Valerio Manfredi: The Ancient Curse

Dripping with sweat, Fabrizio could not control the furious beating of his own heart, nor the tears that were pouring from his eyes and running down his cheeks, nor the convulsive fluttering of his eyelids, which were fragmenting that tragedy into thousands of bloody shards that were pricking every centimetre of his body and soul.

He cried out in a hoarse, suffocated voice, the scream of a man dreaming, and he had the impression that his cry had snuffed out the bulb, abruptly plunging him into the gloom of the underground chambers. But soon that silent darkness was pierced by a mournful dirge and became animated by shadowy, sinister presences: ghosts cloaked in black carrying a litter which bore the bloody tatters of a large dismembered body. Behind them growled the beast, its eyes phosphorescent in the dim light and its mouth foaming, held tight by ropes and tethers, yanking its keepers this way and that with immense strength. They were dragging it to its final destiny: to be buried alive with the human meal that would have to satiate it for all eternity.

Fabrizio screamed again and then, tired of fighting it off, let himself sink into a well of silence.

HE WAS unaware of how much time had passed before a light stung his eyes and a voice shook him fully awake: ‘Professor! Professor! Good Lord, what has happened? Are you ill? Shall I call a doctor?’

Fabrizio got to his feet and wiped his forehead. The confused image peering out at him slowly took on the familiar features of a person he knew well: Mario, the security guard.

‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘There’s no need. I must have fainted. There’s nothing wrong, I feel fine, I promise you.’

Mario looked sceptical. ‘Are you sure? You look pretty awful.’

‘Perfectly sure. I was working down here, but it’s so damp and there’s no air…’

‘You’re right. This is no place for you to be working.’ The security guard lifted his eyes to the blown-up photo on the wall. ‘Good heavens! What on earth is that?’

‘It’s nothing, Mario,’ said Fabrizio, swiftly rolling up the enlargement. ‘Just bones. Lord knows how many you’ve seen.’

Mario got the hint and changed the subject. ‘Listen, they’re looking for you upstairs.’

‘Who’s looking for me?’

‘That carabiniere lieutenant. His name’s Reggiani.’

‘Do you know what he wants?’

‘He says it’s just to talk with you… I’ll bet you anything it’s about that second bloke they found murdered. He’s already asked me not to breathe a word about it. I don’t know how he knew that I know.’

‘That’s his job, Mario.’

‘Anyway, I haven’t spoken to a soul, but people know about it. Word gets around. People are scared.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘You said it. So should I show him to your office?’

‘Yes, do that. Tell him I’ll be right there.’

Mario walked back up the stairs and Fabrizio turned to look at what he’d accomplished. Only the upper part of the human skeleton was reassembled, and only partially. He realized he might have to ask for help from a technician with expertise in osteology or he’d never manage to finish the job. There was still a lot of work to do, especially on the small fragments that were difficult to identify, and he hadn’t even started on the animal, whose entire skeleton seemed to be present and was in near-perfect condition, except for some cracking and splintering probably due to exposure to freezing temperatures through the millennia. Fabrizio bent over the bones and saw that one of the four huge canine teeth had become detached from the top jaw, most likely jolted loose during transport. He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket, with the intention of observing it carefully and measuring it. He then walked up the stairs, switched off the light and closed the door behind him.

Lieutenant Reggiani was waiting in his office. When he entered, the officer got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Dr Castellani,’ he started. His expression made it clear that this was no courtesy call.

‘Hello, Lieutenant. Please make yourself at home,’ said Fabrizio in greeting, forcing himself to appear normal. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? From the dispenser, I mean.’

‘That’s fine with me,’ said Reggiani. ‘It’s not as bad as it used to be.’

Fabrizio left the room, then returned a few moments later with two espressos and two packets of sugar. He sat down at his desk.

Reggiani took a sip of the steaming coffee and began: ‘Dr Castellani, I’m sorry to be taking up your time, but the circumstances won’t allow me to do otherwise. You know what has been happening in the fields around Volterra…’

‘I don’t know all the details, but let’s say I’m aware of the situation.’

‘You don’t want to know all the details. Unfortunately, the situation is far from being under control and I’ve come here in the hopes that talking with you might give me some new perspective. Let me tell you briefly what’s been going on. On Wednesday at about two a.m., a Finanza police team surprised three individuals trying to break into an Etruscan tomb, the one that you have since become acquainted with.’

‘That’s right.’

‘One of them, a person that both we and the Finanza have been watching for some while, a certain Armando Ronchetti, was found dead the next day not far from the site of the break-in. The guy’s throat was basically ripped out. The coroner, who’s certainly used to seeing dead people, vomited his guts out.’

‘I can believe it.’

‘At first we thought he’d been attacked by a stray, but that seemed unlikely from the start, since Ronchetti had no doubt roamed those fields at night for years, given his line of work, and would certainly have known how to handle any dog. In fact, he had a torch with a flasher in his pocket, along with a pistol, a little 6.35-calibre Astra Llama.

‘As far as we can tell, whoever murdered him didn’t even give him the time to put his hand on the gun. Then, on Thursday evening, while you were completing your work at the excavation site, we found a second corpse in even worse shape than the first, slaughtered in the same gruesome way. According to the papers we found in his pocket, he was one Aurelio Rastelli, a resident of Volterra. Like his father, he had a market stall and sold items of clothing. Nothing in his background that could justify such a bloodthirsty murder, except pure chance.’

‘What you mean,’ said Fabrizio, ‘is finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘We have evidence, nonetheless, that Rastelli, like Ronchetti, had been involved – although we don’t know with what frequency – in the clandestine excavation and marketing of archaeological artefacts. You see, in this area, raiding tombs is like a second job for a number of people; a way to earn a little extra cash on the side. We and the Finanza do what we can, but there aren’t enough of us – the territory is quite vast and the locals aren’t always willing to lend a hand. I’ve talked to our anti-trafficking squad down in Rome and they confirm that Rastelli was picked up a few years ago for possession of stolen archaeological objects.’

‘Which doesn’t necessarily make him a professional tomb robber,’ observed Fabrizio. ‘I’m assuming you have no proof that he was at the Rovaio site with Ronchetti that night. Or do you?’

‘I’ve had the soil from the soles of his shoes analysed and yes, it does correspond to the soil in that area. But, unfortunately, it’s the same soil you’ll find anywhere around here, including the neighbourhood where Rastelli lives.’

‘So you’re back to the starting line?’

‘Yes, we are. He might have been present at the break-in, but then again, he might not. But let us suppose for a moment that, since we can’t exclude the possibility, Aurelio Rastelli was at the Rovaio tomb site on Wednesday night with Ronchetti and with a third individual we have not as yet identified. At that point, the two murdered men would have something in common – that is, they teamed up in the attempt to plunder an Etruscan tomb.’