Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

The Sacred Curte, Atmanta Tetia drags Teucer from the fire.

His face is badly burned and she fears for his sight. She brushes burning embers from his flesh as she leads him from the curte, screaming for help.

Teucer's father, Venthi, rushes down the hillside. 'What's wrong? What's happened?'

Her knees are buckling from the weight of supporting her husband and she struggles to speak. 'He – fell – in the sacred fire – we were making divinations – for Magistrate Pesna. Look at his eyes!'

Venthi stoops. Terrible blisters are appearing on his son's cheeks, in his eye sockets and on the lids. He scoops his son into his arms and carries him – legs dangling – as though cradling a child who'd grazed his knee.

They are only minutes from the home of Larthuza the Healer. The old man is standing at his door, drinking wine and watching life go by, when he sees them approaching. 'Take him through to the back. Lay him on the bed by the hearth.'

Venthi ducks through the doorway, Tetia following closely. No one quite knows Larthuza's age but many believe the gods have extended his stay on earth solely because of his extraordinary powers of healing.

'Pour me water, Tetia. There are jugs and bowls outside. Be quick!' He barks commands from his toothless mouth before he even reaches the place where Teucer lies.

The young netsvis is clutching his face and moaning.

'Teucer, Teucer let me help you. You must let me move your fingers and treat you.'

Seeing the healer struggling to prise away the young priest's hands, Venthi takes over. He kneels and holds them in his own, something he's not done since Teucer was a child. He leans close to his son's ear: 'Larthuza will help you, my son. Trust him. Do as he says and let him work his magic.'

The healer moves about the room, gathering cloths from one corner, then oils and herbs from another. He washes his hands in water Tetia pours for him, then he dries them on a rough, clean scrap of cloth, praying all the while to the gods.

Larthuza rubs tincture of root of arum on Teucer's forehead to dull the pain and help him relax. He layers wet ram's wool on his face and instructs Tetia to keep checking the dressings. 'When they become warm to the touch, remove them. Squeeze them out and then dip them into a clean bowl of water and re-lay them on his face.' She diligently follows instructions while Larthuza searches for his metals – thin instruments fashioned from silver and blessed not only by Teucer but by many preceding seers. The healer's shelves are stacked with salt, garlic, leaves of rue, plants of Sabine and other herbs, but he cannot find the instruments. He is becoming forgetful. 'The wounds show anger,' he calls to Venthi, as it is customary for the head of the family to be informed and his approval sought for all the healer's actions. 'You should say your own private prayers for forgiveness to help calm the fury on his face.'

Finally he finds what he wants. A small wooden box filled with silver probes, knives and grips. 'Tetia, leave those wools and pour hot water from the hearth into a metal bowl.'

He empties the instruments into the bowl and bids her rinse them in water. 'When you're finished, drain off the water and pass them to me.'

Slowly he peels back Teucer's right eyelid. Ash and splinters of burning wood have pierced the pupil. Larthuza begs the gods to steady his fingers as he uses the silver grips to pull out the remnants. Teucer flinches. 'Boy, you must keep still! Venthi, hold his head, please. I must not make a mistake here.'

Huge hands grasp Teucer's delicate head. His legs shake with pain as Larthuza pulls fragments from his scorched eyes.

By nightfall the cleansing is completed.

Once more Larthuza layers cool, wet ram's wool over the seer's damaged face then makes him drink a long potion of valerian and pomegranate. Both doctor and patient are exhausted.

'He will sleep now – and sleep for a long time,' the healer whispers to Tetia. 'We will leave him here and you may stay with him. Throughout the night the wool must be changed regularly, you understand?'

'I know my duties. I will not forget them nor sleep until they are completed.'

'Good child.' He looks towards Teucer's father. 'At dawn I will apply a poultice of feverfew and some essential oils. At nightfall I will give you oil of rough bindweed that must be massaged into the skin. And then, if the fury within him has died away, you may take him home.'

Venthi has been sitting, knees bent, back against the wall near his son. He rises now, old joints cracking as he does. 'I am thankful for your work and will bring you payment on the morrow.'

Larthuza waves a hand dismissively. 'There is no need. My only desire is that young Teucer is well again. Like myself, he is chosen to serve.'

Venthi's strong face becomes vulnerable. 'Tell me, on the word of Turan, the great goddess of health and love, will my son ever see again?'

'My old friend, that is up to her and the other deities. I have done all I can. Now we must pray and offer sacrifices. His vision is solely in their hands.'

The House of Atmanta After feasting for hours, Pesna and his closest companions are in the spa, being washed and oiled by whores and servants.

Most of the magistrate's coterie are fools, but he tolerates them because they are pretty fools. Some, like Larth, are deadly fools. What Larth lacks in wisdom he makes up for in menace. As chief of Pesna's guards he is cruelly adept at dispensing any punishments the magistrate decrees.

The wise ones, like Kavie, are rare. Always quiet, always thoughtful, seldom wrong in his counsel, Kavie as usual has separated himself from the crowd. Less drunk than the rest, he is being bathed in the far corner by two of the prettiest pages Pesna has ever employed.

'If I do not celebrate more,' proclaims the magistrate, 'there is a danger that when I die I will have amassed too many riches to spend even in the afterlife.'

His cronies laugh sycophantically.

'Perhaps there is an afterlife after the afterlife,' suggests Hercha, a local woman who has become a regular in his bed. Her hair has been freshly braided by servant girls and she constantly plays with it as she speaks. 'If I am correct, then maybe you are well advised to hold back some of your vast wealth so you will perpetually be able to live in the manner to which you have grown accustomed.'

Pesna slips off his robe and steps into the steaming water alongside Kavie. 'Since when did I allow a mere woman to give me advice? I advise you to keep your mouth solely for my pleasure and not for publicly flaunting your stupidity.' He beckons a servant: 'Girl, bring me wine. Cold wine from the fermenting rooms beneath the courtyard. Make sure it is not tepid. If it is, then Larth will whip your hide.'

The naked servant goes about her business and Larth slaps a giant hand across her buttocks as she passes him.

Ushering his washer away, Kavie turns his back on the other revellers. 'I hear news of trouble in the south.'

Pesna skims a hand over the surface of the water. 'In Rome?'

'Not in Rome. More of Rome.'

'I don't understand.'

'Many of the city kings are growing fearful of Rome. People of power and purpose are drawn to the Tiber. It is early days, but the region's arrogant nobles already speak of wider rule. This would be a threat to your own ambitions to extend your power base.'

Pesna looks concerned. 'Rome is not much more than we are, but somehow it magnetises the avaricious. Settlers there are weaned on blood, not milk. One day they will be a bigger power and we must watch over our shoulders to see that day coming.'

'You are wise, Magistrate. Perhaps we can use the current fear of Rome to progress our plans to build our lands and power in the north.'