The Ancient Curse

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ the director asked him politely. ‘I usually have a cigarette with my coffee.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Fabrizio. ‘I think I need one myself, if I may. And I’d love some coffee.’

  Balestra poured a cup from the pot and passed him a cigarette. ‘I didn’t think you smoked.’

  ‘I don’t. But sometimes I do . . . That is, when I’m tense.’

  ‘I understand. When you’re working on something important, that can happen.’

  ‘You said you wanted to see me. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Yes, actually,’ replied Balestra. ‘We’ve got trouble.’

  ‘I hope it’s nothing to do with my authorization.’

  ‘Oh no, not at all. There’s no problem with that. It’s something completely different. I was hoping you could give me a hand.’

  ‘With pleasure, if I can.’

  ‘Well,’ began Balestra, ‘last night a couple of Finanza agents surprised some robbers breaking into a tomb and they called me right away. It was two thirty a.m. I asked them to put someone on guard and told them we’d be by this morning.’

  Fabrizio wondered whether the director had heard about Ronchetti. He imagined not, but he didn’t think it was his place to tell him. Mario’s account was quite confused, after all, and might have been exaggerated.

  Balestra sipped his coffee and took a long drag on his cigarette before he continued: ‘I’m wondering whether you would consider inspecting the tomb and possibly excavating it. I can give you a couple of workers, even three or four if you need them. It’s bad timing for me. I’m up to my neck in work and I have a couple of deadlines approaching. Dr Dionisi is already working on an emergency that came up in the trench they’re digging for the new power lines. One of my inspectors had an accident while on a job and is at home on sick leave, and another is on holiday – well earned, poor devil, he worked all summer on the Villanovan settlement near Gaggera. I know I can trust you to do a good job; you’ve already written and published studies on a number of similar digs. I’ve tried to help you out here, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind doing me this favour.’

  Fabrizio was shocked by the proposal. It was unheard of for a regional director of the National Antiquities Service to forgo personal excavation of a possibly intact Etruscan tomb, presumably from the early period. He must be involved in something very big and very important indeed to let such an opportunity slip by.

  Careful to keep his surprise out of his voice, Fabrizio replied in a solicitous tone, ‘I understand completely and I’m honoured by your trust in me. Just let me know when you’d like me to begin.’

  ‘Believe me, I’m sorry to interrupt the work you’re doing here. I know how important it is for you, but I don’t know where else to turn. I could ask another one of the regional directors to send someone in, but I’d rather not do that, because they’d certainly expect a favour in return. And, to be truthful, I can’t say that my colleagues . . . Well, enough said.’

  ‘No, really,’ insisted Fabrizio. ‘I’d be happy to work on this project. How soon would you like me to start?’

  ‘Right away, Castellani. You can see for yourself that it’s an emergency. Talk with Dr Dionisi and have her give you the men you need.’

  Fabrizio finished his coffee and took his leave.

  Francesca Dionisi was waiting for him in the hall, as if she had guessed the reason for his meeting with the director.

  ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What did the boss want? If I’m not being indiscreet . . .’

  ‘Nothing less than for me to excavate the tomb that was broken into last night.’

  ‘Ah. The Rovaio tomb.’

  ‘That’s the one. Listen, I hope I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes here. I came to Volterra for something completely different.’

  ‘I know. You’re here for the boy in room twenty.’

  Fabrizio suddenly thought of the woman’s voice he’d heard the night before on the telephone: could it have been Francesca? But as much as he racked his brain, he could not connect the timbre of that voice with Francesca’s natural lilt.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ she asked.

  ‘No, it’s nothing. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, then, no, you’re not stepping on my toes in the least. Actually, you’re doing me a favour, and I know the director will be grateful for your assistance as well. He’s a man who doesn’t forget people who’ve helped him and I know he will appreciate your willingness to give us a hand.’

  Francesca invited him into her office, where a green apple was sitting on a plate on her desk. A snack maybe, or even her lunch.

  ‘Listen, if I can I’ll come by the Rovaio site to see what’s coming out,’ she went on, ‘but don’t count on it, because I’ve got my hands full as it is. Ill sign the work order for the labourers. How many? One, two, three?’

  ‘Two will be enough.’

  ‘All right. Two.’

  ‘Francesca?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s something I don’t understand. The director leaves headquarters in Florence for weeks to come and bury himself in this provincial office. What may be an intact tomb comes to light, probably a major discovery, and he doesn’t even take a look at it. He signs over the dig to someone who doesn’t even work for him, an academic to boot . . . This whole thing just doesn’t make sense and I was asking myself whether you . . .’

  ‘Whether I know something? Yes, I do, but make believe you don’t know that. It’s something big, much bigger than anything you can imagine.’

  Fabrizio thought that if she’d wanted to silence his curiosity she would have simply answered that she knew nothing about it, so he continued to push his point. ‘Bigger than an intact tomb from, let’s say, the fifth or fourth century BC?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘Good grief is right. Now, go ahead, collect your workers and excavate that tomb at Rovaio. Then tell me what you’ve found.’

  ‘How about tonight, over pizza?’

  Francesca gave a half-smile. ‘Sounds like you’re asking me out.’

  ‘Well, you know, I’m new here. And I hate eating alone.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. In the meantime, be sure you do a good job. Balestra’s as fussy as they come.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  FABRIZIO went out to the street and waited for the workers to pull the truck round to the front, then he got in next to the driver. They were at the dig in less than half an hour and the cop on duty was more than happy to go back to headquarters to write up his report.

  Fabrizio decided on a frontal excavation: that is, from the tomb’s main entrance. As soon as he had established the position of the facade, he began removing the earth that had accumulated over centuries as the hill behind the tomb eroded. He suspected that this might not be the only tomb in the area. Maybe Ronchetti and his buddies had chanced upon a new suburban necropolis outside the city of Velathri, the ancient Volterra. Exploring the area would take months, if not years.

  They spent all morning and part of the afternoon clearing the front of the tomb. The structure was carved directly into the tufa and imitated the facade of a house, featuring a double door with big sculpted ring-shaped handles and a triangular pediment with the symbol of the new moon, or so it seemed to Fabrizio. But there was no suggestion, not a clue, as to who the bodies inside the burial cell might have been.

  What also seemed quite strange was the lack of debris or objects of any sort at the ground level; there were no signs of human activity outside the chamber. The Etruscans were known to have visited their tombs frequently, holding any number of religious and memorial ceremonies there, and the first things you always found on a dig were the remains of rituals and sacrifices offered in honour of the dead.

  It was already starting to get dark when he had finished clearing the area in front of the door and had taken all his measurements. Not a single object had come up anywhere at the groun
d level next to the tomb, not even when they were removing the sedimentary deposits. Fabrizio took a deep breath and stood there for a few minutes in silence, a trowel in his hand, facing that closed door, while a host of thoughts flitted through his mind, none of them pleasant. It was a relief to hear the voice of Francesca, who had just arrived.

  ‘Nice. Now all you have to do is open it.’

  ‘Right. Tomorrow, if everything goes as planned.’

  A Finanza squad car drove up with a couple of men ready to stand guard.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ asked Francesca.

  ‘Very. All I had for lunch was a sandwich and a glass of water.’

  ‘Let’s go, then. I know a nice place that’s not too noisy. We’ll take my car and I can drive you home after dinner.’

  Fabrizio got in and was about to close the door, but then he stopped suddenly as if having second thoughts. He went over to where the policemen were standing. Both were kids of no more than twenty-five, one from the north, the other from the deep south.

  ‘Listen, guys, don’t take this lightly. This place gives me the creeps. Not because of them, poor souls,’ he said, pointing towards the tomb, ‘they won’t bother you. I’m worried about that thing that killed Ronchetti. It’s still on the loose, as far as I know.’

  The two young men gestured at their machine guns and the 9-calibre Berettas resting in their holsters. ‘We’re locked and loaded, boss. Nothing’s going to happen here.’

  Each lit up a cigarette and, when Fabrizio turned back, before the first bend in the road, to take a look, the embers glowed like the eyes of an animal lurking in the dark.

  3

  THE RESTAURANT was inside a farmhouse that had been converted into a bed and breakfast along one of the country lanes that branched off from the regional road to Pisa. The fare was rustic and very tasty, promised Francesca: local crostini, ribollita soup, salami made with wild boar and a mean Fiorentina T-bone on request.

  As they were turning off the asphalt road, Francesca and Fabrizio were surprised by an Alfa Romeo carabiniere squad car darting by at top speed, its siren screaming.

  ‘Did you see that!’ said Fabrizio. ‘What is going on here? I thought I was going to end up in some sleepy little backwoods town . . .’

  Francesca parked her Suzuki under an oak tree, then walked with Fabrizio into the restaurant and chose a table before answering, ‘Yeah, well, this place usually is a little dead. But now we’ve got a corpse to show for it. And maybe it won’t be the last . . .’

  ‘Let’s sit down and have them bring us some wine.’

  ‘Poor guy. Everyone knew him. Ronchetti, I mean. Here everyone knows who the tomb robbers are. Sometimes they’ve been at it for generations. Some of them get so caught up in what they’re doing that they even go back to school to brush up on their history!’

  Fabrizio seemed amused and Francesca continued: ‘In general, they think of themselves as being better at their jobs and more efficient than we are at the NAS. From a certain point of view, they’re right. Since they’re not bound by scientific methods, they can get straight to work and dig out everything they need in a couple of minutes. Seriously, they are far superior to us in one thing: how well they know the territory. They’re familiar with every centimetre of the land. They leave no stone unturned, literally. Some of them even believe they’re the reincarnation of someone from Etruscan times. But I’m sure you’ve heard all this before . . .’

  ‘No, not at all. You know, I’ve only worked at a university. Our excavations are always organized well ahead of time and are usually uneventful. You NAS people are always on the front lines. I imagine that your work must occasionally even be risky.’

  ‘Well, it can be, although it looks like this time our rivals were the ones who met up with something really terrifying. Let’s not talk about that now, though. Tell me how you’re getting on with the Rovaio tomb.’

  ‘There’s not much to say. You saw yourself that I’ve cleared the facade. But I found nothing in the sedimentary layer. Just earth. And nothing at the ground level either.’

  ‘Either they were cleanliness fanatics or no one ever came by . . .’

  ‘That’s what has me wondering. You know, cemetery sites always show signs of being well visited. Flattened areas where people have beaten a track, little objects that people lose over time and that get crushed beneath their feet. I saw absolutely none of that there. I’m sure about the layer. I got to the base of the monument, so there’s no doubt about that. So how could that be?’

  The waiter brought the wine and a plate of salami. Francesca put a slice into her mouth, savouring the strong flavour of the boar meat.

  ‘It’s too soon to say,’ she said, ‘but you’re right. The path leading to a tomb is always well worn, and that’s noticeable. That’s where you tend to find things. So these people never had a living soul come by with an offering or a prayer, as we’d say today. Did you see any marks on the stone?’

  ‘The only marking seems to be the sphere of the new moon.’

  ‘The dark moon, then.’

  ‘So something’s not right, you’re saying.’

  ‘Listen, it’s no use guessing. Tomorrow you’ll open the tomb and you’ll see what you find. I’m really sorry I won’t be able to be there. At least, not before noon.’

  ‘Do you want me to wait? I can finish the site survey, clean up a little . . .’

  ‘No, it’s already clean enough as it is. No, you go on with your work. You must be eager to get back to your research at the museum.’

  Fabrizio tried to shift the discussion around to more personal things, but Francesca was politely defensive and kept her distance, deftly steering him back to neutral topics. He felt discouraged and lonely, not seeing the point in continuing with such superficialities.

  ‘I was really scared last night,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘That’s right, you said you’d heard something.’

  ‘A scream or a howl. I really can’t describe it. It was atrocious. It didn’t sound human, that’s for sure. And it made my hair stand on end.’

  ‘And you think it’s connected to whatever killed Ronchetti.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I stopped at the place where it happened before coming to meet you. There’s not a sign on the ground. The bushes all around are untouched. If it had been an animal, I think you’d see something. You know – broken branches, clawed-up earth . . .’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘I have my suspicions.’

  ‘I’d like to hear about them. Maybe it would make me sleep easier tonight, in that isolated farmhouse! More wine?’

  Francesca nodded. ‘There’ve been Sardinian shepherds around, from the Barbargia region. Tough characters.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard about them.’

  ‘Let’s say that Ronchetti had set up shop with one of them and that the deal was that they would act as look-out for him—’

  ‘In case of a Finanza raid?’

  ‘Could be. You know how shepherds go everywhere. They’d be able to let him know if there was anyone coming . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, let’s say that Ronchetti tried to cheat one of them. Refused to share the booty, or simply didn’t inform him about this last find. So this guy kills Ronchetti, strangles him, then carries the body somewhere else and lets one of his dogs loose on it – they’re very ferocious, you know. The dog mangles the body and destroys any sign of the strangling.’

  ‘And that sound I heard last night?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . . Why didn’t anyone else hear it?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘This is a small town. People here get upset over the sound of a leaf falling, let alone some horrible howling in the middle of the night. The next morning everyone would be talking about it.’

  ‘So I dreamed it, then?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. But sounds . . . sensations . . . are magnified at night. Even the howling of
a stray dog, when everything else is perfectly silent.’

  ‘That may be, but I have a shotgun and I’m going to keep it loaded.’

  ‘Do you hunt?’ asked Francesca.

  ‘I like hunting hares sometimes. Why, are you against killing animals?’

  ‘I just ate a big steak, didn’t I?’ she said with a touch of feline satisfaction.

  Fabrizio fell silent for a little while without looking at her, then continued: ‘What about this mysterious project that’s keeping Balestra glued to his desk here, so far away from Florence?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. I would just risk saying something stupid, because I don’t have any first-hand information myself. Just what I’ve heard in the hallways.’

  Fabrizio nodded, as if to say, ‘I won’t insist.’

  Francesca ordered coffee. ‘How do you like it at the Semprini farm? It’s nice and big, isn’t it?’

  ‘Too big,’ replied Fabrizio. ‘It’s one of those traditional family homes, at least six bedrooms. Wasted on a single guy living alone.’

  ‘Doesn’t your girlfriend ever come down to visit?’

  Fabrizio was surprised at her personal question, after she’d skirted all of his. She evidently didn’t like talking about herself but didn’t mind poking into the lives of others.

  ‘No, since I don’t have a girlfriend. She left me a few months ago. A question of class, you might say. As in my class not measuring up to her economic expectations. Not husband material, I guess.’

  ‘She sounds nasty,’ commented Francesca.

  Fabrizio shrugged and said in a firm tone of voice, ‘Happens. I’ll survive.’

  He insisted on paying the bill and Francesca thanked him with a smile. At least she wasn’t a diehard feminist; who knows, maybe she even wore pretty underwear under those jeans of hers.

  They left the restaurant around eleven and got into the car, continuing to chat until Francesca pulled up at the museum entrance, where Fabrizio had parked his Punto.

  She didn’t seem to expect a peck on the cheek, so Fabrizio didn’t try, saying only, ‘Goodnight, Francesca. I had a nice time. Thanks for the company.’