The Venice conspiracy

Tina watches it all from the bedroom window of the hotel, and can tell Tom is in no mood to join in.

She'd gone out soon after breakfast and he'd forgotten the key she'd left for him. Forgotten the cell number she'd written down and pushed into his hand. It seems he'd forgotten absolutely everything, except seeing a dead fifteen-year-old on a slab in a mortuary.

She'd planned a special surprise to lift his spirits when he returned from the morgue, but he'd made straight for the desk in the far corner of the room and had festered there ever since. There's no point springing the surprise when he's in this state of mind. The time has to be exactly right for these things, or you might as well not bother.

She flicks on CNN. Some political row over Obama's economic policy. She scowls at the screen and leaves Tom to scribble on hotel notepaper at the desk. 'Damned Republicans and Democrats, I really wish they'd just stop fighting each other and pull together to get us out of this shit.'

He manages a grunt.

'Hey, I forgot to tell you. I want to go hear some Vivaldi – either tomorrow or the night after. Would you like to come? Or is that not your kind of thing?'

He stops writing. 'Sure I'll come. I'm more Nickelback than Vivaldi, but yeah, I'd love to go. Widen my horizons.'

Tina turns down the sound, carries a leaflet over and drops it on the desk. 'I got it from reception. The concierge has a friend at the Ateneo di San Basso who can fix good tickets. It's the San Marco Chamber Orchestra, and they're supposed to be the best.'

He glances at the leaflet. It tells how Vivaldi had worked in Venice as a violin teacher, then went on to write more than sixty works and became director of the Sant'Angelo theatre. Tom puts it down. 'I only know The Four Seasons, and for much of my life I even thought that was a hotel chain.'

Tina laughs. 'Time to educate you, then. What are you scribbling?'

'Just some thoughts. Something a cop said at the morgue has been going round in my head.'

She slips behind him and rubs his shoulders. 'Maybe Paris or London would have been better options after all.'

'You're telling me.'

'So exactly what is going round in that lovely head of yours?'

He writes down four letters and underlines them. 'C-U-L-T – I think what we might be looking at is the workings of a cult. Part Satanic, part mired in old pre-Christian worship and mythology.'

'A new cult, or an old cult?'

He looks up at her. 'Good question. That's what the Carabinieri are going to have to work out.' He puts an arm around her waist and eases her on to his lap. 'Listen, I'm sorry I'm not very pleasant to be with today. This thing is eating at me.'

She kisses him. 'I know. I understand. It's good that you're the kind of guy who tries to help out.' She stands up, grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet. 'Get off your sad ass for a minute and come see something.'

She drags him across the room, past the TV, the dresser and newly made-up bed that she can't wait to unmake again. 'Shut your eyes.'

He feels foolish.

'Hands over them. No peeping.'

Tina's too small to check if he's cheating. She stands on tiptoe to try, and then takes his hand again and walks him a few more steps to his left. 'Okay. Now you can look.'

He does.

He's standing in front of her open wardrobe, staring at racks of blouses, skirts, dresses, pants and shoes. So many shoes!

'To the left, stupid.' She uses both hands to turn his broad shoulders.

Now he gets it.

More clothes. Men's clothes. New clothes for him. Just for him.

'I didn't buy you any altar robes,' she says, instantly feeling clumsy about the comment. 'I guess even if your bag turns up, you probably won't be needing them again.'

Her generosity leaves him stuck for words. He runs his hand across the hangers: two pairs of lightweight trousers, three crisp cotton shirts, two V-neck lamb's wool jumpers and a black wool jacket, lined in silver and styled to wear formal or casual.

He turns round to say thanks – and maybe even to reveal that no one's bought clothes for him since his mother died. But Tina's not there.

She's over by the bed. Stretching a pair of Calvins between her thumbs. 'Come here. I need to see if your sad but perfectly formed ass fits in these.'

CAPITOLO XXIV 666 BC

Atmanta It is the moment Teucer has been dreading.

The unveiling. The removal of his bandages.

Time to find out if he's still blind.

Tetia and his parents have gathered in the healer's hut, their faces sagging with the weight of expectation.

The magistrate has sent his emissary Larth, who sits on a small wooden stool near the bed where Teucer lies. 'Pesna commands me to inform you that the temple is complete. He moved slaves from his mines and they have worked ceaselessly through the changes of sun and moon to finish it on time. The hallowed halls shine like gold, and only await your offerings and blessings.'

Teucer doubts Pesna redeployed many workers and suspects the workmanship to be shoddy. 'The deities will be pleased,' he says sarcastically.

Larth grabs his arm. 'Do not humour me, Netsvis. If you could but see the man I am, then you would not be so foolish as to chide me like a child.'

Venthi steps forward to intervene, but Teucer, anticipating the move, tells him, 'Father, please, do nothing. I am in no danger.' He puts a hand on Larth's vice-like grip: 'Stranger, I need no eyes to see you. I know you are an enforcer, a torturer, filled in equal measure with ambition and resentment. If you do not wish the gods to curse you, then you will let go of me.'

Larth loosens his grip. Teucer can feel where the fingers have bruised his skin as Larthuza moves closer. 'Lie back, please.' The healer's hands guide him down on to the bed. 'Cover the window, Tetia. Bright light must not fall upon his pupils.'

Tetia closes the rough shutters inside the room, struggling to fasten the latch because the wood has warped and no longer lies flush to the wall.

Larthuza lights a candle and places it to one side. 'Teucer, I do not want you to open your eyes. Not until I tell you to.'

Tetia squeezes through to stand beside him. She takes her husband's hand as Larthuza starts to unwrap the bandages. They stick to the sweat on his face and leave white crease-lines on his pink skin. The healer dips wool in a wooden water bowl and cleans his eyelids. He dries Teucer's face and then prays:

'I beseech Turan, the great goddess of love, health and fertility to favour Teucer in this, his time of need. I implore all the great gods known and still unrevealed to show their kindness and love by gifting Teucer the return of his sight.'

Then he kisses his fingertips and places them lightly on the netsvis's eyebrows. 'You may open your eyes now.'

Teucer doesn't move. 'Thank you, Larthuza. Before I put myself to this test, I have things to say, and those gathered here must bear witness to my words. I speak as a netsvis and not as a mere man. In my world of blackness I have seen more than in my many years in the light.'

Venthi puts a hand on his shoulder. 'Be careful, my son.'

'Etruria is in danger. It grows richer by the hour but a great loss awaits it. One which the gods are powerless to stop.'

Venthi stoops and whispers in his ear. 'Enough, Teucer. These are things you should not say with strangers around you.'

Teucer lifts a hand to silence his father. 'I have seen a demon that has set its eyes upon Atmanta. A deity so powerful it sends Aita and his sprites running like scared children.'

'Enough!' Venthi turns to Larth. 'My son is still not well. The healer's herbs have affected his mind.'

'My mind is clear, Father.' Teucer opens his eyes.

Everyone stoops and stares. No one speaks.

Tetia can already tell.

So too can his mother.

'We all know from our silences that I cannot see. Nor will I ever see again.'