Tom’s heart goes out to him. It’s a miracle the guy’s not as mentally screwed up as Anna was.
Guilio wipes grit out of the palm of his hand and throws a stone in the general direction of the rat. ‘Anna and I escaped from the womb some years ago, maybe four or five now, I can’t remember. I tried to protect her as best I could, but she always lived in fear of Mater and the others finding her and dragging her back.’
‘That’s why you were in her apartment the night Valentina and I came round?’
‘That’s right. I’m the only one she trusts. The only one who knows what she went through. If the others get their hands on her, they’ll kill her.’
Tom knows he should tell Guilio that Anna is dead.
He should tell him right now.
It’s the decent thing to do.
But he can’t.
‘Can you explain how Anna came to be covered in blood when she was found near the Church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin?’
Guilio rubs at the ground again. ‘Some of the sisters and the Galli caught her returning from the shops. She wanted to buy me a present and made me go in the supermercato while she went for a card and some kind of surprise. By the time I came out, they were bundling her into one of the four-by-fours.’
‘And you knew where they’d take her?’
‘I thought they’d either head back to the womb or to the Bocca. They know Anna has a strange fear of it. In some of her states she gets frightened and imagines she’s being killed there. I gambled and went to Cosmedin.’ He rubs furiously in the dirt again. ‘If I’d been quicker getting there, or not so stupid to have let her shop on her own, then she’d still be safe.’
‘You can’t blame yourself.’
‘I can.’ He picks dirt from the angry grazes on his palm. ‘When I got there, I saw that they’d draped workmen’s covers over the portico of the church so no one could see from the street. It was clear something awful was going to happen. By the time I got inside, they had Anna in a robe. They were holding her down and trying to force her hand into that big marble mouth.’
‘So you scared them off?’
‘Not quite.’ He sucks dirt from his bleeding skin. ‘There was quite a fight. I can’t remember everything, but I know I grabbed this sword that they were threatening to use on Anna. I swung it to frighten them and it hit one of the women.’ He looks up at Tom. ‘It cut her hand off.’ He sucks again at the palm of his own hand. ‘I hadn’t meant to harm her, just frighten her. But it seemed like it was God’s will that it should have happened. There and then, that’s exactly what I thought. This is God’s will. So I picked the hand up and I shook it at them and said, “This is the work of Christ, my saviour and my Lord,” and it scared them. They backed off and ran for their lives. Or at least the women did. Two of the Galli rushed at me; a third dropped his weapon, an ancient sword that is used by the Korybantes to beat on ceremonial shields. Anna grabbed it and tried to defend me, but I told her to go. She stayed at first, but then I screamed at her and she ran off.’
Tom starts to fit bits of the jigsaw together. He understands now why Anna was at the Bocca and how she came to be wandering the streets, but there are gaps, very big gaps in Guilio’s story. ‘So you swung the sword and cut this woman’s hand off, and that’s how Anna got blood on the gown we found her in?’
‘That’s right.’
Tom doesn’t believe him. ‘So where’s the victim? Where did she get treated?’
Guilio shrugs. ‘The sisters would try to heal her themselves. They would have used Mater’s medicines, natural herbs, pagan practices.’
‘They don’t sound like adequate treatments for a severed hand.’
‘No, probably not. If she’d died, they would have buried her in the womb. They bury all the corpses around the outer walls; it’s supposed to evoke supernatural forces to protect the sect.’
‘A spiritual force field.’
‘If you like.’
Tom looks around the lamp. ‘Some of what you’re telling me doesn’t add up.’
Guilio does his best to appear offended. ’I don’t understand.’
‘Then I’ll make it clear. You’re lying to me. The blood on Anna’s gown didn’t come from whoever had her hand cut off. Forensic tests prove that it came from someone else.’ Tom leans into the light, ‘The question is, who? Who else got injured in that church, and what else are you not telling me?’
109
Valentina Morassi is pleased with herself.
She thinks she’s staying remarkably calm, given that she’s been abducted by gun-wielding maniacs who have a coat over her head.
Pressed down in the back of a vehicle, she has no knowledge of what route they took across the city, no idea now whether she’s north or south, but she does know one thing as they bundle her out of the back of the four-by-four.
She’s in the countryside.
There are no petrol fumes, and even though it’s winter, she can smell cattle, mud and grass.
Wherever this little patch of farmyard is, it isn’t that far away from the centre of Rome and the underground passageway they took out of Santa Cecilia.
She also notes the uneven surface beneath her feet. Gravel. Not the smooth, washed kind that you find on rich people’s drives. This is chunky gravel, like the rough stuff a farmer would want laid to run a tractor over.
‘Get her inside, quickly.’
That’s Shooter’s voice. She’s heard it enough to recognise it. He’s no longer holding her; she can tell from the touch on her arms that duty has been delegated to the women.
Valentina thinks about making a break for it.
She can handle two women.
No problem.
But the coat isn’t just thrown over her head, it’s tied there. She can feel that the belt has been tightened around her neck.
If she wants to fight, then she’s going to have to do it blind, and given that someone has a gun, that’s just too risky.
‘Lift your feet, we’re going up a step.’
The warning comes from a woman to her left. A young voice. Almost considerate.
The air around her changes.
No longer fresh and country-like.
More homely.
She can smell food. Maybe she’s in a house.
The floor beneath her feet is flat and even. She listens to their footsteps as they walk. She’s on wood, wood flooring.
‘Are you taking her straight through?’ The other woman is talking, the one on her right. ‘Or do you want to keep her here for a bit?’
‘Let me find out.’
Feet clop off.
Someone pulls out a chair; its legs scrape horribly on the floor.
‘Sit down.’ Shooter’s voice. Hands on her shoulders, guiding her, shifting position, pushing her down.
Valentina sits.
The chair is hard. Also wooden, from the feel of it on the back of her thighs. She slowly lifts a knee. It touches a table.
She’s in a kitchen, sitting at a country-style table.
She mentally retraces her steps. The door is behind her and over to her left. The house must be secluded, set back, or they’d be worried about passers-by seeing her with a coat over her head.
Maybe there are no windows.
‘Okay.’ Shooter’s voice again. ‘We can take her down now.’
Hands under her armpits. ‘Come on, stand!’ A woman’s voice, harsh, a hint of roughness and authority.
Valentina gets up and backs away from the table.
They turn her left, and then left again.