The Rome Prophecy

38

By the time Tom has been interviewed and he and Valentina return to her apartment, it’s already gone six a.m.

Going to bed seems pointless.

Valentina showers and changes for work.

Tom cooks scrambled eggs and brews coffee.

An old paint-splattered radio on the windowsill plays Europop into the brown ears of a dead plant.

The winter sun slowly warms up a spot at the breakfast bar where they both wearily settle and eat, hunched opposite each other.

Valentina is famished. ‘Mmm, good egg!’ she manages between her second and third forkful.

Tom laughs. ‘Me or the scrambled?’

‘ Scusi? ’

‘It’s a joke. There’s an American – or maybe British – expression, in which you call someone a good egg if they’re a really nice person.’

‘Sorry. I think I may have left my sense of humour down by the Tiber.’ She reaches across and touches his hand, ‘Then you too are a good egg.’

‘Grazie.’

Tom suspects she left more than just humour down there. A cop friend once told him that every murder scene stole a piece of his spirit.

He briefly takes her free hand and squeezes it. ‘You okay?’

She smiles at him, ‘It’s a long time since anyone asked. I’m fine. You?’

He nods. ‘Did I hear someone say that the place that poor guy’s body was found is the exact spot where Romulus and Remus were supposedly found by the she-wolf?’

‘That’s what Federico said.’ She places her fork on her clean plate and gives him a satisfied look. ‘ Very good egg.’ She grows thoughtful. ‘Why? What are you thinking?’

‘That island – Isola Tiberina – what was so special about it? I mean, I know the bridge is very old, and there’s the legend of Romulus and Remus on the banks, but what about the island itself?’

He rises from his seat, still chewing. ‘Mind if I use your laptop?’

‘At this time? Shouldn’t you be off to bed, try to get some sleep?’

Tom laughs at the idea. ‘I’m so wound up, I may never sleep again.’

He flips up the screen of her Vaio, clicks it off standby and Googles Tiber Island.

While he’s searching, Valentina clatters away in the small kitchen area, collecting dishes and running a bowl of hot soapy water to leave them in. With any luck, Tom will wash and dry them later.

‘Okay. This is interesting, come and see.’

She pads over and can’t resist wiping soap bubbles off her hands across the back of his broad neck.

‘Hey!’

She rubs them off, kisses the wet patch and drapes her arms over his shoulders.

‘It’s the only island in the Tiber River,’ says Tom, reading from the on-screen text. ‘Linked – as we know – by the Fabricio Bridge, which joins it to the Field of Mars, and also by the Ponte Cestio.’ He jabs the monitor. ‘Now look here, another legend.’

‘Don’t get so excited; there is a legend in every corner of Rome.’

‘You may be right. This one concerns one of the last Etruscan kings. He was overthrown and his body dumped in the Tiber, a final act normally reserved only for lowlife sinners. Folklore has it that Tiber Island was created from a mound of silt and driftwood that formed over the body of the tyrant king.’

‘Nice.’ Valentina can’t resist a sick pun. ‘At least even after death he had his own form of king-dam.’

Tom might have laughed had he not been reading on. ‘Listen. For centuries the island was a dumping ground for the worst of criminals and the contagiously ill. Then when Rome was hit by a plague, some sibyl – which I think is a Latin adaptation of the Greek word sibylla , meaning prophetess – recommended that a temple was built there to Asclepius in order to stop the diseases spreading.’

‘Who?’

‘Asclepius, Greek god of medicine and healing.’

Valentina is impressed. ‘You knew that?’

‘I did. You remember the other night you said sex was the panacea for all ills?’

She blushes a little.

‘Well, Panacea was Asclepius’s daughter. While her name is used – and abused – much more in modern life, it was her father who dominated Roman and Greek times. The Rod of Asclepius is still a powerful astrological symbol and is the thirteenth sign of the sidereal Zodiac.’

‘What’s so special about it?’

‘It’s a staff entwined with a serpent.’

‘Oh God,’ she exclaims with high melodrama, ‘not more snakes and devils.’

‘It’s not what you think. Not Satanic. Asclepius was a brilliant physician, so brilliant that he reputedly brought people back from the dead. You’ll find his symbol is still used in America by the Medical Association, the Academy of Psychiatry and Law and the US Air Force Medical Corps.’ Tom suddenly thinks of more organisations, ‘In fact, the British Royal Army Medical Corps also use it, as do the Canadian Medical Association and even the World Health Organisation.’

‘Okay, I surrender under the weight of all those mighty medical bodies. But what’s your point? What’s the significance of the serpent and the staff in relation to our case?’

‘I’m not sure I can give you a perfect answer. But consider this: Asclepius left the legacy of a powerful cult that has influenced the most important medical minds in the world. The serpent and the staff are symbolic references to the oxymoronic fact that medicine is built on using drugs that in small doses heal but in big doses kill. In short,’ adds Tom, ‘in the modern world, doctors play god. They’re the ones with the everyday powers of life and death.’