The Venice Conspiracy (18 page)

Maria has multiple sclerosis. It mugged her on a Wednesday morning eleven
years ago, when her physician gave her the life-changing explanation for her tremors, balance problems and blurred vision.

Maria’s illness is the reason her husband quit his job in Milan.

As a high-flying homicide detective he’d just been offered promotion but opted instead for a sideways move to the backwaters of Venice. He never told Maria what he’d turned down. He said there were cutbacks, reshuffles in the unit, and he was out of favour. A move would be good for him. A clean start.

Work and Maria are the two most important things in Vito’s life, but not in that order. And not for one second has he regretted his decision to leave Milan.

But tonight, he’s feeling rusty. Slow.

A murdered fifteen-year-old.

A killer on the loose.

These things were bad enough.

But a dead colleague. One whom he’d mentored, thought of like a son. Well, this is too much to cope with.

He flaps down a cupboard door in a cheap teak wall unit and grabs a bottle of brandy and a tumbler. These are his two friends for the evening. They know him of old.

He takes a long slug of a ’76 Vecchio. Lets it set fire to his mouth. Feels it roll like lava into the pit of his stomach.

The apartment is small. The living room almost silent. Sadness seems to amplify every sound. A clock on the fireplace clunks. Maria’s tiny movements upstairs in bed make the floorboards creak and groan. Even his own swallows of brandy sound like drains emptying.

Vito puts the glass down and stares at the ceiling. He tries not to recall the faces of Antonio’s parents as he broke the news. Tries not to remember how Valentina struggled to be brave in front of him.

Gradually the brandy sinks in and he starts to unwind. There’s a chance he would have fallen into a comfortable sleep at the table, had his cellphone not rung.

The major grabs it quickly so it doesn’t wake Maria.
‘Pronto.’

The caller is Nuncio di Alberto. A young officer working the night shift in the murder incident room. Vito listens carefully. The news instantly sobers him up.

Things are going from bad to worse.

‘You’re sure of it? There’s no mistake?’

Nuncio says he’s as sure as he can be. ‘I tried Lieutenant Morassi, sir, but she’s not picking up on her cellphone.’

‘Don’t bother her again. She can pick
things up in the morning.’ He glances at the clock. Midnight. His day should be finished, not just beginning.

666
BC

The House of Pesna, Atmanta

The giant map that Pesna studies on the floor of his private office is made of linen, not papyrus. The magistrate, like many Etruscans, likes to make his mark in a manner noticeably different to that of the Greeks.
Their
texts are on scrolls and are stored rolled, while Pesna and other nobles across Etruria prefer to use linen and fold the finished works. The Etruscan alphabet, written back to front, is already different from its Greek counterpart, and Pesna has no doubts that by the end of his life there will not be a Greek alive who will be able to read it.

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 blunderings.

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.

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
.