The Venice conspiracy

CAPITOLO XLVIII 1778

Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia Tommaso is now certain the abbot is ignoring him. He's repeatedly visited his office, only to be sent away with increasing unpleasantness. Now a fellow brother has been posted outside the door, to sit like a lazy guard and vet visitors.

Tommaso strongly suspects he is the only one being vetted.

It is against this background of distrust that he once more finds time during his mainland chores to track down the campo with the well, the house with the single brown-shuttered window and its occupant, Efran the trader.

The young man opens his front door barely an inch and seems amazed to see a hooded monk standing there. He quickly steps back and opens up. 'Brother, Brother! Come in. What a surprise! Please come inside.'

Tommaso nods his thanks and steps into a small room that smells of boiled food. He is pleased to be out of sight. His visit, if discovered, would land him in considerable trouble at the monastery.

Efran hurriedly clears scattered shirts, undergarments and a heavy wool cloak from his one good sofa. 'Please sit down. I have some news for you.'

'I was hoping you might have.'

'I do. Very good news. But I must rush to get my friend Ermanno. He is the one that can tell you everything.'

'The Jew?'

'Yes. A seller of antiquities in the ghetto. You remember I mentioned him to you?'

'I remember.'

Efran pours water from a jug into his best glass, a multicoloured ribbed tumbler, ornamented with vetro di trina. He hands it to the priest. 'Help yourself to more. As much as you want.' He points towards his tiny kitchen area. 'There's also bread and some wine. I'll be back soon.'

And with that, he's gone.

Tommaso wonders whether he's doing the right thing. A covert meeting in the home of a dubious trader with an unknown Jew would hardly be approved of by the abbot.

He thinks of his actions and many other things while he waits.

Opening the box beneath his bed seems to have released a gamut of emotions connected to his mother and sister. Feelings buried so deep that he had been unaware of their existence. Until now.

Grief. Loss. Rejection. Sadness. Loneliness.

On top of these raw and fundamental feelings, his search for the truth about his family has added other complexities.

Guilt. Deception. Doubt. Uncertainty.

It's little wonder that he feels depressed and has started to have serious misgivings about his faith. Deep down Tommaso hopes that, once the mystery of the tablet is solved, all his convictions will be restored.

The front door opens.

A breathless Efran is followed inside by a thin, clean-shaven young man and a young woman with a face full of innocence and interest.

'This is Ermanno,' says Efran, eagerly, 'and his friend, Tanina. She works for an art collector near the Rialto.'

Tanina curtsies. 'I am pleased to meet you, Brother.'

Tommaso rises to greet them. He never intended that so many strangers should become involved in his private, family matter, and is about to object when Efran, anticipating him, says: 'Do not worry, Brother. We are all kindly people, and my friends only wish to help you.'

Ermanno has brought several books. He excitedly places them on his friend's table and opens them at specific pages. 'Please, stand beside me, so I may share with you what I have learned.'

Tommaso does as requested. He immediately spots a black-and-white sketch of a silver tablet identical to his. His pulse races, but he decides to say nothing until he knows more about these strangers.

Ermanno taps the sketch. 'This tablet is reputed to be one of three. They are said to have been cast in silver, six centuries before Christ.'

Tommaso interrupts: 'Etruscan?'

Ermanno nods. 'Yes. Made in northern Etruria. Legend has it that a sculptress set down in clay a vision that came to her husband – a priest – just before he was blinded during a sacred ritual. The ceramics were then bought by an affluent noble who used them as a silver mould for what became known in the art world as the Tablets of Atmanta.'

Tommaso is pleased to have some answers at last. 'So these artefacts are well known?'

Ermanno shakes his head. 'No. Not at all. I have dozens of books that do not mention them, and even some that deny their existence. Soon after they were created, they were stolen. Allegedly they fell into the hands of others and-'

Efran interrupts before his friend can finish the account. 'What are they worth?'

Ermanno shrugs. 'A lot of money. If someone already has the other two, then a true collector is likely to pay a fortune for the third.'

Tommaso looks disinterested. 'I cannot sell it. The artefact was left to me by my mother. It is all she ever gave me. A note, the tablet and a small wooden box, that's all I have to remember her by.'

Efran grimaces. Such emotional connections don't augur well for wheeling and dealing. He knows it is time for his best sales pitch. 'Brother, if we could sell this tablet, then I am sure we could secure great riches for your monastery – or yourself. Such wealth could be used to create memories of your mother that live beyond your lifetime and would benefit generations to come.'

Tommaso turns away from the table. 'I think I should go now.'

Ermanno presses him. 'Brother, we would be discreet. No one need know of our involvement or of your identity.' He looks towards his girlfriend. 'Tanina could have her employer sell it. Alternatively, my father could trade it in the ghetto. Though I am sure Signor Gatusso could find a higher bidder.'

Tommaso lets out a sigh. 'Signori, I am grateful for your help – and yours, too, signorina. Somehow, I shall reward you for your troubles and your kindness. But really, I am not inclined to dispose of the article.'

'May we see it? Confirm it is genuine?' Ermanno points to lengthy paragraphs of text in one of the books: 'There are many stories of copies and false ownership. I have details here that may help authenticate it.'

Tommaso glances down at the text and Ermanno places his hand over it. 'There is also some nonsense written there, Brother. Best you do not pay attention to everything that is said.'

'Tell me what is written,' says Tommaso, 'or we are done here.'

Ermanno looks to Efran and then lifts his hand. 'As you wish.' He passes the book over. 'Some stories claim that the tablets were stolen by a man of extreme violence – a murderer and torturer – who used them for occult purposes.' He watches Tommaso turn the page of the book, then continues: 'Those are the other two tablets. One shows a couple with their arms around each other and their child by their side. It is believed to show the priest, the sculptress and their baby. The other depicts a demon. Not an Etruscan demon – or at least, not one recognised at the time.' He looks up at Tommaso and wonders if he should stop there, but the monk clearly wants to hear what else there is to know. 'Legend has it that the demon is Satan and that the boy child is his, not the priest's. The tablets are sometimes referred to as the Gates of Destiny – or the Gates of Hell. You'll have noticed the serpents in the tablet you were left…?'

Tommaso's face drains of colour. He'd attached no such significance. 'This cannot be so.'

'Brother, there is much nonsense written. Tales fashioned by the tongues of old women with nothing better to do than fantasise. Pay them no mind.'

But Tommaso knows that he cannot dismiss this new information so lightly. How could his mother leave him something that seems to have had such a wicked past? Suddenly he wants to be alone. He flips the book closed. 'Our business is over. Grazie.' Without further comment he heads for the door, leaving the others to stare at his retreating back.

'Well, what a waste of all our time,' says Efran, exasperated. 'Clearly that's the last we'll see of him.'

'I don't think so,' says Ermanno, smiling ruefully. 'I really don't think so. In business you soon learn that anyone so passionate and so interested in a piece will always come back.'