The Rome Prophecy

by Jon Trace

  I try to look away, but She grabs my face and forces me to look at Her. She says that She knows about them and will find them and punish them as well.

  She will trap them and make them all one.

  Make them all Hers.

  I tell Mother there are no others.

  But She knows.

  Mother beats me again.

  She sticks cloth in my mouth so I can’t scream. So ‘the others’ can’t hear me.

  Then She teaches me Her lessons.

  And when She’s done, She leaves me.

  Alone.

  In the dark.

  Underground.

  In the safety of Her womb.

  20

  Tom showers and shaves. He pulls on black Levis and a black shirt.

  A passing glance in the mirror appals him.

  Bar a dab of white on the collar, he looks like a priest.

  He changes the shirt for a green one made from thick Egyptian cotton. One warm enough never to need a jumper over the top.

  He pulls out his cell phone and sends a text message to the only old friend he has in Rome, Alfredo Giordano. Being Sunday, he knows exactly where Alfie is, and it’s not the kind of place where you can have a phone ringing.

  He’s at church.

  Saying Mass.

  While he waits for Alfie to reply, Tom makes espresso as thick as treacle and fires up Valentina’s Vaio. There’s mail stacked high in his AOL account, but that’s not what he’s looking for.

  He finds several Google entries for ‘Cassandra Prophet of Doom’ and is pleased his basic grasp of Greek mythology hasn’t completely deserted him. Cassandra, also known as Alexandra, was the daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba of Troy. She was so beautiful that Apollo granted her the gift of prophecy.

  Tom vaguely remembers that Sassy Cassy spent a night at Apollo’s temple, and when she fell asleep, magical snakes licked her ears so clean she was able to hear the future.

  Neat trick.

  If only you could order a couple of snakes like that from iwantoneofthose.com.

  After a little searching, he tracks down Cassandra’s family tree. Her father Priam was the son of Laomedon and grandson of Ilus and ruled during the Trojan War. Tom becomes lost and bored as he traces the generations back through Trus, Erichthonius and Dardanus, but he feels compelled to complete the task.

  He makes another espresso and is pleased when he recalls that Dardanus was the son of Zeus and Electra.

  No Harleys back in those days!

  The temporary amusement disappears when he reads that the wife of Dardanus was Batea, the daughter of a king called Teucer.

  Teucer.

  He sits back from the computer.

  Until a few years ago, the name Teucer had never meant anything to him.

  But then there was Venice.

  In Venice, he became more than familiar with it.

  Teucer was the name at the centre of a case that stretched back six hundred years before Christ. A case that almost killed him and Valentina.

  He comforts himself with hard logic. These are different Teucers.

  Very different.

  One was from Greece and ruled Troy. The other was from Etruria and was part of a dark satanic legend.

  But he can’t help but add up the coincidences.

  A crazed woman believing she is Cassandra, who is a dark descendant of Teucer, turns up covered in blood after a ritual dismemberment at a legendary site of truth and justice. On its own it’s disturbing.

  That it should happen at exactly the time that Tom is visiting Valentina is more troubling. It’s almost as though fate – or God – has decreed that he has to be here.

  That this is the place where he is needed.

  He puts his hand to his lip.

  It’s bleeding again.

  Outside the window he hears church bells ringing. The sound of Mass beginning makes him check his phone to see if there’s a message from Alfie.

  There is.

  Tom reads it and can barely believe his eyes.

  21

  Louisa Verdetti looks up from the paperwork on her desk and over the top of her black-framed spectacles. ‘Please, sit down.’

  Valentina and Federico pull up chairs.

  The director updates them. ‘The lady you brought in seems stable and calm this morning. Certainly well enough for you to interview, though we haven’t yet had time to do the full range of diagnostic checks that we’d like.’

  Federico flips open his notebook. ‘Suzanna Grecoraci. Has she said where she’s from? How old she is?’

  Verdetti smiles. ‘She has. She’s from Corviale, she’s twenty-seven years old and has two children. They’re called Carina and Carlo. The girl’s five and the boy three.’

  ‘Poor kids.’ The lieutenant starts to write down their details and wonders how they’re going to react when they find out their mother is as nutty as a fruitcake and is going to be locked up for a long time.

  ‘Save your ink,’ interrupts Verdetti. ‘That’s not who she is. And her children don’t exist.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Valentina looks perplexed.

  ‘We checked our computer network systems for her medical records. No one by that name is on the local register. Nor are either of her children.’

  Federico has formed such a strong image of the children that he can’t now clear them from his mind. ‘Maybe the family only just moved to Rome? You know how bad this city is at keeping records.’

  ‘No,’ insists Verdetti. ‘We found several Suzanna Grecoracis in the area. None of them is the right age, marital or parental status to be her.’

  Valentina spreads her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘I still don’t get it. Why would she lie about this? We’ve arrested her and she’s going to jail.’

  ‘Probably not.’ Verdetti lets the shock of her response sink in and then explains. ‘Suzanna is another alter – another personality that steps forward in the host body to take control.’

  Valentina shakes her head. ‘So we have Cassandra and Suzanna. Two alters? Two personalities other than that of the real person?’

  ‘That’s right. We call the real person the host. The host may be taken over by multiple personalities.’

  ‘How many is multiple?’ asks Federico.

  Louisa tries to keep it simple. ‘That all depends. Usually, the number of alters is determined by the levels of trauma in the host’s life. The more trauma, the greater the multiple of personalities.’

  The two police officers exchange looks. They know that what Verdetti has just said is the kind of expert testimony that would ensure their prisoner would never face criminal charges.

  The clinician interrupts their ponderings. ‘As I said, you can see her, but I must insist on being in the room as well.’

  Valentina nods. ‘Capiamo.’

  ‘Va bene.’ Verdetti pushes back her chair and leads the way.

  Valentina is revising her opinion of the director. Sure, she’s stern. Maybe a bit of a control freak as well. But she’s impressively professional and must have the patience of a saint to deal with people as disturbed as Suzanna, or whoever she really is. And – on top of all that – she’s wearing a pair of black Gucci sneakers that Valentina would kill for.

  The doctor opens the door.

  Suzanna is sitting in a chair by her bed.

  She doesn’t look in the least bit intimidated by the sight of the Carabinieri officers.

  Verdetti makes the introductions. ‘Suzanna, these police officers would like to ask you some questions. Are you okay with that?’

  ‘Of course.’ She sits up straight and smiles. Valentina and Federico pull over some hard-backed visitors’ chairs.

  Federico cautiously starts the ball rolling. ‘You say you’re Suzanna Grecoraci from Corviale. You are married and have two children – is that right?’

  Her face lights up. ‘It is. I have two beautiful children. God has been very kind to me; they’re my angels.’
/>   ‘I’m sure they are. Where exactly are they now?’ asks Valentina.

  ‘With their father, Romano. He’s travelling the world with them.’ She looks a little sad. ‘They’re in Australia at the moment.’

  ‘Australia.’ Valentina repeats the word for no reason other than the fact that she can’t yet get a grasp on what’s unfolding.

  ‘Yes, I know that’s a very long way away.’ Suzanna laughs nervously. ‘Romano’s parents are down there. They’re very old and not in good health, so he wanted them to see their grandchildren – you know, one last time.’

  Valentina tries to sound sympathetic. ‘Why didn’t you go with them?’

  ‘Oh, that’s a long story.’ She looks embarrassed. ‘I have a fear of flying. I’ve never been in an aeroplane. Don’t think I ever will.’

  Valentina nods understandingly. ‘Do you recognise me, Suzanna? Do you remember where and when we met before?’

  It’s clear from her face that she doesn’t. ‘No, no, I’m afraid I don’t. I hadn’t thought we’d met until now.’ She glances towards the doctor. ‘No one has given me your names, so I’m afraid you’re both strangers to me.’

  Valentina keeps her tone non-judgemental. ‘I visited you in a police cell in Viale Romania and you attacked me.’

  Suzanna looks shocked. ‘Oh no. That’s not possible. I’d never attack anyone. I’ve never hurt anyone or anything in my whole life.’

  Verdetti tries to help everyone out. ‘If it wasn’t you, Suzanna, then who could it have been?’

  ‘One of the others, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She thinks for a while. ‘Well, if it was one of the others, it was most likely Claudia.’

  ‘Not Cassandra?’ queries Valentina. ‘Cassandra seems to be mixed up in a lot of bad things. Could it have been her?’

  Suzanna stays quiet.

  Federico sees an opportunity to push further. ‘Unless of course there is no Cassandra, and you’re lying about all this.’ He leans forward on the edge of his chair. ‘Are you lying, Suzanna? Are you making all this up?’

  Valentina tries to cut him off. ‘Federico …’

  He scents blood and won’t stop. ‘You don’t have any husband, or children. You’re just inventing all this rubbish about “others” because you’ve seriously hurt someone and now you’re trying to act crazy to avoid the consequences of your actions. Aren’t you?’

  Suzanna grows tense.

  The lieutenant presses his point. ‘Best tell us the truth now, before you make things worse.’

  Valentina studies the prisoner. She no longer looks nervous. She seems angry.

  Angry in a peculiarly restrained way. Like a politician or a headmistress when they’re under pressure.

  ‘I think you should go now,’ says Verdetti, sensing a mood change. ‘This may have been a bad idea. It’s too soon for her to face this kind of thing.’

  Valentina ignores her. Her eyes are still locked on the prisoner and the extraordinary look on her face. If she turns violent again, she’ll be ready this time.

  The patient stands and starts to pace the room, mumbling to herself.

  She turns and glares at them.

  Her face is filled with rage.

  Her whole body shape has transformed into someone more powerful and more confident.

  ‘Juno inferna! How dare you common plebs question my veracity? How in the name of Zeus dare you?’ She shoots Federico a contemptuous look. ‘Sweet Veritas should geld you for your impudence.’ She strides to within a foot of Valentina. ‘And you, girl – you are but a trollop with a mouth made loose by pleasuring too much cock. Now get out! Get out of my sight before I have you tied to the wheel of a chariot and whipped.’

  Valentina gives Louisa a shocked look. ‘Is this Cassandra? The Cassandra in the note she wrote?’

  The doctor looks worried. ‘Perhaps. Will you and your colleague please wait outside?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, I am Cassandra.’ She strides defiantly towards them. ‘And Cassandra is too proud to have whores like you speaking about her in whispers.’

  The clinician opens the door and again urges the officers out. ‘I have to insist that you go.’

  Federico turns to Valentina for guidance and she gives him an assenting nod.

  They slip outside and close the door.

  Valentina hears one final outburst from inside the room.

  ‘I know what you want. Oh yes, I know exactly what you and the snuffling pigs in that septic Senate want. I will never tell you. I would rather take my secret to the grave than tell you. You want the book, don’t you? You want to get your hands on it and ruin everything. Well, it will never happen. Never!’

  22

  The new one tries to hide her fear, but I see it.

  We all see it.

  It is glazed in the whiteness of her eyes as they lower her into the pit. Pass her into the womb of the earth.

  She is naked and pink. Curled and cowed like a foetus.

  Her soft, virgin skin is like a dropped silk handkerchief in the centuries-old soil. She sits on a cushion of earth, encrusted with the dried blood of many sacrifices.

  Soon there will be more.

  Above her, the drumming begins.

  It starts like the peck of a bird, becomes the thump of a hoof, and grows into the stampede of cattle.

  Taurobolium has begun.

  The new one peeks through her fingers into the blackness above her and sees the first flickers of our lights.

  I feel for her.

  I envy her.

  I love her and hate her.

  We are lighting candles around the edge of the triangular pit. Her eyes catch mine and I fail to see what is so special about her. They say she is ‘the one’.

  The favoured one.

  But I see nothing that will stop me usurping her.

  Nothing that will prevent me from taking my rightful place in line.

  The Korybantes dance their way to the front, naked but for their shields, swords and helmets.

  The sound of metal on metal makes a sinister percussion. The steel is there to slice.

  To cut.

  To kill.

  There is an orgiastic surge in the music.

  The Galli begin their chanting.

  We gather closer and bond tightly with our sisters from Baby lonia, Syria, Asia Minor, Etruria and Anatolia.

  The nine Korybantes are joined with the three magical Dactyls.

  We are all one.

  The music, drumming and chanting reaches its climax.

  The goddess is here!

  Our Mother has arrived.

  She holds aloft the hands that eight thousand years ago dug into the earth of Çatal Hüyük, the hands that spread the soil of time while She gave birth flanked by leopards.

  We all scream.

  Scream so loud our spirits almost fly from our throats.

  Somewhere down in the blackness, the special one gathers the fine clothes we have sewn for her and dresses herself.

  She moves to the centre of the pit.

  The limbs of eunuchs strain on thick ropes and the rafters creak.

  Above us, a bull that has trod pastures for six summers bucks in its harness.

  Then it thrashes no more.

  The blades open up its sacred rivers of blood and they pour down on the libation boards across the pit.

  My sister showers in the animal’s life force.

  She dances joyously as the blood from the Bull of Heaven purifies her.

  Now she is born again – for eternity.

  Unless I can stop her.

  23

  Father Giordano is covering for a friend and working a double shift.

  That said, he’s doing it at a place where priests don’t mind putting in unspecified amounts of unpaid overtime.

  St Peter’s.

  Or, to give the greatest building of its age its full name, the Basilica Papale di San Pietro Vaticano.

  Tom has scu
rried across the city to be there for Alfie’s final appearance of the day, and already all the effort is worthwhile.

  The basilica is breathtaking.

  Tom can’t think of any other way to describe it. The beauty of the vast seventeenth-century façade built of pale travertine stone, with its giant Corinthian columns, makes him dizzy.

  Then there’s the inside.

  The spectacularly arched entrance with its heavenly stained glass just about holds Tom’s eyes before they fix on Michelangelo’s central dome, still the tallest in the world at more than a hundred and thirty-six metres. Then there’s the basilica’s wonderful nave, narthex, portals and bays to feast on, before his favourite visual treat, the main altar, with Bernini’s astonishing bronze baldacchino, a pavilion-like structure that stands almost a hundred feet high and looks even taller.

  St Peter’s is visual gluttony. No sense is left unstuffed. No emotion left sober.

  Mass is said at altars great and small throughout the cavernous building, so Tom has to search a while before he finds his friend in the relatively modest Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament.

  Modest is the wrong word.

  The gilded bronze Bernini tabernacle alone is worth more than the entire church that Tom last officiated in.

  He kneels with the rest of the congregation and can’t help but feel proud of his tall ginger-haired friend as he works his way gracefully and passionately through the service.

  For Tom, the Mass is over all too quickly.

  He settles back in a pew and enjoys the peace while he waits for Alfie to change and reappear. Few places in the world have the intense silence of a church, and he still finds it the most effective place to examine his own thoughts.

  And right now there are lots of them.

  Was it smart to rush into a relationship with Valentina? What does she expect from it?

  Where does he hope it will go?

  How is it most likely to end?

  So many thoughts. All backed up and jostling for attention like closing-time drinkers in a city-centre bar.

  Looking back, he can see that they grew close after the death of her cousin Antonio. But maybe there was always a spark between them. Some genetic trigger that attracts people and compels them to be together was pulled.