Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

Through the spray and thinning mist, Isola di San Michele bobs into view – but for once Antonio's thoughts are not on his grandparents and the other souls lying in their island graves. He's thinking of the happy times he's had on the craft. His first trip with his mother and father. Fishing with college friends. Precious, private time with his girlfriends before he moved out of his parents' apartment and got a place of his own.

The last memory lingers and brings a smile to his face as he clicks a self-firing ring on the stove to get a light for his first cigarette of the day. He'll give up soon. Maybe when this undercover job is over. Mamma will be pleased when he finally quits.

For a split second something seems wrong.

The air in the cabin feels like it's disappeared. Sucked away by a giant invisible straw.

Antonio's ears burst with pain and his body shakes.

Metal from the stove becomes shrapnel and rips into his face.

He sees it all in slow motion, the moment of realisation when he knows what's happening but can't do anything about it.

He's blind and dizzy.

The thunderous roar of the gas explosion ripples across the open sea.

Antonio feels the splash of waves in his face but can't see anything.

Tourists on the back of the waterbus gawp slack-jawed, the full horror yet to sink in.

A raw orange fireball corkscrews into the grey mist, followed by palls of thick black smoke.

Wooden planks and chunks of plastic fill the sky, then drift apart on the waves.

Passing boats kill their engines. In the eerie silence, onlookers stare and wonder if it's safe to head over.

The flames die down.

Among the glistening oil and splinters of shattered craft, the shape of Antonio Pavarotti can be seen floating amid the debris.

The House of Pesna, Atmanta Tetia feels bad about lying to Teucer.

She's told him her journey to Pesna's house had been commanded by the magistrate to seek commissions for his tomb. Teucer was so tired and weak after their lovemaking that he didn't argue.

The marital deception is the latest in a line that started when Tetia swore she'd destroyed the markings he'd made in the curte, a line that stretches now all the way to Pesna's grand chamber where she's about to hand over the ceramic she made from the engraved clay.

Hercha wanders into the room where Tetia waits. She makes a caustic appraisal of the pale, small-breasted woman in front of her. 'You're not his type. Fat with child, small and dirty. Most definitely not.'

The sculptress ignores her. She's admiring row after row of amazing pottery. Hook-handled Greek vases with curvilinear patterns and intricate silhouettes of gorgons, griffins, sphinxes and sirens. Wide-brimmed pots with red-gold figures set against polished black backgrounds.

'Did you hear me?' Hercha strides closer. 'Pesna prefers his women to have a certain sophistication and substance. Rag women are not to his taste.'

Tetia tilts her head and bends low to inspect two elegant, long-necked alabastron flasks with no handles, decorated with exotic multicoloured birds on almost opaque backgrounds. Her eyes widen as she spots a whole series of older works – Greek oil flasks with loop handles and long cylindrical bodies gracefully tapered to their bases. Then her eyes feast upon fabulously painted kraters with short handles like pig ears made from a glistening metal that she is sure is silver.

Hercha flounces from the room muttering: 'The strumpet is no doubt deaf and dumb as well as fat and stupid. Definitely not the type of a noble.'

Tetia doesn't even notice her go. She looks down at the slab of cloth-covered clay in her hands. In the presence of all these magnificent works it is no longer an inspired piece of art, it is a crude lump of earth cobbled together by the careless hands of an amateur.

Pesna enters.

He is barefoot and dressed in a tunic cut from the same cream cloth as Hercha's. He smells of recent sex and is eating a leg of roasted chicken off a beaten silver platter. 'Have you seen anything you like?'

Tetia stares at him. 'Everything!' she blurts out. 'There is nothing here that doesn't thrill the eye.'

'Does that include myself?' He pads silently closer to her, the walk of a hungry wolf, ready to drop the meat of one victim and feast on another.

Sensing danger, she steps back a pace. 'Magistrate, I have brought this.' She holds out the bundle of rags in her hands. 'I have finished it, and had thought it suitable, but now, after seeing all of the marvels in this room, I doubt it will please you.'

Pesna loses interest in her. His eyes begin to undress the package in her hands. 'As I told you last time we met, I will be the judge of that.' He saunters to the right-hand side of the room, where there is a long oak table pressed against a wall. 'Bring it over here. I need to wipe my hands.' He steps through a doorway and Tetia follows his orders. In her haste, her old sandals catch on a raised stone slab. She stubs her toe and stumbles. The ceramic doesn't crash to the floor, but it does drop heavily on to the table. Far more heavily than is healthy.

She steadies herself. Fears the worst.

Tentatively she unwraps the greatest creation of her life.

Her heart sinks.

It has broken.

Even before she has fully unfolded the cloth she knows what has happened. It has cracked. It's broken cleanly down the two deep lines Teucer had drawn to divide the oblong into three.

To her horror, Pesna reappears. He has abandoned the platter of chicken and is rubbing his hands on a thick fold of linen. 'So, let's see this wonder.'

'I'm sorry.' She unfolds the last layer of rough cloth and steps back. 'I'm so deeply sorry.'

Pesna is silent.

He stands back and stares.

'Sweet mother of Menrva!'

He all but leaps on it.

'This is astonishing!' He pushes Tetia away. 'The raw clay you had worked on was promising, but I never expected this. You have created three equal and separate scenes that look wonderful alone but together create one glorious piece.'

Tetia looks close and sees he's right. Teucer's visions lie side by side, now separated by her carelessness, but one easy push will bring them together again, like completing a puzzle.

Pesna looks delighted as he slides the pieces around. 'This is an inspired and visionary piece. It tricks the eye and unchains the imagination. Remind me, what title do you give it?'

Tetia hesitates. Then Teucer's words tumble out. 'It is – The Gates of Destiny.'

'Of course.' The title seems to energise him even more. He steps back in slow wonderment. Raises his hands to his face. 'But, my talented young Tetia, it is not quite finished.'

Tetia frowns. 'How so, Magistrate?'

He smiles knowingly. 'Silver.'

Her brow furrows.

'To do it justice – to do you justice – you must work with my silversmith and lock its beauty in silver and preserve it for ever.'

'But-'

Pesna silences her with an upheld hand. 'Mamarce is the best in Etruria. From your clay he will make casts and we will cover your vision in the richest silver we can mine. I will have Larth arrange it immediately.'

Tetia begins to worry.

It was bad enough to contemplate giving the piece to the magistrate, but if he immortalises it in silver, then it is bound to be talked about and such chatter would surely get back to her husband. 'Magistrate, when it is finished, what will you do with it? Will you keep it here, in this room with your other works?'

Pesna's eyes are alight. 'I don't yet know. Firstly, your husband will bless it at the opening of the new temple, then I will decide. Perhaps I will let it stay there for a while, in gratitude to the gods.'

Tetia drops her head. She can see how her deceptions and lies are in danger of catching up with her. 'Magistrate, I have thought again. I really think I must give this work to my husband. I will make something finer, something much grander for you.' She tries to wrap the pieces in their cloth.