The Venice Conspiracy (16 page)

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.

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 polit ician 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.

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 silver 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.’

He feels hurt. He’s waited for what seems an eternity and now dreads that she’ll be cross with him. ‘As you wish.’

A thought strikes her. ‘How did you know it was me coming in?’

He laughs lightly. ‘I recognise your sounds now. Your steps are short but your breathing long. My father’s feet make thunder – and he groans because of his knees.’

Tetia laughs. For a moment things are as they were: two lovers amused by things that only they understand.

‘And my mother, she shuffles quickly like a small dog trying to bite its tail. As for old Larthuza – you cannot hear his feet because he mumbles constantly like a mountain stream.’

She finds the jug. ‘So, even in the darkness you are learning a new way to see.’

‘More than you might imagine. Come lie with me.’

‘I’m just getting water. Would you like some?’

‘No, I am fine.’ He listens to the glug of the jug as his wife takes several thirsty swallows.

Tetia’s lips are still cold and wet when she tiptoes lightly across the room to kiss his cheek. The gentle shock makes him smile, and for a
moment that makes her happy too. ‘I’m sorry I was so long. Really I am. How are you feeling?’

He puts his hand up to touch her hair. ‘The pain has all but gone, yet still I am afraid. Later this morning Pesna will come and my bandages will be removed. What if I am for ever blind?’