The Venice conspiracy ts-1

by Michael Morley

  Caele is on one side of him, relaxed and fresh from his rest and much-needed sex with the foreign whores who bathed him. Kavie, on the other side, is tense, alert and focused.

  The ship owner traces a finger across a vast new area east of Atmanta, heading across the northernmost end of the Adriatic. 'You now own this marshland, from here to here. As requested, we have scouted it and there were no settlements of any note.'

  Kavie looks up from the map. 'So there were some people there?'

  'Not any more.' Caele's face says it all. 'The land is Pesna's.'

  'And here?' Pesna circles his finger over a rash of islands close to his newly acquired land.

  'I doubt the area is worth having. It is marshland, and so flooded that it's beyond building on.'

  Pesna looks sceptical. As though he's only being told half the story.

  Caele throws back his head. 'I confess I did not go close, for fear that my ship would run aground. But I hear tell that it is uninhabited bar a few insane islanders, who eat only fish and probably their own children.'

  Kavie picks up a goblet of wine. 'This trivial earth and scrapings of people can be taken later without sweat. Let's celebrate. Pesna, you have the land for your new city. This is an historic moment.'

  All three clink goblets and down their wine.

  The magistrate walks towards a long table where more jugs are waiting. 'Fold the map, Kavie. Let us sit by the window and talk of the coming gathering of noblemen.'

  They refresh their goblets and regroup in a pit of cushions looking out on to the gardens. Pesna folds his robe around his legs as he crosses them and makes himself comfortable. 'Our aim is simple: to ensure that the city leaders come away accepting me, not as their equal but as their future leader, the man who will make it possible for them to realise ambitions beyond their wildest dreams-'

  Caele touches his arm. 'And riches beyond their greediest imaginings.'

  Pesna nods. 'Quite so. If you discount force and fear – and discount them we must, for we have no mighty army at our disposal – then there are only two ways to control powerful men: through their cocks and their purses. After the ceremony at the temple, and before we feast and whore them, we will take our esteemed guests to the mines and lavish gifts upon them. My silversmiths are busy as we speak. Then, we will enlist their support – and muscle – in the new cities we build east of the Po River.'

  A knock on the door silences them.

  Larth stands in the doorway. 'I have the netsvis, as you requested. He is waiting outside.'

  Pesna climbs from the quicksand of cushions. 'Bring him in.'

  'He is still blind, Magistrate.'

  The wine has softened him. 'Then I have my novelty.' He glances over to Kavie. 'I hope he proves to be as valuable as you predicted.'

  Larth pushes Teucer into the room.

  The netsvis is panting, either through fright or exertion.

  Caele mutters, 'He looks like a lost dog.'

  Kavie, smirking, adds: 'Let us hope he still has some tricks for his master.'

  Teucer puts the tips of his fingers to his temples. 'There are four people in this room. Two are strangers to me – they sit in the south near an open window and whisper. The man who brought me here is still behind me, close to the door, uncertain of his position in this assembly.' He takes one step to his left and one forward, extends his hand and bows. 'Magistrate Pesna, I greet you. I am without my sight, but with more insight than I have ever had.'

  Pesna takes Teucer's hand in both of his. 'I am sorry to learn that your blindness remains. We have invited many noblemen to attend the consecration of the temple and had hoped to have you officiate.'

  'I am still able to fulfil my duties.'

  Pesna smiles to his friends, a grin of mockery. 'A spirited response, my young friend. Pray tell me – despite your affliction, do you still believe the gods wish you to be our augur?'

  Teucer stays calm. 'My belief is more resolute now than it ever was.'

  Pesna turns to the others. 'It is my wish you afford me time alone with my priest.'

  They exchange looks and then silently leave the room.

  Pesna walks around Teucer and assesses him.

  'Your wife is a talented sculptress. Did she tell you what she made for me?'

  'She said you had her work with your silversmith to make gifts – some articles for each room of the temple – and you will have me bless these along with other offerings.'

  'Aah.' Pesna is amused that the young sculptress is as cunning as she is talented. 'Your wife has informed you well. I will indeed be grateful if you will bless these gifts – along with others that I have in the room adjacent to this.'

  'May I touch my wife's work? I should like to acquaint myself with it.'

  Pesna is intrigued by the question. 'You are testing me, Netsvis. I know not how, but I feel there is something on your mind that does not accord easily with my intentions. '

  'May I?'

  Pesna is about to refuse when he is struck by an idea. One with an element of fun.

  'Walk with me,' commands the magistrate. 'I'll ensure your path is clear.'

  Teucer allows himself to be guided through two doorways. Then Pesna stops and announces: 'This is the room of gifts. There are more than twenty worldly goods that I have personally commissioned and will place before the deities.' He moves him to the middle of the room. 'You are in the very centre now. Let's see if the gods still favour you.' He takes Teucer by both elbows and gently waltzes him in an increasingly dizzying spin. 'If you can find your wife's work, then I will keep you as my netsvis and you will consecrate the temple. If you cannot – then I will have Larth test your worth by hanging you from his hooks.'

  Pesna lets go.

  Teucer rocks and almost loses his balance.

  'Oh, I almost forgot to mention,' teases the magistrate, 'there's one rule to this game: you may touch only six objects. So, make good choices, young priest.'

  Teucer steadies himself. Quells the distracting thunder and vibrations in his heart. Steadies his breathing.

  Hearing Pesna's elegant leather sandals shuffle and creak to the west of him, he guesses the magistrate will have positioned himself close to the silver tiles. Not next to them. Probably opposite, so he can get the best view of the search.

  Teucer's heightened senses tell him there is no window in the room – no doubt a precautionary measure to protect the goods within from any thieves. The only fresh air he can feel – a wisp of a breeze around his open sandals – comes from the door they entered through.

  He thinks for a while longer. Pesna spun him round and then stepped away. He remembers the slap of leather on tile. No further than three paces. Four at the very most.

  Teucer now has his bearings.

  He tries to recall Tetia's account of her visit. She mentioned a wall filled with vases and opposite it a long oak table laden with the most precious art she had ever seen.

  The netsvis stretches out his right hand and carefully steps to his side.

  Pesna stifles a laugh.

  Teucer's foot brushes the base of a large bucchero vase. His heart jumps.

  He's picked the wrong side.

  'I'll be generous and not count that,' chides Pesna.

  He swallows. Calms himself. Turns one hundred and eighty degrees. He stretches out his other hand and steps to his side. If he's correct, the long table should now be on his right.

  Nothing.

  He takes an extra step.

  Nothing.

  One more.

  He hears stifled laughter and imagines Pesna pressing both hands to his mouth to contain his amusement.

  Teucer's right hip bumps into something.

  Something solid.

  The table.

  Excitement crackles through him.

  He puts his hand down and feels its edge. Holds on. Slides his fingers back until he finds the right-angled end.

  Pesna grows quiet. He wonders if there is some purpose to the seer's blu
nderings.

  Teucer shuffles, crablike, his hand in constant contact with the table.

  He reaches the far end and stops the instant he feels his fingers fall away.

  Twenty paces in length. A fine table.

  He walks it back again.

  Ten paces.

  Stops.

  The middle.

  Teucer tentatively stretches out both hands.

  He knocks a vase on his left.

  'That counts as one,' says Pesna.

  His right hand bumps into something that feels wooden.

  'Two!'

  Teucer swallows again. If he's right, then the tablets are now immediately below his fingers.

  He lowers his palms.

  Nothing.

  Pesna moves closer to him. Hovers behind him. Teucer can feel his heat.

  Backwards or forwards? Up or down? Which way should he guess?

  Teucer moves his hands towards the front of the table.

  Jewellery.

  'Three!'

  He glides his fingers back again.

  Bowls!

  'Four! I hear Larth rattling those hooks.'

  Teucer freezes. He's not thought it out as well as he'd imagined.

  Where would Pesna put his most precious goods? Certainly in the middle of the table. But not at the front where they could fall. At the back would be safest. Maybe even elevated on some wooden plinth, so they would be better displayed for his greedy eyes.

  Teucer plays his hunch. Reaches out.

  His elbow knocks a vase and he hears it tumble.

  Pesna steps forward and stops it rolling off the table. 'Five! You have but one life left.'

  Teucer stretches, his spine cracks, the table presses hard against the front of his legs.

  His hands come down.

  Something cold against his palms.

  Silver. He's sure it is.

  Applause.

  Heavy clapping from Pesna. 'Bravissimo! Well done! I am amazed.'

  He pats Teucer's back.

  But Teucer doesn't feel it.

  His body has gone numb.

  An awful ache runs through his head. A stab of pain like the one that brought him to his knees in the curte.

  For a second he thinks he hears voices. Echoing voices from a black place beyond the world. And now the visions come again. Visions of the demon god and of his own demise.

  And something worse.

  Something indistinct and blurred.

  The child.

  Teucer crashes to the ground, his hands still holding the three Tablets of Atmanta. His mind still holding a terrifying image of his unborn child, the rapist's child. Growing. Changing. Becoming every bit as terrifying as the demon god he'd seen. Becoming the font of all evil.

  CHAPTER 30

  Present Day Fondamente Nuove, Venice Vito Carvalho bums a cigarette from a soldier guarding the crime scene, and reminds himself of the information he'd been given on the phone just before midnight: The corpse has been dismembered. Body parts tied in heavy-duty plastic trash bags – stuffed in large cloth sacks – weighted down with old bricks. Everything dumped in the north side of the lagoon, away from the regular water taxi and vaporetto routes.

  Vito blows out smoke and looks across the black water. Had it not been for the diving teams searching the thick muddy belly of the canal for vital parts of Antonio Pavarotti's motor boat, the dismembered body would never have been found.

  Arc lights spill their horror-film whiteness on to the quayside. He walks past recovery teams and CSIs poring over mounds of stinking silt and slimy weed.

  Through the glare he sees Nuncio di Alberto with a face paler than the moon listening to one of the scuba team. The diver has rolled his wetsuit down to his waist; as he talks, his body is steaming surreally in the cool night air.

  Professore Montesano's voice spills from a white plastic tent. Vito knows who he's talking to long before he pulls back the flap and walks the deck boards forensics have laid to lessen the risk of cross-scene contamination.

  'Ciao,' he says with gentle sarcasm. 'No disrespect, but I'd hoped not to see either of you for a while.'

  Montesano raises a latex-gloved hand as a hello.

  Valentina Morassi can't manage a smile. 'Ciao, Major.' The strain of the day is etched around her raw-looking eyes.

  'You shouldn't be here. We'll talk later,' he says pointedly. Valentina guesses he's worked out that she finally picked up Nuncio's calls and then bullied him into telling her what was going on.

  Carvalho pulls translucent gloves from a box. 'What have we got, Professore?'

  Montesano lifts his shoulders and takes the kind of long, slow breath that means good news is not about to cross his lips. 'We have mush.'

  'Mush? What type of mush?'

  'Male mush. The putrefying mush of a mature male. That's about all I can say for now. We've opened several sacks and there's a wide assortment of body parts. For obvious reasons I don't want to unpack everything here and risk losing evidence.'

  Valentina points at the collection of bags squashed together, seeping water. 'I talked with the head of the underwater team just before he went home. There are more sacks, but he can't have them brought to the surface until around ten in the morning.'

  'Ten? What's he running – a campus coffee shop? How about they start again at first light? Maybe put some urgency into things.'

  Valentina can see he's tensing up. 'They don't need the light, Major. They've been working in the dark down there all day. Apparently it's zero viz in most places – like working blindfold in a water-filled skip. Anything they've recovered has solely been from hand-touch.'

  'I know that!' he snaps, then wishes he hadn't.

  Valentina whips back, 'They can't start any earlier because they've got too few men and too much work.'

  Carvalho feels as though he's going to explode. 'Budget restrictions! Cutbacks! Don't politicians understand that criminals don't slacken off simply because people aren't quite as rich these days. Cazzo!' He turns again to the ME. 'Scusi. Please forgive my outburst, Sylvio. I know you resent these things too. Can you tell me approximately how long this body has been in the water? A rough guess at how old he is? Something – anything – that I can get an investigation rolling on?'

  Montesano knows better than to speak too soon: speculation could throw the whole enquiry off course. But he also knows his friend wouldn't ask if he wasn't under pressure. 'Most of the skin-' he corrects himself: 'most of the skin I have seen so far, has separated from the underlying fat and soft tissue. We're talking advanced decomposition.' He turns towards the stack of sacks. 'Without working out water temperatures and weather conditions over the last few weeks, I can't be more accurate.'

  Carvalho sees his opening: 'Days, weeks or months?'

  'Months. Not years.'

  'Age of victim?'

  'No, Vito! I am sorry. Until I have processed everything that's been recovered, that's all you're getting.'

  The major surrenders. 'Va bene. Molte grazie. Valentina, walk with me outside. Let's leave our good friend to his work. His most unpleasant work.'

  Valentina is wrapped in a red quilted jacket over a grey jumper with jeans and short boots, but she is shivering as she joins him outside.

  'It's not that cold,' says Carvalho. 'You're exhausted and shouldn't even be here. But I suppose you know that.'

  She does her best not to look like a scolded daughter. 'I want to work. When Nuncio told me there was another body near where Antonio's accident had taken place, I had to come. You understand, don't you?'

  Carvalho understands. He feels the same way. Even his turning out at this god-awful hour has achieved nothing that couldn't have waited until later in the morning. 'You want to grab some coffee before you go home? One of my friends has a restaurant nearby and he never finishes up until at least three.'

  She forces a smile. 'Grazie. I'd like that.'

  They have gone only a few paces when a shout from Montesano stops them in their
tracks. The ME stands in the entrance of the tent and calls: 'Vito, there are two – two bodies, not one. I have found another skull.'

  PART THREE

  TWO DAYS LATER

  CHAPTER 31

  Present Day The Morgue, Ospedale San Lazzaro, Venice In a large, heavily guarded room off the main morgue extra refrigeration and air purifiers have been plugged in and the area cleared of all unnecessary equipment.

  Body parts are now unwrapped. Meticulous records drawn up of which part came from which sack and which sack came from which section of the lagoon. Details are computerised but also plotted on maps pinned to the walls.

  Sylvio Montesano and his team are diligently ensuring that body-fluid samples are taken from each separate sack. Similarly, any traces of plankton or other debris are collected, tagged and rushed to the Carabinieri labs for analysis. Internal tissue, especially the scrappy remains of lungs and stomach, will be processed separately. Fingernails – assuming they ever find any – will be scraped for debris. What remains of the victims' clothing has been hung, dried and matched to the bodies before being sent off for analysis. None of Montesano's team is unclear about what his or her tasks are, or how precisely they're expected to perform them. If the professore had a middle name, it would be Precision.

  The dual post-mortem examination is a gruelling job. Herculean efforts are needed to identify the two victims, and then find trace evidence that might link them to the locations where they were killed and the person – or persons – who killed them.

  For anyone other than an ME it would be an unimaginable horror, but for the sixty-two-year-old it's one of the most exciting and challenging moments of his career.