Jon Tracy - The Rome Prophecy

No one answers.

They don’t have to.

They all know that it’s only a matter of time before another victim turns up.

At least one more.

Mother tells us Her story.

The one about how the old King could have had all nine books. If only he hadn’t been such a fool.

If only he had realised that what Mother was offering him was the greatest prize on earth.

Nine books that would have secured the safety and success of Rome until the end of time.

Nine volumes that would have protected his throne, his people and himself.

But the old fool laughed in Her face.

He held his fat belly like it had been freshly filled from royal feasting and he roared like a drunkard in the Aventine.

Mother says She’d never been so humiliated.

All She’d asked for was a small share of the riches She’d helped create.

A meagre portion of the prosperity Her prophecies had produced. But he waved Her away like he would a kitchen skivvy.

My sisters and I can feel Mother’s pain. Even now it hovers in Her spirit as she tells us how She refused to go. How She stared the King down and set aflame the first three volumes of Her treasured work.

He showed not a hint of concern.

Indeed, he even smiled as the fire’s flame-red lips greedily chewed their way in blackening bites through Her sacred works.

Poor Mother.

She says some madness must have visited the monarch, for he laughed uncontrollably and even warmed his hands in the heat of the hearth as the pages turned to ash.

And so Mother left.

In Her absence, the winds of pestilence and the rains of plague began to gather in the Roman skies. From the dark holes of the underworld, the goddess Proserpina and her minions slowly turned their heads with great expectancy towards the Eternal City.

The King’s augurs could see the dark clouds of calamity gathering and they urged Mother to return.

But still She was not welcome.

We ask Her why She subjected herself to such indignation. Mother tells us everyone makes mistakes.

Even kings.

Everyone deserves a second chance.

Even fools.

And so the foolish King was given his second chance to secure the remaining six books at the same price that Mother had originally demanded for all nine.

But the wisdom of Minerva was not with him.

He said the price was too high – far too high for something of such little worth.

Mother told him his foolishness bordered upon blindness.

She decided to show him the light.

She burned three more books.

It seemed to work.

Now, while he watched the flames grow, the gods whispered in his ear. It was as though fleet-footed Mercury had rushed to the King’s side with words straight from Jupiter and Juno.

‘Stop!’ shouted the King.

Mother smiles and we hang on every syllable of Her story.

She tells us that with six of the books gone, the King now begged for the remaining three.

We all cheer!

Mother bids us be quiet.

She explains that although She was now offered all She’d wanted – recognition, power, land and much coin – She was filled with great sadness.

Sadness and a doubt that the King and his descendants would properly use and protect the knowledge they’d been given.

We bow our heads, because we know of Mother’s gifts of prophecy and that Her fears would come true.

The last three of the nine books would eventually meet a similar end to the first six.

She smiles at us.

‘Worry not, my sweet ones,’ She says. ‘It is because of these doubts and these fools that you are so treasured, that your innocence is of such import. It is why the Tenth Book was created. And it is because of these reasons and our enemies that its contents and whereabouts must never be known to anyone.’

Major Armando Caesario sits attentively behind his old walnut desk in a high-backed leather chair, with his chin resting on his folded hands.

It’s quite a story that his new capitano is telling him, and he can’t wait for her to leave so he can ask Assante if she’s gone completely mad.

Female captains are not a good idea.

Never have been. Never will be. High Command, in all its forward-thinking wisdom, seems to believe it’s wise to promote more women.

It isn’t.

It’s a big mistake, and one day they’ll realise it.

Until then, long-suffering officers such as Caesario have to suffer the likes of Valentina Morassi and her meandering report about churches, severed hands, hooded gowns and ancient swords.

What rubbish.

He blames himself.

He sent her out to Cosmedin because she’d come from Venice with a reputation for working some big case with juicy headlines about Satanism, and he thought it amusing to send her back to a church again.

Now he wishes he hadn’t.

‘No,’ he says out loud. ‘No extra resources. No extra manpower. No extra anything.’

Even Assante looks shocked.

‘I’m saying no because you don’t even have one victim, let alone two.’ Caesario scratches an ear. ‘All this might be some crazy joke. Maybe this madwoman got the body part from a hospital and it was a sick prank that went wrong and traumatised her.’

‘The blood on what you call the madwoman’s gown didn’t come from the hand,’ stresses Valentina, annoyed at his tone and that he’s missed the point of her lengthy explanation. ‘It’s probably from another victim.’

‘I know,’ says Caesario angrily. ‘None of this makes sense, and I’m not about to waste any more precious hours and money on what so far is a crime without a body.’

Valentina is about to press her case.

Caesario doesn’t let her. ‘Captain, you’ve got forty-eight hours to come up with a victim – or victims – or I shut this case down. Now could you leave me, please? I have another matter to discuss with Lieutenant Assante.’

Valentina’s out of the room in a flash. She’s angry enough to punch a hole through a wall.

Body parts from hospitals?

Is he serious?

Her heart is pounding and she can’t bear the thought of waiting at her desk for Assante to reappear with a sexist grin on his face.

She grabs her coat and car keys and heads outside, wondering why on earth she didn’t stay in Venice, where she was known and respected.

In less than fifteen minutes, she’s zipped in front of a number 30 tram grinding its way down Via Regina Elena, parked the Fiat inside the grounds of the Policlinico Umberto and is opening Louisa Verdetti’s office door.

‘Oh no, really no.’ Louisa gets up from her desk. ‘Captain, please, I’m having a morning straight from hell, and-’

‘So am I,’ interjects Valentina, ‘and mine is to do with short-sighted, narrow-minded men who can’t see further than their diminutive penises and even smaller brains.’

Louisa starts laughing. She recognises the symptoms. ‘Our afflictions appear remarkably similar.’ She gestures to a sofa. ‘Would you like a coffee? I’m really up to my neck in work, but I have ten minutes for a fellow sufferer.’

‘That would be great. Espresso. No sugar. Grazie.’ Louisa phones it through and takes a seat on a sofa opposite her surprise guest. ‘So, how can I help? Suzanna Grecoraci, I presume.’

‘ Si.’ Valentina struggles out of her short wool coat and wishes she’d taken it off before sitting down. ‘We still haven’t found a victim to connect to the blood found on her, and my boss will shut the inquiry down if I don’t come up with something tangible in forty-eight hours.’

‘I have a similar gun to my head. My administrator is talking about releasing her. Putting her out on the street so you’d have to look after her.’