The Ancient Curse

16

LIEUTENANT REGGIANI looked at the little boy, then at Fabrizio and Francesca. ‘What do you know about him?’ he asked.

‘Not much. Nothing, really,’ replied Fabrizio. ‘He has more or less told us that his father is, or was, Jacopo Ghirardini, and that Ambra Reiter is his stepmother and that she beats him. He showed up at my house saying he didn’t want to live at Le Macine any more and that he wants to be an archaeologist when he grows up. I’ve told you the rest.’

‘Let me take a picture and see if we can find out anything more about him. You can never tell. Do you know how many kids disappear each year without leaving a trace?’

He went out to the car to get his digital camera and took a couple of close shots of the sleeping child. ‘Keep him with you for now,’ he said. ‘No one has reported him missing yet. As soon as we’re out of this mess, well worry about getting him settled.’

He swallowed his coffee down in a single gulp and left, racing off in his Alfa. Even before he was on the regional road he was on the radio to headquarters.

‘Lieutenant Reggiani here. Who’s that? Over.’

‘It’s Tornese. What do you need, sir?’

‘Three vehicles and ten men set to move out right away. A search party. Have the warrant ready. Ambra Reiter at Le Macine. Look in the blue folder, top drawer of my desk. Is Bonetti from the archaeological protection team in yet?’

‘He won’t be here for a couple of hours.’

’Get him out of bed now and tell him to bring his gear.’

‘You got it, sir,’ replied the sergeant.

As soon as Reggiani arrived, he took the folder, picked up his men and vehicles and headed to Le Macine at top speed. They stopped about 300 metres from the building and he had the men scatter in a semicircle, hidden by the vegetation, so they would be able to converge on the objective and secure it.

He walked into the tavern alone and shouted, ‘Reiter, Ambra Reiter, this is Lieutenant Reggiani. I have a search warrant!’

No answer. The place seemed deserted. He waved in the archaeological expert, who had just arrived. Bonetti set to work combing the floor of the room with a metal detector. He had no success until he moved behind the bar counter, when the needle surged past the maximum mark and the buzzer began to sound loudly.

‘Under here,’ said Bonetti.

Two of the men joined him and they knelt on the floor and started to scrape between the bricks with trowels until they found the edges of a well-disguised hatch. They used a crowbar to prise the lid up and an entire section of the floor opened up, revealing steps that led underground. Reggiani went down first, with a torch in one hand and his pistol in the other.

There was no one down there, but the place was a treasure trove. Bucchero pottery, a large red-figured Attic crater which was practically intact, an alabaster vase, a cinerary urn of alabaster as well, decorated with images of the deceased reclining on a triclinium, and even a fragment of a fresco with a dancing figure. It had been brutally hacked from its wall using a power saw. It was already partially packaged in Styrofoam and plywood, no doubt to be smuggled off in a truck headed for Switzerland. There were ancient weapons as well. Arrow- and spear-heads, a bronze shield and a couple of helmets, one of the Corinthian type, the other a rare Negau, dragon-shaped buckles with amber beads and others made of yellow granulated gold, a double-cone-shaped cinerary urn of the Villanovan era and metal fragments of a war chariot.

Bonetti, their archaeological expert, was an auxiliary officer who in civilian life was a researcher at Tuscia University. He dutifully jotted down a piece-by-piece description of the objects as Reggiani’s torch illuminated them.

‘Good Lord, Lieutenant, this stuff is worth millions.’

‘I have no doubt about that. But I’m looking for something else here. Have them send me down a spotlight. I need to search this place centimetre by centimetre.’

One of his men connected the spotlight to an extension cord that he plugged in behind the bar, flooding the underground chamber with light. The chamber had been cut into a bank of tufa and had no flooring, although the ground was covered with a layer of yellowish earth; the same earth that Fabrizio had noticed on Ambra Reiter’s shoes. The bright light revealed greenish traces on the ground over a rectangular area measuring about forty by eighty centimetres.

‘Get me a sample of these oxides,’ ordered Reggiani. ‘I want to know what metal was lying there.’

‘Bronze, most probably, sir,’ answered Bonetti. ‘A bronze object of rectangular shape was sitting here for at least a few weeks.’

‘The slab of Volterra,’ mused Reggiani.

Bonetti looked up in surprise. ‘May I ask, sir, what you might be referring to?’

‘To the hypothesis of a colleague of yours, Dr Castellani. Have you ever heard of him?’

‘Fabrizio Castellani? Sure, I read a couple of his articles while I was at school,’ replied Bonetti. ‘He’s a serious scholar and a smart guy.’

‘Exactly my impression,’ said Reggiani. ‘You continue your work down here. I want a description of each and every piece. Write it all up in a detailed report. I want the original on my desk. Prepare a copy for the NAS director as well. But leave everything exactly where you find it for now. Massaro!’

Sergeant Massaro answered, ‘Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I’m here.’

‘You can send the others back as soon as they’re finished here, but I want you to stay behind with three or four of your men. As soon as Ambra Reiter shows up here, arrest her for illegal possession of archaeological materials and inform me immediately. Don’t let her get away. It’s essential that I question her.’

‘You can count on me, sir.’

‘I will. I have other matters to see to. Remember, make no false moves here. Be careful not to give away your presence. Wipe out all traces of the vehicles and this search operation.’

He took a final look at a group of fabulous jewels glittering under the beam of the spotlight, then went back up the stairs and headed back to the city.

FABRIZIO SET the bronze slab on the table and started to clean it carefully with a bristle brush. Where the encrusted earth covering the text was too hardened to be brushed away, he set to work with a scalpel, using extreme caution.

‘What you’re doing is illegal, you know that, right?’ asked Francesca.

‘Of course. Partial restoration of the slab of Volterra with neither the permission nor technical assistance of the NAS. Furthermore, I’m holding an unpublished fragment of the same which has not been duly reported to the authorities. They could even put me in jail for this.’

‘They could certainly put you in jail for this.’

‘But my conduct is fully justified by the emergency conditions we’re operating under and by the fact that the police are aware of the situation and have not made any objection.’

‘Well, your friend Reggiani belongs in jail too.’

‘That’s why we get along.’

‘So, then, why are you preventing him from carrying out his operation? Military action might stop further deaths from happening.’

‘It could provoke a far greater number of deaths. I have no idea what that animal is capable of, and nor do you or anyone else. What’s more—’

His phone rang.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi there, handsome.’

‘Sonia.’

‘I see you still recognize my voice.’

‘Not really. Your name just popped up on the display.’

‘What a wanker you are.’

‘I know you think I’ve been neglecting you . . .’

‘Neglecting me! I could have dropped off the face of this earth and you wouldn’t have noticed!’

‘I deserve a good kick up the arse.’

‘You certainly do! So when are you going to show up to collect it?’

‘Why? Has anything new come up?’

‘I’m done. With the animal, that is. The human bones are an entirely different story. The biggest piece is a few centimetres long.’

‘Sonia, you’re awesome. I can’t believe you’ve finished. So what does it look like?’

‘It’s got me scared shitless. I can’t wait to get out of this hole. If we put it on exhibition, the horror-flick crowd will all show up.’

‘Listen, Sonia, I can’t get over there just now because there’s something big I’m working on here. It shouldn’t take me more that a few hours . . . I hope. Then we’ll do everything the way it should be done.’

‘You’ve seen the papers, haven’t you?’

‘There’s no need. I know what’s in the papers.’

‘What a bastard you are! You told me nothing!’

‘I didn’t want to frighten you. I wanted you to be able to work in peace. And now that you’ve finished, my advice would be to go back home, where you’ll be safe.’

‘And miss out on what’s happening here? I wouldn’t dream of it!’

‘Sonia, please listen. Nothing that’s happening here is good. Exactly the opposite. I mean this as a friend: go home now, fast, while you can. We are all in danger, including you, I’m afraid. You’ve got to believe me, Sonia. I’ll call you a few days from now, we’ll meet up and I’ll tell you everything, all right?’

No answer from Sonia.

‘All right?’ His tone was exasperated. ‘Listen, if you go home like a good girl, I promise to introduce you to Reggiani.’

‘You just want to get rid of me.’

‘No, this time I’m serious. He wants to meet you.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Sonia, for God’s sake, give me a break here. I’m trying to save your life!’

Sonia was silent for a moment as she began to believe he wasn’t joking. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’re right. I do have a lot to do back in Bologna. Goodbye, then.’ She hung up.

Fabrizio didn’t know whether she was offended or angry or both, but it didn’t really matter much for the time being. As long as she took his advice. He then put her out of his mind and got to work. Using the charts he’d drawn up while translating the other parts of the inscription, he began to transcribe the text, one word at a time. After a while, Francesca passed him a cup of coffee and he glanced over at Angelo.

‘He still hasn’t woken up!’ he said.

‘The shock was enormous,’ replied Francesca, ruffling his hair gently. ‘Rest is the best thing for him now.’

The boy turned in his sleep and tossed off his blanket, and Francesca leaned forward to tuck him in again.

‘Wait,’ said Fabrizio. ‘What is that?’

‘What?’

‘Look. That bruise he has on his stomach, on his right side.’

Francesca paused with the blanket in hand as Fabrizio drew closer. ‘I don’t know. His skin looks red, as though he’d scraped it,’ she said.

‘How? It’s right where his liver is. Don’t you find that strange?’

Francesca covered the boy and looked into Fabrizio’s eyes, lit up with a sudden realization.

Fabrizio sat at the computer and called up the image of the lad of Volterra.

‘Do you see this?’ he asked Francesca.

‘This spot? It’s right over his liver, exactly where Angelo has his.’

Francesca shook her head.

‘What are you thinking?’ Fabrizio said.

‘What do you think I’m thinking? Angelo could have got that bruise in all kinds of ways. He’s a kid and kids are always getting hurt. Why? What do you think?’

‘What should I think?’ replied Fabrizio. ‘Here we have an apparently impossible sequence of events building up to a situation that we cannot ignore. The first time I heard the howl was the night the tomb containing the remains of the Phersu was opened, with its jumble of human and animal bones. Now that I’ve translated the inscription, I know that a horrible punishment was inflicted unjustly on a great, valiant Volterran warrior, Turm Kaiknas. At the same time I discover who the slender bronze statue of the boy in the museum portrays: little Velies Kaiknas, the son of Turm and his wife, Anait, the boy who was cruelly murdered together with his mother by their king, Lars Thyrrens.’

‘Wait a minute,’ protested Francesca, feeling as if she was grasping at straws. ‘All that is in your inscription?’

Fabrizio remembered his dream and went on as if Francesca hadn’t opened her mouth: ‘The inscription that speaks of this atrocity was carved by Aule Tarchna, Anait’s brother, diviner and priest of Sethlans, the god of lightning. He curses those responsible for the crime, and those seven curses are inscribed on to the bronze slab . . .’

Francesca’s scepticism crumbled all at once and her eyes filled with the same terror that had gripped her when they were underground.

Fabrizio continued: ‘When I’ve finished my work here, I’m sure well know what fate awaits us.’

HE WORKED on for two more hours, fighting off the deadly fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him. Francesca was dozing in a chair and her regular breathing mixed with that of Angelo, who was still deeply asleep on the couch.

The last barriers to understanding fell one after another, the last knots unravelled and the ancient text unwound – with a very few residual uncertainties and a couple of small gaps – before his eyes:

Aule Tarchna thus inscribes seven curses

over the death of the Phersu

May the beast [escape-leave?] [his] tomb

May the hate and revenge of Turm and the [force] of the beast

sow death among the sons of Velathri

May they die as he lives again

to take [his] revenge

May they scream in terror and [anguish?]

and vomit blood

May they die devoured by the beast

May the beast devour the throat

of [all those] who lied with their throats

[those who falsely accused] an innocent man.

He wiped a handkerchief over his sweaty brow and his head dropped in exhaustion. At that moment he heard a soft sound and he turned. Francesca was standing there in front of him.

‘Have you finished?’ she asked.

‘I still have a couple of lines to go. The nightmare is nearly complete. Have a look.’

Francesca leaned over and read the text that Fabrizio had transcribed on the computer screen.

‘What about the seventh?’ she asked.

‘The part I’ve managed to translate is here,’ said Fabrizio, showing her a notebook page full of arrows and corrections.

‘Can you read it to me?’

Fabrizio read, his voice hoarse:

‘The seventh death will [never] stop

The beast will continue to kill

[as long as] there is blood [to drink] in Velathri.

‘Do you know how many people have been killed? Six. All Volterrans of many generations.’

‘Good God. It feels like I’m living in a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.’

‘Here, take a look at this yourself.’

Francesca’s eyes glazed over with tears.

‘Then this little boy shows up. No one knows who he is or where he comes from. But he says that in that awful place, in the palazzo, is his father.’

‘The man in the painting, Jacopo Ghirardini,’ offered Francesca.

‘If it is him in the picture and if he is Angelo’s father. It seems that no one knows anything about Jacopo Ghirardini. Unless, perhaps, Ambra Reiter, but I can’t see her telling us about it, unless Reggiani manages to convince her somehow—’

As he was speaking, the phone rang. Fabrizio lifted the receiver and mouthed to Francesca, ‘Guess who?’

‘What was that?’ asked Reggiani’s voice at the other end.

‘I said, “Speak of the Devil and he will appear”,’ answered Fabrizio. ‘We were just talking about you.’

‘Saying bad things, I imagine.’

‘Obviously. What’s up?’

‘That little boy you’ve got there—’

Angelo.’

‘If that’s his name. He arrived in Volterra five years ago when he was four, or perhaps a little less, with Reiter, who claimed to be his mother. They say that she was quite a beautiful woman, and that there was something between her and the count . . .’

‘No kidding! What else did you find out?’

‘About the child? Very little. We’re sending out a photo that one of our computer guys has touched up to make his face look five years younger. The program he’s using was developed by headquarters and they say it’s uncannily good. We’ll be sending the image around to all the police and carabiniere stations and to Interpol abroad. Maybe he’ll be recognized.’

‘That seems like an excellent idea,’ said Fabrizio, looking over at the sleeping child. The thought that they might find out who Angelo really was and that he’d have to be given back made him unhappy and uneasy, and he imagined that Francesca felt the same, from the way she was gazing at him.

‘Listen, there’s more, but not over the phone. I’ll come by to get you. I’m already in the car . . . I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Be ready. We don’t have much time.’

He hung up.

‘So what did he say?’ asked Francesca.

‘Angelo arrived in Volterra five years ago, when he was more or less four. So it’s very unlikely that he’s Jacopo Ghirardini’s son. Although there may have been a relationship later between the count and Ambra Reiter. She certainly has the keys to the palace, the boy told us that himself. She’s the one who locked us in, no doubt about it.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Francesca. ‘But then, who is the child’s father?’

‘He knows that his father lives in the palace, but the only image he’s ever seen is the one in the painting. There may be another reality that he can’t even imagine . . .’

‘No, you can’t be thinking what I think you are,’ objected Francesca. ‘That’s pure folly, Fabrizio!’

‘You think so? Then how can you explain that that bloodthirsty monster pulled up short like a puppy dog in front of the boy? You saw it yourself. Didn’t we both think we were staring death in the face just a moment before? And how do you explain a nine-year-old child standing up to a murderous beast? It was as if a supernatural force were watching over him. Any other kid his age would have become hysterical or passed out.’

‘He almost did.’

‘No. In reality, he dominated the situation. He moved as if he knew exactly what to do. He actually ran towards the beast while you and I were paralysed with fear. And the mark that he has on his right side where his liver is, it’s in exactly the same place as the spot that comes out when you X-ray the statue. Francesca, I think I understand. Do you remember the big underground chamber cut in the tufa underneath the Caretti-Riccardi palace?’

‘Where we found Angelo?’

‘Right. It was reworked in medieval times, but it’s still recognizable. It’s a large Etruscan chamber tomb from the fifth century BC. It must have been the Kaiknas necropolis.’

‘You know that’s impossible. The necropolises were always outside the city.’

‘Exactly. What makes you think that the area of the Caretti-Riccardi palace was inside the walls of the Etruscan city? Didn’t we see a section of the walls underground? Anyway, it’s easily checked. I’m sure the survey records will prove me right.’

‘That might be,’ agreed Francesca, very confused now.

‘I’m sure of it. The animal’s den is down there because there’s an Etruscan graveyard down there. The Kaiknas family tomb. Where Turm would have been buried had he died honourably, with his sword in his hand and his shield on his arm. As a warrior instead of as a scoundrel with his head tied in a sack, torn to pieces by a starving beast . . .’

Fabrizio stopped because Francesca’s eyes were staring and flashing a message at him. A warning: be quiet.

Fabrizio turned instinctively and found the boy behind him. On his feet, his eyes wide open and filled with pain and surprise.

‘Angelo, I-I . . .’ he stammered.

Just then, the roar of an engine was heard and the screeching of tyres on gravel. Francesca went to open the door for Reggiani.

‘No time to waste, friends,’ the lieutenant called out, without even crossing the threshold. ‘Are you ready, Fabrizio?’

Fabrizio had a moment of uncertainty. He looked at Angelo and then at Francesca, who gave him a quick nod of reassurance.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I’m ready.’

He took his leather jacket from a hook, gave Francesca a kiss and touched the boy’s cheek, then got into Reggiani’s car, slamming the door hard. It was only a few seconds before the roar of the powerful engine faded into the distance.

Francesca stood at the doorway with Angelo, who was squeezing her hand. She closed the door then and knelt to talk with him.

‘You looked scared before. Fabrizio was telling a story of something that happened a long, long time ago. You needn’t be frightened.’

Angelo did not answer.

‘Are you hungry?’

The boy shook his head.

‘Do you want to go back to bed? Are you still tired?’

Another shake.

‘OK. Then just sit down here for a little while and wait. There’s something I have to do.’

She went to the computer, opened the files with the inscription and the comparison chart and began working on the last two lines of the text. Fabrizio had already put the words in sequence and had hypothesized a grammatical structure. All that remained was to give meaning to the words. There had been no time to analyse the shadows of the opisthographic Latin text on the back of the slab. They could only work on the basis of the part that had already been translated, so Francesca hoped she wouldn’t run into any words that had not already appeared.

Angelo sat in front of her with his hands on his knees, without moving, for the entire time she was working on the inscription. It was late afternoon when Francesca had managed to decipher enough terms to understand the general meaning of the last part of the text. She picked up where Fabrizio had ended:

The beast will continue to kill

[as long as] there is blood [to drink] in Velathri

[Only] if the beast is separated from the man

will vengeance be served [be placated]

[Only] if the son is [returned] to the father.

Francesca turned to the child with her eyes full of tears, while somewhere in the distance, at that same moment, rose the howl of the chimera. Angelo jumped a little and turned in the direction of that long beastly lament, then looked back at Francesca.

‘We have to go,’ she said. ‘There’s not a minute to lose.’

She scribbled a message on a sheet of paper, left a bunch of keys on top, took the child by the hand and left the house, closing the door behind her.