It was the voice of Aule Tarchna, Anait’s brother, an augur who interpreted the signs that the gods sent to men, priest of the temple of Sethlans on the hill that overlooked the city. His features were harsh with indignation, but hot tears flowed from his eyes, because in a single moment he had lost everything that was most dear to him.
‘No?’ replied Lars Thyrrens. ‘Then it will not be difficult for him to prove his innocence by winning the trial of the Phersu. You are a priest, Aule Tarchna, and know well that only the gods can judge a crime so horrendous it goes beyond all imagining.’
‘Damn you! Damn you! You cannot do this. You are a shameless, sacrilegious, bloodthirsty beast. You cannot do this.’
‘Not I,’ replied Lars Thyrrens. ‘The oldest law of our people. The most sacred. You should know that.’
‘May I at least have their bodies?’ cried Aule Tarchna, pointing to Anait and the child.
Lars Thyrrens regarded him impassively. ‘They will burn along with this house. I will not allow you to expose them in public, nor to slander my name or accuse me of lying.’
‘May you be damned,’ said Aule Tarchna, from the bottom of his heart.
His eyes were dry; his burning hatred had dried his tears. He remained alone in the deserted house, which had been filled with song and joyous celebrating just moments before. He remained to weep over the bodies of Anait and Velies, until the crackling of the flames startled him, until the oaken ceiling beams began to collapse all around him. Then he stood and fled, never looking back.
He returned secretly the next day, to gather up what he could of the ashes and remains of his sister and nephew. He was not seen for days on end, but he returned for the terrible ritual, when Turm Kaiknas was pushed into the arena. With an arm tied behind his back and his head closed in a sack, Turm was made to fight against a vicious animal that the lauchme had procured from distant lands. Aule Tarchna did not cover his eyes, not even when he saw the hero bleeding from every part of his body, because he wanted his loathing to grow within him until it became an invincible force. A force that would survive for millennia.
Turm Kaiknas fought with superhuman strength. He had no other reason for being, in the short time that remained for him to live, than to cover his enemy with contempt and make sure that his blood fell on all those who witnessed his martyrdom. He struck the beast, wounding it again and again, but when he fell, lifeless, the monster was still alive and still tearing at his inanimate body.
Lars Thyrrens proclaimed that this was proof of Turm Kaiknas’s guilt and he ordered the Phersu buried with the live animal, in the same tomb, so that the beast could continue to torture him for all eternity. An isolated tomb was designated for his burial, built in a solitary place, with no markings other than that of the black moon.
Aule Tarchna exercised his right to introduce an image of the family inside the tomb so that there might be a benevolent presence in that lair of cries and darkness, and he had a cenotaph fashioned in solid alabaster, portraying the likeness of Anait. Then he commissioned a sculpture of Velies that would be placed in the family tomb. A great artist cast the boy’s likeness in bronze and included the blade that had murdered him. The portrait was the picture of melancholy and pain in a shape more similar to a shadow than to a living child, of a soul that had inhabited his body for too short a time and would never know the joy of love or of a family.
Inside the tomb he placed, last of all, two slabs of bronze, on which his eternal curse was inscribed:
May you be damned seven times, Lars Thyrrens, may your seed be damned and may all those who in this city sated your thirst for power be damned with you, may they be cursed until the end of the nine ages of Rasna. Damn the beast and damn all those who witnessed the cruel murder of an innocent man. May they experience the same end suffered by a blameless hero and may they weep tears of blood . . .
Fabrizio awakened soaked in a cold sweat, filled with a sense of anguish. He stumbled to his feet with difficulty and went to the window. It was pitch dark outside.
13
LIEITENANT REGGIANI’S Alfa Romeo pulled up in front of the Semprini farmhouse just before eight. Fabrizio came to open the door and invited his visitor to sit down in the kitchen. The coffee was already perking and bread was toasting in the oven. Reggiani wore jeans and a dark blue suede jacket which did not quite disguise the bulk of the regulation Beretta nestled under his armpit. He sat and watched Fabrizio from the corner of his eye as he took the bread out of the oven and set out butter, jam and honey.
‘You are scary-looking,’ he said. ‘Looks like you spent the night in hell, actually.’
‘Yeah, well, I guess you could say that,’ replied Fabrizio without much emotion. He poured the coffee and sat down. ‘Take more if you like,’ he said. ‘There’s a full pot.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?’
‘I worked for hours and hours – all night, actually – without ever taking a break. That’s why I must seem a little out of it.’
‘That much I know. My guys are posted outside twenty-four seven. Nothing else to report?’
‘Nothing else.’
‘So what have you concluded after all this work?’
‘I’ve translated Balestra’s inscription, but no one is to know that. I just needed to understand what it said.’
‘Can you let me in on it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘So why did you call me?’
‘Because I need you to come with me. To the tavern at Le Macine.’
‘To see that woman.’
‘Yes. I want to ask her what Montanari couldn’t tell me in time, before . . . that thing ripped out his throat.’
‘Which is?’
‘Where the seventh fragment of the inscription is.’
‘And that’s something that should interest us? Aside from its purely archaeological value, that is.’
‘No. I wouldn’t have knocked myself out this way for that reason. Archaeology takes time, usually. Do you know who that woman is?’
‘Yes. I’ve looked into it. She’s a widow who runs the place and usually serves at the bar. A normal person.’
‘Does this normal person have a name?’
‘First and last. It’s Ambra Reiter.’ Reggiani finished the last sip of coffee and lit up a cigarette.
‘It’s an early one today,’ observed Fabrizio as he put the cups in the sink.
‘I’m tense, all right? I’m preparing for the operation. You do remember I promised you no more than two days?’
Fabrizio didn’t reply. He dried his hands on a dishcloth and said, ‘Shall we go, then?’
Reggiani got up and went out to the car. Fabrizio locked the door behind him and slid into the passenger seat. ‘She has a strange name,’ he said. ‘What else do we know about her?’
Reggiani turned on to the regional road. ‘Not much for the time being. She’s been here for about five years and for a while she worked as a housekeeper in a house here in Volterra. I’m trying to find out where she’s from but I haven’t got very far yet. I’ve heard she dabbles in magic – innocent stuff, reading palms, tarot cards, that kind of thing.’
It took them longer than Fabrizio expected because Reggiani’s car was very low to the ground and he had to slow down at every bump and pothole. He seemed to be taking his time, driving slower than necessary. Maybe he wanted to allow time for conversation, but Fabrizio was quiet most of the way, absorbed in his thoughts, and his companion did not disturb him.
When they arrived in the courtyard at Le Macine the place was deserted. A northerly wind had cleared the morning mist and was scattering the dry oak and maple leaves, along with scraps of newspaper and bits of cement bags. A heap of freshly moved earth sat at the end of the courtyard near a digger, along with piles of bricks on one side and bags of cement and lime on the other, piled behind a fence of corrugated sheet metal.
‘Work in progress, I see,’ commented Reggiani. ‘Business must be going well.’
He got out of the car and walked towards the building, followed by Fabrizio. He knocked on the door, which swung open at the touch of his hand. They entered and looked around in the semi-darkness. The room was empty, the chairs upside down on the tables, the stagnant air saturated with an indefinable smell in which one could make out a whiff of incense mixed with the aroma of some exotic cigarette.
‘Anyone here?’ asked Reggiani. No answer. ‘Anyone around?’ he repeated, raising his voice.
‘Wait,’ said Fabrizio. ‘I’ll take a look in the kitchen.’
He went behind the counter and inspected the room at the back. The stovetops were clean, the floor had been washed, the back door was locked and bolted.
He called out again, ‘Is there anyone here?’
A spooked cat raced between his legs, miaowing loudly, crossed the room in a flash and escaped outside.
‘Strange, isn’t it?’ said Reggiani. ‘Looks like no one’s here, but the door was open . . . Listen, I say we come back later. I don’t like being in other people’s houses when they’re not around. Even though I’m in plain clothes, I’m still a carabiniere officer and—’
‘Did you call?’ a voice suddenly rang out behind them.
They spun around and found Ambra Reiter, who had seemingly materialized out of nowhere. She was standing still in the middle of the room and her face was wan but showed no emotion.
‘I’m Lieutenant Marcello Reggiani,’ said the officer with a bit of embarrassment, ‘and I think you’ve met this fellow here, Dr Fabrizio Castellani of the University of Siena.’
The woman shook her head slowly as if awakening from a dream. ‘I’ve never had the pleasure. Nice to meet you. Ambra Reiter,’ she added, extending a hand.
Fabrizio couldn’t help but blurt out, ‘Excuse me, I don’t know how you can say that. I came in here the other day and you served me a drink. Remember? When I tried to pay you said, “It’s on the house.” And you were at La Casaccia just a few minutes before that animal massacred Pietro Montanari.’
The woman regarded him as if he were raving. ‘Animal? Pietro Montanari? Young man, are you sure you’re talking to the right person? Lieutenant, would you mind explaining what this is all about? Are you here on official business, and if so what am I being accused of?’
Reggiani tried to explain. ‘Absolutely nothing, ma’am, but my friend here says—’
Fabrizio interrupted him. ‘She’s the one who calls me at night and has made explicit threats about what will happen to me if I don’t cut short my research.’
The woman looked at him in seeming amazement. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything about any research and I don’t even know you. You’re either crazy or you’ve mixed me up with someone else.’
Reggiani realized that they wouldn’t get anywhere under these circumstances and he gave Fabrizio a look, as if to say, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Fabrizio nodded and followed him out, but before he left he turned to look the woman in the eye, to catch her off guard, to see if her expression would give her away. He saw nothing but the face of a sphinx, but before he looked away he noticed she had yellow mud on her shoes.
‘Damned witch,’ he said as soon as they were outside. ‘I swear to you I saw her here the other night. We had a conversation, she threatened me . . . You don’t believe me, do you?’
Reggiani lifted a hand to calm him down. ‘I believe you, I believe you, but relax for a minute, will you? The only thing I can do is put someone on her. If she’s who you say she is, she’ll betray herself sooner or later. The only problem is time. That’s what we’re short of.’
They were about to get into the car when Fabrizio thought he heard a rustling. He turned just in time to glimpse a child rushing to hide behind the corner of the farmhouse. It looked like the same boy he’d spotted the last time he’d been to Le Macine. ‘Wait!’ he tried to call out, without much conviction, but the child had gone.
He got into the car. ‘Did you notice her shoes?’ he asked as soon as Reggiani had started it up.
‘They looked like normal shoes to me.’
‘They had yellow mud stuck to them.’
‘So?’
‘I’m an archaeologist. I’m quite familiar with the stratigraphy of the soil in this area. It’s the same as the mud we saw piled up by the digger.’
‘Right.’
‘Do you know what that means?’
‘That the woman’s been walking around in this area.’
‘No. She appeared out of nowhere, behind us. If she’d come from outside we would have seen her or heard her. I think she came from underground. More precisely, from a depth of two metres, give or take a centimetre. Now, if I—’
Reggiani slowed down, came to a stop and pulled on the handbrake. ‘Wait. Let me guess. You want to get yourself into more trouble. Listen to me. Don’t get any strange ideas about sneaking around at night to do underground reconnaissance, or anything of the sort. While this creature’s on the loose you’re not moving unless you’ve got company and unless I say so. If you want to stay alive.’
‘Who’s moving?’ grumbled Fabrizio. ‘Sergeant Massaro is always just around the bend in his grey Uno. Almost always . . .’
Reggiani drove off again, intending to drop Fabrizio off at his house on the Semprini property. Neither did much talking, as each was oppressed by his own nightmares.
‘Know how long we’ve got to go?’ asked Reggiani, turning off the engine. ‘To the start of operations, that is?’
‘A few hours?’ asked Fabrizio.
Reggiani checked his watch. ‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a load of problems pulling together the necessary men and vehicles. But in thirty-six hours’ time, not one minute later, the operation will get the go-ahead. If I can do it any sooner than that, I will.’
Fabrizio smiled. ‘See where arrogance gets you? The other police forces not good enough to ask for help? Come on, Marcello, don’t play the tough guy with me. There’s got to be some flexibility built into that deadline. If I should need another two or three hours, say, half a day . . .’
Reggiani wiped his brow. He looked like he hadn’t slept much the night before either. ‘I trust that won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘I hope you realize I’m not fooling around here. When you mobilize for an operation like this one it’s down to the minute. Let’s get this straight. Although I hope it won’t be necessary, I’m not going to bicker over minutes.’
Fabrizio lowered his head. ‘Driving out there just complicated matters, didn’t it?’ he said. ‘I never would have thought she could lie so brazenly, without letting out the tiniest bit of emotion. But that yellow mud is an important clue, you’ll see. Goodbye, then. I’ll be in touch soon.’
Fabrizio walked into the empty house and thought he should call Francesca, but the realization that he hadn’t spoken to her for so many hours discouraged him. He didn’t want to have to justify himself or get into an argument. He wasn’t sure what to do next. Ambra Reiter was the only person who knew where the missing fragment of the inscription was, if Montanari had been telling the truth. And there was no way that she was going to tell him. Maybe there was no other option than to go in with the big guns, to let Lieutenant Reggiani run his operation, in the hope that that would solve matters. But Fabrizio couldn’t resign himself to that.
He immersed himself in reading his translation and felt the dark vision of the night before encroaching again. Had it been extreme fatigue, the pills he’d taken to stay awake, or the influence of what he’d read or thought he understood in the inscription that had projected such images into his mind?
He felt oppressed by a sense of deep discouragement. The surveillance that Reggiani had provided to protect him made him feel like he was in prison. He couldn’t move independently in any direction. He felt tormented by the confusion flooding his head, by that strange mix of reality and hallucination that hadn’t left him, not even after awakening. It fe
lt like he couldn’t shake off the effects of a powerful drug. He’d experienced the feeling once before, in Pakistan, the only time he’d tried opium, out of curiosity. It had put him in a strange, black mood that hadn’t left him for days.
Every now and then he looked over at the phone, thinking that he really should call Francesca, hoping that she might be the one to call him. Time stretched out in an unreal way. It seemed like months, or years, that he’d been living in this nightmare, this claustrophobic, agonizing situation.
He suddenly felt like simply walking out. He wished he could start up his car and just leave, forget about everyone, abandon the research that had brought him to Volterra, erase the inscription carved into the bronze slab by Aule Tarchna. He could find another way to make a living; become a high school teacher or a journalist.
But then he realized immediately that he didn’t want to leave Francesca, didn’t want to leave Marcello Reggiani or even Sonia, who was down in the basement of the museum assembling his monster. She must be well along by now. And above all he didn’t want to leave that sad little boy who now had not only a face but a name, Velies Kaiknas, and a story, a story that felt to Fabrizio like it had happened the day before.
A light knock on the door made him jump. Was he hearing things? Who could be at his door, with the police outside? A soft knock, again.
‘Who’s there?’ he said nervously, as his eye moved to the rifle glittering on the rack.
There was no answer. He got up and moved to the door. There was no one there.
‘Who is it?’ he repeated tensely.
And then he looked down. There was a little boy who looked like the kid he’d seen at Le Macine. Skinny, slight, with huge, expressive eyes.
‘So who are you?’ he asked in an amused tone.
‘My name’s Angelo,’ he answered. ‘May I come in?’
Fabrizio stepped aside and let him in. The child went straight to the table, sat down and put his elbows up as if he were waiting for something.
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