The Ancient Curse (3 page)

‘Has the doctor seen this?’ asked Reggiani.

‘Yeah, he’s been by, but he said he’d wait to do the autopsy at the morgue.’

‘Well, what did he say?’

‘Some animal with a powerful bite.’

‘I can see that for myself. What kind of animal?’

‘A stray dog maybe?’

‘Come on. Ronchetti wouldn’t have been bothered by a stray, a guy like him used to being out in the fields at every hour of the day or night. It looks like his neck and throat were torn out with a single bite. See that.’

‘Yeah, and the doctor noticed these claw marks, here at his shoulder. They’re too big for a dog.’

‘Would have been one hell of a dog all right. This has to have been a lion or something of the sort. Are there any circuses in town?’

‘No, sir,’ replied the carabiniere.

‘Gypsies, then. They’ve been known to have bears with them.’

‘We’ll check it out, sir. Can’t say I’ve seen any in the area.’

The carabiniere covered the corpse with the sheet. The coroner showed up a little later, a greenhorn from Rovereto who’d been at the job no longer than a couple of months, and he gagged at the sight of the body. He took a few notes, snapped a few Polaroid photos, said to let him know when the medical examiner’s report was ready, then went to vomit the rest of his breakfast somewhere else.

‘So what do the Finanza have to say about this?’ Reggiani asked the carabiniere.

‘Well, sir, this is what I was told. A couple of special agents were searching the area in camo gear because they’d apparently been tipped off—’

‘Naturally without breathing a word of it to us.’

‘I’m afraid not. Apparently they notice some strange activity, hear some suspicious noises, so they move in and manage to surprise Ronchetti, along with a couple of other guys they couldn’t identify, as they’re opening the pot.’

‘Breaking into the tomb.’

‘Exactly. As soon as they challenge them, these guys scramble and melt into the bushes. As they’re about to nab one of them, the guy jumps straight down off an overhang that’s steep as hell, lands on his feet and hops on a bicycle that’s sitting there waiting for him. He rides off, pedalling like crazy, on that steep slope that leads down towards Rovaio. At that point, there’s not much the agents can do, so they leave one of their guys to guard the tomb site and go back to headquarters to draw up a report for the National Antiquities Service. At dawn they send up another agent to replace the one who was on duty all night and that’s when they discover the body. They informed us and we came right over.’

Reggiani took off his cap, sat on a stone in the shade of a tree and tried to compose his thoughts. ‘Did the doctor give an approximate time of death?’

‘He thought between two and three in the morning.’

‘And what time was it when the agents found these guys with their hands in the honey?’

‘Two a.m. precisely.’

‘And they didn’t hear a thing? That seems impossible.’

‘I don’t know what to say, sir,’ replied the carabiniere. ‘Maybe it’s best to wait for the definitive report. The medical examiner said he’d perform the autopsy as soon as he got the corpse.’

Just then a siren was heard and a four-wheel-drive ambulance climbed up the slope towards them. Two orderlies came out with a stretcher and loaded the body on to it. They took it back to the vehicle with them and drove off.

‘Where’s the tomb?’ asked Reggiani.

‘Over here, sir,’ replied the carabiniere, walking first down a path and then into a cluster of junipers and oak saplings. They got to a point where several of the young trees had been recently uprooted, their leaves already wilting. An officer sporting the Finanza insignia emerged from the wood with a pistol.

‘It’s OK,’ said Reggiani. ‘It’s us.’

A slab of sandstone had been moved away, evidently using a couple of crowbars that lay to the side. They could distinctly see the dark opening that led into the tomb.

‘A chamber vault,’ explained the officer on guard, who must have taken a quick cultural heritage course at the local university.

‘Hmm,’ commented Reggiani. ‘Intact?’

‘It looks like it,’ replied the officer. ‘Would you care to take a look, sir?’

Reggiani approached the entrance and sat on his heels as the officer switched on a torch to illuminate the inside of the tomb. Reggiani could see that the chamber was quite large, about four metres by three, and so must have belonged to an aristocratic family. What surprised him was the absence of any sort of treasure inside, except for a fresco on the back wall which almost certainly represented Charun, the Etruscan demon who ferried the dead to the other world. He could see nothing inside but two sarcophagi facing each other, at least from his limited viewpoint. One was topped by the figure of a woman reclining on a couch, while the other was unadorned and coarsely sculpted, about two metres long by one metre wide and covered by a plain tufa slab. The second sarcophagus had evidently been carved out of bare stone and was quite roughly hewn, as was the slab covering it, although it appeared to be air-tight.

Reggiani noticed the floor of the chamber was made of tufa, a crumbly rock typical of the area, and seemed to be marked by deep abrasions in every direction. ‘Interesting,’ he commented, getting back to his feet. He turned to the guard and said, ‘We’ll be going now. You keep your eyes open, and if you need us you know where to find us.’

‘You can be sure of that, sir,’ replied the officer, lifting his hand to the visor of his cap.

Reggiani then went back to the squad car and asked to be dropped off at his office in the city. He detested asking the Finanza for information, but he had no alternative now.

Once at his desk, he picked up the phone and dialled the special operations number to see if he could speak to the men who had been on duty the night before. They were unable to give him a decent description of the two bandits who had got away or of the bicycle used to escape down the path through the Rovaio woods: a man’s bike, black and old, with a triangle frame and rusty handlebars. Hundreds just like it in Volterra and the surrounding countryside.

He started to search the files to see if he could turn up someone who met the description provided by the agents, while he waited for the medical examiner’s report. That’s what it was like working in these small provincial cities: sheer boredom for months or even years, then suddenly someone gets their head torn off with practically no hint of a scuffle anywhere near the murder site. He knew the colonel would be calling before evening to check how the investigation was proceeding and he could already hear his own answer: it appears we’re groping around in the dark, sir. What else?

He nevertheless ordered the men in his unit to ascertain whether any ferocious animals had escaped from a circus or Gypsy camp or even from the villa of some eccentric local dabbling in the illegal breeding of panthers, lions or leopards. He’d heard that it was becoming fashionable to raise wild beasts in your backyard. In the meantime, he waited for the results of the post-mortem exam on Ronchetti.

F
ABRIZIO ARRIVED
at the museum shortly before nine and sat at the desk in his cubicle to begin his work for the day. As he was getting started, there was a knock at the door and a pretty girl walked in. Dark hair, nice figure and nicely dressed as well, not the usual vestal virgin he was used to seeing wandering the halls of museums and NAS offices.

‘Hi. You’re Castellani, aren’t you? My name is Francesca Dionisi. I’m an inspector here. The director would like to speak to you.’

Fabrizio got up and walked out with her.

‘Do you live around here?’ he asked as they went down the hall.

‘Yes, I do. In the Oliveto neighbourhood, left of the first bend in the road that takes you to Colle Val d’Elsa.’

‘Right,’ replied Fabrizio. ‘I’m staying in a place not far from there. At the Semprini farm in Val d’Era.’

They had almost reached the director’s office.

‘Listen,’ he said, before they entered, ‘did you hear anything strange last night?’

‘No. Why? What should I have heard?’

Fabrizio was about to answer when Mario arrived at the top of the stairs.

‘Have you heard the latest? They’ve found Ronchetti, the tomb robber, in the fields near Rovaio with his throat slashed open! His head was practically ripped off his body.’

‘Who told you that?’ asked a porter.

‘My cousin, the one who drives an ambulance. He saw the body himself. It was a mess. They’re saying it was a wild animal, a lion or a leopard or something that escaped from a circus. Remember that panther that got out last year at Orbassano? Well, it’s happened again!’

‘When did it happen?’ asked Fabrizio, suddenly pale.

‘I don’t know. Two, three o’clock, depends on who you listen to. Last night, anyway.’

Fabrizio could distinctly hear in his mind that unmistakable cry of a wild animal that had split the night as he sat working in the silence of the museum. A long shiver went down his spine.

Francesca startled him. ‘What was that sound you were talking about?’

‘Well, a scream, I think . . . a . . .’

She looked at him in surprise and curiosity. He was pale and upset, obviously shaken by some strong emotion.

‘Go on in. The director is waiting for you,’ she said to relieve his embarrassment. ‘Come and see me later if you like.’

She opened the door to Balestra’s office and Fabrizio went in.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ the director asked him politely. ‘I usually have a cigarette with my coffee.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Fabrizio. ‘I think I need one myself, if I may. And I’d love some coffee.’

Balestra poured a cup from the pot and passed him a cigarette. ‘I didn’t think you smoked.’

‘I don’t. But sometimes I do . . . That is, when I’m tense.’

‘I understand. When you’re working on something important, that can happen.’

‘You said you wanted to see me. Is anything wrong?’

‘Yes, actually,’ replied Balestra. ‘We’ve got trouble.’

‘I hope it’s nothing to do with my authorization.’

‘Oh no, not at all. There’s no problem with that. It’s something completely different. I was hoping you could give me a hand.’

‘With pleasure, if I can.’

‘Well,’ began Balestra, ‘last night a couple of Finanza agents surprised some robbers breaking into a tomb and they called me right away. It was two thirty a.m. I asked them to put someone on guard and told them we’d be by this morning.’

Fabrizio wondered whether the director had heard about Ronchetti. He imagined not, but he didn’t think it was his place to tell him. Mario’s account was quite confused, after all, and might have been exaggerated.

Balestra sipped his coffee and took a long drag on his cigarette before he continued: ‘I’m wondering whether you would consider inspecting the tomb and possibly excavating it. I can give you a couple of workers, even three or four if you need them. It’s bad timing for me. I’m up to my neck in work and I have a couple of deadlines approaching. Dr Dionisi is already working on an emergency that came up in the trench they’re digging for the new power lines. One of my inspectors had an accident while on a job and is at home on sick leave, and another is on holiday – well earned, poor devil, he worked all summer on the Villanovan settlement near Gaggera. I know I can trust you to do a good job; you’ve already written and published studies on a number of similar digs. I’ve tried to help you out here, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind doing me this favour.’

Fabrizio was shocked by the proposal. It was unheard of for a regional director of the National Antiquities Service to forgo personal excavation of a possibly intact Etruscan tomb, presumably from the early period. He must be involved in something very big and very important indeed to let such an opportunity slip by.

Careful to keep his surprise out of his voice, Fabrizio replied in a solicitous tone, ‘I understand completely and I’m honoured by your trust in me. Just let me know when you’d like me to begin.’

‘Believe me, I’m sorry to interrupt the work you’re doing here. I know how important it is for you, but I don’t know where else to turn. I could ask another one of the regional directors to send someone in, but I’d rather not do that, because they’d certainly expect a favour in return. And, to be truthful, I can’t say that my colleagues . . . Well, enough said.’

‘No, really,’ insisted Fabrizio. ‘I’d be happy to work on this project. How soon would you like me to start?’

‘Right away, Castellani. You can see for yourself that it’s an emergency. Talk with Dr Dionisi and have her give you the men you need.’

Fabrizio finished his coffee and took his leave.

Francesca Dionisi was waiting for him in the hall, as if she had guessed the reason for his meeting with the director.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What did the boss want? If I’m not being indiscreet . . .’

‘Nothing less than for me to excavate the tomb that was broken into last night.’

‘Ah. The Rovaio tomb.’

‘That’s the one. Listen, I hope I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes here. I came to Volterra for something completely different.’

‘I know. You’re here for the boy in room twenty.’

Fabrizio suddenly thought of the woman’s voice he’d heard the night before on the telephone: could it have been Francesca? But as much as he racked his brain, he could not connect the timbre of that voice with Francesca’s natural lilt.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ she asked.

‘No, it’s nothing. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, then, no, you’re not stepping on my toes in the least. Actually, you’re doing me a favour, and I know the director will be grateful for your assistance as well. He’s a man who doesn’t forget people who’ve helped him and I know he will appreciate your willingness to give us a hand.’

Francesca invited him into her office, where a green apple was sitting on a plate on her desk. A snack maybe, or even her lunch.

‘Listen, if I can I’ll come by the Rovaio site to see what’s coming out,’ she went on, ‘but don’t count on it, because I’ve got my hands full as it is. Ill sign the work order for the labourers. How many? One, two, three?’