Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

Tetia shakes back her hair and looks up at the dark-haired and slightly built stranger. 'He is not here. He is at the home of Larthuza the Healer.' She notices Kavie is not alone. The magistrate is standing behind him. She gets to her feet and brushes down her tunic.

Pesna nods an acknowledgement at her. 'Aah, the sculptress wife. What is it that you are making?'

Tetia tries to shield it from him. 'It is nothing. A rough design. Not nearly of fine enough quality to grace your noble eyes.'

'Let me be the judge of that.'

Tetia doesn't move. 'I have many fine vases, plates, statues, urns. I store them outside, behind the kiln. I would be honoured to show you.'

'I'd like you to show me what you are attempting not to.' He pulls her away from the clay. 'What piece of fancy can be so important that it must be created while your husband lies ill on the floor of a healer? What muse so powerful that it drives you to work at a time like this instead of being at his side?'

Pesna stoops to see.

He notices the lavish intricacy of the etching and kneels. 'My, but this is good.' He stretches out a hand. 'Very good.'

'Do not touch it!' Tetia fears she has overstepped her position. 'Please, Magistrate, I beg you! It is not finished. It will break if you handle it, and I wish it to be a surprise for my husband.'

Pesna does everything but touch. He examines it from all angles. 'It is a rare piece. Perhaps unique. You have a talent, child.' He lifts his head and stares straight at Tetia. 'I see many qualities in this visceral work. Explain it to me. What was your intent?'

Tetia hesitates.

'Come on, girl! I do not have all day.'

'They are visions.'

'Visions?' He looks intrigued. 'Extraordinary. Finish it. Make sure you complete it quickly.'

Kavie bends to take a closer look. He does not share his friend's love of art and sees nothing visionary. 'I am no expert, but I think this is not the cheeriest of objects to present to your husband.'

'Indeed.' Pesna stands up and brushes his knees. 'It is not suitable for a sick man. When you have finished it, I will buy it from you.'

'I cannot.' Tetia feels her heart thump. 'I am sorry. It would not be right for me to sell to you something that I have made for my husband. What would the gods think of me?'

Pesna claps a hand on the finely robed shoulder of Kavie. 'She is clever, is she not?' He turns back to Tetia. 'I had come here to tell your husband that he is no longer fit to be our netsvis. That his blindness is a divine act of displeasure from the gods and that once the temple is completed he and his wife – you – should seek pastures outside the walls of our settlement. But this-' he points at the clay, 'this is the most striking art I have ever seen. My home is filled with beauty, originality, curiosity – the rarest that Greek and Etruscan artists can muster – and this piece belongs there. Indeed, your own husband told me I should acquire more spiritual works.' He takes one final, stooping look at the clay. 'To me – this is a positive sign from the deities – a sign that its creator and her husband should also remain near to me. Protected by me. Patronised by me.'

He moves closer to Tetia. Close enough for her to smell old meat and rough wine on his breath. Close enough for him to hold her chin between his manicured thumb and forefinger and make a bead of sweat roll down her brow.

'So what is it be, young Tetia? Will you make your peace with the gods and my netsvis? And tomorrow – when I assume you have finished this divine work – will you bring it to me? Or will you take your blind and useless husband and leave for ever?'

Present Day Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice 'How creepy!' Tina walks from the bathroom in her hotel robe and sits at the dressing table. 'I've never been to a morgue. Actually, I've never even seen a dead body – except on Six Feet Under. You think you can ring your new cop friends and ask if I can tag along?'

Tom stares at her reflection in the large oak-framed vanity mirror. 'You're joking, right?'

'No. Not at all. I'm curious. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but it really would be something to write a piece on a murder investigation in Venice.' She picks up a brush and starts to work it through her wet hair.

'I thought you were a travel writer.'

'I am. But I'm a writer. A journalist. I'll cover cookery, sport, fashion – even murder, if the cheque is big enough.'

Without thinking, Tom finds himself standing directly behind her, lifting her hair, enjoying the feel of it. 'Oh, so this is now a money-making opportunity?'

'Yeah. Of course it is.' She smiles at him in the mirror, and puts a hand up to touch his on her shoulder. 'That's how we strange folk out here – the poor souls on the other side of the church walls – have to live. We do things, and then people give us money for doing them.'

Tom drops his hands from her hair, looks curiously at her. 'You think priests don't work? You don't know when you've got it made. An average parish priest works close to a hundred hours a week. I was pretty much on call twenty-four seven.'

Tina puts her brush down. 'Doing what?'

He gives her an exasperated look.

'No, go on, tell me, I'm interested. What is there to do, besides patter out a pound of prayers and croak along to some very bad karaoke songs – sorry, hymns – in return for a plate of tips at the end of each performance?'

'You're being deliberately provocative, right?'

She smiles at him. 'Right. You're getting the hang of it now. That's what we women – especially us wicked women journalists – do. We like to be pro-voc-ative.'

Tom can't help but smile back. 'But, am I also right in detecting that you're not religious? You're not a believer – are you?'

'Sorry. No, I'm not. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I have lived thirty-two years and I confess I don't believe one fucking word of it. I think all churches are a con. All religions are businesses. And all those damned TV preachers asking for my money should be locked in one big cell so they can bore each other to a slow and painful death.'

'The last bit I might go along with. The rest, well, we're going to have to agree to differ.'

Tina goes silent for a second. She thinks it's best to bite her tongue. But then the journalist in her blows up. 'How can you defend religion after you turned your own back on it? Threw in the towel and said, "I'm outta here, I don't believe any more."' She looks at him in the mirror and sees she's hit a nerve. 'Listen, I think it's a good thing you did. Otherwise you wouldn't be here in my room, but-'

He cuts her off. 'Tina, I didn't quit believing in God. I quit believing in myself. There's a difference.'

'Then believe more in yourself.' She swivels sideward so she can see him properly. 'I for one believe much more in you than I ever will in any god.' She puts out her hands and takes hold of his. 'Let's not fight about this stuff. Life's too short.'

He kisses the top of her head. 'I'm sorry. I'm a bit on edge. You know – I came here to get away from things. Death, to be precise. I came to Venice to get away from death. And here I am, up to my post-dog-collared neck in a murder enquiry.'

Tina stands up next to him. 'Tom, you're doing good. You're helping. Doing the right things. That makes you feel better, doesn't it?'

He forces a smile. 'Sure, but I can't forget that "doing good" is what got me into a very bad place.'

Tina wonders why men – all men – even ex-priests, apparently – are such pessimists when it comes to personal issues. 'Listen, you have a choice here. Say no to the damned Carabinieri and their Rocky Horror Morgue Show.' She points to the bedside phone. 'Ring them up and say, "Sorry, I just can't do it."'