Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

'I can't do that.'

She puts her hands on his waist. 'I know you can't.'

He looks amused. 'So why suggest it?'

'Because' – Tina can't help but laugh – 'because it's the way women get men to realise that they're doing the right thing.'

He frowns lightly. 'Are women really that tricky?'

Her face lights up. 'Oh, honey, you have so much to learn.'

He lifts her wet hair again, kisses her lightly on the mouth, then slides his hands inside the front of her robe. 'Then teach me.'

Larthuza's Hut, Atmanta Larthuza the Healer is hardly an advertisement for good health.

Today he is looking all of his many years. His bones are hurting, his head pounding and his hands shaking. On top of all that, his memory is nothing like it used to be.

'Where is it?' Larthuza angrily scratches a straggly nest of white hair that is indistinguishable from his long, matted beard. He moves stacks of jars, some large, some small, some so old he cannot remember what he put in them. 'Aaah! I know, I know!' His toothless mouth breaks into a wide crescent of a smile. Barely a stride away from where Teucer's parents are sitting at their son's bedside stands a small, narrow-bodied amphora. One of its handles has broken off. It is undecorated but well used and covered in oily finger marks. 'I remember now, I put it here, closest to Teucer so I would not get it mixed up with the other medications.'

'A shame you do not have a potion to stop forgetfulness,' jokes Venthi.

His wife pushes his shoulder playfully. 'Then, husband, you should ask Larthuza for a big jug for yourself.'

The old healer extends the pot in his hands as if he is presenting a prize of Olympian magnitude. 'This is the finest oil of rough bindweed.' He glances back towards his many rows of lotions, potions and drugs. 'The last I have… I think.' He places it gently into the slack-skinned hands of Larcia, a round-faced, round-bodied woman with hair almost as white as his own. 'The oil must be applied with feathered gentleness. Let it roll over the lesions and then wipe it away with a touch lighter than a sun-kissed cloud.'

Venthi looks around the hut. 'Larthuza, do you know where Tetia is?'

The healer shakes his head. 'An errand of some sort, she said.'

'She is in her husband's home.' The answer comes from a stranger's voice. 'Forgive the intrusion. I am Kavie, counsel to the noble Pesna.'

The magistrate follows, a pace behind him. 'We have come to see our netsvis. To wish him well for a speedy recovery.'

Venthi stands like a wall. He is a full head and shoulders taller than anyone in the room. A former Etruscan soldier, he'd won his lands and freedom through his bravery. Right now, his instincts tell him he is being visited by men more likely to be enemies than allies. 'You are too generous, noble friends. A messenger would have sufficed. I fear my son is too sick to properly appreciate your presence.'

'I am fine, Father,' Teucer mumbles weakly from his makeshift bed.

Kavie looks challengingly at Venthi. 'Then with your consent, may we have a moment alone with our priest?'

Teucer's father addresses Pesna. 'Why at this moment do you seek such urgent counsel with my son? Can you not see that he needs to rest?'

'We will not be long.' The magistrate steps close to him. 'We have important matters that need but a very short – and private – time with him, alone.' He flashes a diplomatic smile and claps the old man's arm. 'The sooner we begin, the sooner we are gone.'

Larthuza coughs and motions Teucer's parents to the doorway. 'Perhaps you could help me pick herbs from my garden? I need thyme, pimpernel and root of gentian to make an infusion to speed his recovery.'

Reluctantly, Venthi and Larcia follow him outside.

Kavie and Pesna take positions either side of Teucer. The magistrate speaks first. 'So, young priest, how came you to be so injured? The word among commoners is that you were blinded in the curte. This kind of tale augurs badly for your popularity and the success of the task I set you.'

Teucer chooses his words carefully. 'Commoners never care for the entire story. It is true that while in the curte I was hurt by the fire I had built. My injuries are solely the will of the gods.'

Kavie and Pesna exchange disturbing looks.

'But what the commoners do not know is that I was there entirely on your business and that before my punishment the gods revealed to me why I must suffer such pain.'

'What do you speak of, Netsvis?' Pesna leans close to him. 'I am not a man amused by riddles. If you have a divine message for me, then out with it.'

Teucer replies tonelessly: 'Before a mighty force threw me into the flames, the gods set my eyes on the temple. They told me they were angry you had stopped work on their home in order to increase output at your mines. They did this to me to punish your short-sightedness.'

Pesna glances towards Kavie and reads the anxiety on his face. 'Your insolence is only forgivable because of your illness. If this is an act of the gods then they are communicating their wishes through you, so tell me, what needs be done to please them?'

Teucer manages a thin smile. 'Their temple needs to be finished and due homage must be paid in the form of gifts and sacrifices. If you please the gods in these ways then they will reward me by returning my sight and will grant you the peace and prosperity you so urgently seek.'

'And if they are not pleased?' asks Kavie.

Teucer cannot see the men, but senses their apprehension. 'If the gods are displeased then they will leave me blind. And they will wreak most terrible vengeance on you and all you hold dear.'

Present Day Venice Tom and Tina take dinner at the kind of restaurant only locals know about – the kind that even travel writers keep secret from their readers. Tina pauses until the waiter is out of earshot. 'So' – she fights back a cat-got-the-cream-smile – 'I hope you don't mind me talking about this, but was I really your first?'

He looks up from his spaghetti vongole and pretends not to understand, 'My first what?'

'You know…' She slices steak piazzella, and whispers, a little louder than intended, 'Your first full sexual communion? '

Tom slugs a jolt of chilled white wine and shoots her a disapproving look. 'Sex and communion are words that don't really go together.'

She arches an eyebrow, 'Oh, I don't know, I could see you in those long purple robes, nothing on beneath, me kneeling at your feet and-'

'Don't go there!' He puts up a hand. 'Don't even think it. You're a very sick girl.'

'Mister, you can't begin to imagine! I'm a journalist, I was born sick,' she apologises with a soft smile. 'And hey, you've still not answered my question.'

Tom fiddles with his wine glass. 'Yes.' He looks up at her. 'Yes, you were.'

'Phew.' She rewards him with an approving tilt of the head.

'Is that a good phew, or a bad phew?'

'It's like a wow, phew.'

'A "wow, phew"?' He laughs. 'I've never had a "wow, phew" before.'

'I guess that's because you've never had sex before.'

'Point taken.'

'So, describe it, then. What's it like, first time?'

Tom drops his cutlery in mock exasperation. 'Oh, come on! Give the boy a break. You've had your own first time, you know what it's like.'

'A long time ago.' She half laughs, picks up her wine glass, stem between middle fingers, a glisten of condensation outside a bowl of golden fluid. 'Actually, now I remember, it was horrible. Hurt like fuck and I thought I'd never want to do it again.'

Tom looks shocked.

She pins her smile back on. 'Not that bad for you, I hope.'

'No. Not bad at all.'

She feigns offence. 'Charming. I've never had a "not bad" before.'