Valerio Manfredi - The Ancient Curse

Fabrizio remembered his dream and went on as if Francesca hadn’t opened her mouth: ‘The inscription that speaks of this atrocity was carved by Aule Tarchna, Anait’s brother, diviner and priest of Sethlans, the god of lightning. He curses those responsible for the crime, and those seven curses are inscribed on to the bronze slab…’

Francesca’s scepticism crumbled all at once and her eyes filled with the same terror that had gripped her when they were underground.

Fabrizio continued: ‘When I’ve finished my work here, I’m sure well know what fate awaits us.’

HE WORKED on for two more hours, fighting off the deadly fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him. Francesca was dozing in a chair and her regular breathing mixed with that of Angelo, who was still deeply asleep on the couch.

The last barriers to understanding fell one after another, the last knots unravelled and the ancient text unwound – with a very few residual uncertainties and a couple of small gaps – before his eyes:

Aule Tarchna thus inscribes seven curses

over the death of the Phersu

May the beast [escape-leave?] [his] tomb

May the hate and revenge of Turm and the [force] of the beast

sow death among the sons of Velathri

May they die as he lives again

to take [his] revenge

May they scream in terror and [anguish?]

and vomit blood

May they die devoured by the beast

May the beast devour the throat

of [all those] who lied with their throats

[those who falsely accused] an innocent man.

He wiped a handkerchief over his sweaty brow and his head dropped in exhaustion. At that moment he heard a soft sound and he turned. Francesca was standing there in front of him.

‘Have you finished?’ she asked.

‘I still have a couple of lines to go. The nightmare is nearly complete. Have a look.’

Francesca leaned over and read the text that Fabrizio had transcribed on the computer screen.

‘What about the seventh?’ she asked.

‘The part I’ve managed to translate is here,’ said Fabrizio, showing her a notebook page full of arrows and corrections.

‘Can you read it to me?’

Fabrizio read, his voice hoarse:

‘The seventh death will [never] stop

The beast will continue to kill

[as long as] there is blood [to drink] in Velathri.

‘Do you know how many people have been killed? Six. All Volterrans of many generations.’

‘Good God. It feels like I’m living in a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.’

‘Here, take a look at this yourself.’

Francesca’s eyes glazed over with tears.

‘Then this little boy shows up. No one knows who he is or where he comes from. But he says that in that awful place, in the palazzo, is his father.’

‘The man in the painting, Jacopo Ghirardini,’ offered Francesca.

‘If it is him in the picture and if he is Angelo’s father. It seems that no one knows anything about Jacopo Ghirardini. Unless, perhaps, Ambra Reiter, but I can’t see her telling us about it, unless Reggiani manages to convince her somehow-’

As he was speaking, the phone rang. Fabrizio lifted the receiver and mouthed to Francesca, ‘Guess who?’

‘What was that?’ asked Reggiani’s voice at the other end.

‘I said, “Speak of the Devil and he will appear”,’ answered Fabrizio. ‘We were just talking about you.’

‘Saying bad things, I imagine.’

‘Obviously. What’s up?’

‘That little boy you’ve got there-’

Angelo.’

‘If that’s his name. He arrived in Volterra five years ago when he was four, or perhaps a little less, with Reiter, who claimed to be his mother. They say that she was quite a beautiful woman, and that there was something between her and the count…’

‘No kidding! What else did you find out?’

‘About the child? Very little. We’re sending out a photo that one of our computer guys has touched up to make his face look five years younger. The program he’s using was developed by headquarters and they say it’s uncannily good. We’ll be sending the image around to all the police and carabiniere stations and to Interpol abroad. Maybe he’ll be recognized.’

‘That seems like an excellent idea,’ said Fabrizio, looking over at the sleeping child. The thought that they might find out who Angelo really was and that he’d have to be given back made him unhappy and uneasy, and he imagined that Francesca felt the same, from the way she was gazing at him.

‘Listen, there’s more, but not over the phone. I’ll come by to get you. I’m already in the car… I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Be ready. We don’t have much time.’

He hung up.

‘So what did he say?’ asked Francesca.

‘Angelo arrived in Volterra five years ago, when he was more or less four. So it’s very unlikely that he’s Jacopo Ghirardini’s son. Although there may have been a relationship later between the count and Ambra Reiter. She certainly has the keys to the palace, the boy told us that himself. She’s the one who locked us in, no doubt about it.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Francesca. ‘But then, who is the child’s father?’

‘He knows that his father lives in the palace, but the only image he’s ever seen is the one in the painting. There may be another reality that he can’t even imagine…’

‘No, you can’t be thinking what I think you are,’ objected Francesca. ‘That’s pure folly, Fabrizio!’

‘You think so? Then how can you explain that that bloodthirsty monster pulled up short like a puppy dog in front of the boy? You saw it yourself. Didn’t we both think we were staring death in the face just a moment before? And how do you explain a nine-year-old child standing up to a murderous beast? It was as if a supernatural force were watching over him. Any other kid his age would have become hysterical or passed out.’

‘He almost did.’

‘No. In reality, he dominated the situation. He moved as if he knew exactly what to do. He actually ran towards the beast while you and I were paralysed with fear. And the mark that he has on his right side where his liver is, it’s in exactly the same place as the spot that comes out when you X-ray the statue. Francesca, I think I understand. Do you remember the big underground chamber cut in the tufa underneath the Caretti-Riccardi palace?’

‘Where we found Angelo?’

‘Right. It was reworked in medieval times, but it’s still recognizable. It’s a large Etruscan chamber tomb from the fifth century BC. It must have been the Kaiknas necropolis.’

‘You know that’s impossible. The necropolises were always outside the city.’

‘Exactly. What makes you think that the area of the Caretti-Riccardi palace was inside the walls of the Etruscan city? Didn’t we see a section of the walls underground? Anyway, it’s easily checked. I’m sure the survey records will prove me right.’

‘That might be,’ agreed Francesca, very confused now.

‘I’m sure of it. The animal’s den is down there because there’s an Etruscan graveyard down there. The Kaiknas family tomb. Where Turm would have been buried had he died honourably, with his sword in his hand and his shield on his arm. As a warrior instead of as a scoundrel with his head tied in a sack, torn to pieces by a starving beast…’

Fabrizio stopped because Francesca’s eyes were staring and flashing a message at him. A warning: be quiet.

Fabrizio turned instinctively and found the boy behind him. On his feet, his eyes wide open and filled with pain and surprise.

‘Angelo, I-I…’ he stammered.

Just then, the roar of an engine was heard and the screeching of tyres on gravel. Francesca went to open the door for Reggiani.