The Ancient Curse

3

THE RESTAURANT was inside a farmhouse that had been converted into a bed and breakfast along one of the country lanes that branched off from the regional road to Pisa. The fare was rustic and very tasty, promised Francesca: local crostini, ribollita soup, salami made with wild boar and a mean Fiorentina T-bone on request.

As they were turning off the asphalt road, Francesca and Fabrizio were surprised by an Alfa Romeo carabiniere squad car darting by at top speed, its siren screaming.

‘Did you see that!’ said Fabrizio. ‘What is going on here? I thought I was going to end up in some sleepy little backwoods town . . .’

Francesca parked her Suzuki under an oak tree, then walked with Fabrizio into the restaurant and chose a table before answering, ‘Yeah, well, this place usually is a little dead. But now we’ve got a corpse to show for it. And maybe it won’t be the last . . .’

‘Let’s sit down and have them bring us some wine.’

‘Poor guy. Everyone knew him. Ronchetti, I mean. Here everyone knows who the tomb robbers are. Sometimes they’ve been at it for generations. Some of them get so caught up in what they’re doing that they even go back to school to brush up on their history!’

Fabrizio seemed amused and Francesca continued: ‘In general, they think of themselves as being better at their jobs and more efficient than we are at the NAS. From a certain point of view, they’re right. Since they’re not bound by scientific methods, they can get straight to work and dig out everything they need in a couple of minutes. Seriously, they are far superior to us in one thing: how well they know the territory. They’re familiar with every centimetre of the land. They leave no stone unturned, literally. Some of them even believe they’re the reincarnation of someone from Etruscan times. But I’m sure you’ve heard all this before . . .’

‘No, not at all. You know, I’ve only worked at a university. Our excavations are always organized well ahead of time and are usually uneventful. You NAS people are always on the front lines. I imagine that your work must occasionally even be risky.’

‘Well, it can be, although it looks like this time our rivals were the ones who met up with something really terrifying. Let’s not talk about that now, though. Tell me how you’re getting on with the Rovaio tomb.’

‘There’s not much to say. You saw yourself that I’ve cleared the facade. But I found nothing in the sedimentary layer. Just earth. And nothing at the ground level either.’

‘Either they were cleanliness fanatics or no one ever came by . . .’

‘That’s what has me wondering. You know, cemetery sites always show signs of being well visited. Flattened areas where people have beaten a track, little objects that people lose over time and that get crushed beneath their feet. I saw absolutely none of that there. I’m sure about the layer. I got to the base of the monument, so there’s no doubt about that. So how could that be?’

The waiter brought the wine and a plate of salami. Francesca put a slice into her mouth, savouring the strong flavour of the boar meat.

‘It’s too soon to say,’ she said, ‘but you’re right. The path leading to a tomb is always well worn, and that’s noticeable. That’s where you tend to find things. So these people never had a living soul come by with an offering or a prayer, as we’d say today. Did you see any marks on the stone?’

‘The only marking seems to be the sphere of the new moon.’

‘The dark moon, then.’

‘So something’s not right, you’re saying.’

‘Listen, it’s no use guessing. Tomorrow you’ll open the tomb and you’ll see what you find. I’m really sorry I won’t be able to be there. At least, not before noon.’

‘Do you want me to wait? I can finish the site survey, clean up a little . . .’

‘No, it’s already clean enough as it is. No, you go on with your work. You must be eager to get back to your research at the museum.’

Fabrizio tried to shift the discussion around to more personal things, but Francesca was politely defensive and kept her distance, deftly steering him back to neutral topics. He felt discouraged and lonely, not seeing the point in continuing with such superficialities.

‘I was really scared last night,’ he said suddenly.

‘That’s right, you said you’d heard something.’

‘A scream or a howl. I really can’t describe it. It was atrocious. It didn’t sound human, that’s for sure. And it made my hair stand on end.’

‘And you think it’s connected to whatever killed Ronchetti.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I stopped at the place where it happened before coming to meet you. There’s not a sign on the ground. The bushes all around are untouched. If it had been an animal, I think you’d see something. You know – broken branches, clawed-up earth . . .’

‘Well, then?’

‘I have my suspicions.’

‘I’d like to hear about them. Maybe it would make me sleep easier tonight, in that isolated farmhouse! More wine?’

Francesca nodded. ‘There’ve been Sardinian shepherds around, from the Barbargia region. Tough characters.’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard about them.’

‘Let’s say that Ronchetti had set up shop with one of them and that the deal was that they would act as look-out for him—’

‘In case of a Finanza raid?’

‘Could be. You know how shepherds go everywhere. They’d be able to let him know if there was anyone coming . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, let’s say that Ronchetti tried to cheat one of them. Refused to share the booty, or simply didn’t inform him about this last find. So this guy kills Ronchetti, strangles him, then carries the body somewhere else and lets one of his dogs loose on it – they’re very ferocious, you know. The dog mangles the body and destroys any sign of the strangling.’

‘And that sound I heard last night?’

‘I’m not sure . . . Why didn’t anyone else hear it?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘This is a small town. People here get upset over the sound of a leaf falling, let alone some horrible howling in the middle of the night. The next morning everyone would be talking about it.’

‘So I dreamed it, then?’

‘I’m not saying that. But sounds . . . sensations . . . are magnified at night. Even the howling of a stray dog, when everything else is perfectly silent.’

‘That may be, but I have a shotgun and I’m going to keep it loaded.’

‘Do you hunt?’ asked Francesca.

‘I like hunting hares sometimes. Why, are you against killing animals?’

‘I just ate a big steak, didn’t I?’ she said with a touch of feline satisfaction.

Fabrizio fell silent for a little while without looking at her, then continued: ‘What about this mysterious project that’s keeping Balestra glued to his desk here, so far away from Florence?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. I would just risk saying something stupid, because I don’t have any first-hand information myself. Just what I’ve heard in the hallways.’

Fabrizio nodded, as if to say, ‘I won’t insist.’

Francesca ordered coffee. ‘How do you like it at the Semprini farm? It’s nice and big, isn’t it?’

‘Too big,’ replied Fabrizio. ‘It’s one of those traditional family homes, at least six bedrooms. Wasted on a single guy living alone.’

‘Doesn’t your girlfriend ever come down to visit?’

Fabrizio was surprised at her personal question, after she’d skirted all of his. She evidently didn’t like talking about herself but didn’t mind poking into the lives of others.

‘No, since I don’t have a girlfriend. She left me a few months ago. A question of class, you might say. As in my class not measuring up to her economic expectations. Not husband material, I guess.’

‘She sounds nasty,’ commented Francesca.

Fabrizio shrugged and said in a firm tone of voice, ‘Happens. I’ll survive.’

He insisted on paying the bill and Francesca thanked him with a smile. At least she wasn’t a diehard feminist; who knows, maybe she even wore pretty underwear under those jeans of hers.

They left the restaurant around eleven and got into the car, continuing to chat until Francesca pulled up at the museum entrance, where Fabrizio had parked his Punto.

She didn’t seem to expect a peck on the cheek, so Fabrizio didn’t try, saying only, ‘Goodnight, Francesca. I had a nice time. Thanks for the company.’

She brushed his cheek with her hand. ‘You’re a good guy. You deserve to go places. I had a nice evening too. Ill see you tomorrow.’

Fabrizio nodded, then got into his car and headed towards the farmhouse. Fortunately, he’d left the front porch light on.

AT THAT same moment Lieutenant Reggiani was entering the forensics lab at Colle Val d’Elsa. Dr La Bella, a stocky man of about sixty, came to meet him, still wearing a bloody apron.

‘I got here as soon as I could,’ said Reggiani. ‘Well, then?’

‘Come,’ replied the doctor, and motioned for the officer to follow him first into the locker room and then into his office. The smell of dead bodies saturated the place, overwhelming even the stink of the cigarette butts piled up in a couple of ashtrays on the desk. La Bella lit up a non-filter Nazionale Esportazione, a cigarette that was practically unfindable. A serious professional. Reggiani was impressed.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it and I’ve been in this line of work for thirty-five years now,’ he began. ‘When I put the scalpel into the wound it went in this deep,’ he continued, his fingers indicating a length of six or seven centimetres on a convenient pen. ‘No dog that I know of has fangs this long. The entire solar plexus was disarticulated, the upper ribs were torn from his sternum, the collar bone was snapped in two. Almost nothing remains of his trachea. I don’t even know if a lion or a tiger could do this kind of damage.’

Reggiani looked straight into his eyes and spoke slowly. ‘There are no lions in the area, or panthers, or leopards. I’ve had half of the province inspected. I’ve alerted all our stations, the police, the traffic authorities, even the fire department. There are no circuses or Gypsy camps, no reports of private residences keeping exotic animals. I’ve gone down the list of animal food stores, butchers’ shops, slaughterhouses to check if anyone’s been buying suspicious quantities of meat. And I’ve turned up nothing.’

La Bella lit another cigarette with the stub of the first, making the air in the little room unbreathable.

‘I know I’m not wrong,’ he insisted. ‘Find the animal that did this, Lieutenant, or I’ll soon be slicing into someone else here on my table.’

‘What about the time of death?’

‘There’s no doubt about that: between two and three o’clock last night.’

‘Aren’t there any other tests that could be done – I don’t know, the DNA of the animal’s saliva – so at least we know what we’re looking for?’

La Bella put out the second cigarette and burst into a hacking cough that seemed to suffocate him while it lasted. When he could breathe again, he said, ‘You must have seen that in some American movie, Lieutenant. Before the file is closed, there won’t be anything but the bones left on this one. The kinds of tests you’re talking about cost a lot of money. They’re only done if there’s been a sexual assault, rape. This is just a poor tomb robber who no one could care less about.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Reggiani. ‘Have you already written a report?’

La Bella opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. ‘Here you are, Lieutenant.’

Reggiani thanked him, shook his hand and said goodbye. As he was leaving he turned, gripping the door handle. ‘You must have some idea, right?’

‘I do,’ replied La Bella. ‘If I had to picture it, I’d say an animal weighing at least a hundred, a hundred and twenty kilos, with powerful claws and fangs six or seven centimetres long, jaws strong enough to break a bull’s backbone. So . . . a female lion, for example, or a panther. Oh, by the way, I had the crime lab check for hairs, but they found nothing. Isn’t that incredible? Not a single hair. What about you? Did you sweep the site?’

Reggiani shook his head in commiseration. ‘That’s the first thing I did. The ground was inspected over an area of four or five metres all around the spot where Ronchetti’s corpse was found and what we came up with was turned over to the lab.’

‘Well, then?’

‘Human hairs: Ronchetti’s. No trace of anything else, not even cat hair.’

La Bella got up to accompany him out. ‘I don’t know what else to say, my dear Lieutenant. If it’s so important to you, I can see about a DNA analysis.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘But I’m not promising anything.’

‘Naturally.’

Soon his Alfa Romeo pulled out, tyres squealing, and took off in the direction of Volterra. Once he was back in his office, Reggiani picked up the phone and dialled a mobile number.

‘Sergeant Massaro,’ replied the voice on the other end.

‘This is Lieutenant Reggiani. How are things going there?’

‘Nothing’s happened, sir. In half an hour the replacements should show up, for us and the Finanza agents.’

‘All right, but don’t let your guard down. Don’t play cards, don’t read comics, don’t sleep in the squad car. Keep your eyes open and each other’s arses covered, because you’re in danger. Get that? Your lives are in danger. Is that clear?’

There was a momentary pause on the other end, then the voice answered, ‘Perfectly clear, sir. We’ll be careful.’

Reggiani looked at his watch: one a.m. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket, leaned back into his chair and sighed. It felt like the night would never end.

FABRIZIO left the house at seven and drove directly to the excavation site, where the carabiniere on guard greeted him.

‘How’d it go last night?’ asked Fabrizio.

‘Fine. We didn’t see a soul.’

‘Thank God. If you like, you can go.’

‘No, the lieutenant says it’s best for one of us to stick around. You never know. Another agent’s coming to relieve me in an hour’s time and I’m hoping he brings coffee.’

‘I have coffee for you,’ said Fabrizio, unscrewing the cap of a Thermos he took from his backpack. ‘I’m never awake before I’ve had three cups, so I always carry extra with me. I see the workers haven’t shown up yet.’

He sat on a block of smooth tufa, while the carabiniere remained on his feet with his left hand resting on the trigger of his sub-machine gun as they sipped their coffee in the cool morning air. A lovely October morning, with the leaves just turning colour and the hawthorn and dog-rose berries taking on red and orange hues.

The pickup with the workers and the gear arrived and Fabrizio walked over to the driver.

‘I think the door is resting on its hinges, stone on stone. We’ll have to clear away at least five centimetres under the wings, then clean the hinges by hosing them down with water and hope the door will open by pushing it back.’

The workers set about the task, using their pickaxes first to prise off the latch that crossed the two wings and then their mattocks to clear away the soil underneath the door. When they had worked their way down to a thin layer of earth, Fabrizio took over, using his trowel to scrape away the last centimetres, a little at a time, until the edge slipped inside.

The air flowing out brought no particular smell to his nostrils, apart from the odour of damp earth. The unmistakable whiff of millennia, so familiar to an archaeologist’s nose, had been lost when the tomb robbers broke in. When the soil underneath the door had all been cleared away, he used the nozzle of a small compressor connected to a generator and freed the hinges of encrusted dirt with a pressure wash. The time had come to open the doors.

He got to his feet and motioned for the workers to join him. One on the right and the other on the left, with him in the centre, pushing at the meeting point of the two door panels. They began applying steady, uniform pressure under Fabrizio’s direction.

‘Slowly, slowly, here we go. There’s no rush. Just a bit more now . . .’

The two door panels finally separated from each other with a slight grinding of fine sand, letting the first beam of light into the tomb after 2,500 years. The scowl of Charun – the demon who accompanied the dead to the other world – greeted him. A fresco of good quality, the work of an artist from Tarquinia, Fabrizio thought at first glance. He had the men push the wings open further, enough to allow him to enter with ease. He turned around before he went in, remembering Francesca’s words and hoping that she’d be there to share this emotional moment with him. No one.

It was twelve o’clock exactly when he entered under the sign of the new moon and stepped across the threshold of the ancient tomb. He waited to allow his vision to adjust to the shadowy light and to the contrast between the sliver of wall illuminated by the bright sun and the gloom all around.

It was on his left that he first distinguished the body of a reclining woman sculpted softly into a block of alabaster. The statue represented a person at the height of her beauty, at an age which wasn’t definable, maybe thirty or so. She was resting on her right elbow so that she faced the other sarcophagus on the opposite wall. The contrast was striking: the second coffin was a bare, roughly carved block of sandstone, without the slightest embellishment of any sort.

The female figure was wearing her jewellery: a necklace, a bracelet, rings and earrings, and her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck with a ribbon. Her facial expression, in the pale flesh tones of the alabaster, was extraordinarily sweet, but a further glance revealed an intense, pained pride.

Fabrizio couldn’t get over the strangeness of the situation. He walked up to the first sarcophagus and ran his hand lightly along its edge. What he discovered in doing so was even more mystifying: it was sculpted in a single block of stone, almost certainly solid, which meant that there was no one buried inside. A cenotaph: a symbolic tomb. This was rare, for Etruscan times; in fact, it was possibly the only one of its kind. Fabrizio had never seen, or read about, anything like it. He carefully inspected the sides and the back but could find no sign of a separation between the coffin and its cover. What was also very unusual was the absence of a name or marking of any kind.

He turned towards the second sarcophagus and was struck by how the floor around it was scored by deep, irregular gouges, as if iron claws had scratched away at that smooth finish. His mind was flooded with fangs and claws, with that ferocious howl ripping through the night.

Fabrizio forced himself to start taking measurements and to draw the layout of the tomb with the various objects it contained. But his eyes kept going back to that rough sarcophagus towering there in front of him and he dreaded the moment of coming to terms with what was inside.

He came out at one o’clock to have a sandwich and get a breath of fresh air. He lingered in the hopes that Francesca would turn up. He wanted her to be there when he opened the coffin. The carabinieri had a little camp stove for making coffee and Fabrizio joined them in a cup before going back in.

The workers had already been to fetch the necessary equipment. They placed one wooden horse in front of and one behind the sarcophagus, set a beam across them and hung an electric winch connected to a power generator from the beam. The cable hanging from the winch ended with a ring, on to which four more cables were attached. Each of these ended in a specially shaped aluminium bracket, which was applied to one of the four corners of the lid.

Fabrizio made sure there were no cracks in the stone and then, at exactly three fifteen, threw the switch that powered the winch at its slowest speed. The four steel cables pulled straight at the same moment and slowly lifted off the lid without making the slightest noise.

At first the inside of the big coffin was so dark that Fabrizio couldn’t make out what it contained. But this time he got a good whiff of the scent of millennia: the smell of must and mould, of damp stone and dust. An indefinable odour whose diverse components had had all the time they needed to decompose and recombine a thousand times with the passage of the seasons, of the centuries. The work of ages, of heat and cold, and above all of silence.

He switched on his torch and shone it inside. The contents emerged all at once from the dark, freezing the blood in his veins and cutting his breath short. He had expected to find an urn with the ashes of the deceased, along with all the usual objects that accompanied the funeral rites. What met his eyes instead was a scene of horror, covered only by the thin veil of dust that had fallen from the inside of the sandstone lid over the centuries.

He saw a tangle of human and animal bones, all jumbled up and practically fused together by a fury and ferocity beyond any limit. Enormous clawed paws, a disarticulated jaw with monstrous fangs still attached, and a human body that was barely recognizable. Shattered bones, mangled limbs, a crushed skull whose top dental arch yawned wide in a scream of pain that could no longer be heard but was still present, desperate, immortal. Both the coffin walls and the inner lid were scored with the deep abrasions that Fabrizio had seen on the ground outside.

There was no doubt about what had happened here. A human being had been buried together with a wild animal that had torn the body apart and then tried to writhe and claw its way out of that narrow stone prison before dying of suffocation. Fragments of coarse cloth were still sticking here and there to what was left of the man’s head, and this detail left no doubt in Fabrizio’ mind as to the horrifying ritual that had brought about this person’ death.

He pulled back from the coffin, his face pale and beaded with cold sweat, murmuring, ‘Oh, Christ my God. A . . . a Phersu . . . ’