Daughter of Ashes, page 15
“Now? What’s happened?”
“Nothing, but can you come? I need to talk to you.”
Lavinia was the only person who had survived the scorching desert of human connection that Sebastiano had painstakingly created around Teresa. Lavinia was her friend and her sister-in-law. She had been the one to introduce her to Sebastiano. Like the rest of their family, she had embraced the medical profession, and like her twin brother, she had chosen to delve into the human mind; he had become a psychiatrist, while she was a psychologist.
Teresa had lost track of how many times she had asked herself whether Lavinia would be willing to help her. She still didn’t know the answer, but something told her that her time was running out. She had to ask for help. If not for herself, then for Sebastiano.
“At least tell me what’s the matter, Teresa. You don’t sound like yourself. Are you unwell?”
“It’s not me.”
“Then who?”
“It’s . . . Sebastiano.”
“Sebastiano is sick?”
Yes. Yes.
“Teresa?”
Sebastiano was right there, staring at her. He’d arrived without a sound, as if moving at the farthest reaches of other people’s perception were no longer merely a habit, but an unalterable aspect of his being. There was something predatory in his behavior—something nocturnal.
Teresa mumbled into the receiver.
“It’s not urgent. I’ll call you back.” She hung up, ignoring Lavinia’s questions.
“Who was it?”
“Lavinia.”
“Was she the one who called?”
Telling him the truth was no longer a virtue, but a necessity. Who could say how much he’d heard?
“No, I did. I called her.”
“Why?”
“I just . . . I just needed to talk to someone.”
He spread his arms.
“Here I am.”
Teresa felt a tingling in her belly, a gentle tremor running through her womb and making her skin quiver.
“So? Why aren’t you talking?”
“I forgot my notebook in the office. I should go back and get it. I have to finish this report.”
Sebastiano stood in her path.
“There’s obviously something else you want to finish. Our relationship. Is that what you were about to tell Lavinia?”
“No!”
“No?”
“Let me through, Sebastiano.”
“So this is how you talk to me now?”
He raised his hand in that gesture she had come to know far too well, its shadow falling onto her, corrupting her even before the blow.
Teresa said the only thing she thought might save her.
She spoke the words, and the moment she had uttered them, she realized she had made a mistake she would never be able to forgive herself for.
“I’m pregnant.”
23
Today
MASSIMO LEFT TO GO home, feeling troubled.
He was returning to the warmth of his partner’s embrace and to their plans for the future, but in doing so he was leaving her behind. Teresa Battaglia had barely spared him a glance when she had ordered him to go home to Elena, but he had learned by now that her tough exterior was her way of protecting herself, and that the indifference she affected was a symptom of pain. Massimo knew he’d already lodged himself in her heart—and he had no intention of letting go.
“I need to go now, but I’ll be back.”
“I know you will. I just can’t seem to get rid of you.”
Her comment might as well have been the world’s greatest declaration of love. It was the perfect illustration of what their relationship looked like on the surface: a constant tug of war that might’ve worn anyone else out, but not them. So it was that their two lives, seemingly so different, could come within touching distance, each looking into the darkest depths of the other, and recognizing their own reflection within. Yet Massimo was afraid that he would not be able to keep her by his side, sharing everyday life. It was Parisi and de Carli who’d stayed behind with her—not him. It was Parri who was going to visit her later—not him.
A protective shield had been erected around her, and Massimo was not its strongest link.
He’d had to choose, and he had made his choice—but boy, did it hurt.
Then there was Blanca, who wasn’t even Blanca, but a stranger who’d earned Teresa Battaglia’s love and trust, only to turn around and betray her. A mystery within the mystery, this young woman who could trace dead people’s final moments on earth. The past that needed revealing now was Blanca’s own.
But yet again, the superintendent had soothed their fraying tempers. It didn’t seem to bother her that she’d been deceived; who knew what backstory she’d already managed to glimpse in Blanca’s lies about her identity? And so, prevented from doing what his instincts commanded him to do, Massimo remained on high alert.
When he got home, Elena flew toward him, her feet sliding over the hallway parquet.
Before she could even say a word, he picked her up in his arms and kissed her.
Instead of putting her back down, he carried her all the way to the living room. The lamp by the sofa was on, and the carpet was covered with the textbooks she persisted in studying even now that she had lost her once-in-a-lifetime job. Her hair was gathered in a chignon held in place by a pen. The knot unraveled in an auburn wave.
He put her down among the pillows.
“Isn’t it dangerous to run around like that?”
Elena moved a tome from underneath her head, a volume entitled Death and Burial in the New Kingdom of Egypt.
“I’ve been sitting around all day. I might turn into one of these mummies soon.”
But her belly was filling out, her cheeks were pink from the early summer sun, and to Massimo, she had never looked more alive. He lay on top of her, taking care not to crush her.
“I’d rather have some waxy old corpse than a fresh one.”
Her eyes widened, but she did not let go.
“Now that’s what I call poetry, Inspector Marini.”
“You’re missing your work.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“Seriously, though. Don’t you miss the museum?”
“I’ll find another job.”
“Hmm. I may be wrong, but I don’t think there’s that many mummies around here.”
“Apart from you, I suppose?”
Massimo slid to the floor and rested his face against her belly, listening for the sound of a second heart beating inside.
Elena stroked his shoulders.
“So? Did Teresa tell you?”
“I guess you could say she had no choice but to confess.”
“Confess! What a terrible word.”
“It was pretty awful, Elena. It’s . . . it’s what I thought it might be. She has Alzheimer’s.”
Her fingertips pressed into his flesh, but the tension in his muscles didn’t seem to want to let go.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You want to be by her side.”
“I want to be here, and I want to be by her side. That’s the problem.” He looked up at her. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I know how much she means to you.”
Massimo kissed the palm of her hand, ran it over his face, breathed in her scent.
“She saved me from myself, Elena. Without her help, my father’s ghost would still be haunting me. If there is an us, we owe it to her.”
“And it’s your turn to help her now. You need to do something concrete. There’s no time to waste.”
“She’s got others with her.”
“But she’ll need everyone she has—especially you.”
Massimo hoped it was true.
“Solving this latest case would be a good start. I know it would mean a great deal to her to be able to tie up all the loose ends before she makes her exit.”
“So do it! Solve the case!”
Massimo rolled onto his back and started laughing, Elena’s hand still firmly clasped in his own.
“I’ll do my best, that’s for sure.”
She propped herself up on her elbow.
“How is the investigation going? I didn’t get the chance to ask you on the phone, and you were in such a hurry when I last saw you.”
He unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his shoes. He could feel the weight of all the exhaustion he’d accumulated. He ran his hand over his face, his jaw still marked with bruises from the last case he’d dealt with.
“We’ve made some progress, but only because he wanted us to. It’s maddening.”
“You mean the killer wanted you to?”
“Yes. He told us where to find something he’d taken from the victim.”
“Archaeologists work with corpses all the time, you know.”
“Yes, but mummies aren’t quite so gross.”
“Oh go on, tell me. What did you find?”
“Mosaic tiles made out of human bones.”
“How creative.”
“You would have liked it, though. We saw this incredible crypt . . .”
She sat up straighter when she heard the word crypt.
“It was inside a church. In Aquileia. Just a random village. You’d never know there was . . .”
“. . . the largest and oldest paleo-Christian mosaic pavement in Europe, previously buried for 1,500 years.”
Her voice had nearly cracked.
“Indeed. And where did he go and put his tiles? Picture this place, some gloomy old crypt, light and shadows playing off each other, mosaics everywhere, and this massive bell tower sprouting out of nowhere and spoiling half the floor.”
“Not half. A third.”
“And right there, in the furthest corner, there’s this little white rabbit, which has somehow escaped the belfry steps. There: that’s where he put them.”
“A rabbit?” She looked disgusted. “A hare, Massimo. A hare.”
“Does it make a difference? Anyway, it’s weird. It’s all really weird. This guy turning himself in, confessing, confiding in Superintendent Battaglia and leading her all the way to that spot.”
“Do you think the killer might have been studying the early Egyptian Christian community of Aquileia?”
“The what?”
“The path might not be accidental. He must have followed the Gnostic trail. Is that your theory, too?”
“What on earth . . .”
“You have to take me there!”
“Absolutely not. You need to . . .”
Elena straddled him and grabbed his shirt.
“Stay at home? Just because I’m pregnant?”
“No. Obviously not. But your condition is very delicate.”
Massimo realized that he’d unwittingly raised his hands in surrender. He quickly brought them back down.
“Delicate my ass. I’m just pregnant!”
He saw her expression shift. No, that wasn’t right: it was her strategy that was shifting. And she was about to land on a much better one.
Elena got back up and started tidying up her books as if nothing had happened.
“I suppose the hare is depicted in the act of eating a grape. An act, I should note, which does not occur in nature.”
“How did you . . . Yes.”
“And its eyes are red.”
This time Massimo didn’t even bother to answer. It wasn’t a question, anyway.
Elena looked at him.
“Of course you already know that the hare you saw is the Unnefer, yes?” She placed her hand over her mouth in a show of surprise which could not have been more affected. “Oh. You didn’t know. What a shame.”
Massimo could hardly believe his ears.
“You’ve got me cornered, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
24
IV Century
THE LEGIONNAIRE’S CLOAK TRAILED across the polychromatic mosaic floor. The letters Chi and Rho formed the Chrismon, the seal of the new and only god, yet the monogram for Christ coexisted with effigies of beasts and mythical monsters hearkening back to a time when the smoke from sacred incense would rise toward a sky teeming with gods in the guise of animals.
In the torchlight, all those figures made of pearlescent tiles seemed ready to bare their fangs.
At the entrance to the second chamber, Lusius found Cyriac’s servant, a poised young man with dark skin and dark hair, and the slender build and thick neck characteristic of the Samnites.
“Where is your master?”
“I have no master.”
Christians. Specifically, it was the Gnostics that Lusius wished to reach out to. They, too, were concerned about the intransigence that some of their own brothers had begun to display in their insistence on the strictest observance of the rites. Sooner or later, the Fanatĭcus would openly turn against every other cult there was.
“Cyriac is expecting me.”
“Your weapon.”
Lusius handed it over. The youth gave him an oil lamp, then nudged the curtains aside and gestured toward a dark corridor that led to the second chamber. His eyes were restless, darting away every time they landed on the gleam of Lusius’s breastplate.
“Your hands are shaking, Christian. Does Rome frighten you?”
“I gave my cloak to Cyriac. He fears the chill of this land.”
Lusius took the oil lamp and walked down the passageway. The toughened leather of his sandals clacked against the clay tiles and lime-based plaster of the opus signinum floor. Work on the new pavements had only just been completed, and the leftover sand had yet to be swept away.
A second curtain of pure-white wool stood between him and the mystic chamber. It looked like it had been cut out of an old toga. Roman norms required spotless garments, and clothing was washed so often that the fabric would eventually fray, its fibers acquiring a burnished sheen. Lusius recognized that sheen. But eventually, convenience had trumped decorum, and as the poet Juvenal had pointed out with caustic irony, no one in the Empire wore togas anymore except for the dead, who were buried in them.
He felt the urge to tear the cloth from where it did not belong, drape it over his shoulders, and bring Rome some measure of revenge against these calamitously changing times. But instead he merely pushed it aside with a gentle swipe of his battle-roughened hand.
The chamber welcomed him with the iridescent glimmer of flaming oil lamps. The path toward gnosis that lay at his feet, and which the ideal devotee was called upon to discover, struck him anew with the power of the mystery it had been created to depict.
Once more, he was being admitted into that sacred place normally reserved for the chosen few. Cyriac trusted him, and Lusius had learned to reciprocate the Christian’s feelings. He believed in the dialogue this man from the Orient was seeking to establish with him and with those Lusius had been called upon to represent: a legion devoted to a faith which—like Cyriac’s Gnostic Christianity—now constituted an engendered minority.
The chamber was empty, the incense unlit, the room half engulfed in shadows.
“Cyriac?”
A soft splash shook the waters of the baptismal font where Christians immersed themselves to be born again unto the light. A bronze polycandelon swayed above the basin, its rocking nearly imperceptible. Its twelve arms bore the symbols Alpha and Omega and the monogram of Christ, but the candles had been snuffed out, plunging the room into darkness.
Lusius stepped closer, raising his oil lamp. He saw red water and glassy eyes, and heard the last breath of a dying man.
He dropped his lamp, grabbed Cyriac by the shoulders, and pulled him out of the water. Cyriac’s throat had been split open.
It was the night of Ceres, Lusius remembered—one of those dies religiosi when the goddess’s pit was opened in ritual celebration, revealing the fearsome mundus Cereris, which served as a gateway between the worlds of the living and the dead, and through which the latter could drag the former down into their underground realm. And so Ceres became Mother of Specters, just as Isis was Mother of the Night.
Cyriac would not rise again.
“It’s over.”
Lusius turned around.
He recognized the man who had spoken and who stood before him now, flanked by a pair of torch-bearing centurions. His chiseled bronze breastplate gleamed with power, and his purple cloak denoted his membership of the senatorial order. Lusius also knew the figure who stood further back, engulfed in shadows. He was a Christian priest who belonged to the Church of Clement. He was said to have labeled Cyriac and his people as the “sacrilegious” progeny of Mary Magdalene, and to have called the Jews “betrayers of Christ.”
The tribune who seemed to be protecting the priest spoke again.
“Give me what you are hiding, Lusius, and you shall be allowed to return to your comrades.”
Lusius rested Cyriac’s head on the floor. His new friend was gone. He prayed that the god Cyriac worshipped might truly exist, and show the dead man mercy.
He stood up, the Istrian marble of the baptismal font pressing against the back of his legs and reminding him that there was no escape—though running away was not something he had ever contemplated.
“Do you speak for the Senate or for yourself?” he asked.
“I will not repeat my offer.”
“When did Rome start killing its own sons to pander to the whims of others?”
The tribune smiled.
“We are all children of the same god now. Didn’t you hear?”
“I am a son of Rome.”
The tribune lifted his arms wide.
“And I stand before you, representing Rome, to welcome you back to the fold. As long as you give me what I want.”
“What you want, or what the man standing behind you commands?”
The smile vanished.
“I didn’t come here to negotiate, Lusius.”
Lusius had hoped until the very end that Calida Lupa’s fears and those of so many pagans would turn out to be unfounded, but that hope was disappearing now, mixing with Cyriac’s blood in the baptismal water.
But he had also made sure not to face his destiny unprepared. He was a soldier of the Empire after all, and of the mighty-winged goddess.
