The Venice conspiracy ts-1

by Michael Morley

  'Now is not a good time.' Tetia motions to her hut. 'I have a sick husband to attend.'

  'Now is the time. I have come and you must go.' The look on his face warns her there is no room to argue.

  Tetia nods. 'I need to tell him. Make arrangements for him to be looked after.'

  Larth slants his head towards a trough. 'You have until I have watered the horse. No longer.'

  Tetia hurries away.

  Finding Teucer sleeping, she kneels and puts the palm of a hand to his face. 'Husband.' Her voice is gentle to begin with, then firmer: 'Teucer, can you hear me, my sweetness?' His skin feels warm and unshaven as she strokes it.

  His lips finally move and for a split second his eyelids open. There is only a milky deadness where once there had been a spark that set her senses ablaze.

  It breaks her heart to see him like this. 'Teucer, can you hear me?'

  He smiles sleepily. 'I am blind, not deaf. I fell asleep again. Now that I cannot see, my mind seems to seek the solace of sleep more often.'

  'Magistrate Pesna has sent a man for me. He is outside and I have to go with him. I will be gone for some time.'

  Apprehension shows on his face. 'Why? The magistrate knows of my condition. Your skills are more likely to be needed for my tomb than his.'

  'Do not say that!' Panic rises in her chest. 'You were the one who told him about my work. Yesterday he said he would think of what he wanted. I suppose he's sent for me now because he's made up his mind.' She tries to sound excited. 'This is a big chance for us, Teucer. Pleasing the magistrate will benefit us both.'

  Teucer says nothing. He feels he no longer has any power. He has become an object, to be moved around as and when people wish.

  'I will ask your mother to look in on you.' She squeezes his hand. 'I'll be back quickly. Wish me luck.' She kisses his forehead.

  He wishes it had been his mouth. Wishes there was only him and his wife, no horror growing in her stomach, no guilty secret to try to forget. 'May fortune smile upon you.'

  She doesn't hear him as she rushes away and almost collides with Larth. It's clear he was about to enter her home and fetch her.

  Tetia steps past the giant. 'I have to see his mother, then I will come,' she calls over her shoulder, not daring to look back. To provoke Larth's temper is to unleash a violence so terrible that even the bravest in Atmanta would cower. She steels herself for the roar of fury, the fist, the boot, but it seems the monster is curbing his anger for once. Even so, she moves quickly, and the moment she has secured Larcia's promise to look in on Teucer, she's running back to Larth, gathering her robe so it doesn't catch in her old leather sandals, while at the same time trying ensure no glimpse of thigh should awaken his lust.

  He mounts the stallion and pulls her up one-handed behind him.

  Before Tetia has even settled, the horse is at full gallop and she has to cling to Larth's waist in order not to fall.

  They head north, riding hard. First along the city's cardo, then the decumanus, the east-west road. The crossing point of the roads is a special place, solemnly divined by Teucer when the settlement was first established and housing planned out and around the main routes. They don't rest until they come to the easternmost of Pesna's silver mines.

  'Mamarce's workshop is part under the earth,' explains Larth as he fastens the horse to a fence stake and pulls Tetia down. 'I will show you, but I will not go in there with you.'

  Tetia looks at him. 'Why not? You are afraid to do so?'

  He grabs her by the elbow and walks her quickly from the horse. 'I am afraid of nothing mortal. Journeys below earth are for rodents, and I am not given to the company of rats.'

  The mine buildings form a dog-leg, part set in the cliff with the remainder running away at a forty-five-degree angle before disappearing below ground.

  Larth tugs open a battered door to reveal a dim, musty corridor lit by torches. They flutter as the wind is sucked in.

  'I will be here when you have finished. Mamarce will call for me.'

  CAPITOLO XXI

  The Eastern Silver Mine, Atmanta The mine door flaps closed behind her.

  Tetia walks a short way and then enters another door on her right. The room seems as big as a village and smells worse than a sulphur pit. Men of all ages are busily ferrying white-hot iron crucibles of molten metal from one workplace to another. They look like thieves stealing pieces of the sun.

  The air is filled with the deafening thud of hammer on anvil. Huge fires roar in stone kilns that stretch all the way through the ceiling of rock. The heat is overwhelming.

  Tetia feels perspiration trickle down her back and breasts.

  She walks carefully, fearful of bumping into one of the passing men and being burned by their incandescent treasure.

  A sudden loud hissing sound makes her jump. A man is dipping a crucible of molten metal into a vast water trough. Tetia catches her breath and moves on.

  She sees a string of almost naked children, sitting like a row of dirty pearls with their backs to an undulating black wall of rock. They are scrabbling in huge bowls jammed between their knees, picking specks of silver from ground ore, their calloused and bleeding fingers rooting out non-precious metals, salts and debris.

  Another door leads to a second cavernous chamber.

  This one is guarded by two large shaven-headed men with thick leather belts dangling with chains and knives. The guards are identical, except one has a scar on his left cheek and right forearm, the unmistakable aftermath of a blow from a broadsword.

  'I am Tetia, wife of Teucer, the netsvis. Larth, the servant of Magistrate Pesna, brought me here to see Mamarce.'

  Tetia waits for an answer but the men give none. They look her over, then the one with the raw red scar steps aside and swings the door open.

  This room is cooler. The light more even.

  A boy, somewhat older than the others, sits cross-legged in the far corner and cautiously observes the new visitor.

  Mamarce doesn't look up from his work. He seems to be about the same age as Teucer's father, but very different in every other respect. He is a mere wisp of a man, thin and small with no muscles, a fuzz of white hair and a bushy grey beard. He is bent double over a wide bench that Tetia has never seen the like of. It is part wood, part iron. A series of big and small metal jaws protrude over its edges like the mouths of hungry dogs yapping for scraps.

  When Mamarce speaks, his voice is slow and soft, as if muffled by his facial shrubbery. 'Sit down. I cannot stop. The metal is almost hard and I am not yet done.'

  Tetia perches on a wobbly wooden seat across from him and drinks in her surroundings. The bench between them is strewn with knives, files and hammers not unlike her own, but smaller and even more delicate. A strange long stone catches her eye; it seems to have been smeared with different shades of something shiny. She guesses it's a touchstone, an instrument used to compare samples from the highest-known quality of silver to those of new and undetermined qualities.

  'I am finished!' Mamarce announces triumphantly, looking up at last. 'So, you are the mystery sculptress. My, my!' He steps down from the high wooden chair and is now so small that he all but disappears behind the bench.

  Tetia stands and walks round to meet him. He barely reaches her shoulders. 'I am Tetia, wife of Teucer, daughter of-'

  He flicks a hand dismissively at her. 'I know who you are, and I am not the least interested in who your husband or father is. Let me look at you. Show me your hands.'

  She extends them, palms down.

  'No, no, not like that, child. That tells me nothing.' Mamarce twists them palms up and holds her by the wrists. 'Aaah. Artist's hands. Good, good. You have a gift from Menrva herself.'

  He smiles kindly at her and Tetia can't help but warm to him. 'Thank you.'

  Mamarce traces a thin bony finger horizontally across her left palm. 'The Greeks believe all these lines are prophecies of your life. Your fingers here are your first world – the world of what goes on in your
mind. This middle part of your hand is your second world – it governs the material things that you own and do in this life on earth.' He runs his nails from the tip of her thumb to the inside of her wrist, 'And here is the third world – your hidden, elemental world.'

  Tetia is fascinated. 'You understand such things? You are a seer?'

  Mamarce smiles enigmatically. 'All artists are seers. We view more than only earthly things. I note your work, too, has visionary elements. You must explain them to me.'

  Tetia drops her head, anxious not to be pressed.

  Mamarce picks up on it. 'Well, perhaps later, when we know each other better. First, come with me and I will show you what has been done with your sculpture.' He pulls up a second high chair and ushers her to sit alongside him. 'I took your creation and Vulca' – he points a bony finger at the boy – 'impressed them into moulds of fresh clay. I then poured our purest silver into the moulds and we sealed them against blocks of cuttlefish before binding them tightly.' Mamarce reaches to his right and drags a fold of sacking in front of him. 'Here they are. They need cleaning, but are already quite extraordinary. Are you ready to see?'

  Tetia sucks in a nervous breath. 'I am.'

  The silversmith unfolds the sackcloth and a wide smile illuminates his wrinkled face.

  Three solid silver tiles gleam. Tetia's pulse races. Half of her is amazed at their beauty and the other half horrified at how wilfully she disobeyed Teucer and effectively immortalised the very thing he wanted destroyed.

  Mamarce slides the slabs across so she can see more closely. 'There is burring on some edges. They all need to be gently filed away and then properly polished. I thought perhaps you'd like to re-cut some of the lines, give them greater definition.'

  Tetia's fingers slide over the silver. Cool and shiny, almost like ice that will never melt. 'They're so smooth. So rich. They feel like slices of heaven.'

  Mamarce smiles and remembers the first time his master let him touch the precious metal.

  Tetia is mesmerised. Pesna was indeed wise. Her work had been far from finished when she'd shown it to him. The addition of silver seems to have breathed life into every figure in every scene. She peers closely. The face of the netsvis shows even more doubt than she'd remembered. The unknown demon is larger and more menacing. There is so much desperation and finality in the embrace of the lovers that it makes her shiver.

  There seems only one flaw.

  The burring from the mould has left three tiny marks on the face of the baby at the lovers' feet – one that looks like a teardrop and two that look like horns. Tetia puts a hand to her stomach to quieten a rumble.

  Mamarce's wise old eyes watch her every move.

  He scratches his beard and wonders if she will trade the secret of the Gates of Destiny in return for what he has seen in her palm, but has not told her.

  Her own destiny. A bloody but momentous one.

  CHAPTER 27

  Present Day Carabinieri HQ, Venice From the moment she enters the cool shade of the police building, Valentina knows something is seriously wrong.

  Voices are hushed. All laughter and lightness have been sucked from the corridors.

  Maybe the top brass are visiting. Or worse – some politician has announced further cuts in force budgets.

  She climbs the stairs and turns towards her room. Office Manager Rafael de Scalla is heading her way. 'Carvalho is looking for you.'

  'Why?' Valentina takes her bag off her shoulder.

  He doesn't stop, frightened his face might give away the snippet of awful gossip he's heard from the Control Room. 'You best talk to him.'

  She hangs back and checks her cellphone. Damn! Three missed calls from her boss.

  The major's door is open. She walks in with the phone held high. 'Sono realmente spiacente. I put it on mute at the morgue, and I've only just noticed.'

  He looks up from an untidy desk. Tired eyes. Deep wrinkled forehead. Three plastic coffee cups, one used as an ashtray. Valentina thought he'd given up smoking years ago. It must be worse than she feared.

  'Sit down. Please.' He waves her to a chair.

  Her heart drums. She wonders if she's done something wrong – seriously wrong.

  Carvalho bites at a thumbnail and looks pensively at her. 'Antonio is dead. Your cousin is dead. I'm very sorry to have to tell you this.'

  Valentina has to replay the message in her head. 'Scusi?'

  'A boating accident this morning. He was heading out from the mooring at Fondamenta San Biagio, out into the laguna.'

  Valentina stares at the wall behind her boss's head. She's heard that sometimes people feel numb at times like this, but never really understood what numb meant.

  Until now.

  'I don't understand. What happened?'

  'We're not really sure yet. It looks like a gas cooker exploded in the cabin. That's what the boat crews think.' He pauses to censor his thoughts, to leave out that the blast was so intense it severed his torso and shredded most of his body. 'Forensics and engine squads are all over the debris. There'll be a full investigation.'

  She bites her lip. Way down inside she feels the first stab of pain. 'Antonio? You're sure? There's no mistake?'

  His face tells her there isn't. 'No, I saw his body myself.'

  Shock starts to roll over her. Leaves her speechless. Carvalho watches it ripple through her. 'Can I get you something?' He searches for water and tissues.

  Valentina snaps out of her silence. 'Have you – have you – spoken to Antonio's parents?'

  He flinches. 'I've just come from there.'

  'Are they okay? Is his mother all right?'

  Vito sighs. 'No, she's not all right. Nor his father. Nor you, by the look of things.' He moves around his desk, takes her by the shoulders. 'I'll fix for a driver to take you home. Or to your aunt and uncle's, if you prefer.'

  Valentina winces. His touch of reassurance somehow unlocks the floodgates. The pain is there now all right, but she won't let it show. 'No, I'm fine, grazie. I can drive myself.' She knows he can see the tears in her eyes, but still she's determined to be strong. Professional. 'What about the funeral?' she asks, taking a tissue just in case.

  'Scusi?' Vito is shocked.

  'The funeral. I need to tell his parents and the rest of the family about the burial, the release of the body, what arrangements can be made.'

  'Later, Valentina. These things can wait.' He pauses while she blows her nose. 'Personnel will be in touch. They'll help you all. The force will show its respect and honour him properly.'

  The last comment scares her. The thought of uniforms, guards of honour, gun salutes – it all makes everything horribly official. Permanent.

  'Are you sure you don't want me to get someone to take you home?' He starts to lead her to the door.

  'No. No, I'm fine,' she snaps. 'Really, I can manage on my own. Molte grazie.' She pulls away from him. 'I appreciate you telling me personally, here in private. It was considerate of you.' She hopes she's not being rude or ungrateful as she heads for the door. She holds her breath all the way down the corridor and almost falls as she rushes down the back stairs. Only when she reaches the garage does she let out the tears, and when she does, it feels as if they'll never stop.

  CAPITOLO XXII

  666 BC

  The Eastern Silver Mine, Etruria It's almost daylight when an exhausted Tetia emerges from the silversmith's workshop. Although her task is completed, she senses that Mamarce wished her to stay. That there was something left unsaid between them.

  Larth doesn't speak as they ride through the breaking dawn and she can't help but doze against his broad back.

  The journey gives her time to think.

  Pesna will be pleased with the finished pieces. They will overshadow all his other treasures and make her the envy of artists across Etruria.

  But there is still the problem of Teucer. Soon she must confess that she disobeyed him. Thanks to her, his awful visions have come to life and have been immortalised in silv
er tiles, which the magistrate now expects him to bless.

  The depths of her deception make her sad. Their lives are drifting apart.

  Larth pulls the stallion to a halt. 'We're here.'

  Tetia doesn't move. Her mind is on the Gates of Destiny. Already they represent the greatest thing she's created and her worst betrayal – lying, cheating and deceiving her husband when he needed her most.

  'I said we're here. Now get down – I am tired and still have to ride back.'

  Tetia dismounts. She is so drained – part from the work and part from her pregnancy – that her knees buckle and she falls over.

  Larth glances at her. Tugs the stallion's reins, wheels round and rides off without a word.

  The grass is damp but Tetia stays down. She watches as the great horse's hooves carve up the ground, turves flying in its wake. Snorts of white breath are caught against a pink sunrise, the rider bent forward in his saddle, muscular arms working hard, hair flowing.

  She's still thinking about how brutal and handsome Larth is as she gets to her feet and tentatively enters the hut. She smells the fire burning in the hearth before she even sees it. Teucer is sitting cross-legged, the flames illuminating his face. His head tilts her way as she enters. His voice is soft and without any trace of anger. 'Magistrate Pesna asks too much of my wife. You have been gone so long, I was growing worried.'

  Tetia stops moving and looks pitifully at him; she's going to have to lie again. 'I am sorry, he had me make some things while I was there. A sort of test, I think.'

  Teucer doesn't want a row; he tries to sound interested rather than annoyed. 'What kind of things?'

  'Oh, nothing grand. Just small objects. Then he had me work with his silversmith and the old man changed everything I'd done, so I can't even describe what the things looked like when he'd finished.'

  Teucer senses the tension in her voice. 'Well, I hope Pesna is as generous with his rewards as he is greedy with his demands on your time.'

  She looks for a jug of water. 'I hope so, too. Teucer, I am bone-weary and our child kicks me like a mule – can we please not speak of the magistrate any more.'