The Venice conspiracy ts-1

by Michael Morley

  He walks along the front of the Bacino di San Marco and doubts there is a better view of the canal in all of Venice. Crafts of every shape and size jockey for position in the waterway – gondolas, ferries, trade boats, a Carabinieri cruiser and vaporetti.

  As he prepares to turn left at the Ponte dei Sospiri a funeral boat passes, slowly ploughing its way to the historic cemetery on Isola di San Michele. The flower-laden vessel jolts memories of Monica and the monster who murdered her.

  It's not something he wants to dwell on.

  He pilots his thoughts back to Tina. A few days ago he hadn't even known she'd existed; now she's assumed a central role in his life.

  The first woman he's slept with. He's sure it would have been no big thing for her. But for Tom, it's a landmark. He struggles to define exactly what kind.

  One to be proud of? Or ashamed?

  He really isn't sure. Years of Catholicism do that to you. They make you uncertain about how you should feel about anything pleasurable, especially sex.

  Like most priests, Tom tried hard not to think about being intimate with a woman. And like most of his colleagues, there were times when he failed.

  In those moments, he'd imagined such a relationship would start off slow – a warm kind of friendship – and then gradually grow into something deeper and more passionate. He'd never dreamed that he would end up behaving like a hopeless teenager and losing his virginity in a drunken one-night stand.

  But then again – if he was honest with himself – he hadn't been that drunk. Tipsy – yes. Loose and uninhibited – certainly. But so drunk that he couldn't have stopped himself? No, not at all.

  And now? In the full glare of the morning light – what did he think now?

  Need it be a one-night stand? Is that what she wants? What he wants?

  He can't answer any of the questions. It all seems so horrendously confusing. And to think he'd spent years counselling parishioners on their marital problems. The thought brings a smile to his face. How hopelessly unqualified he was.

  But Tom has no regrets. None at all. Whatever happens next, he knows it is all part of the new person he is becoming. A person who, overnight, has allowed a complete stranger into his life. And in giving her the most precious thing he'd had left, he's allowed her to become an intimate player in his new life.

  But for how long?

  The question haunts him as he meanders back towards the hotel.

  CHAPTER 15

  Cosseted in a cocoon of a quilt, Tina Ricci squints sleepily at the half-open bedroom door.

  Tom finishes sneaking in. 'Sorry. I was trying not to wake you.'

  She struggles to speak. 'Errrm – hi. I kinda thought you'd gone.'

  He moves gingerly towards the bed. 'I didn't think I was supposed to.'

  'You're not.' Then in an instant she finds herself defensively adding: 'Not unless you want to, that is.'

  'I don't.'

  'Then come back here.' She pats the cool side of the mattress. 'Give me a chance to show you the real meaning of Morning Service.'

  Tom lifts a crumpled brown bag. 'I bought coffee and croissants. A small repayment for lunch yesterday.'

  'Great.' She straightens the pillows and sits up a little. 'But I warn you, I'm famished. We missed dinner – and burned off a lot of calories – so I'm gonna need more than you've got there.'

  'Understood.' Tom takes out the coffees, rips open the bag of croissants and spreads the paper to catch crumbs. His face gives away that he's going to awkwardly switch subjects and say something about last night. 'Listen, I'm really new to all this, so please forgive me if I'm very awkward and say all the wrong things.' He looks embarrassed. 'Or more likely, don't say the things that I should.'

  She takes a coffee from him. 'Tom, there are no rules. Just say what you want – anything you feel like saying.'

  Right now, saying what he feels turns out to be harder than he ever imagined it would be. 'Okay. Then help me out here. How do you feel?'

  'I think you're sweet.' She pauses, then adds, 'And special. Not because you used to be a priest and we fucked.' She looks horrified. 'Sorry! I didn't mean to say fucked, I mean-' Now she looks embarrassed. 'Listen, you're special because you're a good guy. An honest guy. A nice guy. And I think it must be quite something to get to know you – really know you.'

  He looks tense. 'Thanks, I hope we get the time to do that.'

  'And you?' There's a hint of mischief in her eyes. 'You don't get out of answering that easy. What do you feel?'

  The sun is blazing outside the window. He can hear Italian voices laughing and chattering on the street below. The world seems perfect. 'Complete,' he finally answers. 'You make me feel wonderfully complete.'

  CAPITOLO IX

  666 BC

  The Sacred Curte, Atmanta Tetia drags Teucer from the fire.

  His face is badly burned and she fears for his sight. She brushes burning embers from his flesh as she leads him from the curte, screaming for help.

  Teucer's father, Venthi, rushes down the hillside. 'What's wrong? What's happened?'

  Her knees are buckling from the weight of supporting her husband and she struggles to speak. 'He – fell – in the sacred fire – we were making divinations – for Magistrate Pesna. Look at his eyes!'

  Venthi stoops. Terrible blisters are appearing on his son's cheeks, in his eye sockets and on the lids. He scoops his son into his arms and carries him – legs dangling – as though cradling a child who'd grazed his knee.

  They are only minutes from the home of Larthuza the Healer. The old man is standing at his door, drinking wine and watching life go by, when he sees them approaching. 'Take him through to the back. Lay him on the bed by the hearth.'

  Venthi ducks through the doorway, Tetia following closely. No one quite knows Larthuza's age but many believe the gods have extended his stay on earth solely because of his extraordinary powers of healing.

  'Pour me water, Tetia. There are jugs and bowls outside. Be quick!' He barks commands from his toothless mouth before he even reaches the place where Teucer lies.

  The young netsvis is clutching his face and moaning.

  'Teucer, Teucer let me help you. You must let me move your fingers and treat you.'

  Seeing the healer struggling to prise away the young priest's hands, Venthi takes over. He kneels and holds them in his own, something he's not done since Teucer was a child. He leans close to his son's ear: 'Larthuza will help you, my son. Trust him. Do as he says and let him work his magic.'

  The healer moves about the room, gathering cloths from one corner, then oils and herbs from another. He washes his hands in water Tetia pours for him, then he dries them on a rough, clean scrap of cloth, praying all the while to the gods.

  Larthuza rubs tincture of root of arum on Teucer's forehead to dull the pain and help him relax. He layers wet ram's wool on his face and instructs Tetia to keep checking the dressings. 'When they become warm to the touch, remove them. Squeeze them out and then dip them into a clean bowl of water and re-lay them on his face.' She diligently follows instructions while Larthuza searches for his metals – thin instruments fashioned from silver and blessed not only by Teucer but by many preceding seers. The healer's shelves are stacked with salt, garlic, leaves of rue, plants of Sabine and other herbs, but he cannot find the instruments. He is becoming forgetful. 'The wounds show anger,' he calls to Venthi, as it is customary for the head of the family to be informed and his approval sought for all the healer's actions. 'You should say your own private prayers for forgiveness to help calm the fury on his face.'

  Finally he finds what he wants. A small wooden box filled with silver probes, knives and grips. 'Tetia, leave those wools and pour hot water from the hearth into a metal bowl.'

  He empties the instruments into the bowl and bids her rinse them in water. 'When you're finished, drain off the water and pass them to me.'

  Slowly he peels back Teucer's right eyelid. Ash and splinters of burning wood have pierced the pu
pil. Larthuza begs the gods to steady his fingers as he uses the silver grips to pull out the remnants. Teucer flinches. 'Boy, you must keep still! Venthi, hold his head, please. I must not make a mistake here.'

  Huge hands grasp Teucer's delicate head. His legs shake with pain as Larthuza pulls fragments from his scorched eyes.

  By nightfall the cleansing is completed.

  Once more Larthuza layers cool, wet ram's wool over the seer's damaged face then makes him drink a long potion of valerian and pomegranate. Both doctor and patient are exhausted.

  'He will sleep now – and sleep for a long time,' the healer whispers to Tetia. 'We will leave him here and you may stay with him. Throughout the night the wool must be changed regularly, you understand?'

  'I know my duties. I will not forget them nor sleep until they are completed.'

  'Good child.' He looks towards Teucer's father. 'At dawn I will apply a poultice of feverfew and some essential oils. At nightfall I will give you oil of rough bindweed that must be massaged into the skin. And then, if the fury within him has died away, you may take him home.'

  Venthi has been sitting, knees bent, back against the wall near his son. He rises now, old joints cracking as he does. 'I am thankful for your work and will bring you payment on the morrow.'

  Larthuza waves a hand dismissively. 'There is no need. My only desire is that young Teucer is well again. Like myself, he is chosen to serve.'

  Venthi's strong face becomes vulnerable. 'Tell me, on the word of Turan, the great goddess of health and love, will my son ever see again?'

  'My old friend, that is up to her and the other deities. I have done all I can. Now we must pray and offer sacrifices. His vision is solely in their hands.'

  CAPITOLO X

  The House of Atmanta After feasting for hours, Pesna and his closest companions are in the spa, being washed and oiled by whores and servants.

  Most of the magistrate's coterie are fools, but he tolerates them because they are pretty fools. Some, like Larth, are deadly fools. What Larth lacks in wisdom he makes up for in menace. As chief of Pesna's guards he is cruelly adept at dispensing any punishments the magistrate decrees.

  The wise ones, like Kavie, are rare. Always quiet, always thoughtful, seldom wrong in his counsel, Kavie as usual has separated himself from the crowd. Less drunk than the rest, he is being bathed in the far corner by two of the prettiest pages Pesna has ever employed.

  'If I do not celebrate more,' proclaims the magistrate, 'there is a danger that when I die I will have amassed too many riches to spend even in the afterlife.'

  His cronies laugh sycophantically.

  'Perhaps there is an afterlife after the afterlife,' suggests Hercha, a local woman who has become a regular in his bed. Her hair has been freshly braided by servant girls and she constantly plays with it as she speaks. 'If I am correct, then maybe you are well advised to hold back some of your vast wealth so you will perpetually be able to live in the manner to which you have grown accustomed.'

  Pesna slips off his robe and steps into the steaming water alongside Kavie. 'Since when did I allow a mere woman to give me advice? I advise you to keep your mouth solely for my pleasure and not for publicly flaunting your stupidity.' He beckons a servant: 'Girl, bring me wine. Cold wine from the fermenting rooms beneath the courtyard. Make sure it is not tepid. If it is, then Larth will whip your hide.'

  The naked servant goes about her business and Larth slaps a giant hand across her buttocks as she passes him.

  Ushering his washer away, Kavie turns his back on the other revellers. 'I hear news of trouble in the south.'

  Pesna skims a hand over the surface of the water. 'In Rome?'

  'Not in Rome. More of Rome.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Many of the city kings are growing fearful of Rome. People of power and purpose are drawn to the Tiber. It is early days, but the region's arrogant nobles already speak of wider rule. This would be a threat to your own ambitions to extend your power base.'

  Pesna looks concerned. 'Rome is not much more than we are, but somehow it magnetises the avaricious. Settlers there are weaned on blood, not milk. One day they will be a bigger power and we must watch over our shoulders to see that day coming.'

  'You are wise, Magistrate. Perhaps we can use the current fear of Rome to progress our plans to build our lands and power in the north.'

  Pesna playfully rebukes his friend. 'My power, Kavie. Don't forget your place in this grand scheme.'

  He looks offended.

  'Oh come, come. I chide you.' Pesna gives him a reassuring look. 'You are right. Fear is a good basis for building allegiances.'

  'Have you heard from Caele?'

  The magistrate smiles. 'He will be here soon. Our ocean-going friend has enough silver with him to buy the world, let alone the small slices I require.' He puts his arm around Kavie's shoulder. 'Can you write persuasive messages for me to send to men of influence in the other cities?'

  'I will have them drafted by dawn.'

  'Good. Now, my dear Kavie, my throat aches for more drink and my penis longs for the soft mouth of a pretty whore. Do you have anything else to tell me before I satisfy these most important of organs?'

  'One more matter, then I am done.'

  Pesna looks weary. 'What is it?'

  'One of the elders tells me that your netsvis has been blinded.'

  The magistrate shakes his head in bewilderment. 'Blinded? A seer who cannot see? This is a trick of the gods. What fate has befallen him?'

  'It is said he was performing a divination under your instruction and was blinded in a sacred fire.'

  Seeing the servant girl approach with the wine, Pesna is brusque. 'Put it down and leave.' He waits until she's gone. 'That is not a good omen. I told the netsvis to have the gods silence wagging tongues, not create more gossip and unrest. May the gods curse his stupidity! What are we to do with him?'

  'You must support him or kill him. There is no field to plough between those two trees.'

  Pesna pours wine as he ponders the options. 'Very well. Tomorrow – when my head is clear and my balls are empty – we will decide his fate. Now, my friend, I pray silence from you. No more of your news.' He nods to the servant girl waiting by the door. 'I have much debauchery to engage in.'

  CAPITOLO XI

  Larthuza's Hut, Atmanta In his fevered sleep, Teucer shouts and screams. He thrashes wildly and spits out names of demons unknown to Tetia and Larthuza. Pain roars through him. As hot as flames. As sharp as a needle through the eye. Larthuza holds him and with Tetia's help administers another draft of valerian. They press his shoulders to the bed until the drug kicks in and his mind passes into calmer waters of unconsciousness.

  It's long after dawn when they next check him. The healer seems pleased with the progress of the last few hours. 'The gods have taken the fury from his wounds. He will be left with scars, but they will look naught but the scratches of an animal.'

  'And his sight?'

  'Sweet Tetia, it is too soon to speak of this. There was burning ash and wood rooted in his orbs. If the celestial gods wish their seer to see, then it shall be so.' He takes her smooth and gentle hands in his bony old fingers. 'Your love for him will impress the gods and bring him fortitude. Hold nothing back. Use your most feminine powers to bring him comfort and healing in every way you can. His body is hurt, but so too is his spirit and his soul.'

  Tetia nods. 'I will always be indebted to you for your help.'

  He stands and hugs her. 'Then I hope I will be repaid by living long enough to see that child of yours come into your life.'

  She instinctively puts a hand to her stomach.

  'And remember, you need to take care of yourself and that baby as well as your husband,' Larthuza adds as he starts to prepare a poultice of feverfew.

  'I will.' Tetia wrinkles her nose. The poultice smells worse than the sulphur baths her mother is so fond of. 'I hope its healing power is as strong as its stench. What will it do?'

/>   Larthuza laughs. 'It will make you feel sick, such is its noxiousness. But it will further remove the fire from Teucer's burns. I dare not give him more valerian, so this will help keep him bound in the healing folds of gentle sleep.'

  Larthuza removes the pads of ram's wool and pats the poultice gently over the netsvis's eyes. 'Injuries such as Teucer's are similar to those of the battlefield. When the body is wounded it creates its own medicines, powerful potions that race in the blood and kill the pain, but only for a short spell. When the body's potions are spent, then terrible pain surfaces. Feverfew will ease the agony in Teucer's mind.'

  Tetia is still grimacing from the smell. 'I hope it is so.'

  'It is, my child. Now I must go. There is sickness with a newborn and I promised its parents I would attend.'

  Tetia touches his arm tenderly. 'Thank you again.'

  'You are most welcome. Now I think you should settle beside your husband for a while and get some sleep.' He leans closer and whispers, 'Baby will need it too.'

  Tetia smiles as he leaves. She would indeed like to rest. And she supposes it is her duty to endure the awful smell of the poultice. She wipes Teucer's brow and moistens his dry mouth with fresh water, then she lies next to him and kisses him softly on his dampened lips. She closes her eyes and prays for a speedy recovery.

  She is in that magical space between daydreams and sleep, when it happens -

  Teucer grabs her by the throat.

  Squeezes so hard she cannot breathe.

  She kicks out but can't get free. Grabs his wrists but can't unlock his grip.

  'Be gone! Be gone!' shouts Teucer. 'Dark demon with no name, I vanquish you!'

  Tetia gasps for air.

  'I need to kill it. I must kill it!' His grip tightens murderously.

  Tetia kicks again. Connects with something fleshy. She thrashes harder. Her foot hits Larthuza's fire and scatters embers.