Francesca covered the boy and looked into Fabrizio’s eyes, lit up with a sudden realization.
Fabrizio sat at the computer and called up the image of the lad of Volterra.
‘Do you see this?’ he asked Francesca.
‘This spot? It’s right over his liver, exactly where Angelo has his.’
Francesca shook her head.
‘What are you thinking?’ Fabrizio said.
‘What do you think I’m thinking? Angelo could have got that bruise in all kinds of ways. He’s a kid and kids are always getting hurt. Why? What do you think?’
‘What should I think?’ replied Fabrizio. ‘Here we have an apparently impossible sequence of events building up to a situation that we cannot ignore. The first time I heard the howl was the night the tomb containing the remains of the Phersu was opened, with its jumble of human and animal bones. Now that I’ve translated the inscription, I know that a horrible punishment was inflicted unjustly on a great, valiant Volterran warrior, Turm Kaiknas. At the same time I discover who the slender bronze statue of the boy in the museum portrays: little Velies Kaiknas, the son of Turm and his wife, Anait, the boy who was cruelly murdered together with his mother by their king, Lars Thyrrens.’
‘Wait a minute,’ protested Francesca, feeling as if she was grasping at straws. ‘All that is in your inscription?’
Fabrizio remembered his dream and went on as if Francesca hadn’t opened her mouth: ‘The inscription that speaks of this atrocity was carved by Aule Tarchna, Anait’s brother, diviner and priest of Sethlans, the god of lightning. He curses those responsible for the crime, and those seven curses are inscribed on to the bronze slab . . .’
Francesca’s scepticism crumbled all at once and her eyes filled with the same terror that had gripped her when they were underground.
Fabrizio continued: ‘When I’ve finished my work here, I’m sure well know what fate awaits us.’
H
E WORKED
on for two more hours, fighting off the deadly fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him. Francesca was dozing in a chair and her regular breathing mixed with that of Angelo, who was still deeply asleep on the couch.
The last barriers to understanding fell one after another, the last knots unravelled and the ancient text unwound – with a very few residual uncertainties and a couple of small gaps – before his eyes:
Aule Tarchna thus inscribes seven curses
over the death of the Phersu
May the beast [escape-leave?] [his] tomb
May the hate and revenge of Turm and the [force] of the beast
sow death among the sons of Velathri
May they die as he lives again
to take [his] revenge
May they scream in terror and [anguish?]
and vomit blood
May they die devoured by the beast
May the beast devour the throat
of [all those] who lied with their throats
[those who falsely accused] an innocent man.
He wiped a handkerchief over his sweaty brow and his head dropped in exhaustion. At that moment he heard a soft sound and he turned. Francesca was standing there in front of him.
‘Have you finished?’ she asked.
‘I still have a couple of lines to go. The nightmare is nearly complete. Have a look.’
Francesca leaned over and read the text that Fabrizio had transcribed on the computer screen.
‘What about the seventh?’ she asked.
‘The part I’ve managed to translate is here,’ said Fabrizio, showing her a notebook page full of arrows and corrections.
‘Can you read it to me?’
Fabrizio read, his voice hoarse:
‘The seventh death will [never] stop
The beast will continue to kill
[as long as] there is blood [to drink] in Velathri.
‘Do you know how many people have been killed? Six. All Volterrans of many generations.’
‘Good God. It feels like I’m living in a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.’
‘Here, take a look at this yourself.’
Francesca’s eyes glazed over with tears.
‘Then this little boy shows up. No one knows who he is or where he comes from. But he says that in that awful place, in the palazzo, is his father.’
‘The man in the painting, Jacopo Ghirardini,’ offered Francesca.
‘If it is him in the picture and if he is Angelo’s father. It seems that no one knows anything about Jacopo Ghirardini. Unless, perhaps, Ambra Reiter, but I can’t see her telling us about it, unless Reggiani manages to convince her somehow—’
As he was speaking, the phone rang. Fabrizio lifted the receiver and mouthed to Francesca, ‘Guess who?’
‘What was that?’ asked Reggiani’s voice at the other end.
‘I said, “Speak of the Devil and he will appear”,’ answered Fabrizio. ‘We were just talking about you.’
‘Saying bad things, I imagine.’
‘Obviously. What’s up?’
‘That little boy you’ve got there—’
Angelo.’
‘If that’s his name. He arrived in Volterra five years ago when he was four, or perhaps a little less, with Reiter, who claimed to be his mother. They say that she was quite a beautiful woman, and that there was something between her and the count . . .’
‘No kidding! What else did you find out?’
‘About the child? Very little. We’re sending out a photo that one of our computer guys has touched up to make his face look five years younger. The program he’s using was developed by headquarters and they say it’s uncannily good. We’ll be sending the image around to all the police and carabiniere stations and to Interpol abroad. Maybe he’ll be recognized.’
‘That seems like an excellent idea,’ said Fabrizio, looking over at the sleeping child. The thought that they might find out who Angelo really was and that he’d have to be given back made him unhappy and uneasy, and he imagined that Francesca felt the same, from the way she was gazing at him.
‘Listen, there’s more, but not over the phone. I’ll come by to get you. I’m already in the car . . . I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Be ready. We don’t have much time.’
He hung up.
‘So what did he say?’ asked Francesca.
‘Angelo arrived in Volterra five years ago, when he was more or less four. So it’s very unlikely that he’s Jacopo Ghirardini’s son. Although there may have been a relationship later between the count and Ambra Reiter. She certainly has the keys to the palace, the boy told us that himself. She’s the one who locked us in, no doubt about it.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Francesca. ‘But then, who is the child’s father?’
‘He knows that his father lives in the palace, but the only image he’s ever seen is the one in the painting. There may be another reality that he can’t even imagine . . .’
‘No, you can’t be thinking what I think you are,’ objected Francesca. ‘That’s pure folly, Fabrizio!’
‘You think so? Then how can you explain that that bloodthirsty monster pulled up short like a puppy dog in front of the boy? You saw it yourself. Didn’t we both think we were staring death in the face just a moment before? And how do you explain a nine-year-old child standing up to a murderous beast? It was as if a supernatural force were watching over him. Any other kid his age would have become hysterical or passed out.’
‘He almost did.’
‘No. In reality, he dominated the situation. He moved as if he knew exactly what to do. He actually ran towards the beast while you and I were paralysed with fear. And the mark that he has on his right side where his liver is, it’s in exactly the same place as the spot that comes out when you X-ray the statue. Francesca, I think I understand. Do you remember the big underground chamber cut in the tufa underneath the Caretti-Riccardi palace?’
‘Where we found Angelo?’
‘Right. It was reworked in medieval times, but it’s still recognizable. It’s a large Etruscan chamber tomb from the fifth century
BC
. It must have been the Kaiknas necropolis.’
‘You know that’s impossible. The necropolises were always outside the city.’
‘Exactly. What makes you think that the area of the Caretti-Riccardi palace was inside the walls of the Etruscan city? Didn’t we see a section of the walls underground? Anyway, it’s easily checked. I’m sure the survey records will prove me right.’
‘That might be,’ agreed Francesca, very confused now.
‘I’m sure of it. The animal’s den is down there because there’s an Etruscan graveyard down there. The Kaiknas family tomb. Where Turm would have been buried had he died honourably, with his sword in his hand and his shield on his arm. As a warrior instead of as a scoundrel with his head tied in a sack, torn to pieces by a starving beast . . .’
Fabrizio stopped because Francesca’s eyes were staring and flashing a message at him. A warning: be quiet.
Fabrizio turned instinctively and found the boy behind him. On his feet, his eyes wide open and filled with pain and surprise.
‘Angelo, I-I . . .’ he stammered.
Just then, the roar of an engine was heard and the screeching of tyres on gravel. Francesca went to open the door for Reggiani.
‘No time to waste, friends,’ the lieutenant called out, without even crossing the threshold. ‘Are you ready, Fabrizio?’
Fabrizio had a moment of uncertainty. He looked at Angelo and then at Francesca, who gave him a quick nod of reassurance.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I’m ready.’
He took his leather jacket from a hook, gave Francesca a kiss and touched the boy’s cheek, then got into Reggiani’s car, slamming the door hard. It was only a few seconds before the roar of the powerful engine faded into the distance.
Francesca stood at the doorway with Angelo, who was squeezing her hand. She closed the door then and knelt to talk with him.
‘You looked scared before. Fabrizio was telling a story of something that happened a long, long time ago. You needn’t be frightened.’
Angelo did not answer.
‘Are you hungry?’
The boy shook his head.
‘Do you want to go back to bed? Are you still tired?’
Another shake.
‘OK. Then just sit down here for a little while and wait. There’s something I have to do.’
She went to the computer, opened the files with the inscription and the comparison chart and began working on the last two lines of the text. Fabrizio had already put the words in sequence and had hypothesized a grammatical structure. All that remained was to give meaning to the words. There had been no time to analyse the shadows of the opisthographic Latin text on the back of the slab. They could only work on the basis of the part that had already been translated, so Francesca hoped she wouldn’t run into any words that had not already appeared.
Angelo sat in front of her with his hands on his knees, without moving, for the entire time she was working on the inscription. It was late afternoon when Francesca had managed to decipher enough terms to understand the general meaning of the last part of the text. She picked up where Fabrizio had ended:
The beast will continue to kill
[as long as] there is blood [to drink] in Velathri
[Only] if the beast is separated from the man
will vengeance be served [be placated]
[Only] if the son is [returned] to the father.
Francesca turned to the child with her eyes full of tears, while somewhere in the distance, at that same moment, rose the howl of the chimera. Angelo jumped a little and turned in the direction of that long beastly lament, then looked back at Francesca.
‘We have to go,’ she said. ‘There’s not a minute to lose.’
She scribbled a message on a sheet of paper, left a bunch of keys on top, took the child by the hand and left the house, closing the door behind her.
17
‘D
O YOU REMEMBER
the yellow mud?’ asked Lieutenant Reggiani as soon as they turned on to the regional road.
‘Of course. I noticed it right away.’
‘You were right. I searched Ambra Reiter’s place at Le Macine using a metal detector, with the guys from the archaeological protection agency, and we found a shitload of stuff down there: bucchero pottery, candelabra, shields and helmets, incredible jewellery, even a war chariot.’
‘Yeah, I suspected as much.’
‘We also have pretty solid proof that the slab of Volterra was stored in that underground room for a number of days, perhaps even several weeks. There are traces of oxide on the damp mud and I’ve had them analysed. They were left by a bronze slab of an approximately rectangular shape.’
‘I’m not surprised. How did she get in and out?’
‘From behind the bar counter. That’s how she appeared that day from out of nowhere.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She wasn’t there when we searched the place, and I’m glad she wasn t. My plan was that if we found nothing, we would leave on tiptoe as we’d come in. But since all that treasure was found, I left Massaro there with three of the guys in hiding. When she waltzed in they arrested her; she’d been caught red-handed, all the objects were still in place and there was no way she could deny anything.’
‘Have you already interrogated her?’
‘No, I had her taken to headquarters. I’d like you to see the underground chamber and then, if you like, you can sit in on the interrogation. Undercover, that is. I know how tired you are, but I think it’s essential that you be there . . . then I’ll let you sleep.’
‘Sleep,’ groaned Fabrizio. ‘I don’t even know what the word means any more.’
They turned off on to the country lane that led to Le Macine and Reggiani parked in the courtyard. Sergeant Massaro was there waiting for them at the door. He put a hand to his visor and offered Fabrizio an embarrassed hello, mindful of the hours he’d spent guarding an empty house.