thought strikes her. ‘How did you know it was me coming in?’
He laughs lightly. ‘I recognise your sounds now. Your steps are short but your breathing long. My father’s feet make thunder - and he groans because of his knees.’
Tetia laughs. For a moment things are as they were: two lovers amused by things that only they understand.
‘And my mother, she shuffles quickly like a small dog trying to bite its tail. As for old Larthuza - you cannot hear his feet because he mumbles constantly like a mountain stream.’
She finds the jug. ‘So, even in the darkness you are learning a new way to see.’
‘More than you might imagine. Come lie with me.’
‘I’m just getting water. Would you like some?’
‘No, I am fine.’ He listens to the glug of the jug as his wife takes several thirsty swallows.
Tetia’s lips are still cold and wet when she tiptoes lightly across the room to kiss his cheek. The gentle shock makes him smile, and for a moment that makes her happy too. ‘I’m sorry I was so long. Really I am. How are you feeling?’
He puts his hand up to touch her hair. ‘The pain has all but gone, yet still I am afraid. Later this morning Pesna will come and my bandages will be removed. What if I am for ever blind?’
She puts an arm around him. ‘Larthuza says your sight might take much longer to return.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘Then we will manage. I know we will.’
‘Pesna will want another netsvis. It is understandable. The best we can hope for is that he will let me live and both you and I will be able to leave.’
Tetia takes a deep breath. It is time to tell him the truth.
Or at least some of it.
But no sooner is a confession on her lips than she realises that if Teucer should remain blind, then her troubles are over. He will never see what it is she has made for Pesna, and never realise what he’s being asked to bless at the temple. Even more importantly, he’ll never be able to hurt the child inside her.
CAPITOLO XXIII
Northern Etruria
Caele, son of Sethre and Arria, is thinking of the distant shore that has just come into view over the dipping glimmering water. He’s imagining the sand beneath his feet and a willing woman between his legs. With a fair wind, he’ll have both before the day is out.
Four months at sea is far too long for a young man with his needs. He has sailed south down the Adriatic, north-west up the Tyrrhenian as far as Pupluna, and then, to the amazement of his crew, Caele had commanded they sail past their home port of Atmanta and head east across the mouth of the Adriatic, before finally turning for home.
The journey had been an eventful one. They’d fought Ligurian pirates and they’d moored and traded with Egyptians and Greeks. In the process, they’d suffered the loss of four good men. Two in a storm. Two through sickness.
Hinthial - ‘the Spirit’ - had fared well, though. Despite the name, she was one of the biggest merchant craft in Etruria. Her squat body cuts an ugly shape in the water as she passes smaller and more streamlined craft heading into the harbour, but she was built to carry the maximum load. Usually her cargo consists of various olive oils and wines stored in giant one-piece amphorae, secured to long vertical shelving stacks by ropes running through the handles. Lately, however, she’s been carrying other things too. Smaller, more precious cargo provided by his old friend, Pesna. The magistrate’s silver comes both in the form of raw precious metal and as finished goods, fashioned into the finest jewellery. Gifts fit for princes and princesses, kings and queens. Cargo valuable enough to get you killed by your own crew, should they suspect the treasures contained within the hold.
The wind dies down and the two giant square sails sag mournfully. It’s no problem. Hinthial is now close enough to dry land for Caele to almost taste the mead on his lips. He gives instruction for the oarsmen to be roused in order to bring her to shore.
But scarcely have they struck up a rhythm than he sees something in the water.
Floating. Bobbing. Drifting.
Grain sacks.
Five, six, seven of them.
From their awkward buoyancy, it’s clear they are not stuffed with oats or rice or barley.
What then?
Perhaps something far more precious.
Caele shouts for his captain and points to the flotsam. ‘Have someone heave it out. Bring it on deck. It may be loot, dropped by fleeing pirates. Sacks that size cannot accidentally end up so far from shore.’
A small boat is jerkily lowered on ropes and several slaves, eager to please, dive from the decking to recover the sacks.
Caele walks to the stern and sits close to a giant stone weight that is roped and inscribed with his name. It was his countrymen that had invented the anchor and during recent journeys he’s sold more than twenty of them.
A bank of slaves strain away on large steering oars. They sweat and work even harder when they see the ship’s owner within whipping distance of them.
The captain approaches him with a face like thunder. ‘The gods have brought you no fortune. The sacks contain nothing.’
Caele shakes his head. ‘There is no such as nothing. I have told you this many times before. And should you ever find nothing, then it truly would be worth something. So tell me, what did the men recover?’
‘A man. Or rather, should I say, many parts of a man. Chopped like meat for a feast of sea demons. Bagged, sacked and thrown to great Triton for his supper.’
‘Triton is a Greek sea god, you fool. You are back in Etruria now. Know your allegiances. It is the great Nethuns who determines our fortune.’
‘Then he has determined you should benefit from the surprise delivery of many dismembered limbs.’
Caele gazes at the wet haul. ‘Check to see if there is anything precious among the flesh.’
The captain starts to leave.
‘Wait! Per
haps the find is an omen. A portent that some form of death is about to visit us. Have men stay with the small boat and search the water. Make sure nothing is missed. If indeed the deities are sending us signs, I don’t want the sloppiness of slaves to lead to misinterpretation. Now, get us to shore as quickly as the gods will speed - and make sure you tell no one what we have seen.’
CHAPTER 28
Present Day
Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice
Gondolas rock like giant cradles on moonlit canals blessed by the soft warmth of a perfect summer evening. Across Venice, classical musicians take to the boats and cast song bait for the shoals of romantic tourists snapping at the water’s edge.
Tina watches it all from the bedroom window of the hotel, and can tell Tom is in no mood to join in.
She’d gone out soon after breakfast and he’d forgotten the key she’d left for him. Forgotten the cell number she’d written down and pushed into his hand. It seems he’d forgotten absolutely everything, except seeing a dead fifteen-year-old on a slab in a mortuary.
She’d planned a special surprise to lift his spirits when he returned from the morgue, but he’d made straight for the desk in the far corner of the room and had festered there ever since. There’s no point springing the surprise when he’s in this state of mind. The time has to be exactly right for these things, or you might as well not bother.
She flicks on CNN. Some political row over Obama’s economic policy. She scowls at the screen and leaves Tom to scribble on hotel notepaper at the desk. ‘Damned Republicans and Democrats, I really wish they’d just stop fighting each other and pull together to get us out of this shit.’
He manages a grunt.
‘Hey, I forgot to tell you. I want to go hear some Vivaldi - either tomorrow or the night after. Would you like to come? Or is that not your kind of thing?’
He stops writing. ‘Sure I’ll come. I’m more Nickelback than Vivaldi, but yeah, I’d love to go. Widen my horizons.’
