More notes on her desk tell her that colleagues have already finished interviewing the retired fishmonger who found the body. She reads Luigi Graziuso's statement on her way to the interview room where the other witness is waiting. The old man says he was out walking his dog when he came across the girl's body dangling from a rope. At first Luigi thought the girl had slipped and was caught half in and half out of the water, so he shouted for help. It was only after screaming his lungs out and pulling for several minutes that he realised she was dead.
It was then that the young American had arrived. He'd sat with the dead girl while Luigi went to the door of an apartment building and got someone to call the Carabinieri.
Valentina pauses outside the interview room and looks through a pane of wired glass at the American witness: Tom Shaman. A tourist with no fixed abode. Strange. She studies him for a while. Normally, witnesses who've found dead bodies don't look as calm as he does. There are usually outward signs of distress. Edginess. Depression. A head hung low in reflective thought. But not this guy. He looks at ease. Comfortable. Bored, if anything.
She pushes the door open and he looks her way. Bright brown eyes. Some natural warmth. Tall when he stands. One of those guys who meets the world with a bone-crushing handshake. 'Buongiorno, I'm Lieutenant Valentina Morassi.' She looks again at her notes. 'You're Tom, Tom Shaman?'
'Yes.'
'Sorry to have kept you waiting. Please sit down. Do you talk Italian?'
He smiles. A nice smile. Easy. Maybe practised. 'Not enough to get us through this.'
'Okay. Then please forgive my bad English.'
Tom doesn't think there's much to forgive. She seems smart. Bright as a button, as his mom used to say. 'You sound word perfect. Did you learn English at school, or did you live abroad?'
She pointedly ignores his question. 'Can you tell me what happened this morning? How did you come upon the young woman in the water?'
Tom understands her need for brevity. 'I was out walking and heard a man shouting. I crossed some bridges and found this old guy trying to pull the girl out of the canal. Some small dog was barking and running round. I guess it was his.'
'It was. A terrier.'
Tom wonders what happened to it. Guesses it ran off home. 'The old fella couldn't manage to get her out. Though he was doing his best. I think he thought the girl was still alive.'
'Did you?'
His face shows the first flicker of sadness. 'No.'
'And then?'
'I finished pulling her out. By that time the old guy had gone off to get help. I sat with him until your officers showed up, and then I was asked to come here.' Tom glances at his watch. 'That was about three hours and one bad cup of coffee ago.'
Valentina frowns. 'I'm sorry, you're right, the coffee is not good. But as I'm sure you can see, we're a little busy with more important things than being waiters at the moment.'
'Glad to hear so.'
Valentina notes the riposte. Normally she'd like that in a man. But not one sat in an interview room. 'You told one of my colleagues that you are American. You live in LA and you're just here on holiday?'
Tom shakes his head. 'Not quite what I said. I am American. I no longer live in LA, and I'm not here on holiday, I'm just passing through.'
'Through to where?' The question comes out more aggressively than she meant.
He thinks about telling her it's none of her business. Contemplates explaining that recently he's been to hell and back and now just wants to go to his hotel and have a long bath.
Valentina repeats herself. 'Where? Through to where?'
'I really don't know yet. Maybe London. Maybe Paris. I've not seen much of the world and I'm going to spend some time putting that right.'
It's the kind of comment ex-cons make when they're just out of the slammer. Valentina makes a note to come back to it. 'So what about LA? That's not home any more?'
'No.'
'Then where is?'
'For tonight and the next seven days, home is gonna be here. Then I'll see.'
'What do you mean?'
'What I said. Home is pretty much – in the words of the song – wherever I lay my hat.'
Her face shows she's not in the mood for a sing-along. 'Why did you leave LA, Mr Shaman?'
Tom leans back. This is a tough one to explain. Though he knew it was coming. It was inevitable. And judging from the scepticism in her eyes, she's not going to buy anything but the full, checkable truth. So he's going to give it to her. Or at least, most of it.
'Because, some months back, I killed someone.'
He tries to sound casual, but guilt sticks like tar to every syllable.
'Actually, that's a lie – I killed two people.'
CAPITOLO V
666 BC
The Sacred Curte, Atmanta Teucer thinks of many things on the long ride back to his home. Relief that he and Tetia have not been discovered for what they are. Murderers. Even greater relief that they are not to be subjected to the brutality of Larth. And of course he thinks about what he must do to satisfy Magistrate Pesna. Most of all, though, he is thinking about Tetia.
He is worried about their relationship, and about their unborn child. A gap is opening between them. He can feel the distance. Day by day, degree by degree, it grows. He knows it's foolish, but he blames the baby. The stronger the child gets, the weaker the love between him and his wife. Almost as though it's draining affection from her.
Teucer wishes that fateful day eight moons ago in the woods had never happened. It has changed so much. Tetia hasn't let him near her since. She changes and bathes out of his sight. No longer looks at him in a way that stirs his blood and unchains his desires. The rape has traumatised her. Made her feel dirty. Used. Unclean. Any effort of his to get close to her only seems to bring back those painful memories.
The seer suffers a mental flash of the man in the grass bent over his beloved wife, thrusting at her, his face contorted by pleasure. He'd stab him again. Gladly. He'd hack him into even smaller pieces than Tetia had done and feed him to his pigs.
And then there's the child.
The baby they'd both longed for. The final piece to make their family complete.
But whose is it?
His?
Or the rapist's?
Teucer thinks he knows the answer. He suspects Tetia does too. The very fact she will not discuss the matter with him tells him so. More than that, there are signs, clear signs that he has the power to understand. Tetia gets excited when it kicks. Begs him to feel it moving. But when he puts his hand there, the child stays still, like it's afraid to move. A guilty thought hits him: What if she lost it? If the gods decided in their wisdom it were to be stillborn? Would this not be a blessing?
Teucer rests his old horse in the sagging hammock of the valley and tries to clear his head of bad thoughts. The autumn day is already drawing to a rosy close and the air is cool like a mountain stream. He feels guilty as he walks the animal up the hillside towards his hut and imagines Tetia tending the golden fire that forever glows in their hearth. It was before that same hearth, that they had married several honey moons ago, just after the Solstice, when the honey had fermented into fine ceremonial mead blessed by Fufluns, the god of wine. Tetia had looked so wonderful as her father accompanied her from his hearth to Teucer's. So perfect.
He tethers the horse and walks inside. 'Tetia, I'm back.'
She is speechless. Sitting by the hearth. The fire out.
Teucer falls to his knees. Blows hard into the ash. Silver flakes fly from the dry twigs. They both know the fire must never be allowed to die – the deity that lives there has prohibited it.