The Rome Prophecy

1

The Carabinieri’s newest captain slips out of her crisply pressed uniform and into the shower in her cramped low-rent apartment.

The Vanity Fair photo shoot went well —‘warm but not too hot’ was how the male photographer mischievously described the shots. One in her captain’s uniform. One on the rifle range, shooting in a flak jacket, and her favourite, one in a short sparkling silver cocktail dress that fitted so well they let her keep it.

The force press office is happy, the magazine is happy and even Valentina Morassi is happy.

The perfect end to a perfect first week in her new job.

The twenty-nine-year-old tilts her newly promoted head at the steaming jet. Her long dark hair feels like wire wool as she shampoos away the spray they insisted on using, ‘to hold its shape and give it depth’. She also hates the make-up they made her wear. They trowelled it on. Though admittedly, in the shots it looked good.

She looked good.

It makes her smile to think that. Until recently it was hard for Valentina to see anything positive about herself or her life. The death of her cousin Antonio in Venice all but broke her. They both came from a big extended family, the kind that always holidayed together and shared weekly Sunday lunches. The type of family that was together so much you could barely work out which kid belonged to which parent. They went to the same schools. Attended the same parties. Even opted for the same profession. Antonio was a lieutenant, working undercover on a drugs job when he was killed.

Valentina couldn’t believe it.

She tried to carry on working. Managed to see out the murder case she was on, and then her life collapsed. She fell into a huge depression, and had she not passed her exams and moved to Rome, she’s sure she’d still be trying to wriggle free from the teeth of the proverbial black dog.

Valentina turns off the shower, steps out on to a frayed mat, snuggles into a thick white towelling robe and shakes her hair like a sheepdog. Her mother used to scold her for it. Antonio used to laugh like a drain when she did it after they’d been swimming.

She still thinks of him.

Often.

But it doesn’t hurt as much any more.

She towels her hair dry and sits on the edge of a saggy bed. The walls of the boxy room are a faded white, the filthy window only a little larger than a convict gets. This is not a place where her soul will grow, but it will do for now. At the end of the month she will search for somewhere more colourful — more her. An old Disney clock by the side of the small single bed clunks. It’s pillar-box red, has black Mickey Mouse ears and has woken her since she was four.

Mickey’s hands tell her it’s exactly eleven p.m.

Her thoughts turn to tomorrow and the man with whom she’ll be having dinner.

An unusual man.

Most unusual.

She met him — and last saw him — in the strangest and most dangerous of circumstances. Had things been different — and had another woman not been part of his life — there might well have been something romantic between them. Despite all of these ifs and buts, he’s still probably the one guy she trusts more than any other.

Valentina’s cell phone rings and almost gives her a heart attack.

The number on the display is that of her new boss, Major Armando Caesario. She expertly pitches her ‘Pronto’ somewhere between friendly and coolly professional.

‘Sorry to disturb you so late on a Friday night,’ he says, not sounding sorry at all. ‘Control has just had a case called in that I’d like you to supervise.’ He pauses, covers the mouthpiece and says something as an aside. ‘It’s a potential homicide, with … how shall we put it … an unusual twist. Lieutenant Assante will give you a hand; he’s already at the barracks.’

Valentina thinks she hears muffled laughter in the background. She doesn’t yet know her new boss well enough to be sure that someone isn’t imitating him and playing a prank on her. ‘Sir, forgive me, but is this some kind of joke?’

Caesario clears his throat. ‘No, no, not at all. Please forgive us. I’m here with the colonel and he has something of a dark sense of humour. If you call Assante, he’ll give you the full details and then you’ll understand. Good night.’

Valentina thinks the call’s genuine. She could all but smell the cigar smoke in the officers’ club as they swilled brandies in big glasses. She was hoping for an early night. Maybe a glass of red wine before a good long sleep.

She knows she’s not going to get either. She calls Homicide and holds the receiver between ear and shoulder while pulling her uniform back on. As soon as the details come out, she understands the black humour, and why the case has been batted her way.

The new girl is being taught a lesson.

She’s being given a heads-up by those who think her promotion is purely political, a token gesture of equality.

She’s heard it all before.

Morassi must have slept her way to the top. Screwed the examiner in charge of promotions. Blown the boss to get the easy cases. And those are just the things female officers say. Those of course who haven’t made the rank she has. Granted, twenty-nine is unspeakably young for anyone to make captain, but she deserves it. Her last case had made her, and the man she’s going to have dinner with tomorrow, the talk of Italy.

Valentina shuts the front door and heads for her three-year-old white Fiat Punto. It doesn’t go nearly as fast as she’d like, but in the Eternal City, where parking is an eternal problem, the tiny Fiat is king.

By the time she’s in fourth and has finished cursing its sluggishness, her mind is back on the new case she’s just been given.

It’s certainly a strange one.

A cleaner at the Chiesa Santa Maria in Cosmedin has discovered a highly unwelcome gift in the portico. The severed hand of a woman.

2

Tom Shaman is staring at the clear wintry night sky, playing join the dots. He wonders whether he’s spotted the Great Bear or the Little Bear. From what little he can remember of childhood astronomy, on a night as clear as this you should be able to see more than two thousand stars. Given his unique viewpoint, it might just be possible.

Tom is at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

He’s on a wind-blown workers’ platform, way above the Michelin-starred Jules Verne restaurant. The man who brought him here is Jean-Paul Marty, his best friend in France and the head of one of the many construction companies employed to do near-constant maintenance on the giant structure. Tom and JP have completely different lives but share the same basement gym and passion for boxing. They’ve even sparred together. A mistake the Frenchman won’t make again. The thirty-three-year-old American is as big as an oak and throws a punch that could derail a freight train.

JP puts his hands on the cold steel of the workers’ cradle and stares proudly out over the city of his birth. ‘I cannot believe that you spend a year in Paris and have never seen the magic of the City of Light from the Tower.’

‘C’est la vie.’ Tom sits on the rough boards and dangles his legs over the edge. He enjoys the childish thrill of knowing there’s more than three hundred metres of air between him and the ground. ‘I guess that’s what happens when you spend half your time working as a grunt at Eurodisney and a dishwasher at Robuchon.’

JP laughs. ‘The restaurant I know about, but you were one of Mickey’s mouses? This you keep a secret.’

‘No, not at all. I was proud to be a mouse. It was how I learned my Mickey Mouse French. It was how I kept alive for the first six months.’ He ticks points off on his fingers. ‘First a garbage guy, sweeping Main Street, morning, noon and night. Then acting. I was Disney’s best-ever Goofy and I didn’t have to speak, so that was kind of perfect too. Then I worked both Planet Hollywood and the Rainforest Café as a kitchen porter.’

‘All of France is grateful for your cultured contribution to our society; we will miss you so much. And Robuchon?’

‘When I was moused-out, I blagged a cleaning job at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon and lived on the best leftovers in the world. Not much got tossed, I can tell you.’ Tom looks up at the final shining zenith of the tower. ‘Thanks for fixing this; it’s a good way to go out.’

JP runs a finger down the steelwork. ‘You are welcome, mon ami. It is my pleasure to show you around, but don’t tell anyone.’

‘I won’t.’

The Frenchman turns his back to the wind and tries to light a cigarette. ‘I’d get you to swear to that on the Bible, but I’m not sure such an oath counts if it comes from an ex-priest.’

‘It counts.’ Tom points off into the darkness and the wind flaps the sleeve of his black cotton jacket. ‘What’s that?’

His friend glances, unlit cigarette still in mouth. ‘The Champ de Mars. You know the Champ de Mars?’

‘The big park where they do the military stuff?’

JP laughs and abandons his tobacco for a moment. ‘Aah, oui, the military stuff. Tom, the Field of Mars is the largest open space in Paris and perhaps the most respected. It is almost sacred. Much food has been eaten on this land and much blood drunk by its earth. During the Revolution, the Fête de la Fédération was held there, and two years after the storming of the Bastille, many people were massacred.’

Tom senses his friend’s passion. ‘I’m sorry.’

JP finally succeeds in lighting his cigarette. He takes a couple of deep draws and holds it out for Tom to see. ‘War and military stuff, as you call it, are engrained in our nation. Like my father — and his father — I smoke Gauloises. We do it because it is patriotic. Marketers will tell you Gauloises are forever linked with the French infantrymen — the poilu. Even the brand slogan is “Freedom Forever”.’

‘Good slogan, bad place to put it.’

‘Oui.’ He blows grey smoke into the night sky. ‘My mother says if the cigarettes do not kill you then the slogan will.’

Tom smiles and looks out over the twinkling lights of the city below. His thoughts drift to his flight tomorrow, his meeting with Valentina and the circumstances that first brought them together. Painful memories surface of how he left his job as a priest in Los Angeles. A very public end to his vocation. His name plastered across every newspaper and news channel in the country. Every person in his parish pointing him out on the sidewalk. Venice seemed the perfect place to run to. A picture postcard of a city to hide in. Somewhere time seemed to have stood still.

Only it hadn’t.

Journalists and news crews turned out to be every bit as cruel there as they had been in America. Tom’s dark secret didn’t stay secret for very long. He’d misjudged Valentina at first and she’d probably done the same with him. Only over the course of the case that they worked together did they find common respect and affection, and by then Tom wrongly thought his future lay with someone else. It all seems so long ago now. Like another lifetime.

JP lowers himself on to the boards alongside his friend and catches his eye. ‘You seem so very far away. Somewhere wonderful?’

‘Just thinking of the past. Moments like this make you reminisce.’

‘Aah, that is not good. Not tonight. Tonight is about making memories, not recalling them. When you are old and your bones will not let you climb the Eiffel Tower, then you have time to remember.’

Tom gets to his feet. ‘You have a point.’ He peers out over the safety barrier and waves into the distance. ‘Goodbye, Paris.’

‘Aah, non.’ Jean-Paul throws his arms wide. ‘We do not say goodbye, you know this; we say au revoir, it is less permanent.’

Tom turns his back on the city and faces his friend. ‘I know, but I really think this may be more of a goodbye than an au revoir. I don’t think I’m going to be coming back from Rome.’

‘You have the wanderlust again?’

He nods. ‘A little.’

‘Or is it more a womanlust than wanderlust?’ JP studies Tom’s eyes, ‘Are you planning to make a home in her bed?’

He laughs. ‘I’m planning no such thing.’

‘But it is possible, yes?’

‘Jean-Paul, as a Frenchman, you know that when it comes to matters of the heart, anything is possible, but— ’

‘So,’ he jumps in again, ‘maybe you do have a little plan, yes?’

‘Maybe I have a little plan, no. Listen, Valentina and I go back a long way. We met in Venice soon after I left the priesthood in Los Angeles. She was a lieutenant in the Carabinieri and—’

‘And she was the first love of your life. The first one to introduce you to the magical intimacy of womanhood?’

Tom frowns. ‘No! No, she was not. And no, we were not intimate in any way. Valentina was—’

‘But you would like to have been.’ He leans close to his friend’s face, a sparkle in his eyes, ‘This Valentina, I sense she is a Roman beauty who has stolen your heart, and now, like a brave Gaul, you will swim oceans and climb mountains to be with her again.’

‘What a hopeless Casanova you are.’ Tom shakes his head in amusement. ‘Are you in the least bit interested in the true version, or do you just want to make up your own romantic fantasy?’

‘Oui. I am very interested. Though I am not sure the truth will be as satisfying as the fantasy.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be. Valentina is a friend. A good friend. We’ve kept in touch — phone calls, email, that kind of thing. She’s just been promoted in the Carabinieri, so I’m going over to celebrate with her.’

‘I understand.’ JP fights back a grin. ‘An Italian woman invites you to stay with her and celebrate. This is as good as a proposal of marriage.’

‘Only if you’re a crazy Frenchman.’

‘To that I plead guilty.’ He flicks the last of his cigarette into the black abyss and watches it fall like a firefly. ‘You didn’t say how you met her.’

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘Come, it is a long way down, you can tell me as we go.’ JP leads the way to the lift. ‘A woman in uniform! Just the thought of it is exquisite.’

Tom hits the call button and hears great winding engines clunk and whirr below them. ‘She locked me in one of her cells and interviewed me in connection with a murder.’

He frowns. ‘A murder? I cannot see anyone imagining you to be a murderer. Though you fight well enough — for an American.’

‘She had good cause, Jean-Paul. I’d just told her how I’d killed two men in LA. And she had every reason to think I’d killed again.’

3

I lie in the dirt of the square.

The last of my blood drips slowly like warm red butter oozing from my butchered wrist.

My life is ebbing away.

Perhaps I will even die before the sun reappears from the grey, melancholic clouds above me.

I hope not.

I pray to see the great god’s face one final time before I pass.

Voices swirl above me.

They are not those of the soldiers — they are all gone now and are no doubt drawing rewards for their public chore. Some will already be bedding whores in the Aventine while telling stories of my demise.

No matter.

My dignity is preserved for eternity. I have a place in history.

One day, when my secret is out, I will be respected and honoured for both my silence and my sacrifice.

Without the guards, I am at the mercy of the mob, and they have no compassion. I see the plebs staring down their noses at me. Some scoff and spit in my face. Others loot the last of my jewellery and cloth. The hands of crude boys explore my cooling flesh.

I feel nothing.

Certainly no pain.

The agony engendered by the sword is thankfully too great for my mind to interpret. I do not scream. Nor do I cry or whimper. I cloak my suffering in a blanket of noble silence.

In the haze of faces above me there are none I recognise. No sign of my brutish husband. No tears from my shamed parents. Not even a last farewell from my friends.

But I am not alone.

My sisters are gathering. They are reaching out from the afterlife and wrapping their arms around me. I am ready to join them and to rejoice.

I am ready to be reborn in the spirit of another sister.

Ready to live beyond the grave.

4

The Fiat splutters its way south-west down Viale della Piramide Cestia, then right on to Via Marmorata, running parallel to Circus Maximus.

Cars are strewn at angles across the middle of the road near the Piazza dell’Emporio. An argument is heating up. Irate drivers are fencing with fingers around a steaming bonnet and busted trunk.

Once Valentina squeezes through the bottleneck and the cacophony of blaring car horns, it’s plain sailing along the banks of the Tiber, down the Lungotevere Aventino and Via Ponte Rotto.

She checks her street map as she turns right on to the Piazza della Bocca della Verità and promises herself that tomorrow she’ll find time to buy a sat nav.

She knows she’s arrived when the famous Romanesque bell tower of the chiesa comes into view.

Valentina slides the Punto into an envelope-sized space opposite the church and parallel to a spectacular fountain that on another occasion she’d love to linger around. She locks up and walks across to a young officer guarding the taped-off scene. He watches her every step and gives her shapely form an approving smile.

Before the young soldier can embarrass either of them, she flashes her Carabinieri ID. ‘Captain Morassi. I’m looking for Lieutenant Assante.’

The tape-minder loses his flirtatious smile. ‘The lieutenant’s inside.’ He nods courteously.

‘Grazie.’ Valentina ducks the fluttering ribbon and before entering through a side door takes a quick look around. The main street is open and wide — maybe taking six lanes of traffic during rush hour — and there are parking places nearby for tourist coaches. Even given the lateness of the hour, it’s likely that whatever has happened here was seen by someone.

‘Buonasera, Capitano.’ The voice floats out of the cool, waxy darkness of the church interior, long before Valentina sees its owner. Federico Assante looks like a ghost in the pale light. He is in his early thirties, of average height, with thinning black hair cut too short to help his full-moon face.

‘Buonasera.’ Valentina shakes his hand. ‘So, what exactly went on here?’

‘A good question. Let me show you.’ He walks her part way through the side of the church. ‘Do you know anything about this chiesa?’

‘Nothing at all.’ She glances around: beautifully painted ceilings, high stained-glass windows that probably make sunlight look as though it has come from heaven, intricate marble flooring and two spectacular staircases leading to prayer lecterns. But everything is past its prime. ‘It looks as old as Rome itself.’

‘It almost is. Sixth century. In her day this girl was a stunner — hence the name, Cosmedin; it comes from the Greek kosmidon, meaning beauty.’

‘Impressive. But why do I need to know this now?’

‘You’ll see when we get to the portico.’ He guides her past a dark side altar and into a thin corridor paved in what looks like engraved tombs. ‘There’s a huge old drain cover in there, stood up by the far wall; it’s known as the Bocca della Verità, the Mouth of Truth.’

‘Why’s it called that?’ There’s puzzlement in her voice, ‘Who would even think of giving a drain cover a name?’

‘The sewers in Rome are pre-Christian. Originally they were used for everything, and I mean everything. They even used to dump bodies down there.’

‘Ugh!’

Federico struggles to find the handle to the door that will actually let them into the portico. ‘There was also probably a demon from the underworld associated with it all, because the thing has a formidable face engraved on it and a wide slit for a mouth. It’s spent most of its life stood up on a plinth as part of a ritual whereby you put your hand into the mouth and if you told a lie it got cut off by the gods.’

Valentina puts the pieces together. ‘So we have a severed hand being found in the most famous place in the world for severed hands.’

‘That’s about it.’

‘And has this ever happened before?’

‘Not for a few centuries.’ He finally opens the interior door leading into the portico. ‘Be careful here, there’s no light. The photo team came but their equipment fused. They’ll be back shortly.’

‘No spare kit?’

‘No spare kit. Cutbacks. Recession. You know how it goes.’ He shines his Maglite along the dark pillars and walls. At the far end the beam picks out a drain cover as big as a man.

‘That’s the Mouth of Truth?’ It’s so much larger than she’d expected.

‘Si. The hand was found actually in the mouth.’ He plays the beam around the lopsided slit a third of the way up the heavy slab. Blood has dribbled like Burgundy from the corner of the marble lips.

‘Was it done here?’

Federico points the light on to the portico floor. A puddle of red answers her question.

Valentina studies the dark mess. ‘Looks like it was severed from the left of the victim.’ She remembers something that Tom Shaman — the man she’s meeting tomorrow — once told her. Sinister is Latin for left — traditionally the side of evil.

‘Why are you so sure?’ asks Federico.

‘Lend me your torch, please.’ He hands it over, and she scorches the beam down the long wall running to the right of them. ‘It would be difficult for someone to stand that side of the victim because of this wall. In this light — or lack of it — it’s hard to see the blood spatter, but what little I can make out flows left to right, not right to left, so we’re looking at the blade cutting from the victim’s left, with her kneeling. That would indicate at least two offenders. One to make her kneel and hold her there, one to deliver the precise blow.’ She looks across to him, ‘Where’s the hand now?’

‘Patalogica. It’s in the mortuary in deep freeze.’ Federico’s cell phone rings, ‘Scusi.’

He steps away to take the call. Valentina notices a sign for tourists that says: ‘Only one photograph per person please.’ She guesses the crime-scene photographers will have had a laugh at that. No doubt taken their own pictures, too. She walks closer to the blood, but not so close that she’ll contaminate the scene.

There’s no visible sign of a struggle.

She turns sideways on.

The portico is draped with crime-scene plastic sheeting to keep out prying eyes, but normally it would be very visible from the open road through iron railings.

Surely someone would have seen something?

Heard something?

The victim must have screamed. Unless she’d been drugged or gagged — then she could more easily be manoeuvred into position.

Why?

Why would someone want to do this?

The questions are still stacking up as Federico reappears. ‘Mystery over.’ There’s a real bounce in his voice, a tone of relief. ‘Seems some crazy woman has been picked up wandering the streets. She’s covered in blood and — you won’t believe this — she’s carrying some kind of old sword.’

If the light had been better, he’d have seen that the look of disbelief on Valentina’s face is nothing to do with the weapon.

She had the attacker down as male.

And the victim is still missing.

‘I think your mystery is far from being over, Lieutenant,’ says Valentina. ‘In fact, I’d say it’s only just beginning.’

5

My eyes are closing now.

Shutting for the final time.

Through the milky veil of death I see Arria, my body servant.

Sweet Arria, do not look so sad.

She calls me Domina, then gathers her robes and kneels beside me in the dirt.

The last of the crowd moves away.

Even they know that they must scavenge no more.

The time has come.

I am cold.

Colder than I have ever been. Arria is so alive she seems to burn like a fire next to me. She has brought blankets to wrap around my cooling husk.

No doubt she also has my shroud.

I have not the strength to move a muscle.

Oh, that I could smile to show her my gratitude. But I cannot.

I feel her warm hands press the cloth around me, as she tucks me tight like she once did when I was an infant in a manger.

Her old and bony fingers hold my one remaining hand.

Dearest Arria, I thank you.

In my palm I feel a coin. Enough to pay Charon the Ferryman. Enough to take me across the Styx to the gates of the underworld and stand before great Pluto.

I am being lifted up and carried. I cannot see who bears me. Nor do I wish to.

My eyes are closed fast now.

The lids that once upon the sight of a lover fluttered faster than the wings of a butterfly are now too heavy to move.

I am done.

The unseen hands drop me.

I thud and bounce on the rough wood in the back of a dusty cart.

I feel the heat of the sun surfacing from behind the clouds. Great Apollo, I praise you. Wondrous Pluto, I seek your kindness.

Through the muffled tunnel between life and death I hear the cart wheels trundle towards oblivion.

Someone lifts my head.

It is Arria. I recognise her smell. Her face is close to mine. She knows that my time is over, and as no relative is here, she performs her final duty.

I feel her hand across my bosom, her fingers seeking out my fading heartbeat. She is bent low. Her lips touch my face.

She is ready.

Ready to catch my last breath in her wise old mouth.

6

Federico gets a message from Central Comms. A street patrol has taken the female prisoner to a holding cell at the Carabinieri barracks in Viale Romania.

By all reports, their new admission is as jumpy as a box of frogs.

A doctor’s already been called to sedate her, but Valentina issues instructions that no medication is to be given until they arrive.

The night is cold, crisp and clear. Halogen lights pick out swirls of dust and insects around the giant grey sign identifying the ugly, squat building as the COMMANDO GENERALE DELL ARMA DEI CARABINIERI. Federico is a local boy and he thinks the whole concrete edifice sits like a boil on the face of Villa Ada, Rome’s largest and most beautiful park.

He and Valentina travelled separately from the chiesa in Cosmedin, but he’s waited patiently for her in reception.

They clear the front desk together and are shown through to the cell block where they’re left in the unpleasant company of the overnight custody officer, Paulo Ferrera.

A bad-tempered, heavy-set man in his late forties, Ferrera was just about to end his shift and go home before his late-night ‘guest’ arrived, covered in blood. He talks as he walks, breathing more heavily with each couple of steps. ‘We haven’t a name for her yet. She had no ID of any kind and she’s too drunk, drugged or ignorant to tell us who she is — è matto.’

Valentina takes an instant dislike to him.

‘We were told she had a weapon — where is it?’

‘Forensics have it. It’s still being processed.’ He unlocks one of several security gates. ‘I’ll call them for you. They have her clothes as well. I say clothes; it was more of a gown than clothes.’

‘Gown?’ queries Federico.

‘Hooded. Like a nun or a monk. A long white garment — well, not so white now, not with all the blood on it.’

‘Did you take trace evidence from her body?’ asks Valentina.

‘We managed to swab her hands, but nothing else. She’s just been too violent.’

Valentina winces. ‘You need to do it. Especially beneath her nails. She may chew and suck away something that we later find out we really need.’

Ferrera glares at her. ‘We’ve tried. It’s not that easy. We’ve actually had to be more concerned with her not hurting herself.’

Valentina stops walking and shoots him a playful smile. ‘Oh come on, Officer. You’re a big guy. I’m sure you and some of your men could restrain a mere woman and take evidence without hurting her.’ She glances at her watch. ‘I know it’s turned midnight, but to the best of my knowledge, normal daylight practices like acting professional still apply.’

Ferrera says nothing.

The colour of his face shows he’s fuming.

The cell-block veteran is still chewing his lip as they enter the new admissions area. He points towards the room where their prisoner is being held and takes a deep breath to ensure there’s no anger in his voice. ‘Until the doc arrives, we have two officers with her all the time. When you see her, perhaps you’ll be more understanding about our difficulties.’ He strides past Valentina and unlocks the penultimate cage. ‘Watch out for her kicking and biting.’

Valentina takes in her first impression of the small frightened woman sitting between two giant uniformed Carabinieri men.

She’s pretty in an old-fashioned way.

Her hair is swept back and parted in the middle. She has dark eyes and a fine, angular face tapering into a slightly dimpled jaw that Valentina is sure men must find attractive. She’s wearing white zip-up one-piece overalls that cover everything except her bony hands, which are stained heavily with blood.

It will be a miracle if the victim is still alive.

‘I’m Captain Morassi, Valentina Morassi. Can you tell me who you are?’

The woman says nothing.

Valentina tries again ‘We need you to help us.’ She takes the woman’s wrist. ‘Your hands and body are covered in blood. We think someone might be badly injured. Can you tell me what happened to you?’

Nothing. No response. Just a blank gaze.

Valentina edges closer. She bends a little and tries to be more intimate. ‘Late last night, were you in Cosmedin, at Chiesa Santa Maria, at the Bocca della Verità?’

Suddenly the prisoner lunges.

The top of her head smashes into Valentina’s jaw.

The guards are too slow reacting.

The prisoner starts shouting and punching and kicking.

Valentina reels backwards, holding her bloodied mouth.

One of the officers finally grabs the woman.

The prisoner is hysterical, screaming and lashing out uncontrollably.

Ferrera and Federico bump into each other as they rush into the narrow cell.

Blood pumps from Valentina’s mouth. She’s bitten her bottom lip and maybe knocked a tooth loose.

The prisoner is now pinned on the floor. One of the guards twists her arms behind her back and clicks on some steel cuffs.

‘Now do you see what I mean?’ says Ferrera triumphantly. He looks across to Valentina. ‘With the captain’s permission, perhaps we could now sedate the prisoner and save ourselves a lot more pissing about?’

7

My corpse has been bathed.

My colourless skin sags as it is oiled and perfumed by the skilled hands of the pollinctores.

Bless you, gifted artisans from the temple of Venus Libitina.

Bless all of you who have put your judgement aside and now prepare me to stage a dignified escape from my death.

I see familiar faces around me.

My family and friends are dressed in the dull mourning wools of vestes pullae, their bodies unwashed, their hair uncombed, their nails uncut and clothes unchanged since I passed.

Flutes play outside in the darkness where they are waiting for me. The conclamatio has begun.

I hear my name being chanted.

Cassandra … Cassandra … Cassandra …

One by one they bend over me to say their final farewell, my extremum vale.

Musicians lead the way as they carry me feet first with my face respectfully covered.

The female praeficae follow. Their tearful funereal dirge further chills the cool night air.

Sadly, there will be no stopping in the forum. My redemption in death is not complete and the honour that should befall me as the wife of a senator has been denied because of my unjust shame.

The walk to my resting place is a long one. Way beyond the city walls, as decreed by the code laid down in the Twelve Tables.

The dirge has stopped by the time we reach the ustrina, the sacred enclosures. Those who have carried me are tired but do their best not to look pained or drawn.

Much work has been done to observe proper ceremony. My husband has shown me more attention in death than in life.

My altar is high. Four equal sides of strong timber. A fine exit.

In the dead of night, the pyre is lit.

The flames rise endlessly into the night sky and reach beyond the earth.

So does my spirit.

Cassandra is unshackled.

8

Just after midnight, in a cobbled back street off the Champs-Élysées, Tom Shaman finds himself cradling a bottle of Mexican beer in a dubious club. It’s the type that privately promotes gambling and other pursuits that even in Paris aren’t legal.

Jean-Paul has been coming here for more than a decade. He leads his friend away from the crowded main bar to the back of the club, where raucous cheers come from behind a long row of black curtains.

‘Do you know what savate is?’ shouts the Frenchman over the top of the crowd noise and the froth of his own beer.

‘Not a clue.’

JP leans closer, ‘It is the boxe française, the only martial art to originate in Europe. It has been shown in an X-Men film, featured in Captain America and even Tintin.’ He laughs. ‘It is very select — very famous.’

‘A kind of kickboxing?’

‘Yes, if you like. It is a style of fighting with foot and fist made famous by Napoleon’s troops. Now it is something of a back-street sport, with heavy wagers. Do you want to see?’

It’s his last night in Paris; Tom is up for almost anything. ‘Sure.’

JP digs one hundred euros entrance money out of his jeans pockets and pays a burly, bald-headed man in a black suit to pull back the curtains. They’re ushered through a door that leads to what was once a large loading bay. Now it is filled with close to two hundred people, clutching drinks and gathered around a large, one-rope ring.

Tom soaks up the scene. He’s not a violent man, never has been, but there’s something about boxing that attracts him. It’s a personal failing. An indulgence of one of his baser instincts. Some over-developed survival gene craving release through physical combat.

On the right-hand side of the room, a small, scruffy man in his late twenties is taking bets, marking odds and writing names in felt tip on a whiteboard easel. A metre away, some better-heeled business types are torn between watching the bout and checking on the shifting odds.

In the ring, a hopeless mismatch is under way.

A Neanderthal the size of a house is kicking lumps out of a kid who must only be in his late teens. Judging by the throwback’s face, he’s been in some nasty fights in his time. Part of his right ear is missing — probably punched or chewed off in a street brawl. His nose has been broken enough times to leave it crooked, and shiny snakes of scars slither across both his cheeks and forehead. The kid is well muscled and gym fit, but gives away more than a foot in height, fifty pounds in weight and around twenty-five years in experience.

JP points to the fighters. ‘Originally, the aim of savate was to kick at the shins and legs, up to waist height. You could strike blows to the head only with the palm of your hand. Now you see many high kicks and maybe even sumo wrestling.’

Tom puts his beer down on a thin shelf on the back wall. ‘It’s a freak show. That kid would need a stepladder to high-kick the giant there.’

‘True. But this is part of the entertainment, no? David and Goliath.’

Tom notices something else. ‘Why are they standing strangely?’

‘The stance is from fencing. You must remember that at one point this was a very noble art, fought not only here but across Europe, and especially in England too.’ Jean-Paul warms to his subject, ‘There was one famous French fighter, Michael Casseuse, who made the sport his own. He was very powerful. To frighten his opponents he used to carry a cannon over his shoulders as he entered the ring.’

‘A canon? You mean like a bishop or cardinal?’

The Frenchman laughs. ‘Fool! A cannon like a ship’s cannon.’

The kid in the ring takes a terrible kick to the face and drops unconscious. Blood spatters the sawdust floor. There are beery cheers. The business types high-five each other and some lackeys drag the boy to the corner and splash him with water. Neanderthal circles the ring, chin up and arms aloft, parading like he’s won a championship belt.

‘Shouldn’t the big guy fight someone his own weight and size?’ Tom’s eyes never leave the ring.

‘Indeed, and in a proper public bout the beast would be wearing gloves and would only fight people of his own grading. But this is a little wilder, no?’ JP points to a line of bare-chested young boys waiting their turn to step into the ring. ‘You put a hundred euros down and win five hundred if you can last a single round with the beast over there.’

‘And what if you beat him?

‘You do not beat him.’ JP studies Tom’s face with interest. ‘You do not even think of beating him.’

‘No, seriously, what if you beat him?’

A voice from behind them answers. ‘Then I give you ten thousand euros.’

They both turn to find a tall, thin black man in his mid thirties smiling at them. He’s exquisitely dressed in a charcoal-grey Christian Lacroix suit with a crisp white shirt and pink silk Hermès tie. ‘I am Sebastian Civrais. The beast — as your acquaintance calls him — has never been beaten.’ He looks Tom over, ‘Now you, my big American friend, I imagine that you could tempt people to wager high that you had a chance to do so.’ He flashes a broad grin, ‘So, I tell you what, I’ll give you five thousand euros if you can last three rounds with him, ten if you can beat him.’

Loud cheers erupt from the ring.

Another slightly drunk and very foolish teenage boy steps on to the canvas and heads to his slaughter.

Jean-Paul is worried. ‘Tom, it is best to watch, not to participate. Ten thousand euros will not buy you a new eye or repair a broken jaw.’ He glances towards the ring, ‘I do not think the brute can only beat small boys. I imagine if we both fought him we would still end up losing.’

Tom isn’t so sure. The big guy is really just a bully. ‘Okay,’ he tells the promoter, ‘I’ll fight him. But my friend here holds the money. I’ve seen too many films where the underdog never gets paid. And I want to fight next. I don’t want to see any more kids being hurt by your caveman.’

Civrais looks amused. He doesn’t have to go anywhere to get the cash; he opens his jacket, pulls out a wad of purple five-hundred-euro notes and peels off the stake. ‘Ten thousand.’ He slaps it in Jean-Paul’s hand. ‘You try to run off with this, mon ami, and I’ll have people hit you so hard we’ll be able to spread you like pâté.’

It doesn’t take the beast long to swat his latest challenger like a fly. While the boy is being scraped from the ring, the promoter announces the night’s surprise new challenger.

Tom walks over to where the other innocents are lining up. He kicks off his black shoes and grey socks, takes off his casual blue shirt and rolls up the bottom of his faded Levis.

Two ring lackeys lead him beneath the rope and into a corner, where there’s a small three-legged stool. They’re jabbering to each other about how they’d never set foot in the ring with the monster in the opposite corner.

None of it bothers Tom.

He’s staring at the money being raked in, fistfuls of it being stuffed into a big red bucket as the odds are taken. Young Civrais certainly knows how to turn a quick buck.

Sitting on the tiny stool, the one thing Tom does regret is the several beers he’s had.

He’s nowhere near as sharp as he should be.

He must have been crazy to have talked himself into this.

Someone pulls him upright and whips the stool away.

A bell dings behind him. The noise of the crowd evaporates.

It’s just Tom and the beast.

Face to face across the canvas.

Neanderthal lets out a roar and smacks his clenched fists together.

A kick slaps into Tom’s thigh. It’s a good shot, plenty of weight, and delivered deceptively quickly for a big man.

The giant Frenchman looks pleased. He smiles and shows off two lines of broken teeth. Massive shelves stacked with ivory trophies.

He thunders forward and swings a haymaker of a punch at Tom.

It misses.

He swings again.

Tom sidesteps it.

The crowd shouts encouragement and it seems to fuel the beast’s anger. He snaps another kick against Tom’s thigh. The leg muscle starts to deaden. The big guy’s not as dumb as he looks. Another kick like that and Tom knows he won’t be able to stand, let alone trade blows.

The beast is thinking the same thing. Another grin and he goes for it. Harder and more vicious this time, a brutal kick aimed at bringing the action to a quick close.

But it doesn’t connect.

Tom steps inside it. He slams the palm of his hand under the big guy’s heel and lunges forward.

The giant doesn’t topple, but he wobbles precariously.

Tom drops to the floor and delivers a sweep kick to the back of his standing leg.

Now he goes down.

The whole ring shakes. The crowd goes crazy.

Tom bounces on his toes, fists up, ready to fight when the beast finally gets back on his feet.

But that’s not going to happen quickly.

The bell rings for the end of the first round.

Tom walks back to his corner feeling pleased. He got hit twice but at least he didn’t end up on his back like the other mugs.

Shame the bell went; he was getting the measure of the brute.

The satisfaction is short-lived.

Tom never makes it to the stool.

A punch like a wrecking ball cracks into the back of his head.

Tom stumbles sideways.

A kick slaps into his kidneys and drops him to his knees.

The crowd explodes.

Instinctively, Tom drops totally flat and rolls away.

The beast aims a rugby-style drop-kick at his head, but only connects with his shoulder.

Whatever rules there were have now vanished.

Tom stops rolling. Most fighting is done with your brain, not your hands and feet. He thinks about what the beast will do next.

He’s either going to kick at his ribs or, more likely, stamp on his face.

He goes for the stamp.

Tom guessed right. He shifts his head and grabs the outstretched ankle. He hooks his forearm around the back of the knee and pulls like he’s heaving the root of a giant tree from a swamp.

The beast goes down.

Tom rolls to the centre of the ring and gets to his feet.

The beast gets up quickly and produces a flurry of high kicks and low punches.

Tom takes one in the mouth and feels his lip split.

But it’s worth it.

He ducks inside and delivers a sledgehammer blow to the stomach and a perfect uppercut to the jaw.

The Frenchman stands flat-footed. The crowd holds its breath.

Tom feigns a right-hander and then delivers a left-handed punch to the side of the head that would topple a factory chimney.

The beast’s eyes go glassy.

His knees shake.

Finally, his legs crumple and he falls.

A rush of primitive energy goes through Tom. He stares at his opponent and prays the guy won’t get up.

For his own good, please Lord don’t let him get up.

Suddenly the ring is full of people.

Shouting. Cheering. Slapping Tom’s arms.

Even embracing him. The beast is down and staying down.

Maybe he’s not so stupid after all.

9

They gather my bones and ashes.

Loyal fingers seek out every part of me — what I was, what I am, what I shall be.

They search for the stone. The sacred triangle stolen from around my neck by the thief at the Bocca.

It is gone.

When they discover what has happened, they will find him. Find him and recover the precious scalene.

Then they will kill him.

They poke among the embers of a pyre that was soaked in cups of oil and bouquets of perfume.

My husband is not among the grubbers.

He is no doubt in our matrimonial bed, slaking his thirst for wine and boys.

Arria is here, of course. Sweetest Arria. She will be among the first to remember me at Parentalia. Was not Dies Parentales made for women with faces as sad as Arria’s?

The urn they have fashioned for me is a cheap one. From its lack of elegance I know already that they will not carry me to my husband’s tomb.

I am pleased. Lying with him in death would be even more unpleasant than in life.

I shall not wait for him beyond the three canine heads of Cerberus. I pray to Pluto that his wasted flesh sticks in their jaws and is chewed for eternity in Hades.

Before me I see my sisters. The others of the spirit world. Those who have for ever been and will for ever be.

They are the keepers of the secrets.

The prophetesses. The betrayed. The goddesses.

They surround me as the mortals take my burned remains to their dank resting place in the Columbarium. Here among the shelved peasantry is my place in the potted history of poorest Rome. My niche in society.

No ornately engraved plaque marks my spot. No statue or portrait. Nor any message of love.

Just a number.

My sisters and I wonder if beyond the grave they can hear us laughing.

The number is X.

10

It’s Saturday morning, so at least Valentina is spared the indignity of walking into a packed office and explaining why she looks like a victim of domestic violence. She can barely begin to think of all the sexist jokes there would be at her expense. Hopefully, by Monday, some good make-up and judicious head-bending will get her through the day without too much embarrassment.

For now, though, the bathroom mirror is telling a different story.

Although the swelling is going down, her lips still look awful. Bloated and discoloured, as though a Botox injection has gone horribly wrong. The prisoner’s head butt has left a very unattractive scab on her lip.

And all this on the day of her big date.

Not that she’s thinking of her celebratory get-together with Tom Shaman as a date. She keeps telling herself that they’re ‘just friends’.

But of course, there’s always the possibility that he feels like she does.

She checks the clock on the wall of the small kitchen in her apartment.

Midday.

Four hours before Tom’s plane lands and she needs to be at the airport to pick him up. Valentina takes another glance in the mirror.

Maybe some of the swelling will have gone down by then.

She decides to coax an espresso out of her coffee machine and turn her attention back to work.

Earlier that morning she spoke to Federico and learned that there was still no trace of a victim.

Assante had already set up a rudimentary incident room and had ensured that all local hospitals had been called. No one with a missing hand had been treated.

Valentina checks her cell and fixed-line phones and finds that there are no missed calls.

She rings the local station and asks to speak to the custody suite.

They tell her that the woman prisoner slept most of the night. No doubt knocked out by sedatives. She refused breakfast. A doctor saw her mid-morning, and within the next hour she’s due to be moved to a secure room at the Policlinico Umberto for a full psychiatric assessment.

It takes another twenty minutes of calls and an extra espresso to find out that the medical examiner working the case is a woman, Professoressa Filomena Schiavone, and she happens to be in the morgue at the Policlinico working another case. With a little luck — and a quick dash to the hospital — Valentina will catch her.

The short drive to the Quartiere San Lorenzo is pleasant enough. It’s late October and the leaves are falling; rugs of reds and oranges have been thrown down by giant maples and sycamores filtering the day’s golden sunlight.

Policlinico Umberto 1, to give it its full name, is the largest public hospital in Italy and one of the largest in the world. Named after the Italian king who ruled from the late 1870s, it’s academically and physically intertwined with the famed Università La Sapienza, and as a result is so large it’s really a city within a city.

After a few false turns, Valentina finds signs to the morgue near to the unit for tropical diseases over at the Viale Regina Elena entrance. It’s almost opposite the gates where she came in.

She parks and walks past several patients in gowns smoking in the doorways to distant wards.

She enters the mortuary block and freshens up in a staff washroom before walking the final few metres to the professoressa’s office area.

A cluttered desk is attended by a bespectacled but pretty young woman who Valentina suspects is a student from Sapienza. She dutifully calls through to the medical examiner and then relays to Valentina a message that the ME is just finishing and will give her twenty minutes of her time if she meets her down in the scrub area.

Almost an hour passes before the doctor has finished ‘finishing’.

Filomena Schiavone is a small woman in her early sixties with tight curls of white hair, piercing blue eyes and an impatient look on her grandmotherly face. ‘Remind me — who are you? Why are you here? The girl minding my phones wasn’t very clear.’ She strips off her greens and drops them in a laundry bin. ‘I have a lunch date in an hour and I don’t want to look like a drowned poodle, so be quick.’

‘Captain Morassi.’ Valentina produces her ID.

‘Put it away. I believe you.’ The ME glances at her. ‘What have you done to your face? You look like a trout.’

Valentina puts her fingers to her lip. ‘I got hit by a woman prisoner. She was arrested near Cosmedin in connection with a severed hand that I believe you took possession of.’

The ME laughs. ‘Took possession of. How sweet. You police officers do mangle our language. It was sent to me in a plastic bag, packed with ice. Someone obviously hoped it might be sewn back on to whoever lost it. I examined it, made notes and put it in the fridge.’ She opens a long metal locker and gets out a simple but stylish black maxi dress.

‘What do you think? Too dull? I have a Grecian-drape affair upstairs, just back from the cleaners.’

‘First date or second date?’

‘First.’

‘Then it looks most appropriate.’

‘Appropriate. Va bene. I am in possession of an appropriate dress.’ She undresses and steps into it. ‘The hand is a woman’s right hand, severed at the wrist. All the carpal bones have been cut. Cut very badly. It wasn’t a clean dismemberment at all.’ She puts the fingers of her left hand against the wrist of her right hand. ‘It was hacked off. The first blow came here, near the thumb area. The second was made from higher, above the top of the wrist, parallel to the knuckles. I suspect the arm was turned back and more chops attempted from the first area below the thumb, until finally the hand separated rather raggedly from the wrist. Nasty. Very bloody and nasty.’ She pulls out two pairs of shoes from the bottom of the locker ‘Stilettos or pumps? What do you think?’

11

The easyJet plane from Paris into Rome Ciampino arrives late. It hits the tarmac just before five p.m., or almost seventeen hundred hours, as Valentina has grown accustomed to calling it.

It takes twenty-five minutes for Tom to clear customs and baggage control, and when he appears she almost doesn’t recognise him.

He’s dressed in a brown leather jacket, ribbed brown sweater, faded blue jeans and smart brown cowboy boots. His hair is much longer than she remembers, and unless she’s mistaken, his chiselled face is shadowed with a hint of designer stubble.

Tom can’t see her.

She’s hidden in a dense crowd of expectant families and taxi drivers holding signs with the names of businessmen they’re picking up.

‘Tom! Tom!’

His head turns. Now he spots her.

He swings his suitcase her way and within seconds she throws her arms around him and buries her head against his face. He squeezes her tight and then holds her by the waist like he’s admiring a giant bouquet of flowers. ‘You look amazing. Wow! I bet you’re the hottest capitano the Carabinieri have ever seen.’

‘Grazie.’ She strikes a pose for him and smiles. ‘And you look good too. But what happened? Someone take a punch at you?’

Tom looks embarrassed. ‘A long story.’ He points to her mouth. ‘I could say the same. Have you been brawling with your new bosses?’

She touches her face self-consciously. ‘Sono stupido. A prisoner hit me with her head.’ She slaps a palm on her forehead. ‘She just went crazy in her cell. I’ll tell you in the car.’

The traffic isn’t good and the journey from Ciampino on the south of the city to Valentina’s apartment off Via Annia Faustina gives them plenty of time to catch up on things. She tells Tom all about the strange happenings the previous night in Cosmedin, and he tries to explain his bruises and busted lip.

‘So you have some money to spend on me,’ says Valentina mischievously. ‘I think tonight you can pay for dinner. It can be your punishment for behaving like some drunken teenager.’

Tom protests that he was championing the cause of vulnerable French youths against a seasoned bully, but somehow the reasoning doesn’t seem as sensible as it did last night.

Valentina squeezes the little Fiat into a gap between a Smart car and an old Ford Fiesta that looks like it’s never been washed. She links Tom’s arm and leads him through an iron gate in a long brick wall that cordons off her apartment block.

One set of stairs later, she opens the front door to her tiny apartment and instantly wishes she’d made more of an effort to tidy up.

‘Nice,’ says Tom, ‘small but very nice.’

‘Liar. It’s horrible.’ She abandons her jacket and handbag and heads straight to her treasured DeLonghi coffee machine. ‘Are all ex-priests bad liars?’

‘It’s possible,’ he concedes, standing by her settee, not sure what to do with his suitcase.

She switches on the machine and smiles at him. ‘Now we’re inside, I have something to ask you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You need to come over here to answer it.’

Tom drops his jacket over the case and steps into the kitchen area. She puts a finger gently to his damaged lip, almost as though she’s inspecting it. ‘Is your mouth too sore to kiss me a proper hello?’

‘A proper hello?’

She doesn’t let him prevaricate any longer. She tilts her head and gently kisses him. The unharmed corner of her lips touches the unharmed corner of his. A kiss as light as the fluttering wings of a butterfly.

Neither of them close their eyes. It’s like they’re watching each other unwrap long-awaited presents.

Tom’s hands find her waist.

She lets the tip of her tongue run sensually along the length of his dry lip.

The contact is minimal but electrifying.

They press together, so close they can feel nothing but the warmth of each other.

Somewhere in the room her phone rings.

Valentina tries to ignore it.

Tom slowly kisses the side of her neck.

She goes weak at the knees.

The phone trips to the answering function. ‘This is Lieutenant Assante — Federico. I tried your cell phone and left a message. Forgive me calling your home, but we have an incident at the hospital with the woman we arrested. I really need to talk to you urgently. If you can’t reach me, it may be because I’m already leaving for the pysch unit and I don’t have hands-free in my car. Ciao.’

12

I am blessed by Her now.

Blessed by Mother.

In death She became life so that in ashes I may become spirit.

The spirit of Mother and those of my sisters are with me.

Henceforth they will always be with me and I with them.

This is how it is meant to be — how it was written — how it will always be. We are followers of the Great Books and writers of the future. Their word is our truth and our words are the truth of their tomorrows.

My sisters lead me through the darkness to Her house, to the great temple that lies at the magical confluence of three pathways in a womb-shaped clearing.

It is gated above ground and guarded below by the Galli.

I can hear drumming, dancing and chanting as we enter.

The Korybantes pound spears against shields and stir the air with their nimble steps.

A deep thumping beat flows through the bodies of all those gathered. We are touched by the unseen.

Mother has become the rhythm.

Mother the heartbeat.

She becomes the air and penetrates our skin.

She flows through our blood and our organs and makes us quiver with Her power.

My heart trembles as Her sound presses into me.

Mother is invisible, like the start of the rain.

Mother is all powerful, like the pull of the ocean.

Mother cleanses and renews us throughout our life and our death.

The sisters of the mortal world look frightened.

They should not.

Mother will care for them. Mother will transform them.

Feet apart, they stand in innocence and clumsily begin their incantations. Uncertain hands touch genitals, wombs, hearts and foreheads.

Hesitant fingers stretch to the sky and reach out to Her.

Soon She will reach out to them.

We will eat from the drum.

We will drink from the cymbal.

We will be immortal.

This is how it is written.

This is how it will be.

13

Valentina rings Federico back but only gets his voicemail.

She’s left with no choice but to head off to the hospital.

Her long-dreamt-of moment of intimacy has been ruined, and a part of her fears it may never happen again.

Work certainly has a way of screwing with your personal life.

She hangs up and turns back to Tom. ‘Sorry.’

His lip is smeared shiny red, and from the salty taste on her own lips she realises it’s blood. Her blood. The realisation is strangely exciting.

‘What’s wrong?’ He stands in a no-man’s land between before she kissed him and what happens next.

‘I have to go. Emergency at work. All that clichéd stuff.’

He smiles. ‘I understand. I guess clichés are clichés because they get said so often.’

Small talk. The moment’s certainly gone. She gathers her stuff and heads for the door, sensing a trace of awkwardness in the air.

She’s still cursing Federico as she fires up her Fiat and drives to the Policlinico.

It’s an awful place to navigate around. Most of the multi-storeyed buildings seem to be salmon-coloured with green shutters. Hilly roads open up into smart areas of lawn, and some giant palms and occasional flagpoles make the place look almost like a holiday hotel that’s seen better days.

Inside, a maze of depressingly dark corridors lead her to the psychiatric unit, where she finds Federico the Interrupter sitting in the reception area looking over notes in a pocket book.

‘Buonasera,’ grunts Valentina. ‘I hope this is every bit as urgent as you said.’

The Lieutenant looks up and is startled to see his boss in a fetching floral dress, wearing make-up and with her hair down. ‘Buonasera. I see I ruined something. Scusi. I’m afraid it is important. Our prisoner has told us her name.’

Valentina’s not impressed. ‘Oh, bene.’

‘She even wrote it in my notebook for me.’ He swivels it around so she can see.

‘Cassandra? What is this?’ She scowls at him, ‘She writes down I am Cassandra and you call me out on a Saturday night to get only a Christian name. You could have told me that on the phone, Federico.’

‘I could. But that’s not the point.’ He flicks through several other pages. ‘Take a look at all this. She damn near filled my book with her writing. Read it and then see if you still want to kick my balls for dragging you out here.’ He thrusts the notebook at her.

Valentina takes it and peers at the old-fashioned handwriting: I am Cassandra, a proud and noble descendant of the house of Savyna, and I am not afraid to die.

The woman’s handwriting is creepy. It’s been done with such pressure on the pen it looks intense, violent, almost as if it’s been carved into the paper.

The people of Cosmedin have come out in force today. Out for me. They line their piss-soaked streets and drip like grease from the windows of their shabby tenements, screaming and spitting at me as I am paraded before them.

Valentina can’t help but speed-read the rest. Key lines jump out at her: I will take my secret to the grave … the secret I shelter within my bosom … this terrible ceremony … La Bocca della Verità … I see only the basket and in it my severed hand … My secret is safe.

‘She wrote this in front of you?’

Federico nods.

‘And did this obviously deluded woman explain any of it?’

He shakes his head. ‘She still hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t said a word.’ He takes the notes back, turns a page and points out another section. ‘Read this.’

Valentina takes it from him.

The thief looks at the strange stone he’s plundered, a dull black triangle on a plaited cord, and is dumbstruck by disappointment. Fool. He’ll never know what it’s worth.

She wrinkles her nose. ‘I don’t understand. Is all this hand-severing about some petty theft?’

‘No,’ Federico hands over a plastic bag, ‘It’s about this.’

Valentina’s eyes widen.

Inside is a triangular black stone on a necklace made from rope. ‘Bizarre. This is the necklace from the woman’s story. Fact and fiction are all messed up together.’ She glances around. ‘They’ve certainly got her in the right place.’ She hands back the evidence bag. ‘Where did you get it? Wasn’t she searched at the police station?’

He folds it up and replaces it in his pocket. ‘She was, but they didn’t find it.’

‘What? Those idiots missed something around her neck?’

‘Not quite. The prisoner had stuffed it …’ He puts his hand between his legs. ‘The nursing staff found it.’

‘How strange that she wanted to hide it. The thing doesn’t look worth much. Is it hollow?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing concealed inside it?’

‘Not that I could tell. I’ll send it to Forensics when we’re done here. Now do you understand why I called you?’

‘Si.’ She realises she’s been short with him. ‘I’m sorry. This case has sort of ruined my weekend, both last night and tonight.’

‘Big plans?’ He tilts his eyes up and down her dress.

Valentina shoots him a look that says it’s none of his business. She’s still holding his notebook. She taps it against her other hand. ‘What do you think of her writing? Is it some way of justifying that she’s chopped someone’s hand off? Groundwork for an insanity plea?’

‘Perhaps. Maybe it’s more than a hand she’s chopped off.’

Valentina takes his point. ‘There’s still no sign of a victim, so we could be looking at full dismemberment.’

‘Could be. It’s certainly not unreasonable to think we’re going to find other body parts spread across the city.’

‘You’re right.’ She hands back the notebook. ‘Can you get some copies of that made?’

‘Done already.’ He reaches over to a hard chair on his left and picks up a stack of stapled photocopies. ‘The nurses’ office has a printer. A young sister in there pressed all the buttons for me.’ He gives her a playful smile.

‘I bet she did.’ Valentina takes a copy. ‘Let’s go and ask our mystery girl about all this nonsense.’

‘I really don’t think so,’ says a woman approaching them. ‘I’m Louisa Verdetti, the unit director, and I’m afraid you’re not going to see this patient until I’ve finished my diagnosis.’ Verdetti is in her late thirties, with short dark hair, and looks as though she was born to wear a white doctor’s coat and dangle expensive black glasses from the tip of her nose. She nods contemptuously towards Federico. ‘Your colleague shouldn’t even have been in the room with her, let alone tried to ask questions. She’s clearly in a very disturbed state of mind and—’

Valentina can’t help but interrupt. ‘Doctor, whatever state of mind your patient is in, it’s nothing compared to that of the woman whose hand she chopped off.’

Verdetti glares at her. ‘I don’t want to be unhelpful.’

‘Then don’t be.’ Valentina waves the photocopies in her face. ‘Does this stuff she’s written mean anything to you?’

The doctor softens, ‘Come into my office.’ She motions to a corridor off to their left.

Valentina follows her and Federico tags behind.

The room is dark. There is a desk opposite the doorway stacked with papers and lit only by a silver Anglepoise lamp. The psychiatrist gestures towards a far corner, where two grey cotton sofas flank a cheap glass table marked with rings from old coffee cups.

They settle, and Louisa Verdetti pulls a quizzical face. She’s wondering how much to tell the Carabinieri and how much they’ll understand. ‘Let me start with the writings. They are highly unusual.’

Valentina feigns astonishment. ‘You need a doctor’s degree to have noticed that?’

‘Please!’ Verdetti’s face begs more patience.

‘I’m sorry. Go on.’

‘Unusual because they are indicative of a rare condition, one that not many psychiatrists in the world, let alone in Italy, have treated.’ She can see she now has their complete attention. ‘The patient has DID, dissociative identity disorder.’

‘What’s that?’ asks Federico.

‘It’s what used to be called multiple personality disorder.’

He’s still not sure he gets it. ‘You mean she thinks she’s two people? Whoever she really is and this woman Cassandra from Cosmedin.’

Verdetti thinks about disagreeing — about explaining the true depth and danger of the disorder — but decides the detail can wait for another time. ‘Sort of. It’s sufficient to say that at the time she wrote the text that you have, she truly believed that she was Cassandra of Cosmedin and was being taken to the Bocca della Verità to have her hand cut off. Incidentally, the Bocca would not have been in Cosmedin during the Roman period that she’s describing — as is common in most fantasies, timelines and other facts become distorted.’

‘Let’s focus on reality, then,’ suggests Valentina. ‘She concealed something vaginally. A necklace of some kind. Have you seen it?’

‘Si. I asked my staff to hand it to your colleague.’

‘I have it.’ Federico holds up the bag.

Valentina turns to Verdetti. ‘Do you know why it was so important to her? Why she felt she had to hide it?’

‘No. It’s probably personal and not of any real value or importance. DID sufferers sometimes attach enormous significance to certain objects, just like babies do to favourite teddy bears or blankets.’

‘But she wrote about it,’ says Valentina, ‘in some weird Roman story.’

The doctor gives them a comforting smile. ‘Again, I don’t see anything unusual. The young woman we’re treating is very disturbed. She needs close attention and understanding. Did you notice her wrists, her arms?’

Federico shakes his head.

‘Drug tracks?’ asks Valentina.

‘No,’ says Verdetti. ‘Something even harder to treat. Her arms are laced with scars from self-harming; her psychological state is very disturbed.’

Valentina has seen self-harming before. Way back when she was a recruit, she arrested a teenage girl for shoplifting whose forearms were slashed to ribbons. ‘She cuts herself when she’s stressed because it gives her some strange sense of relief?’

‘That’s right. It’s symptomatic of deep-lying trauma or abuse, and by the look of it she’s been doing this for years.’

‘I’m sorry; I hope you can help her.’

‘We can, given time. Come back tomorrow. Give us twenty-four hours to continue our assessments and diagnosis. Let us make her feel safe and comfortable, and then I’ll consider giving you access, under supervision, to interview her.’

Valentina nods. She knows she doesn’t really have a choice. It’s clear that no amount of pressure is going to change Verdetti’s mind. ‘We’ll be back in the morning. Grazie.’

‘Prego.’ The doctor rises to shake hands.

‘One thing before we go,’ adds Valentina. ‘Patients with … er …’ She struggles for the clinical name she’s just been told.

‘Dissociative identity disorder.’

‘Grazie. Patients with dissociative identity disorder, are they capable of murder?’

Verdetti’s face hardens again. ‘Undoubtedly. They’re capable of almost anything.’

14

On the drive back to Via Annia Faustina, Valentina sticks an earpiece into her iPhone and calls her boss.

He’s at home and answers as though he’s shouting out a swear word. ‘Caesario.’

‘Major, it’s Captain Morassi. I thought you might appreciate an update on the case you sent me out on.’

He lets out a tired sigh. ‘Capitano, you’ve arrested a woman in her late twenties who calls herself Cassandra, and she’s so crazy she’s already locked up in a psych ward. Lieutenant Assante says Forensics are working on some bloodstained clothes and a weapon, but there’s still no sign of a victim. Do you have anything to tell me that I don’t already know?’

Valentina is shocked that Federico has gone behind her back and spoken directly to the major. ‘We’re hoping to interview the suspect in the morning.’

‘So I understand. Anything else?’

Valentina now makes no effort to hide her annoyance. ‘Yes, sir, did you ask Assante to report directly to you? I certainly didn’t.’

There’s a brief pause. ‘For the sake of keeping this conversation short, let’s say I did. Now good evening to you, I have a far more important disagreement to finish with my wife.’

Valentina’s left listening to dial tone. She punches the steering wheel with the palm of her hand and drives off at a speed she knows she shouldn’t.

It’s eight p.m. by the time she re-enters her apartment.

It’s dark and lit by candles in the kitchen.

She smells fresh flowers long before she sees the spray of pink and cream roses in a water jug on the worktop.

‘My goodness, you’ve been busy.’

‘You’d better believe it.’ Tom is in the narrow kitchen, his back to her. ‘Give me a sec to uncork this wine, then I’ll tell you all about the spectacular piece of fish I’m cooking for you.’

She flinches. ‘I booked a table. I told you we were going out.’

He turns around and smiles. ‘Cancel it. Fish is my speciality. You won’t find better food or service anywhere in Rome.’

She can’t hide her disappointment. ‘It was tough to get a table. Very tough.’

He feels too awkward to say anything.

She scratches at the back of her neck. ‘Why is it men always believe they have the right to do whatever they want, regardless of whether it’s the opposite of what women want?’

Tom’s taken aback. ‘I’m sorry. I’d foolishly hoped the candles, flowers and wine might have rekindled some of that friendliness you expressed earlier.’

Valentina sits on the arm of the sofa, buries her head in her hand and swears softly. ‘Porca vacca!’

He moves towards her. ‘Those are bad words, aren’t they?’

She manages a muffled laugh. ‘Not the worst I know, but yes, they’re bad.’

He puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘I only just warmed things a little, because I didn’t know when you’d be in. I can easily turn it all off and we can go out.’

She looks at him. ‘No. I’m sorry. What a cow. I’ve had a difficult day with my boss and I just snapped.’ She glances around. ‘It’s really very nice that you went out, bought everything and did all this.’ She smiles. ‘Quite romantic.’

He smiles back. ‘I can be. Given the chance.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Certainly is.’

They trade looks, eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Do I have time to change for dinner?’

‘Sure. Plenty.’

She heads to the bedroom.

Tom calls after her. ‘You want some help?’

She doesn’t answer.

He sits for a minute on the same sofa arm where Valentina has just perched and wonders if he’s doing the right thing. His body is tingling with the thrill of flirtation and the anticipation of what could be. At the same time a part of him wants to run.

Valentina reappears.

She’s wearing a cream silk robe.

Her dark hair falls lavishly against the porcelain whiteness of her neck. ‘Did you finally get that cork out? Or do you need a woman’s help?’

Tom gets up and heads to the abandoned bottle, his heart flipping like a pancake. He has to calm himself in order to safely use the corkscrew.

Valentina picks up a big-bowled wine glass by its stem and tilts it towards him. ‘Your lip still hurt?’

He pours a drizzle of golden Meursault into her glass. ‘No. Yours?’ Their eyes lock again.

‘Not at all.’ She moves the glass away, leans slowly forward and kisses him tenderly but fully on his bruised mouth.

Tom just about manages to put the bottle down safely.

Somehow Valentina finds a kitchen worktop to rest her glass on.

His hands undo her robe and slip inside the warm silk. Her skin is smooth and she smells of coconut.

He kisses her again and glides his fingers up to her shoulder blades, massaging them as she curls into him.

Valentina moves her hands from the back of his neck to the front of his shirt. Some buttons she manages to undo, others just snap off as she pulls the cloth open and tugs it down his thick arms.

They’re both almost breathless, mouths bleeding from the intense contact, bodies flushed with excitement.

Valentina smoothes her palms across his hard chest and feels his nipples stiffen. He’s much taller than she is. She pulls him down to her height, then all the way to the dirty kitchen floor.

Tom’s fingers find her legs and thighs. He plants rows of soft kisses across the silken pastures of her stomach and breasts.

She lets out a warm sigh of expectancy.

He slides his fingers around the arch of her back and slips off her small red La Perla briefs.

Valentina stretches like a cat as kisses trickle across her hips, then along her bikini line, and finally gather between her legs.

His hands cup her buttocks and his tongue snakes deep inside her.

She clings to him. Digs her nails into his vast back and holds on like she’s going to fall off a cliff.

And in a way she does. A vast tumble into oblivion, her head spinning and her heart pounding while a river of pent-up emotion breaks wonderfully free.

15

The guard outside the hospital room is the first to notice that the prisoner is out of bed and moving around.

He can see her through a slit of unfrosted glass, shuffling close to the wall.

The young man is about to call the nursing station when the night sister appears. ‘She’s out of bed,’ he announces in a worried tone.

‘I know.’ Sister Elizabetta Erio is a slightly overweight forty-year-old. ‘She pulled the emergency cord. Let’s see how she is.’

They enter the room together and find the prisoner-cum-patient sitting on the floor in the corner adjacent to the bed. Her hands are wrapped tightly around her drawn-up knees. She looks like a small, terrified child.

‘Come on, young lady,’ says Sister firmly. ‘You shouldn’t be down there. Let’s get you back into bed and make you comfortable.’

The guard bends down to help her, but this makes the woman cower even more. He guesses she’s afraid of the uniform and the white-holstered gun on his belt.

Elizabetta steps forward, takes her by the elbow and helps her to her feet in a no-nonsense way. ‘You’re going to freeze down there. Now let’s get you tucked up again.’

The prisoner allows herself to be moved back to the high metal bed. Her eyes never leave the guard.

Sister Erio quickly adjusts the patient’s faded hospital nightgown and covers her up. She’s read the woman’s case notes and knows she needs to stay alert. While the patient looks as meek as a mouse, and hasn’t spoken since admission, the huge bruise on her forehead is a reminder that there’s a constant chance of sudden and unexpected violence. ‘Does your head hurt, honey? That’s quite a bump you’ve got there.’

The woman scowls and tentatively puts her fingers to the patch of purple and black skin.

‘I’ll get you some painkillers. Would you like me to bring you a drink as well? Some nice cool water?’ She looks for a confirmatory nod.

‘Si. Grazie.’

Elizabetta’s shocked. She stares disbelieving at the prisoner’s lips. ‘Okay. It’s good that you’re talking. Give me a minute, I’ll go and get some for you.’

On the way out, she pulls the guard aside. ‘Watch her. Watch her closely. I’ll be back in no time.’

Elizabetta phones the night doctor and grabs 400 mg of ibuprofen. She takes a plastic cup from the cooler in the corridor, fills it with chilled water and is back in the room within a minute.

The patient pops the tablets and drains all the water. ‘Grazie.’

‘Prego.’ Elizabetta sits on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m going to take your pulse and your blood pressure. Is that all right?’

The woman nods nervously. ‘Where am I? Why am I here?’

‘You really don’t know?’

The fear in her eyes says she doesn’t. ‘I have no idea.’ She bites at an already well-chewed thumbnail and looks around. ‘Was I hurt? Was I in some kind of accident?’

Elizabetta glances towards the guard. ‘The Carabinieri brought you here. They’ll probably want to talk to you, tell you about everything.’ She gives her a kindly smile. ‘Don’t worry about things; we’re going to look after you. Can you tell me what your name is?’

‘Suzanna.’

Elizabetta looks pleased.

‘Va bene.’ She reaches for the clipboard at the end of the bed and writes on some notes. ‘And your last name, Suzanna, what’s your last name?’

‘Grecoraci. Suzanna Grecoraci.’

‘Excellent. That’s a good start.’

The patient looks puzzled. ‘You didn’t know who I was?’

‘No. No, we didn’t.’

Suzanna dips her head; when she raises it again, she looks ashamed. ‘Was someone else here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sometimes the others come. They come and take my body without me knowing. Then they do things that I don’t know about. Bad things.’

16

It’s a long time before Valentina and Tom make it to her bedroom, and even longer before they return to the kitchen for a much-delayed dinner.

Valentina throws on a black jogging suit, not at all what she’d imagined she’d wear for their date, but it seems suitable when she clambers out of her wrecked bed.

They work side by side in the kitchen, cooking, chatting, sharing wine as though they’ve been a couple for years rather than minutes. She gets old white plates out of a top cupboard beside the cooker where he’s working. ‘You’ve changed a lot since we first met.’

The comment amuses him. ‘How so?’

‘More confident. More worldly.’ She puts down the plates and sits up on the work counter so she can see his face while he cooks. ‘Was that what living with Tina did for you?’

Tom feels uncomfortable for the first time. ‘I suppose.’

‘You don’t want to talk about her?’

‘Not really.’ He drops chopped onions into the heavy heated skillet to make a base for a sauce and begins to crush a garlic clove while musing on how much more he’s prepared to tell her. ‘It’s just over a year since we split up. I guess it was inevitable. You remember Tina, she was a professional woman determined to build a career and have a settled life. Me, I was an ex-priest determined to drift a bit and certainly not keen to have any responsibility after what happened in LA and Venice.’

Valentina remembers how she and Tom first met, how she was shocked at discovering that he’d accidentally killed two street thugs in LA who were attacking a woman near his old church. She remembers too the case in Venice she got him involved in and how they both nearly died solving it. She picks up her glass of wine and wonders whether it was the fact that they’d nearly died together that led to this moment when they slept together. She watches him chopping tomatoes while browning onions and somehow the picture of domesticity prompts her to ask a question she never thought she’d ask. ‘You loved Tina, didn’t you?’

He doesn’t look up from the sizzling onions. ‘Yes. I think so.’

‘You think so?’

‘I tried to. I wanted to.’ He slides the tomatoes into the pan, stirs with a wooden spatula and adds spices. ‘We both tried to, we both wanted to. You have to remember that Tina was my first relationship since leaving the priesthood. The first person I’d ever … you know. Certainly the only woman I’ve ever lived with.’

Valentina is surprised. ‘She was?’

‘Yes, she was.’ He smiles at her. ‘Despite what you read in the papers, most of the Catholic clergy don’t have active sex lives.’

She laughs. ‘Didn’t you — you know — have sex before you went into the priesthood?’

He seasons two substantial tuna steaks, adds them to the skillet and covers them in the rich tomato sauce. ‘I feel like you’re interviewing me again. Any second now your old boss Vito is going to walk in, and the two of you are going to give me the third degree all over again. Only this time it won’t be about a body in a canal; it’ll be about my sex life as a teenager.’

She leans towards him, not confrontationally, just enough to catch his eye and make sure he understands she’s playing with him, merely digging around a little to get to know him better. ‘If I were interviewing you, I’d be suspicious, Tom Shaman, because you just avoided answering my question.’

‘And I, Captain Morassi, would be asking for my lawyer and saying no comment. But as you seem determined to have a straight answer, no, I didn’t have a full sexual relationship with anyone before I became a priest.’

‘Aah, a President Clinton answer.’ She fakes a deep American voice, ‘I did not have a full sexual relationship with that woman.’ She leans on his shoulder. ‘But maybe there was a bit of fooling around, yes?’

He can’t believe she’s doing this to him. ‘Maybe. Now, can we change the subject? Or else I’m going to burn your food.’

‘Okay.’ Valentina knows she’ll have other opportunities to open him up. She swings herself down from the worktop and wanders across the apartment.

Tom tries to concentrate on the cooking. The whole process is a wonderfully therapeutic ceremony and one he fell in love with while in France.

A few minutes later Valentina calls to him, ‘Would you look at something for me? Give me a second opinion.’

‘Just a minute.’ He removes the skillet from the heat and slides the tuna on to pre-warmed plates. ‘Fantastico! Wait until you taste this.’

Valentina picks papers up from the sofa. ‘The woman we arrested, the one I told you about, she wrote down some strange things. I’ve got photocopies here.’

He carries the plates waiter-style, one across his wrist, the other on his palm, gripped by the tip of his fingers. ‘You want more wine?’

‘Not yet. Thanks.’ She taps the sofa. ‘Sit next to me. I’m sorry there’s no dining table. Not yet. Probably not ever in here, it’s too small.’

He hands over her plate and a knife and fork, ‘Buon appetito. I hope you like it.’

‘Looks good.’ She grins a little. ‘I’m sure it’s worth staying in for. Have a look at these while you eat.’

He takes the photocopied papers, smoothes them out on the arm of the sofa and tastes his food.

The tuna is cooked too little and the accompanying green beans boiled too much. So much for trying to make an impression.

He works slowly through the papers, wondering if he should offer to re-cook her fish. A glance across the room shows it’s not necessary. She’s almost finished.

He taps the paper as he reaches the end. ‘This is fascinating. What’s your prisoner like? Intelligence? Age? Looks?’

Valentina thinks for a second. ‘She’s late twenties. White. Italian — I think. Not very tall. Not very fat. Not very strong. In fact, not very anything. She’s mousey. Hasn’t spoken. The only communication has been through those written words, so I can’t really say how intelligent she is.’ Then she remembers something. ‘I did notice that her nails were all broken. Her hands looked rough — that is, once we cleaned the blood off them. So I’d guess she’s a manual worker rather than a brainier office type.’

‘Don’t write manual workers off as unintelligent.’ He wags a fork at her. ‘I washed dishes in every other kitchen in Paris; that doesn’t make me stupid.’

‘Never said it did. Why do you ask about her intelligence?’

Tom waggles the photocopy. ‘No spelling mistakes. Good grammar. She has an old-fashioned, formal and educated style of writing.’

The comment amuses Valentina.

‘She should have. She says she’s a noblewoman, of noble birth.’

‘The scene she wrote of is ancient Rome, certainly pre-Christ, and given the respectful references to the Senate, maybe even pre-Julius Caesar.’

Valentina’s impressed. ‘My, you are a smart old kitchen porter, aren’t you?’

‘Less of the old!’ He forks another bite of tuna, loads it with sauce and looks again at the paper. ‘The writer’s descriptions contain religious and ritualistic references; the whole thing is intriguingly riddled with allusions to secrets and truths. Do you know what the name Cassandra means?’

‘Nope. Can’t say I do.’ Valentina mops up the last of the sauce with a final forkful of fish. ‘I can’t believe I ate all this. You made me so hungry.’

‘Doom,’ says Tom, ‘Cassandra was a prophet of doom.’

17

Mother picks me out.

She takes me to one side, away from the others, and talks only to me.

I am special.

She tells me so.

I am Her favourite and I am to be called Melissa. I will be one of Her Melissae — Her little bees.

She speaks to me about Lagash, Anatolia, Phrygia, Crete and Malta. She talks of Hellenic and Roman civilisations, of the kings and emperors She’s known.

Of rulers who’ve worshipped Her.

Of fools who have ignored Her.

Of Her love for Attis, and how She killed him and then raised him from the dead.

‘Death and Life,’ She whispers in my ear, then speaks for a long time of creation and destruction and Her glorious part in it all.

The part I will play in the future.

Mother holds me to Her bosom and strokes my hair while teaching me how to change sea to sand and sand to grass. She tells me how together we will turn the grass to stone and the stone to marble and the marble to towers of glass and steel that will stretch beyond the sun.

There is nothing Mother cannot achieve. Nothing she cannot create.

Around us there are women of every race, every colour and every age. Mother could have picked any one of them, but She has chosen me.

I am special.

She tells me so.

Outside of the warm womb that is our temple, a pale moon rises and paints its whiteness on the naked flesh of my gathering sisters. The first sparks of a fire crackle close by. A large, flat stone is brought in, laden with bread and wine.

The Galli come.

They beat their drums, fine instruments made from skins of fish and goat, let loose a primal rhythm.

Mother catches it and shares it with us. She seals the rhythm inside us. It becomes our pulse. It flows through our genitals and rests in our wombs.

Mother tells me to close my eyes.

She tells me that She loves me. Loves me from the cool brow of Her stone-figured image on the heights of Mount Sipylus to the bloodstained soil of Rome where She now lies down with me.

I am not to be frightened of what She will do to me.

I am special.

She tells me so.

18

Sunday morning gathers around Valentina Morassi like a cool mountain mist.

She opens her eyes slowly and sees untidy puddles of pale daylight shimmering on the wooden bedroom floor.

Leakage from the real world.

An unwelcome clue that her night’s rest is over.

Not that she got much rest.

Valentina’s normally an eight-hours-a-night person. She squints at her Mickey clock and realises she’s had less than six.

Her own fault.

Hers and Tom’s.

The thought makes her smile. She’s happy to lose a lot more sleep if the man next to her is the reason why.

She has a plan for the day, and it’s a simple one.

Sleepy lovemaking. Breakfast in bed. Less sleepy lovemaking. Shower — dress — reluctantly think about work.

It’s all a nice change from her normal pattern of putting work first.

Great sex turns everything upside down.

Fill your body with pesky orgasms and suddenly your all-important life-defining job can go hang itself.

Valentina slides close to Tom and drifts her hand down his impressive rack of abdominal muscles.

He stirs a little.

Still asleep.

But not for long.

Before Valentina rouses him, she thinks about yesterday, about how nervous she was meeting him at the airport. About whether he would feel the same way about her as she did about him. Whether any sexual advance would jeopardise their friendship.

Then there was their first kiss.

It seems unfair that romance can live or die in only a few seconds or just a few words. Had she not been bold enough to ask that he kiss her ‘a proper hello’, then maybe nothing would have happened between them.

How many great loves have never happened because someone lacked the courage to make the first move?

She tries to clear her mind and return to the matter in hand.

Her right hand, to be precise.

Tom lets out a sigh that comes from so far inside of him it’s like the distant growl of an animal in a far-off jungle.

Her fingers bring the beast closer.

As he stretches and hardens, she kisses his back and presses her soft flesh against him.

He rolls over and looks at her. Eyes still sleepy, the colour of beaten pewter, but alive enough to show his pleasure at being with her.

Valentina doesn’t even let him say good morning. She presses her lips gently against his. She wants to capture the precious intimacy growing between them. Make sure it never escapes.

Her romantic thoughts and plans for the day come to an abrupt end.

The phone rings.

It’s bad news.

She knows it is.

Bad news has a way of preceding itself. Like the stench of rotting fish — you’re aware of it before you even see it. Similarly, the one thing you can’t do is ignore it.

‘Sorry,’ she says, in a breathy voice as soft as kitten fur.

Tom manages a moan of understanding.

The call is from Federico Assante. He gets straight to the point. ‘I’ve been rung by the hospital — it seems our prisoner had a good night. So good that she gave the staff a real name and apparently is willing to be interviewed.’

Valentina is surprised. ‘Who is she?’

He glances at his notes. ‘Suzanna someone. Hang on, I wrote it down. Now where is it? Grecoraci — Suzanna Grecoraci. Apparently, before we get to see her, the bossy doctor we met yesterday, Verdetti, wants to talk to us, and she’s only going to be at the unit for another hour.’

Valentina glances at the only thing she’s wearing, her watch; it’s not even nine a.m. Her tone gives away a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘I guess I can be there in twenty minutes. Does that work for you?’

Federico says it does and they agree to meet in reception.

She thinks about mentioning that she knows he called Major Caesario, but decides to save it until they’re face to face.

When she’s finished, Tom is sitting up in bed, bare-chested, hair tousled and eyes full of expectancy. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, ‘I have to go straight away. I’ll be back as soon as possible, promise.’ She wants to kiss him, a kiss just to apologise, to show he’s not second choice to work. But she daren’t.

One kiss won’t be enough.

One kiss will result in making her at least an hour late.

She dresses quickly. Smart black Armani jeans and a warm grey sweater. She’s still explaining her rushed exit as her head pops through the floppy cowl neck. ‘The woman in charge of the psych unit is difficult; I don’t want her to change her mind. I’m really sorry.’

‘Stop apologising. It’s not a problem.’ Tom is almost as fascinated watching her dress as he was watching her undress. ‘Do you think your colleagues have a camera on us?’

‘What?’

He peers up as though he’s searching for a lens hidden in the ceiling. ‘Only it seems that any time there’s a hint of romance between us, someone from the Carabinieri always rings.’

She laughs. ‘Don’t say that. We’re safe, I promise.’

‘If you like, I can grab the metro and meet you somewhere, when you know what time you’re finishing, and where you’re going to be.’

‘Could be an idea. I’ll call you. There’s food in the kitchen, but of course you know that from your shopping.’

‘Thanks. Have you got a computer, a laptop I can use?’

‘There’s a little Sony in a case in the lounge.’

‘Password?’

‘Electra.’

‘Elector?’

She chuckles. ‘No, Electra, as in the big Electra Glide that I’m going to one day treat myself to.’ Fully clothed, she now risks kissing him.

But only lightly.

Well, it starts lightly.

It’s meant to be just a peck, but it turns out to be more passionate. She pulls away and lets out an almost painful sigh.

Her thoughts about Tom — and that brief kiss — have a tingling and hypnotic effect that last throughout the drive from her home to the Policlinico.

Valentina only clears her head when she is inside the disinfectant-smelling hospital and approaching the psychiatric ward.

Federico is obediently waiting in reception, engrossed in a well-thumbed gossip magazine.

‘Buongiorno,’ he says amiably, dropping the mag and standing, ‘Verdetti’s waiting for us.’

She skips the pleasantries as they walk to the doctor’s office. ‘Tell me, Federico, did you call Caesario, or did he call you?’

He lets out a dismissive humph. ‘He is my boss — he asked that he be kept in touch, so I did as he asked.’

A good answer, but she’s not letting him off that lightly. ‘No. He’s not your boss. I am. I’m your immediate boss and you report directly to me.’ She waits for a reaction. He should look a little ashamed, a little afraid because he’s being dressed down for undermining a senior officer, but he doesn’t. He should be eager to apologise, say he’s sorry and promise not to do it again, but he clearly isn’t going to.

They stop outside Verdetti’s office and Valentina lets off more steam again. ‘Lieutenant, we have ranks and reporting procedures for good reasons, so make sure they are respected and followed in future. If Major Caesario needs informing of something, then I’ll do it. You report only to me, unless instructed otherwise. Do we understand each other?’

He shrugs and makes to open the door.

Valentina grabs his wrist and stops him. ‘I asked you a question. Do you understand the order I just gave you?’

He looks at her tight grip on his arm and reacts for the first time. A flush of colour to his face. A twitch of his Adam’s apple as he swallows and tries to stay calm. ‘I understand.’

‘Va bene.’ She lets go of his wrist and allows him to open the door.

19

We are below ground.

In the womb of the earth.

Mother’s womb.

When I am frightened down here, Mother comforts me. When I am filled with panic, She brings me special peace. It enters my lungs and calms me. Makes me see things differently.

And when She punishes me, I understand that it is for my own good.

I know that the pain I suffer is necessary.

Necessary to ensure that I keep the secret.

But I wish it would stop.

When I am fasting, the hunger gnaws inside my gut like a rat in the carcass of a cow, but that pain is nothing to the fires of humiliation that burn in my soul.

Mother says She will cure me. She will rid me of my anguish.

Whatever the price.

Whatever the pain and humiliation.

She says I should remember that it hurts Her more than it hurts me.

I will never forget.

She says that if I did better, if I earned Her trust, then She wouldn’t have to do these things to me. Wouldn’t need to teach me Her lessons.

I tell Her I am trying.

I am trying very hard to learn.

But then She laughs at me.

Not a nice laugh.

Not the laugh a mother should share with a daughter.

She stares into my eyes and tells me She has Her doubts.

Says She wonders if I am worth it.

Worth all the effort that She puts in.

I am frightened.

She puts Her face close to mine and She tells me that She knows what I’m doing.

Knows that I am letting ‘the others’ in.

She laughs again.

The not-very-nice laugh.

I try to look away, but She grabs my face and forces me to look at Her. She says that She knows about them and will find them and punish them as well.

She will trap them and make them all one.

Make them all Hers.

I tell Mother there are no others.

But She knows.

Mother beats me again.

She sticks cloth in my mouth so I can’t scream. So ‘the others’ can’t hear me.

Then She teaches me Her lessons.

And when She’s done, She leaves me.

Alone.

In the dark.

Underground.

In the safety of Her womb.

20

Tom showers and shaves. He pulls on black Levis and a black shirt.

A passing glance in the mirror appals him.

Bar a dab of white on the collar, he looks like a priest.

He changes the shirt for a green one made from thick Egyptian cotton. One warm enough never to need a jumper over the top.

He pulls out his cell phone and sends a text message to the only old friend he has in Rome, Alfredo Giordano. Being Sunday, he knows exactly where Alfie is, and it’s not the kind of place where you can have a phone ringing.

He’s at church.

Saying Mass.

While he waits for Alfie to reply, Tom makes espresso as thick as treacle and fires up Valentina’s Vaio. There’s mail stacked high in his AOL account, but that’s not what he’s looking for.

He finds several Google entries for ‘Cassandra Prophet of Doom’ and is pleased his basic grasp of Greek mythology hasn’t completely deserted him. Cassandra, also known as Alexandra, was the daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba of Troy. She was so beautiful that Apollo granted her the gift of prophecy.

Tom vaguely remembers that Sassy Cassy spent a night at Apollo’s temple, and when she fell asleep, magical snakes licked her ears so clean she was able to hear the future.

Neat trick.

If only you could order a couple of snakes like that from iwantoneofthose.com.

After a little searching, he tracks down Cassandra’s family tree. Her father Priam was the son of Laomedon and grandson of Ilus and ruled during the Trojan War. Tom becomes lost and bored as he traces the generations back through Trus, Erichthonius and Dardanus, but he feels compelled to complete the task.

He makes another espresso and is pleased when he recalls that Dardanus was the son of Zeus and Electra.

No Harleys back in those days!

The temporary amusement disappears when he reads that the wife of Dardanus was Batea, the daughter of a king called Teucer.

Teucer.

He sits back from the computer.

Until a few years ago, the name Teucer had never meant anything to him.

But then there was Venice.

In Venice, he became more than familiar with it.

Teucer was the name at the centre of a case that stretched back six hundred years before Christ. A case that almost killed him and Valentina.

He comforts himself with hard logic. These are different Teucers.

Very different.

One was from Greece and ruled Troy. The other was from Etruria and was part of a dark satanic legend.

But he can’t help but add up the coincidences.

A crazed woman believing she is Cassandra, who is a dark descendant of Teucer, turns up covered in blood after a ritual dismemberment at a legendary site of truth and justice. On its own it’s disturbing.

That it should happen at exactly the time that Tom is visiting Valentina is more troubling. It’s almost as though fate — or God — has decreed that he has to be here.

That this is the place where he is needed.

He puts his hand to his lip.

It’s bleeding again.

Outside the window he hears church bells ringing. The sound of Mass beginning makes him check his phone to see if there’s a message from Alfie.

There is.

Tom reads it and can barely believe his eyes.

21

Louisa Verdetti looks up from the paperwork on her desk and over the top of her black-framed spectacles. ‘Please, sit down.’

Valentina and Federico pull up chairs.

The director updates them. ‘The lady you brought in seems stable and calm this morning. Certainly well enough for you to interview, though we haven’t yet had time to do the full range of diagnostic checks that we’d like.’

Federico flips open his notebook. ‘Suzanna Grecoraci. Has she said where she’s from? How old she is?’

Verdetti smiles. ‘She has. She’s from Corviale, she’s twenty-seven years old and has two children. They’re called Carina and Carlo. The girl’s five and the boy three.’

‘Poor kids.’ The lieutenant starts to write down their details and wonders how they’re going to react when they find out their mother is as nutty as a fruitcake and is going to be locked up for a long time.

‘Save your ink,’ interrupts Verdetti. ‘That’s not who she is. And her children don’t exist.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Valentina looks perplexed.

‘We checked our computer network systems for her medical records. No one by that name is on the local register. Nor are either of her children.’

Federico has formed such a strong image of the children that he can’t now clear them from his mind. ‘Maybe the family only just moved to Rome? You know how bad this city is at keeping records.’

‘No,’ insists Verdetti. ‘We found several Suzanna Grecoracis in the area. None of them is the right age, marital or parental status to be her.’

Valentina spreads her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘I still don’t get it. Why would she lie about this? We’ve arrested her and she’s going to jail.’

‘Probably not.’ Verdetti lets the shock of her response sink in and then explains. ‘Suzanna is another alter — another personality that steps forward in the host body to take control.’

Valentina shakes her head. ‘So we have Cassandra and Suzanna. Two alters? Two personalities other than that of the real person?’

‘That’s right. We call the real person the host. The host may be taken over by multiple personalities.’

‘How many is multiple?’ asks Federico.

Louisa tries to keep it simple. ‘That all depends. Usually, the number of alters is determined by the levels of trauma in the host’s life. The more trauma, the greater the multiple of personalities.’

The two police officers exchange looks. They know that what Verdetti has just said is the kind of expert testimony that would ensure their prisoner would never face criminal charges.

The clinician interrupts their ponderings. ‘As I said, you can see her, but I must insist on being in the room as well.’

Valentina nods. ‘Capiamo.’

‘Va bene.’ Verdetti pushes back her chair and leads the way.

Valentina is revising her opinion of the director. Sure, she’s stern. Maybe a bit of a control freak as well. But she’s impressively professional and must have the patience of a saint to deal with people as disturbed as Suzanna, or whoever she really is. And — on top of all that — she’s wearing a pair of black Gucci sneakers that Valentina would kill for.

The doctor opens the door.

Suzanna is sitting in a chair by her bed.

She doesn’t look in the least bit intimidated by the sight of the Carabinieri officers.

Verdetti makes the introductions. ‘Suzanna, these police officers would like to ask you some questions. Are you okay with that?’

‘Of course.’ She sits up straight and smiles. Valentina and Federico pull over some hard-backed visitors’ chairs.

Federico cautiously starts the ball rolling. ‘You say you’re Suzanna Grecoraci from Corviale. You are married and have two children — is that right?’

Her face lights up. ‘It is. I have two beautiful children. God has been very kind to me; they’re my angels.’

‘I’m sure they are. Where exactly are they now?’ asks Valentina.

‘With their father, Romano. He’s travelling the world with them.’ She looks a little sad. ‘They’re in Australia at the moment.’

‘Australia.’ Valentina repeats the word for no reason other than the fact that she can’t yet get a grasp on what’s unfolding.

‘Yes, I know that’s a very long way away.’ Suzanna laughs nervously. ‘Romano’s parents are down there. They’re very old and not in good health, so he wanted them to see their grandchildren — you know, one last time.’

Valentina tries to sound sympathetic. ‘Why didn’t you go with them?’

‘Oh, that’s a long story.’ She looks embarrassed. ‘I have a fear of flying. I’ve never been in an aeroplane. Don’t think I ever will.’

Valentina nods understandingly. ‘Do you recognise me, Suzanna? Do you remember where and when we met before?’

It’s clear from her face that she doesn’t. ‘No, no, I’m afraid I don’t. I hadn’t thought we’d met until now.’ She glances towards the doctor. ‘No one has given me your names, so I’m afraid you’re both strangers to me.’

Valentina keeps her tone non-judgemental. ‘I visited you in a police cell in Viale Romania and you attacked me.’

Suzanna looks shocked. ‘Oh no. That’s not possible. I’d never attack anyone. I’ve never hurt anyone or anything in my whole life.’

Verdetti tries to help everyone out. ‘If it wasn’t you, Suzanna, then who could it have been?’

‘One of the others, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She thinks for a while. ‘Well, if it was one of the others, it was most likely Claudia.’

‘Not Cassandra?’ queries Valentina. ‘Cassandra seems to be mixed up in a lot of bad things. Could it have been her?’

Suzanna stays quiet.

Federico sees an opportunity to push further. ‘Unless of course there is no Cassandra, and you’re lying about all this.’ He leans forward on the edge of his chair. ‘Are you lying, Suzanna? Are you making all this up?’

Valentina tries to cut him off. ‘Federico …’

He scents blood and won’t stop. ‘You don’t have any husband, or children. You’re just inventing all this rubbish about “others” because you’ve seriously hurt someone and now you’re trying to act crazy to avoid the consequences of your actions. Aren’t you?’

Suzanna grows tense.

The lieutenant presses his point. ‘Best tell us the truth now, before you make things worse.’

Valentina studies the prisoner. She no longer looks nervous.

She seems angry.

Angry in a peculiarly restrained way. Like a politician or a headmistress when they’re under pressure.

‘I think you should go now,’ says Verdetti, sensing a mood change. ‘This may have been a bad idea. It’s too soon for her to face this kind of thing.’

Valentina ignores her. Her eyes are still locked on the prisoner and the extraordinary look on her face. If she turns violent again, she’ll be ready this time.

The patient stands and starts to pace the room, mumbling to herself.

She turns and glares at them.

Her face is filled with rage.

Her whole body shape has transformed into someone more powerful and more confident.

‘Juno inferna! How dare you common plebs question my veracity? How in the name of Zeus dare you?’ She shoots Federico a contemptuous look. ‘Sweet Veritas should geld you for your impudence.’ She strides to within a foot of Valentina. ‘And you, girl — you are but a trollop with a mouth made loose by pleasuring too much cock. Now get out! Get out of my sight before I have you tied to the wheel of a chariot and whipped.’

Valentina gives Louisa a shocked look. ‘Is this Cassandra? The Cassandra in the note she wrote?’

The doctor looks worried. ‘Perhaps. Will you and your colleague please wait outside?’

‘Yes! Yes, I am Cassandra.’ She strides defiantly towards them. ‘And Cassandra is too proud to have whores like you speaking about her in whispers.’

The clinician opens the door and again urges the officers out. ‘I have to insist that you go.’

Federico turns to Valentina for guidance and she gives him an assenting nod.

They slip outside and close the door.

Valentina hears one final outburst from inside the room.

‘I know what you want. Oh yes, I know exactly what you and the snuffling pigs in that septic Senate want. I will never tell you. I would rather take my secret to the grave than tell you. You want the book, don’t you? You want to get your hands on it and ruin everything. Well, it will never happen. Never!’

22

The new one tries to hide her fear, but I see it.

We all see it.

It is glazed in the whiteness of her eyes as they lower her into the pit. Pass her into the womb of the earth.

She is naked and pink. Curled and cowed like a foetus.

Her soft, virgin skin is like a dropped silk handkerchief in the centuries-old soil. She sits on a cushion of earth, encrusted with the dried blood of many sacrifices.

Soon there will be more.

Above her, the drumming begins.

It starts like the peck of a bird, becomes the thump of a hoof, and grows into the stampede of cattle.

Taurobolium has begun.

The new one peeks through her fingers into the blackness above her and sees the first flickers of our lights.

I feel for her.

I envy her.

I love her and hate her.

We are lighting candles around the edge of the triangular pit.

Her eyes catch mine and I fail to see what is so special about her. They say she is ‘the one’.

The favoured one.

But I see nothing that will stop me usurping her.

Nothing that will prevent me from taking my rightful place in line.

The Korybantes dance their way to the front, naked but for their shields, swords and helmets.

The sound of metal on metal makes a sinister percussion.

The steel is there to slice.

To cut.

To kill.

There is an orgiastic surge in the music.

The Galli begin their chanting.

We gather closer and bond tightly with our sisters from Babylonia, Syria, Asia Minor, Etruria and Anatolia.

The nine Korybantes are joined with the three magical Dactyls.

We are all one.

The music, drumming and chanting reaches its climax.

The goddess is here!

Our Mother has arrived.

She holds aloft the hands that eight thousand years ago dug into the earth of Çatal Hüyük, the hands that spread the soil of time while She gave birth flanked by leopards.

We all scream.

Scream so loud our spirits almost fly from our throats.

Somewhere down in the blackness, the special one gathers the fine clothes we have sewn for her and dresses herself.

She moves to the centre of the pit.

The limbs of eunuchs strain on thick ropes and the rafters creak.

Above us, a bull that has trod pastures for six summers bucks in its harness.

Then it thrashes no more.

The blades open up its sacred rivers of blood and they pour down on the libation boards across the pit.

My sister showers in the animal’s life force.

She dances joyously as the blood from the Bull of Heaven purifies her.

Now she is born again — for eternity.

Unless I can stop her.

23

Father Giordano is covering for a friend and working a double shift.

That said, he’s doing it at a place where priests don’t mind putting in unspecified amounts of unpaid overtime.

St Peter’s.

Or, to give the greatest building of its age its full name, the Basilica Papale di San Pietro Vaticano.

Tom has scurried across the city to be there for Alfie’s final appearance of the day, and already all the effort is worthwhile.

The basilica is breathtaking.

Tom can’t think of any other way to describe it. The beauty of the vast seventeenth-century façade built of pale travertine stone, with its giant Corinthian columns, makes him dizzy.

Then there’s the inside.

The spectacularly arched entrance with its heavenly stained glass just about holds Tom’s eyes before they fix on Michelangelo’s central dome, still the tallest in the world at more than a hundred and thirty-six metres. Then there’s the basilica’s wonderful nave, narthex, portals and bays to feast on, before his favourite visual treat, the main altar, with Bernini’s astonishing bronze baldacchino, a pavilion-like structure that stands almost a hundred feet high and looks even taller.

St Peter’s is visual gluttony. No sense is left unstuffed. No emotion left sober.

Mass is said at altars great and small throughout the cavernous building, so Tom has to search a while before he finds his friend in the relatively modest Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament.

Modest is the wrong word.

The gilded bronze Bernini tabernacle alone is worth more than the entire church that Tom last officiated in.

He kneels with the rest of the congregation and can’t help but feel proud of his tall ginger-haired friend as he works his way gracefully and passionately through the service.

For Tom, the Mass is over all too quickly.

He settles back in a pew and enjoys the peace while he waits for Alfie to change and reappear. Few places in the world have the intense silence of a church, and he still finds it the most effective place to examine his own thoughts.

And right now there are lots of them.

Was it smart to rush into a relationship with Valentina?

What does she expect from it?

Where does he hope it will go?

How is it most likely to end?

So many thoughts. All backed up and jostling for attention like closing-time drinkers in a city-centre bar.

Looking back, he can see that they grew close after the death of her cousin Antonio. But maybe there was always a spark between them. Some genetic trigger that attracts people and compels them to be together was pulled.

But he thinks there’s more than that.

More than just the physical.

He admires her strength and ambition, respects her individuality and her determination to make a go of things on her own. He loves her sense of humour and her desire to do good.

Yes, Tom concludes, it was smart to throw himself into a relationship with her. Chances of happiness don’t exactly queue up outside your door and knock noisily for an appointment. Especially if you’re an ex-priest with no job, no home and no savings.

He looks up from the old dark wood of the pews and sees Alfie, his face beaming as brightly as the winter sunshine filtering through Michelangelo’s dome. The service is over.

‘Well, if it isn’t the planet’s most troublesome ex-priest.’ He opens his arms.

Tom embraces him warmly and puts a hand gently to his face. ‘You looked magnificent up there, my friend. I’m so proud of you. How did you end up saying Mass in here?’

Alfie puts an arm around Tom and guides him towards the door. ‘A long story, best told over hot coffee and Italy’s finest pastries.’

‘Sounds heavenly.’

‘Sufficient to say it was God’s will. That and the fact that innumerable first choices went down with a severe dose of the shits after a very poor communal meal.’

24

The hospital cafeteria is sickeningly warm and smells queasily of hot fat and bleach.

Over barely warm coffee and day-old croissants, Valentina and Federico try to make sense of what’s just happened.

Not that there’s much to make sense of.

The woman prisoner is bark-at-the-moon mad. And from the quick check Federico does with HQ, there’s still no sign of a victim.

When the dregs of a poor espresso have been drained, Lieutenant Assante heads off with instructions to write up his notes, mail them to Valentina and not mention the case to anyone else until she tells him to. He resents the tightness of her leash, but with any luck he’ll be off it and back with his wife and family by lunchtime.

Valentina’s about to call Tom when she’s struck by an urge to return to the ward. If nothing else, she’d like to learn more from Louisa Verdetti about the patient’s latest outburst, providing of course the director hasn’t already left.

She has.

Her office is empty. Lights out. Blinds down. Door locked.

It looks like most of the nursing staff have gone too. No doubt the skeleton Sunday crew has been stretched to invisibility doing routine jobs.

Valentina takes advantage of the slack supervision. She flashes her ID at the guard in the corridor and within a minute is once again face to face with Suzanna.

‘Hi. How you doing?’ She closes the door gently behind her.

The young woman is sitting up in bed, hunched over a wooden roller tray, the type patients are served meals on.

She glances towards the captain but doesn’t say anything.

Valentina makes small talk as she heads her way. ‘You look as though you’re busy. Are they making you work for your stay?’

A tiny voice comes back. The voice of a sad child. ‘Mommy says I have to do my homework. She says if I don’t get it done I’m not going to be allowed to go with Daddy when he comes for me. Do you know what time it is?’

Valentina stays calm. ‘Plenty of time, honey. You’ve got plenty of time. What’s your name?’

She doesn’t look up from her writing. ‘Suzanna.’

Valentina is relieved. ‘That’s right. Suzanna Grecoraci, I remember now.’

‘No, silly. That’s not my name. I’m Suzanna Fratelli. I’m only eight. Suzanna Grecoraci is the name of that old lady, the one who is friends with the others.’ She looks up and gives Valentina a childish giggle. ‘You must be really silly to mix us up.’ She adds a critical stare to her facial repertoire. ‘Have you been drinking? My daddy mixes things up when he’s been drinking.’

Valentina moves closer to her. ‘No, I haven’t. Do other people mix you up?’

‘Sometimes.’ She looks down and works some more on the paper in front of her. ‘The others call me Little Suzie; that way when I leave notes and things they don’t get us confused.’

‘The others? What others are they?’

‘You know. The others, the ones who live in here with us.’

Valentina’s out of her depth and she knows it. ‘How many, Suzie? How many others are there?’

Suzie stops her work and counts them off on her fingers. ‘More than that!’ She holds up two outstretched hands, fingers spread wide. ‘Lots more.’

‘Really?’ Valentina works her way around so she can see over Suzie’s shoulder. ‘That’s really good. What is it?’

Suzie moves her hands to reveal a large crayoned drawing. ‘Romans. Do you like Romans?’

‘Some of them.’ Valentina leans closer. The crayoning is good. She can easily identify Roman soldiers, a crowd, senators in togas and — she has to look twice — a woman with her hand in the mouth of a giant white disc.

The Bocca della Verità.

‘That’s blood!’ says Suzie, jabbing excitedly at a smear of red. ‘It’s from Cassandra.’

The background of the drawing is filled with strange shapes: a sun, maybe a moon, and some badly drawn stars, so bad they’re more triangular and lopsided than star-shaped.

‘Cassandra is having her hand cut off,’ explains Suzie, almost as though she were recalling a favourite fairy tale. ‘It’s because she won’t tell them about the secret.’

‘Oooh, it looks nasty.’ Valentina rubs her own wrist. ‘What secret is that?’

Suzie frowns. ‘I don’t know. It’s Cassandra’s secret and she never tells. No matter what.’

There are sounds outside the door. A trolley being wheeled into an adjacent room. A woman’s voice talking loudly.

Suzie looks scared. ‘You should go now.’ She glances nervously towards the door. ‘If you don’t go, Momma will find you — then you’ll be sorry.’

Valentina gives her a reassuring smile. ‘I’m a policewoman, Suzie; nothing bad is going to happen while I’m here. I promise you.’

Fear takes Suzie’s voice up another ten decibels. ‘Please go! I don’t want you in here. If you don’t go, Momma will take it out on me and she won’t let Daddy come.’

The trolley is on the move again. They can hear its wheels squeaking. The door to the room next to them is opening. Valentina is desperate to ask more about Cassandra — about the secret — but she can see it would be pointless.

The poor girl is petrified.

She’ll come back and do it when she’s had time to gather her thoughts and think the whole crazy thing through a little more.

She gives Suzie a smile and moves away to open the door. ‘Don’t worry, no one will hurt you. I’ll come back tomorrow and make sure you’re all right.’

Suzie doesn’t reply.

She’s already pulled the bed sheet above her head and curled herself into a tight ball.

25

There is whispering in the womb.

Hushed voices.

Confidential tones.

But I hear them.

I lie curled up, pretending to be asleep, but I hear all their secrets and their laughter.

Mother and the special one — the favoured one — are together.

They are out of sight, hidden in the darkness, but their sentences fly like birds and nest in my ears.

It is easy for me to picture them there.

Easy but painful.

They sit side by side and Mother has her arm fondly around her. She strokes my sister’s hair and tells her how beautiful she is.

The most beautiful of all of us.

She tells her how clever she is.

By far the cleverest among us.

And She tells her how like Her she is.

And how She likes her the most.

The others want me to run away.

Escape.

They say they know how and can set me free.

They tell me they have done it before — in Phrygia, in Crete, in Anatolia, in Etruria, Hellas and Rome.

They can do it again.

But I know Mother will stop them. She will stop them and She will stop me.

And deep inside I feel that I don’t want to escape.

I want to belong.

I want to be the one to sit beneath Mother’s outstretched arm and be cherished and confided in.

I strain to listen.

I wait patiently for the word birds to nest again in my ears.

They are coming now, their beaks heavy with secrets carried from centuries long ago.

They drop them gently and I pick through them.

Precious stories about the kings of Rome, the Seven Hills of the Eternal City, the Prophecies.

And more.

The Tenth Book.

The secrets of the Tenth Book.

These are the scraps I am left as the voices fade in the darkness of the womb.

Now there is only silence, darkness and one thing else.

The silent screaming of my mind.