The kindly elder who once rocked him to sleep in the sticky afternoon heat squints towards his former charge.
Larth holds the flaming torch between the old man's legs and smiles.
The white pubic hair catches fire.
Larth laughs. A throaty roar that rolls across the gardens. Telthius jerks with pain.
The torturer's assistants can't bear to look. The air smells of burning skin and hair.
Larth sniffs at the aroma, like a maiden savouring the fragrance of a rose. 'You stole from your master. Betrayed his trust. Defiled his good name. For these crimes I justly punish you, so others will see the errors of your ways and respect the rights of good men.'
He rolls the flaming torch over the hair that covers the old man's chest and arms. Telthius screams in agony.
The torturer is careful not to go too far. He lets the fire burn only briefly. Enough to hurt, not to kill. There is no fun in setting fire to a dead body. Well, not nearly as much as setting fire to a living one.
Telthius is unconscious by the time Larth has scorched all his head and body hair. 'Cut him down,' he calls over his shoulder as he walks away. 'Give him to his bitch of a wife to cosset and mend.'
The assistants climb the platform. The younger one asks in a horrified voice, 'In the name of the gods, how much silver did this fool steal?
'Shush!' says his companion, fearing they'll be heard. 'Not silver. Not even a scraping from the mine. Telthius took only food. Stale bread that he thought no one would miss. And he only took that because his wife was too ill to bake.'
At the end of the wall Larth throws his torch into the dirt. He hurries away to find himself a whore upon whom he can vent the last of the delicious rage still burning inside him.
CAPITOLO XIV
The Sacred Curte, Atmanta Tetia feels strangely nervous as she makes her way down the hillside to the groves near the settlement walls.
The sound of hammering spills from the temple in the adjoining curte. Squinting into the sun, she can see the silhouettes of slave workers moving like crabs along the roof as they pin tiles to timber frames.
She'd long anticipated the day when her husband would consecrate the completed temple in front of her family and all the other villagers. Now, for the first time, she has a sensation of dread.
Will Teucer be able to see by then? Will he ever see again? Will the elders and the nobles and the magistrates still want him as their netsvis?
She sees the sacred circle. Without Teucer, it doesn't seem sacred any more. She walks clockwise outside it, her thoughts trailing behind her like a long robe. The grass is all trodden down. The blaze that claimed her husband's sight is nothing but a blackened hole in the turf. The frenzied marks made by Teucer's lituus are still visible – as is the small but distinctive oblong he scraped in a clay patch in the west of the circle.
She senses something. Someone close to her. Behind her.
She wheels around.
Nothing.
No one there.
Her baby kicks as she crosses the line of the sacred circle, almost as though it remembers what occurred the last time they were here. Now she can clearly see the small patch of reddish clay where her husband made his knife marks. Tetia has brought her own sculpting blades to erase his impressions, but she can't resist letting her artist's eyes examine them.
They're stunning.
So precise, so detailed and intricate. She'd have never thought him capable of such beauty.
She drops to her knees and the baby makes her stomach groan.
'Incredible,' she says to herself. The snakes are so vivid she can almost picture them moving. The evil demon doesn't look that evil to her, in fact there's a certain majesty to him. She smiles, the netsvis even bears a passing resemblance to Teucer. She bends closer to examine the final revelation. It's magnificent. The couple look so peaceful, so happy. And the baby – surely he is everything she could hope for in a son.
Tetia feels happier than she's done for months. She runs her light, sculptress fingers over the indentations. They even feel pleasurable to touch.
She unwraps a cloth containing her work tools. Selects a broad knife. Takes a deep breath and meticulously begins.
Only she no longer intends destroying the markings. She's decided to keep them. Lift them from the ground and keep them for ever.
CAPITOLO XV
Tetia carries the slab of clay from the curte as though it's the most precious thing in her life. She goes straight to her work space at the back of her hut, rather than to Larthuza's where her husband is recovering. This clandestine and selfish act makes her feel guilty, but the emotion is forgotten when she looks again at the beautiful object in her hands, the carving of the Gates of Destiny.
Using water and her own fine picks and knives, she accentuates the rough cuts made by Teucer. Very quickly she becomes immersed in her task. Consumed by it. Possessed by it.
Time flashes by.
Her cuts are bold, broad, intricate, dashing, decisive. It's as though her hand is being guided. The clay begins to turn leather hard, no longer malleable. She drizzles water on to the surface to keep it workable, wipes tiny fragments of waste from her blade after every cut and polishes the sharp tip on her tunic.
Lost in her art, she is oblivious to the daylight fading. The grey ghosts of night start to gather.
First, a rustling noise. Then the sudden presence of a strange man's feet.
Tetia looks up.
'I am Kavie, noble colleague of Magistrate Pesna. We have come to see your husband, Teucer.'
Tetia shakes back her hair and looks up at the dark-haired and slightly built stranger. 'He is not here. He is at the home of Larthuza the Healer.' She notices Kavie is not alone. The magistrate is standing behind him. She gets to her feet and brushes down her tunic.
Pesna nods an acknowledgement at her. 'Aah, the sculptress wife. What is it that you are making?'
Tetia tries to shield it from him. 'It is nothing. A rough design. Not nearly of fine enough quality to grace your noble eyes.'
'Let me be the judge of that.'
Tetia doesn't move. 'I have many fine vases, plates, statues, urns. I store them outside, behind the kiln. I would be honoured to show you.'
'I'd like you to show me what you are attempting not to.' He pulls her away from the clay. 'What piece of fancy can be so important that it must be created while your husband lies ill on the floor of a healer? What muse so powerful that it drives you to work at a time like this instead of being at his side?'
Pesna stoops to see.
He notices the lavish intricacy of the etching and kneels. 'My, but this is good.' He stretches out a hand. 'Very good.'
'Do not touch it!' Tetia fears she has overstepped her position. 'Please, Magistrate, I beg you! It is not finished. It will break if you handle it, and I wish it to be a surprise for my husband.'
Pesna does everything but touch. He examines it from all angles. 'It is a rare piece. Perhaps unique. You have a talent, child.' He lifts his head and stares straight at Tetia. 'I see many qualities in this visceral work. Explain it to me. What was your intent?'
Tetia hesitates.
'Come on, girl! I do not have all day.'
'They are visions.'
'Visions?' He looks intrigued. 'Extraordinary. Finish it. Make sure you complete it quickly.'
Kavie bends to take a closer look. He does not share his friend's love of art and sees nothing visionary. 'I am no expert, but I think this is not the cheeriest of objects to present to your husband.'
'Indeed.' Pesna stands up and brushes his knees. 'It is not suitable for a sick man. When you have finished it, I will buy it from you.'
'I cannot.' Tetia feels her heart thump. 'I am sorry. It would not be right for me to sell to you something that I have made for my husband. What would the gods think of me?'
Pesna claps a hand on the finely robed shoulder of Kavie. 'She is clever, is she not?' He turns back to Tetia. 'I had come here to tell your husband that he is no longer fit to be our netsvis. That his blindness is a divine act of displeasure from the gods and that once the temple is completed he and his wife – you – should seek pastures outside the walls of our settlement. But this-' he points at the clay, 'this is the most striking art I have ever seen. My home is filled with beauty, originality, curiosity – the rarest that Greek and Etruscan artists can muster – and this piece belongs there. Indeed, your own husband told me I should acquire more spiritual works.' He takes one final, stooping look at the clay. 'To me – this is a positive sign from the deities – a sign that its creator and her husband should also remain near to me. Protected by me. Patronised by me.'
He moves closer to Tetia. Close enough for her to smell old meat and rough wine on his breath. Close enough for him to hold her chin between his manicured thumb and forefinger and make a bead of sweat roll down her brow.
'So what is it be, young Tetia? Will you make your peace with the gods and my netsvis? And tomorrow – when I assume you have finished this divine work – will you bring it to me? Or will you take your blind and useless husband and leave for ever?'