ALSO BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Stonehenge Legacy
Copyright
This edition first published in hardcover in the United States in 2012 by
The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.
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New York, NY 10012
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Copyright © Michael Morley 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
ISBN 978-1-46830-469-5
In memory of
Stuart Wilson
Like a favourite story, much loved
and never forgotten
Contents
Also by the Same Author
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Capitolo I
Capitolo II
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Capitolo III
Capitolo IV
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Capitolo V
Capitolo VI
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Capitolo VII
Capitolo VIII
Part Two
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Capitolo IX
Capitolo X
Capitolo XI
Chapter 16
Capitolo XII
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Capitolo XIII
Capitolo XIV
Capitolo XV
Chapter 19
Capitolo XVI
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Capitolo XVII
Chapter 22
Capitolo XVIII
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Capitolo XIX
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Capitolo XX
Capitolo XXI
Chapter 27
Capitolo XXII
Capitolo XXIII
Chapter 28
Capitolo XXIV
Chater 29
Capitolo XXV
Chapter 30
Part Three: Two Days Later
Chapter 31
Capitolo XXVI
Capitolo XXVII
Chapter 32
Capitolo XXVIII
Chapter 33
Capitolo XXIX
Capitolo XXX
Chapter 34
Capitolo XXXI
Capitolo XXXII
Part Four: 18th Century Venice
Capitolo XXXIII
Chapter 35
Capitolo XXXIV
Chapter 36
Capitolo XXXV
Chapter 37
Capitolo XXXVI
Chapter 38
Capitolo XXXVII
Chapter 39
Capitolo XXXVIII
Chapter 40
Capitolo XXXIX
Chapter 41
Capitolo XL
Chapter 42
Capitolo XLI
Chapter 43
Capitolo XLII
Chapter 44
Capitolo XLIII
Chapter 45
Capitolo XLIV
Chapter 46
Capitolo XLV
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Capitolo XLVI
Capitolo XLVII
Chapter 49
Capitolo XLVIII
Chapter 50
Capitolo XLIX
Chapter 51
Capitolo L
Chapter 52
Capitolo LI
Chapter 53
Capitolo LII
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Capitolo LIII
Chapter 57
Capitolo LIV
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Part Five
Capitolo LV
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Capitolo LVI
Chapter 63
Capitolo LVII
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Capitolo LVIII
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Capitolo LIX
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Capitolo LX
Part Six
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
666 BC – Fact and Fiction
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
Present Day
Compton, Los Angeles
Midnight. A pimped black Buick blasts hip hop from rolled-down windows. Heads turn on a sidewalk still wet from a storm. But Tom Shaman sees and hears nothing. He’s in a trance. Lost in thought.
Six-three in his bare feet, Tom has cloudy eyes and thick dark hair. Thanks to a job that lets him train two hours a day in a boxing gym, he also has the body of a heavyweight.
But right now a two-year-old could blow him over.
He’s just left a squalid rental in West Alondra Boulevard where he watched an Italian immigrant die from cancer. Just hours ago, Rosanna Romano had reached her hundredth birthday. She didn’t get any cards or presents. No friends or visitors. Only the doctor, Tom and now the coroner called on her. No way to end a century on earth.
Across the street, a desperate shout snaps Tom out of his melancholia.
Down an alley by a fried-chicken takeaway, an angry huddle of figures is kicking up more noise than is healthy.
Tom’s halfway across the blacktop before he realises it. ‘Hey! What’s going on down there?’
His shout draws a face into the grey light. A big guy, dressed like an OG – an Original Gangster. ‘Keep the fuck away, man! This is none of your business.’ He rolls his fingers into a fist to make the point. ‘You got any sense, you take a hike and keep the motherfucking hell outta this.’
But that’s not the kind of thing Tom Shaman can do.
As the OG spins back into the shadows, he follows him.
A three-on-one beating is in full flow. And the big guy with the big mouth has a blade.
Tom wades in, delivering a well-planted kick to take out the knife.
Shock spreads through the scrum of bodies. Tom only has a second before they pile on him.
He takes a heavy whack to the back of his head. A knee deadlegs his thigh. No matter – he’s bouncing on his toes and full of adrenalin. He ducks a meaty right-hander and throws a knockout punch to the knife-man’s head. The kind of shot that would stop an eighteen-wheeler and leave its radiator hissing steam.
Tattooed hands grab his neck in a weak choke hold. He pulls the goon up and over his right shoulder and hits him against the alley wall.
Th
e third gangbanger swings a leaden kick. Clumsy and loose. No real power as it slaps his thigh. Tom grabs a boot, steps over the outstretched leg and feels the knee crack.
The kicker’s down squealing, but his neck-grabbing buddy is back on his feet, bouncing with adrenalin. And now he has the knife.
Swapping it from side to side, like he’s seen movie villains do.
Mistake.
Big Mistake.
Tom steps forward. Shifts his balance. Snaps a hook-kick to the head.
Two down. One left. And the one left isn’t staying around.
‘Fucker!’ He shouts as he slides away, holding his busted knee. ‘We know who you are, you crazy motherfucker!’ He makes a gun out of one hand and points the barrel-finger. ‘We’ll find you and fucking cap you for this!’
Tom ignores the insults. He leans over the victim, tries to see how he can help.
The body on the ground is that of a young woman, fifteen, maybe seventeen max. Her clothes have been torn and it’s obvious what’s happened. In the half-light he can see blood and a head wound that accounts for why she’s unconscious.
Tom dials 911 on his cell and asks for an ambulance and squad car. He hangs up and checks her breathing. Shallow and thin. He daren’t move her, there might be back or neck injuries. He covers her with his jacket and hopes help arrives soon.
The big gangbanger who attacked her is still prostrate. No surprise. It had been the best punch Tom had ever thrown. A lucky shot. And the guy’s homey is still out for the count as well. They’re late twenties, veteran OGs, wearing low-slung jeans, football jerseys and red bandanas – the colours of the Bloods, Compton’s minority gang.
Tom turns them both over.
They’re dead.
Shock washes through him. He doesn’t even have to feel for a pulse. The knife is stuck deep in the big guy’s gut and half his intestines are out.
His buddy doesn’t have a mark on him. But his head is hideously twisted and the eyes are open and glazed.
In the distance, the wincing squeal of an LAPD cruiser, blue and red lights pulsing, tyres spilling rubber round a corner. An ambulance is just behind it, its horns weaker, wallowing like an elephant around the bend.
Tom feels everything go blurry. No sound. No feelings. He squats on the kerb and throws up.
In the sodium lamplight the blood on his hands looks black. As black as sin.
The cruiser screeches to a halt.
Doors slam. Radios crackle. Patrolmen take in the scene and mutter to each other.
The ambulance finally pulls up and a trolley clatters out on to the sidewalk.
Tom’s head’s somewhere else. He’s messed up with it all. The dead pensioner at Alondra – the girl he couldn’t save from being raped – the OGs he’s killed – and the one that got away. It’s all tumbling in on him.
Now a cop is saying something. Helping him to his feet.
He feels empty.
Alone.
Lost in a personal hell.
Like God just deserted him.
CHAPTER 2
Compton, Los Angeles
The morning after the night you’ve accidentally killed someone is the worst ‘morning after’ you can imagine.
No hangover, no bad night at the casino, no regrettable sexual indiscretion comes close to how bad you feel.
On the greyest of days Tom Shaman sits in his grey vest and shorts on the edge of his small single bed feeling smaller than he’s ever felt.
Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t pray.
Can’t anything.
Downstairs he hears voices. His housekeeper. The two other priests he shares with. A diocesan press officer. A police liaison officer. They’re drinking tea and coffee, sharing shock and sympathy, planning his life without him. Seems the only good news is that the girl is alive. Scared to death, but alive. Traumatised and scarred by the rape, but nevertheless alive.
Tom’s already been interviewed downtown. Released without charge but warned that, if the news gets out, all hell will break loose.
And it has.
The devil dogs of the nation’s press have been unleashed and they’re already messing up his lawn. Packs are prowling around the church and vestry. Their trucks line the roads, satellite dishes spinning in search of a signal. Just the noise of them is purgatory. He puts hishands to his ears and tries to blot out the incessant sound of cell phones ringing, walkie-talkies crackling and presenters rehearsing lines.
Foolishly, when he’d left the station house just before dawn, he’d imagined he could come home and try to get a grip on things. Weigh up whether God had scripted the whole night of horror as a personal test. One rape and three deaths – a frail widow and two street kids who came off the rails. Quite a script. Maybe God knows that in LA tragedies have to be Hollywood epics.
Maybe there is no damned God!
Doubt rocks him.
Oh, come on, Tom, you’ve long had your suspicions. Famine. Earthquakes. Floods. Innocent people starved to death, drowned or buried alive. Don’t pretend these ‘Acts of God’ never shook your faith.
A knock on his bedroom door. It creaks open. Father John O’Hara sticks his bushy red hair and freckly, sixty-year-old face through the gap. ‘I wondered if you were asleep. You want company?’
Tom smiles. ‘No sleep. Not yet.’
‘You want some food sending up? Maybe eggs and fresh coffee?’ Father John motions towards a mug that’s gone cold near his bed.
‘Not yet, thanks. I’m gonna shower, shave and try to get my act together in a minute.’
‘Good man.’ Father John smiles approvingly and shuts the door after him.
Tom glances at his watch. It’s not even 11 a.m. and already he’s wishing the day was over. Since 6 a.m. news anchors coast to coast have been telling his story. The eyes of America are on him and he doesn’t like it. Not one bit. He’s a shy man, a guy that’s friendly and strong but dreads walking into a room full of strangers and being forced to introduce himself. He’s not the kind who wants to be interviewed on network TV. The hacks have already been pushing cheques beneath the vestry door, bidding for exclusives, trying to buy a slice of him.
Tom just makes it to the bathroom before he heaves again.
He runs the cold tap, pools water in his hands and splashes his face until eventually he feels the coldness.
He looks up into the mirror over the sink.
The face of a killer, Tom. Look at yourself. See how you’ve changed. Don’t pretend you can’t see it. You’re a murderer. Double murderer, to be precise.
How did it feel, Father Tom? Come on, be honest now.
It was exciting, wasn’t it?
Admit it.
Tom looks away. Grabs a towel and walks back to the bedroom.
On the floor near the foot of the bed is an old postcard. One that Rosanna kept pinned to her wall. One that she’d asked for when he’d prayed with her last night. She’d kissed it and given it to him as a token of thanks. ‘Per lei.’ For you.
He picks it up. Notices that it’s brittle with age, the edges torn and dirty. A rusty ring of white shows where a cheap drawing pin had been. Tom looks closely at it for the first time. It’s lost whatever colour it once had but it’s probably a reproduction of some famous Italian painting. Maybe a Canaletto. Through the sepia fog he can make out the shadowy outline of a church dome and long dark smudges that look like seahorses but are probably gondolas. A scene thousands of miles away, from a painting made hundreds of years ago.
Tom smiles for the first time that day.
Rosanna Romano’s home city of Venice is offering him a glimmer of hope.
CAPITOLO I
666 BC
Atmanta, Northern Etruria
Foaming Adriatic waves fizzle on a pale peach shoreline. Beyond the ragged north-eastern coast a solemn service of divin
ation comes to a close. Worried villagers file from one of the curtes, the sacred groves nestled between plateaus of olives and vines. The experience has not been an uplifting one.
Their seer has let them down.
Teucer – a once-gifted priest – has yet again failed to discern any good fortune for them.
The young netsvis is distraught. Bemused as to why the gods have temporarily forsaken him. He’d fasted three days before making today’s sacrifice, worn clean clothes, stayed sober and done everything decreed by the divine books.
But still the deities offered nothing joyous.
The villagers are muttering loudly. He can hear them complaining. Suggesting he be replaced.
It’s now been two full moons – maybe longer – since the augur last brought any good news to the people of Atmanta, and Teucer knows their patience is wearing thin.
Soon they will forget that it was his powers of divination that helped them settle on the metal-rich north-eastern hills. It was his blessing of a copper plough blade that fashioned the first sods of earth and fixed the sacred boundaries of the city. They are so ungrateful. He has come to the curte straight from the death of an elder. An old slave – in the servile settlement beside the drainage pits. She’d died of infestation – demons roaring and cackling inside her ribs, chewing at her lungs, making her spit thick cuds of blood and flesh.
He thinks of her now as he stands alone in the centre of the sacred circle. He’d drawn it with his lituus, a long, finely sharpened cypress stick with a slightly crooked end. It was fashioned by Tetia, his soul mate, the woman he’s pledged to spend eternity with.
He looks around. They’ve all gone. It is time for him to go too.
But where?
Not home. Not yet.
The shame of failure is too great to take to his wife’s bed.
He removes his conical hat, the ceremonial headpiece of the netsvis, and resolves to find somewhere to meditate.
A tranquil place where he can beseech Menrva, the goddess of wisdom, to help him through his doubts.
Teucer collects his sacred vessels and walks around the remnants of today’s offering, the remains of a fresh egg his acolytes had given him to crack and divine.
The yolk had been rancid.
Stained red with the blood of the unborn. A sign of impending death. But whose?
Teucer walks from the curte to the adjacent land. It is here that the community’s temple is being built. But it is taking forever to finish.