Daughter of Ashes, page 31
But in the meantime, Teresa’s life had unraveled: her body verging on collapse, Giacomo’s escape and return, Sebastiano’s death. She hadn’t given the nameless man’s warning any further thought, or perhaps it was her illness that had decided to remove the memory from her—only for it to resurface now.
She had interpreted it at the time as a tasteless joke, an inconsequential attempt at an ominous sound bite, but the discovery of the mater larvarum changed everything. Or did it? This was no time to be swayed by the power of suggestion, or to succumb to confusion and doubt.
Marini joined her outside. She could tell from the way he was smiling that he had no idea what had just happened.
“Everything okay?”
Teresa didn’t reply.
“Is something wrong?”
Two mothers: one of bones, and the other, leading a progeny of specters, retrieved from a dead man’s throat—a dead man who used to be her husband. Teresa didn’t believe in coincidences.
The Mother—whoever or whatever she may be—would soon come looking for her. The statuette must mean something very specific, and it was Teresa’s task—hers alone—to discover and interpret what that was.
Mother of Bones. Be careful.
“Do you have a pen?”
He found one in his pocket and handed it to her. Teresa crossed the sentence out.
She chose to protect her boys. They had come just within reach of something that was better to let go of, something that was stalking her—not them. Her heart was beating furiously in her chest.
Marini leaned against the gate and looked up at the sky, just as Giacomo had done moments before. The scent of wisteria was sweet and peppery.
“On a night like this, death feels very far away, like I can almost shake it off.”
A breeze shook the fronds, and a petal floated onto his shoulder before slipping to the ground. Maybe there was something else moving in the darkness.
There was a disparity in the flow of emotions that connected Teresa and Giacomo. She was compassionate; he was obsessive-compulsive. In the eyes of a killer, Marini could easily be construed as a rival.
Teresa closed the notebook.
“Massimo, get away from there.”
He turned around.
“That’s ominous!”
But his smile vanished when he saw the look on her face. He stared into the night, senses on high alert, as if he had guessed what was going through her mind. He let go of the gate and took a few steps back.
“What just happened here?”
“Don’t get agitated.”
“I’m not agitated.”
This was Marini. He was already agitated.
“Who did you see, Superintendent?”
Teresa told him the truth. All she had done was let enough time pass to ensure her boys were safe.
“Giacomo. Call Lona.”
57
IV Century
THEY HADN’T KILLED HIM. That was enough to thank the gods for, Claudius thought—not so much about his own life, but for the sake of the mission he’d been entrusted with.
The Sarmatian witch—the statuette with the relic inside still in her painted fingers—was leading a procession of women and warriors that Claudius had been forced to join. They were escorting him into the depths of the forest, where not even trained assassins would have ventured. The darkness that seemed to be breathing all around him could well have contained the whole cosmos—the Mundus. Perhaps these strangers with their faces painted white were nothing but the dead, risen from the grave to drag him down into the chasm of chasms.
But when they reached their destination, it wasn’t the grave of specters that opened up before his eyes. In the moonlit clearing, the camp seemed asleep. Sarmatians knew how to hide from any looks they wished to evade.
The old woman slipped into a tent guarded by two younger women and returned with a basket in hand. There was something moving inside it.
The circle of warriors opened and Claudius saw her walking toward him with outstretched arms. She placed the basket at his feet. There, displayed like a relic, and draped in silk and garlands of feathers, was a baby girl. The old woman took her in her hands and lifted her up, naked, presenting her to Claudius. The baby’s tiny form was covered in arcane symbols traced with white lead. Her birth had been protected with magic spells.
Claudius could not understand why they had brought him to her until the old woman turned her around. The baby’s shoulder blades jutted out like the wings of a newborn bird. She was the embodiment of their faith. A living goddess.
He wondered whether to prostrate himself before her, or if the symbol of the winged Isis that adorned his chest was enough to declare his true nature to the tribe: warrior-priest, and custodian of the divine.
The baby stretched her arm out until her hand brushed against his nose.
The old woman wordlessly encouraged him to do the same. A reluctant Claudius took her in his arms. The torchlight reflected in her irises, which were the color of light stone.
Claudius made as if to hand the baby back to the old woman, but she waved her hands in a gesture of refusal.
The elderly shaman then led the way through a path that penetrated even deeper into the forest, where the trees tangled into a wet womb, and at the end of which was a cart with no horses or oxen attached to it.
The bird women stepped away from the procession, lit a fire, and threw some powder into the flames, making them burn light blue.
Upon the cart was a wooden sarcophagus inlayed with figures of intertwined dragons.
The old woman took the baby back, returned the statuette to Claudius, and invited him to step onto the cart.
He jumped on. The wind had picked up, a northerly wind that carried the scent of ice and left a cascade of falling leaves in its wake.
He looked inside the open sarcophagus and felt his knees buckle until they fell upon the wooden slats.
The statuette seemed to be throbbing in his palm, but perhaps it was just his blood, the blood of a warrior-priest, flowing faster.
Isis herself had led him here. She had found a way to save herself. Claudius felt absolutely certain now that the statuette would survive through the centuries, bearing her message and perpetuating her worship, because everything he had ever kneeled before, everything he had ever venerated, the earthly incarnation of his faith, was right here in front of his eyes. In bones with no flesh.
58
Today
JUDGING BY THE SHEER number of officers he’d deployed in the hunt for Giacomo Mainardi, Albert Lona would have happily mobilized the army, too, given the chance.
Massimo had never seen such a massive use of resources. Lona was taking the matter personally, and for a moment Massimo almost caught himself rooting for the killer just to see the district attorney struggle.
Lona had arrived at Teresa Battaglia’s house with four other police cars in his convoy, with the surrounding area already cordoned off. The flashing lights and the presence of armed officers in her yard had set Teresa’s phone ringing without pause. She’d ended up reassuring the whole neighborhood, and every now and then a curious local would pretend to be casually walking past her house just to see what was happening.
If there was any way of gifting Giacomo an escape route, then this confusion was surely it.
Meanwhile the district attorney wouldn’t stop pestering Teresa, who hit back with retorts that only he would find reassuring, incapable as he was of detecting the traces of irony in her tone—or anyone else’s, for that matter.
“Do you think we’ll catch him?”
“Of course, Albert.”
“It’s been two hours already. If only you’d managed to keep him from leaving.”
“I did wonder whether to invite him inside, you know.”
“Do you think he would have agreed?”
“I don’t know, but now that you ask . . .”
He huffed. “You could have at least tried.” He studied them all one by one. “I need all the resources we have. I want you all on the next shift. Marini, we are meeting with the deputy prosecutor tomorrow morning.”
He stood up to go, but no one seemed inclined to see him out. Everyone remained seated: Teresa, Parri, Massimo, de Carli, and Parisi. Elena and Alice had pretended to go upstairs, but Massimo was willing to bet they were hiding somewhere on the stairs, busy trying not to laugh.
Only Smoky followed him to the door, trotting behind him. Even the dog wanted to make sure Lona was definitely leaving.
Massimo eventually got up, too, though somewhat unwillingly.
“I’ll be back soon.”
He caught up with the district attorney on the driveway.
Lona turned around before Massimo had even called his name. He must have been expecting this—a terrible sign.
“What is it, Marini?”
Far too polite.
“I wanted to ask if at tomorrow’s meeting you were planning to discuss the possibility that there might have been someone else behind the murder.”
“Someone else?”
“Oh Christ, you’re not going to do anything about it, are you?”
“And what am I supposed to do? Take a serial killer’s word for it?”
“Teresa Battaglia believes him, and I believe her.”
“And by extension you believe Mainardi, too. Yes, I see how it is between you, this little . . . pact,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.
“There is no pact. It’s just a question of trust and loyalty.”
“How sweet.”
“If you won’t do anything, then I will.”
“You would be ill-advised to go down that route, Inspector Marini,” said Lona, pulling a cigarette case from his jacket pocket.
“Are you going to stop me?”
Albert laughed. It was the first time Marini had ever heard him laugh so heartily.
“See, Marini? You’re biased. You think I’m doing it out of spite.”
“Then why?”
The district attorney lowered his voice. All traces of amusement in his manner had completely disappeared.
“Why? Because if there really is someone else behind this murder, as Mainardi claims, then it can only be our very own Teresa Battaglia.”
Massimo froze.
“What a perfect motive, Marini. And what a sublime strategy. Sebastiano was killed on May 20, Teresa’s birthday. What better gift than that?”
“This is nonsense.”
“I’ve not said anything that shocking, have I? Think about it, Marini. It could have happened during one of her prison visits. Remember when you found out about those? She might have let slip some seemingly innocuous remark, which someone like Giacomo would have taken as an order. I’d like to see him dead; he deserves to die; the world would be a better place without him.” He cupped a hand, lit his cigarette, and exhaled. “Does that really sound so outlandish?”
He did not wait for an answer. He signaled at another officer and started walking toward the car. The sight of his cigarette smoke against the blue twilight and the blinking police lights seemed to Massimo like an omen of war.
Massimo had learned by now how to interpret the district attorney’s words. The point of Lona’s suggestion was not to protect Teresa. He was telling Massimo that he had him in his grasp, and sooner or later, he would collect his dues.
But today was not that day, and when it did eventually come, Massimo would be ready to face him. He’d be waiting at the breach, and he would not be alone.
He went back inside the house, where Teresa immediately caught his eye.
“Is everything all right?”
There was no point upsetting her.
“Everything’s under control.”
De Carli made one of his usual quips about Massimo and his need for control; Parisi took the opportunity to fire back with a joke of his own; Alice was helping Parri out in the kitchen; Smoky growled when Massimo dropped down onto the sofa and pulled Elena close. Everything was perfect.
Life resumed its course almost as if nothing had happened.
Massimo called out to Teresa, who was busy setting the table.
“Will you tell us the story of how you became superintendent?”
She paused, holding the cloth with which she had been polishing the cutlery, and seemed to seek approval from Parri, who had stuck his head out of the kitchen when he’d heard the question. Parri shrugged, giving her a smile.
Teresa returned to her polishing, wiping a little harder this time.
“Let’s see . . . How did I become superintendent . . .” She was searching for the right words, indulging in memories that were more valuable now than ever before. “Well, to start, I had to walk down a very long corridor where everyone was staring at me. That was actually the hardest part. It was all downhill from there.”
EPILOGUE
Twenty-six years ago
TERESA’S COLLEAGUES WATCHED HER as she walked down the corridor. Their chatter would stop abruptly at her passage, only to pick up moments later as a sort of background hum where she could occasionally distinguish the sound of her name and perhaps the killer’s, too. They were talking about her and about the case that had just been closed. They were commenting on her lopsided gait and on the brace that was still holding her jaw in place after it had been bolted back together.
During their last acupuncture session, Mei Gao had called her “Superintendent,” but Teresa was here today to face the examination panel who would decide whether she had earned that title.
She still couldn’t speak properly, slurring the odd word. Her pain was compounded by the unease of feeling as if she were being judged for the way she looked: like a woman who had been massacred by the hands of a man.
And yet those vicious hands had also shaped her, made her ready to become what she was now preparing to be.
The scar on her belly burned. It would never stop burning. Blood had flown from her heart all the way down to between her legs. She had been born again, and not from the ribs of a man who believed himself to have been made in the image and likeness of some god—but from her own broken, aching, twisted bones.
Sebastiano was now behind bars, where he had begun to serve his punishment for all the evil he had thrust upon her, but no sentence would ever suffice—and his was particularly lenient.
The whole system needed changing.
As soon as she had been able to stand again, Teresa had lodged a complaint with the human resources department, reporting the mistreatment she had endured, the sidelining and professional sabotage, and the psychological pressure she had been subjected to just because she was a woman. There was currently an internal investigation in progress, targeted also—and primarily—at Albert.
He had called her once in the middle of the night, when Teresa was still recovering.
“Don’t turn against me. You’ll regret it.”
But it wasn’t war or a personal vendetta that Teresa was after—only justice, and a fairer and more limpid way of existing in the world. She wanted to pave the way for all the other women who would follow, and for anybody—regardless of their sex—who might be vulnerable to being victimized by people in positions of power. From now on, those who held that power would have to think twice before they abused it.
Albert’s last words to her had been stark: “You’ll never pass the exam. You’re not ready. You’ll never be ready.”
It was the backward blessing of a man who was clearly afraid of the strength of a woman who was capable of challenging and undermining his power.
But Teresa was no longer disposed to bending to anyone else’s will.
Parri was waiting for her outside the room where the individual examinations took place.
Teresa stopped a few meters away.
They hadn’t seen each other since that day in the hospital. Teresa had kept her distance from him and from those memories.
The day she was discharged, it had been someone else’s smiling face that had greeted her at the door of her hospital room. Elvira Pace had taken her in during the first few weeks of her recovery. She had helped nurse those wounds for which medicine knew no remedy, and had taught Teresa the true meaning of solidarity.
Parri’s eyes filled with tears as they roamed over her face. They were both thinking the same thing.
If only he hadn’t drunk so much and fallen asleep that night, Teresa would not have lost her baby, and Antonio would have been able to save her.
But life cannot move forward when it is mired in regrets and recriminations; it will only stall and turn to rot.
Teresa took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them. He seemed to have aged disproportionately—or perhaps in proportion to his remorse.
He was the one who spoke first.
“You look different.”
He was studying her short hair. Her flat fringe fell over her eyes, and her bob just about reached her cheeks. Teresa had dyed it the color of lava, like the kind she felt seething inside of her.
“I am different.”
She watched him avert his gaze, and felt sorry for him.
“What are you doing here?”
A silence had descended around them.
Her friend finally found the courage to look her in the eye.
“I’d rather never leave your side again, if you don’t mind. If there was a way to fix things . . .”
The doors of the examination room opened, and an assistant stepped out, holding a list. He was scanning it for the next candidate’s name.
Today would also have been Teresa’s due date. Perhaps I’ll give birth to myself, she thought. The pain she felt now was just as fierce.
She looked at Parri again.
“There is a way to fix things: stop drinking. You and I will do great things together.”
They called out her name.
Congratulations, dear Teresa!
Those “monsters” will have to watch their backs now.
With much respect and affection,
R.
