Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

The Plains of Atmanta Kavie and Pesna are in a foul mood as they leave Teucer's bedside and board their waiting chariot. Larth notices their sullen demeanour as he climbs up front with the driver and whips four of Etruria's finest stallions across the hardened turf.

The chariot is new but the magistrate hasn't even passed comment on it. Larth personally designed and supervised its construction. Twin axles, four nine-spoke reinforced wheels and bronzed shielding to all sides. It is the finest in Etruria. Better than anything his father ever made. Better than anything his father's father even dreamed of making.

He glances over his shoulder and sees them deep in one of their many confidential conversations. The kind that excludes him. Belittles him.

They take him for granted. Treat him merely as a purveyor of pain. Well, he's worth more than that. More than they credit him for. More than either of them will ever be.

Fields of barley and wheat fly by on either side of the chariot as Larth languishes in his loathing and resentment.

Everything the naked eye can see now belongs to Pesna.

Beneath the soil lie the rich reserves of silver that Pesna is mining and turning into precious jewellery.

The chariot halts and the driver, grumbling, dismounts and walks ahead to unbuckle a field gate.

Larth strains to listen to the conversation of the men behind him.

Kavie sounds upbeat: 'It is a blessing in disguise.'

Pesna is sceptical: 'How so?'

'Our invitation to the noblemen, magistrates and elders can now include an invitation to the blessing of our new temple. How could they refuse to come and be part of something sacred?'

Pesna doesn't sound convinced. 'A blessing by a blinded netsvis? How will that look?'

'He may not be blind.'

'But what if he is?'

There is a pause. Larth can almost hear the wheels of Kavie's devious mind turning before finally – as always – he finds the right reply: 'Then he is a novelty. We invent a legend that Teucer selflessly sacrificed his sight so he would not be distracted by earthly things and could better listen to the words of the gods. Having such a devoted netsvis will make you the envy of all Etruria.'

Pesna laughs. 'Sometimes, my friend, I doubt whether even the gods themselves are as blessed with words as you are.'

Kavie the sycophant laughs as well. 'You are too gracious.'

'Have you not already sent the invitations?'

'Drafted, yes. Sent, no. I can make amendments later this evening and despatch them by messengers on the morrow.'

'Good. So when? When do we invite these powerful and influential men to our modest meeting and divine temple blessing?'

Kavie holds up both hands and stretches out his fingers. 'Six days' time.'

The conversation falls off as the chariot driver returns. He mumbles something, climbs back on his seat and shakes the stallions' reins. Larth ignores him and sits up straight.

Six days. Excellent. Six is his favourite number.

Present Day Isola Mario, Venice The killer of Monica Vidic continues to watch the monitors long after Antonio is out of view. He pans the surveillance cameras left and right, then tilts and zooms in and out.

There's no further trace of the snooper.

It isn't that unusual for one of the security team to wander off their perimeter and stray into the boathouse's fifty-yard no-go zone. But this is different. The young guard hasn't appeared out of idle curiosity. No, not at all. He has something else focused on his mind.

Intrusion.

He's clearly come with the notion of breaking in.

The killer replays the tapes and smiles. Yes, indeed. The foolish boy had certainly been thinking of climbing the fence – he'd like to have seen him try – and perhaps even contemplated swimming his way to the boathouse door.

Now why would a guard do that?

And more importantly, what should be done with a guard who would want to do that?

The killer had made plans for the night. Big plans. But now they're going to have to be postponed.

On another bank of monitors – ones slaved to the security master system – he watches Antonio and Fernando say goodnight to each other, punch knuckles and go their different ways. How nice to see colleagues getting on. He switches to another covert video feed, provided by cameras hidden inside the ugly white wall domes that most people mistakenly believe are just lights. The night watchman returns to the changing hut and hunts in his locker for the stale panini and soggy torte his wife had packed for him half a day ago. The snooper dawdles down to the decked pontoon and un-ropes an old motor boat.

A very old boat, by the look of it. The killer can see its registration numbers on the side and quickly writes them down. Its name, Spirito di Vita – Spirit of Life – has been removed, but the letters have been there for so long they've left legible outlines on the craft.

On a laptop on a steel table beside the security system, he opens a file marked Personnel. A few clicks later he's reading all about Antonio Materazzi – no doubt a false name – and where he's supposed to live and his employment history.

The references and background checks look good. But he still has a bad feeling about the young guard. A very bad feeling.

Within the hour his suspicions are confirmed. The boat's number and the name Spirito di Vita don't tally. The registration tracks back to someone called Materazzi, but the Spirito has a very different history and entirely different numbers. It started life as a plaything for a businessman called Francesco di Esposito from Naples. It was then bought by a former hospital worker called Angelo Pavarotti and now apparently belongs to his son, Antonio. Antonio Materazzi is almost certainly Antonio Pavarotti. Most likely an undercover cop – a special unit of the Polizia or Carabinieri. Operatives often keep their real first names in case some local calls to them in the street; that way they can pass off the recognition without arousing suspicion.

Monica's killer shuts down the laptop and returns to the safety of the commune. A smile comes to his face. How ironic that Antonio's father, Angelo – a name meaning messenger of God – should be the one to provide him with the information on how to kill his son.

Teucer and Tetia's Hut, Atmanta Sunrise over the Adriatic. A sky of strawberry and vanilla reflects in the rolling mirrored ocean. A soft breeze catches Tetia and blows back her long black hair.

The piece is fired and finished.

Tetia reflects on the work and the duplicity involved in completing it. Last night Teucer had been moved back to their hut to finish his recovery. She'd dutifully tended him until he'd fallen asleep. Then she'd returned to the clay, carefully baking it in a new kiln pit she'd dug in the earth, filled with dried manure, chopped wood, sea salt and dried leaves. As the blaze had grown stronger she'd covered it with logs and clay offcuts to trap the intense heat, timing everything so she would remove the ceramic at the first glimpse of dawn.

It was a relief to find it hadn't cracked. Though, when she looked closely, she could see hundreds of fissures, like the snakes she'd etched, crawling conspiratorially across the surface. The clay had not been pure. Poisonous deposits and odd minerals had seeped into it. At one point she'd been convinced the poisons would break the clay during the firing. But they hadn't. And, looking at it now, it is indeed everything Magistrate Pesna said it would be.

Magnificent.

The greatest of all her works.

And she is loath to give it away.

Tetia takes time to gently clean it. She stores it at the back of the hut and feels a strange sensation in her stomach.