The Ancient Curse

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘I had no idea,’ admitted Reggiani. ‘So the origins of Roman combat in the arena were Etruscan?’

  ‘Most probably. But, as I said, it started out as a religious rite, as far-fetched as that may seem to us now. Human sacrifice was a way of appeasing the gods. Usually a prisoner of war would be forced to fight against a wild animal, or more than one, under conditions which doomed him to lose.

  ‘But what I’ve found evidence of here makes me hypothesize an even more cruel variant. I think that when the crime committed was beyond the pale, a real monstrosity, a horrible act that broke the laws of man and nature, the community would be seized by a kind of collective panic, fearing that the gods would not be satisfied with the sacrifice of a single life to atone for such horror and would seek to punish the whole community.

  ‘The natural solution would be to execute the guilty party by subjecting him to the most tremendous torture. But what would happen if, let’s say, the person accused of this horrendous crime declared himself innocent and that there was no definitive evidence to prove his guilt. In that case, he would be subjected to a trial by ordeal. He would be given a sword, but one hand would be tied behind his back and his head would be enclosed in a sack. Thus disabled, he would be made to fight off a ferocious animal: a wolf, or even a lion. If he managed to survive, that meant he was innocent and he could return to his everyday life, with his prior rank and rights. If he died, the beast that had killed him would be buried along with his body so it could continue to torment him for all eternity. That’s what I think I see in this photograph,’ concluded Fabrizio, replacing it in the drawer.

  ‘What a nightmare,’ commented Reggiani. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. I have no doubt you’re right about the photo. And you know, it makes me think twice about these gruesome murders. Now that I’ve heard this story, it almost seems that someone may be re-enacting this ancient ritual . . .’

  ‘Seems that way to me too,’ admitted Fabrizio.

  ‘Let’s say someone who learned about this discovery and got it into his head to act it out . . .’

  ‘I can see what you’re saying, but for what reason? I don’t get the motive.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ agreed Reggiani. ‘And Ronchetti’s body was found before you opened the tomb.’

  ‘So we’re back where we started.’

  Lieutenant Reggiani bit his lower lip. ‘As a matter of principle, I can only consider hypotheses that are rational, caused by a natural sequence of events.’

  ‘Do you think I was suggesting otherwise?’

  ‘No, of course not. But why did you show me that fang then? You know it belongs to an animal that died twenty-four centuries ago, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘I don’t know why I pulled it out. I did it without thinking.’

  Reggiani held out his hand and Fabrizio put the fang in his palm.

  ‘You know,’ the officer continued, fingering the oversized tooth, ‘when you showed me this, I was reminded of something I saw on television a few days ago. It was in one of those nature programmes. They were showing the skull of a southern African hominid with two strange indentations at the top. No one had been able to interpret the marks until they found the skull of a predator from that age, whose top canines were a perfect match for the indentations.’ He held out the fang. ‘Can I keep this for twenty-four hours?’ he asked.

  Fabrizio shrugged. ‘No, not really, but what the hell? If I can’t trust a carabiniere, who can I trust?’ Then he added, ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Show it to a friend.’

  ‘All right. But be sure you give it back to me tomorrow. My colleague will be coming from Bologna and she’ll be examining the skeleton. I don’t want her to find anything missing.’

  ‘You bet,’ the officer promised. He was about to put his cap back on, when Fabrizio remembered that threatening voice on the telephone and thought it would be best to let the police know.

  ‘Listen, there’s something I wanted to mention . . .’ he began.

  Just then, someone knocked at the door.

  It was Francesca. ‘Good morning, Lieutenant,’ she said to Reggiani, before turning to Fabrizio. ‘The director is in his office. He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ said Fabrizio, getting up.

  ‘Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?’ asked Lieutenant Reggiani.

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ replied Fabrizio. ‘Some other time.’

  ‘As you like. Goodbye, Dr Castellani.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lieutenant. And . . . don’t forget.’

  ‘Not to worry. You’ll have it back tomorrow.’ He placed his cap on his head and walked away down the hall.

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ asked Francesca.

  ‘Nothing. Just something I lent him. Do you have any idea what Balestra wants?’

  ‘That doesn’t take much guesswork. You’ve just excavated an intact late-fourth-century tomb, haven’t you?’

  ‘Right. Now that you mention it, it’s strange it took him so long to start looking for me.’

  ‘He’s been out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He didn’t say. At the ministry maybe. Who knows?’

  They had reached the director’s office. Francesca waved him towards the door with her hand and walked away. Fabrizio knocked.

  ‘Come in,’ replied Balestra’s voice from inside.

  ‘It must seem impossible,’ began the director before Fabrizio had even taken a seat, ‘but with a dig this important in progress, I haven’t been able to find a moment to touch base with you.’

  I’d love to know why, thought Fabrizio. Out loud, he commiserated: ‘I can imagine. So many things clamouring for your attention at once.’

  Balestra took half of a Tuscan cigar from a box and put it in his mouth. ‘No, don’t worry,’ he said instantly, seeing the look on Fabrizio’s face. ‘I don’t smoke them. So, from what I hear, the Rovaio tomb was completely inviolate. Is that true?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  Why so grim, then? What you’re saying is extraordinary.’

  Well, the things that have happened since that tomb was discovered would dampen anyone’s enthusiasm.’

  Balestra scowled. ‘I can’t say I blame you. I was told you’ve just been speaking to that carabiniere lieutenant.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘In any case, I’m looking forward to hearing exactly what you found. You can follow up with a written report at your convenience. I also want you to know that, as far as I am concerned, you can publish this on your own, if you like.’

  Fabrizio expressed his appreciation for the opportunity, but politely declined. ‘I’m honoured, director, but I really don’t think it’s my place, and besides, I already have my own research to take forward. I’ve limited my work to documenting the find and ensuring that the contents of the tomb are secure.’

  ‘I insist that you publish at least a part of the findings, or at least sign the article with me, if you prefer. Let’s hear, then, exactly how things have unfolded.’

  Fabrizio began to detail all the phases of locating, opening and inspecting the tomb. But when he started speaking of the bare sarcophagus at the north wall of the funeral chamber, he couldn’t stop his voice from cracking as his deep misgiving and bewilderment leaked out.

  ‘I realized that I was looking at something that had never been documented,’ he said. ‘That sarcophagus was the tomb of a Phersu . . .’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure of it. The tomb contains proof of the ritual, if my reconstruction is correct. Look for yourself . . .’ Fabrizio extracted a file from the folder he held and handed the director a big black-and-white print.

  ‘See,’ he began, as Balestra examined the image, ‘I’m led to believe that the man is certainly a Phersu by the fragments of fabric still attached to the skull and vertebrae of the neck. I’ve deduced that his head was covered by a hood, or a sack on w
hich a mask was painted . . .’

  Balestra’s flinch was barely perceptible, but Fabrizio was struck by it nonetheless; the director was famous for being tough and imperturbable.

  ‘Continue,’ he said, without raising his eyes from the photograph.

  ‘What’s more, the architrave at the entrance has a black moon at its centre, and the western wall a fresco of the demon Charun. The sarcophagus is roughly carved, completely unadorned and has no inscription. The other skeleton, the animal’s, is largely intact, while the man’s is mangled. I believe that the animal was entombed alive with the corpse of the Phersu. Actually, I’m wondering whether the man might not have been alive as well. Perhaps the ordeal was interrupted before his death in order to ensure that the punishment would fit the horror of his crime.’

  Balestra was examining the photograph with a magnifying glass and it was clear that he was trying to stifle an emotional reaction. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his face had become ashen.

  ‘That seems to be a plausible deduction,’ he said curtly in a controlled tone of voice. ‘Go on, then.’

  Fabrizio drew a long breath, then began speaking again. ‘My hypothesis seems confirmed by the fact that the tufa in front of the sarcophagus is scored with scratch marks so deep they could only have been left by the powerful claws of a baulking animal. The leather fragments that I found both inside among the bones and outside at the foot of the sarcophagus may be from the belts and straps that held the animal as it was forced to enter. I’ve calculated that it took a number of men to accomplish this.’

  He took more photos out of the folder and laid them on the desk in front of the director. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of contacting a colleague of mine, Dr Vitali, a palaeozoologist at the University of Bologna, and have asked her to examine the skeleton. You’ll have noticed the enormous size.’

  ‘I have,’ said the director. ‘The dimensions are beyond belief. Monstrous. Chimera-like, as if the parts did not come from a single being.’

  Fabrizio pulled more photos out of his briefcase and placed them on the desk. These were of the alabaster sarcophagus with the reclining woman and, as he began to explain his interpretation of how the finely carved piece had found its way inside a cursed burial chamber, he realized that, despite the beauty and uniqueness of the piece, the director was no longer listening to him. He seemed distracted and preoccupied, as if some thought were tormenting him, and Fabrizio noticed that he had completely crumbled the cigar he was holding.

  ‘Are you feeling well, sir?’ he asked, hoping that Balestra might want to confide in him and let him in on the mysterious work that had been keeping him confined to his office for weeks on end, but the director instantly regained his customary aplomb.

  ‘Certainly, I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘Why do you ask?’

  As if you didn’t know, thought Fabrizio, ready to let the subject drop. But Balestra hadn’t recovered completely; he was still massaging his temples as if his head were killing him. Fabrizio realized this was the best chance he’d ever have and decided to run the risk of irritating the director. It’s now or never, he thought, and took the plunge.

  ‘Well, because a lot of things just don’t add up here. The way you reacted to these photographs and to my words doesn’t seem normal to me. And, if I may say so, it also seems odd that you’ve been away from your office in Florence for so long, and that nine times out of ten you have your secretary say you’re not in, and that you don’t find the time to personally excavate an inviolate tomb like the one at Rovaio, and that you turn it over to the first guy who happens to be passing through. Wouldn’t it be best if both of us showed our cards?’

  Balestra took another half-cigar from the box of Tuscans and put it in his mouth. He remained silent for a while, then began: ‘I think you’re right, Castellani. I’m willing to be honest with you.

  ‘It all started about three years ago, when a man came to see me, saying that while digging on a work site somewhere near the brook at Le Macine, he stumbled upon an ancient inscription, a bronze slab broken into six pieces. The landowner had apparently arranged for a fence to smuggle these pieces out and sell them to an antiques dealer in Switzerland or Luxembourg. But this bloke was ready to tell me where the pieces were if I would guarantee him a finder’s fee.

  ‘Now, this kind of thing happens very rarely – that a tomb robber, whether he’s a professional or has merely chanced upon some find, comes to offer whatever it is to us. I figured he was trying to get back at an employer who wasn’t treating him fairly or had perhaps dismissed him from his job. So maybe he thought he could get his revenge and even pick up a little extra money on the side. I told him that yes, there would be a reward attached to turning in an archaeological find, although I couldn’t tell him how much that might be, since I hadn’t seen the piece itself and had no idea of its value.

  ‘So this character, who seemed a bit strange from the start – a bit touched, to be honest – seemed happy with my promises and told me exactly where the inscription could be found. In a plastic bag covered with sand and stones on the bottom of the stream. We went at night, with the carabinieri from the special services—’

  ‘Was Lieutenant Reggiani with you?’ Fabrizio interrupted instinctively.

  ‘No,’ replied the director. ‘Reggiani is not with the special archaeological recovery service. He comes from ROS, the organized-crime division, and was moved here so he could take it easy after three years in Sicily and two in Calabria. He got here the year after this happened and I don’t think he knows anything about it.

  ‘We found the inscription and I informed my superiors: the Minister first of all, then the general director and a couple of my close colleagues. Five people in all. Six with you, Castellani. I then began to study the inscription, or rather the six fragments. I soon realized that there was a piece missing, a seventh fragment, but I couldn’t find out for the life of me what had happened to it. I questioned the finder, who – on the condition that he would remain anonymous – told me exactly where he’d dug up the slab. I immediately had the area scoured for signs of a historical context; a clue that would help me date the inscription, figure out how it got there. The investigation turned up nothing. Not a single element that referred to any historical period or place. So either this man was lying to me or the site was only a temporary hiding place where the slab could sit while the landowner was arranging to smuggle it out of the country.’

  Fabrizio noticed that the director was no longer so pale and jittery. Just being able to talk about things had obviously eased the tension and anxiety that this investigation had caused for him. Fabrizio guessed that there was still more, and worse, to come.

  ‘As I was putting out feelers to try to get my hands on the seventh fragment, if it existed,’ the director continued, ‘I started examining the text of the inscription as well. I soon made an extraordinary discovery. The language it was written in was quite unique. It was definitely Etruscan, but it was infiltrated, so to speak, with archaic Latin expressions that made the text more comprehensible. I feel that, once this text is published, it will be cited by philologists and linguists all over the world.’

  ‘Do you mean you’ve found the key to translating an Etruscan text?’ asked Fabrizio incredulously.

  ‘I think I’m close. In any case, I’ve understood what it is: an ará. ’

  ‘A curse,’ mused Fabrizio.

  ‘Six curses in reality, one on each fragment. In all probability, the seventh is the final curse and the most dreadful of them all.’

  Balestra fell silent and Fabrizio didn’t know what to say.

  ‘It can’t be a curse that has you so upset,’ Fabrizio said finally, trying to help Balestra put things into perspective. ‘The ancient world is full of curses that have never come true.’

  Balestra’s expression was detached, almost annoyed. ‘This one has,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘This could—’ Balestra broke off and began again in a d
ifferent tone of voice. ‘Look, Castellani, it can’t be anything more than a coincidence, but this curse was carved in bronze. Why? So that it would last through eternity, and that leads me to believe that the crime at its origin must have been a particularly gruesome one. I think we can assume that it took place here, that is in the ancient city of Velathri. Now you are showing me documentation attesting to the burial of a Phersu, seemingly dating back to the same era as the inscription, with material evidence hinting at an especially blood-curdling ritual. That’s where we stand, isn’t it?’

  ‘I would say so, yes,’ admitted Fabrizio.

  ‘It comes naturally to connect the two, even if we might rather not.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘As if that were not enough, two individuals accused of attempting to open the tomb are found with their throats ripped out and their necks and faces devoured by some beast which has left no traces of any sort. I’ve never heard of such a series of coincidences.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Lieutenant Reggiani?’

  ‘Of course. I am a government official.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Reggiani is a top-notch officer. He’s got balls.’

  Fabrizio was surprised by the use of such a colloquial expression by the director, who was always so proper. He interpreted it as coming from a need to confide and be consoled, which alarmed him even more. Balestra must be letting on much less than what he actually knew about the inscription. All the signs indicated that the man was scared to death.

  ‘He may succeed in solving this thing sooner than we expect,’ concluded the director.

  ‘Maybe. But that’s not the impression he gave me.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ commented Balestra, nervously chewing on his half-cigar.

  ‘We’ll see,’ repeated Fabrizio mechanically.

  He had the feeling that Balestra still had more to say and that, if he insisted, he could tease the information out of him.