‘Bravo!’ mocks Federico. ‘All your training and very old is the best you can come up with?’
‘Okay. Then it’s very, very old.’ Ferrari smiles at his friend. ‘I know you want facts, but until we’ve X-rayed and carbon-tested it, I’m not even going to guess at a date. What I will say is this is not a replica. It is an ancient Roman weapon forged several centuries ago.’
Valentina struggles to picture Suzanna with it. A frail Italian woman in the twenty-first century wielding a heavy Roman sword in a church is an insane image. Almost as crazy as the thought of how it could have come into her possession. Family heirloom? Stolen from her husband, boyfriend or lover? ‘And this thing could actually cut a hand off?’
‘I believe it could.’ Ferrari lifts it so the blade is close to Valentina’s eyeline. ‘I haven’t chopped anything with it, but the metal has probably been tempered. That would make it sharper, stronger, even deadlier, but ironically a little more brittle. Against a heavier weapon it might shatter, but it would slice through flesh like a hot knife through butter and, with several hacks, would go through bone.’
Despite Suzanna’s mental problems, Valentina really can’t envisage her cutting off another woman’s hand.
Maybe Tom’s right.
Perhaps there’s more to this than she first imagined.
Ferrari dispassionately continues his run-down. ‘The clothing is in the evidence store at the end of the corridor. Let me call through to my assistant and she’ll have someone find it for us.’ He opens a door and jabbers a message to his secretary.
‘Rome is full of artefacts,’ says Federico to Valentina, ‘but one as well preserved as this is extremely rare. It must have been stolen from somewhere, a museum or private collector. It should be easy for us to trace.’
Ferrari returns to the desk, wraps up the weapon and carefully replaces it under lock and key in his cabinet. ‘Shall we go to the store?’
‘Please,’ says Valentina.
The scientist can’t help but stare at her.
‘I’m sorry. Forgive me gawking at you. I was just thinking that you’re remarkably young — and pretty — for a female captain.’
Federico barks out an embarrassed cough.
Valentina treats Ferrari to a well-practised look of indifference.
Ferrari tries vainly to dig himself out of his hole. ‘They’re unusual — female captains; in fact, the only other one I’ve met must be twice your age, and come to think of it, I actually suspect she’s a he.’ He laughs nervously and turns to Federico. ‘What do you think, is Giovanna Ponti a man or a woman?’
‘Neither,’ interrupts Valentina coldly. ‘She’s a senior Carabinieri officer and you’d do well to afford her the respect she deserves.’
‘Quite.’ Ferrari frowns at his faux pas, then moves slowly ahead of them. ‘I didn’t mean to be sexist, Capitano. Federico will tell you, I have a sad knack of saying the wrong things when it comes to ladies. I’m sorry if I upset you.’
They make the rest of the short walk in silence and enter a cool storage room full of freezers, shelves, drawers and wall cupboards.
‘We’re still compiling the DNA profiles,’ explains the scientist, grateful to change the subject and get back on a professional footing, ‘but I can already tell you something interesting about the blood samples taken from the dismembered hand, the weapon you recovered and the clothing that your prisoner was wearing.’
Valentina’s patience is short. ‘And that is?’
‘They don’t match.’
He watches their faces as they struggle to absorb the significance.
‘None of them?’ queries Federico.
‘None of them,’ he confirms. ‘The blood from the victim’s hand is different to that found on the weapon — and from the blood on the clothes of the woman you arrested.’
Valentina feels like she’s doing Sudoku.
A young female lab assistant arrives on cue, holding a hooded white gown covered in a transparent evidence sheet.
Ferrari takes it from her and turns it round so they can see the stains and spatters on the front. ‘Just so you’re really clear, the blood on this garment is not from the severed hand and not from your suspect.’ He pauses, then explains: ‘The blood on this gown is AB. The blood on the sword taken from your prisoner is Rhesus positive and the blood on the severed hand is Rhesus negative.’ He gives them something to grab on to. ‘Rhesus neg is present in only about fifteen per cent of the population.’
Valentina lets out a long sigh and realises she’s been holding her breath. ‘That at least is helpful. We have a victim with unusual blood. If she got a transfusion, we should be able to trace it.’
‘Let’s hope she did,’ says Federico ruefully.
Valentina picks up the transparent bag. ‘If this blood isn’t from the victim with the severed hand, and it isn’t from our prisoner, then who the hell is it from?’
No one answers.
They don’t have to.
They all know that it’s only a matter of time before another victim turns up.
At least one more.
28
Mother tells us Her story.
The one about how the old King could have had all nine books.
If only he hadn’t been such a fool.
If only he had realised that what Mother was offering him was the greatest prize on earth.
Nine books that would have secured the safety and success of Rome until the end of time.
Nine volumes that would have protected his throne, his people and himself.
But the old fool laughed in Her face.
He held his fat belly like it had been freshly filled from royal feasting and he roared like a drunkard in the Aventine.
Mother says She’d never been so humiliated.
All She’d asked for was a small share of the riches She’d helped create.
A meagre portion of the prosperity Her prophecies had produced.
But he waved Her away like he would a kitchen skivvy.
My sisters and I can feel Mother’s pain. Even now it hovers in Her spirit as she tells us how She refused to go. How She stared the King down and set aflame the first three volumes of Her treasured work.
He showed not a hint of concern.
Indeed, he even smiled as the fire’s flame-red lips greedily chewed their way in blackening bites through Her sacred works.
Poor Mother.
She says some madness must have visited the monarch, for he laughed uncontrollably and even warmed his hands in the heat of the hearth as the pages turned to ash.
And so Mother left.
In Her absence, the winds of pestilence and the rains of plague began to gather in the Roman skies. From the dark holes of the underworld, the goddess Proserpina and her minions slowly turned their heads with great expectancy towards the Eternal City.
The King’s augurs could see the dark clouds of calamity gathering and they urged Mother to return.
But still She was not welcome.
We ask Her why She subjected herself to such indignation. Mother tells us everyone makes mistakes.
Even kings.
Everyone deserves a second chance.
Even fools.