Read Online The Venice Conspiracy by Jon Trace - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jon Trace
Tags: Fiction:Suspense
Ads: Link
looks tense. ‘Thanks, I hope we get the time to do that.’
‘And you?’ There’s a hint of mischief in her eyes. ‘You don’t get out of answering that easy. What do you feel?’
The sun is blazing outside the window. He can hear Italian voices laughing and chattering on the street below. The world seems perfect. ‘Complete,’ he finally answers. ‘You make me feel wonderfully complete.’
CAPITOLO IX
666 BC
The Sacred Curte, Atmanta
Tetia drags Teucer from the fire.
His face is badly burned and she fears for his sight. She brushes burning embers from his flesh as she leads him from the curte, screaming for help.
Teucer’s father, Venthi, rushes down the hillside. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
Her knees are buckling from the weight of supporting her husband and she struggles to speak. ‘He - fell - in the sacred fire - we were making divinations - for Magistrate Pesna. Look at his eyes!’
Venthi stoops. Terrible blisters are appearing on his son’s cheeks, in his eye sockets and on the lids. He scoops his son into his arms and carries him - legs dangling - as though cradling a child who’d grazed his knee.
They are only minutes from the home of Larthuza the Healer. The old man is standing at his door, drinking wine and watching life go by, when he sees them approaching. ‘Take him through to the back. Lay him on the bed by the hearth.’
Venthi ducks through the doorway, Tetia following closely. No one quite knows Larthuza’s age but many believe the gods have extended his stay on earth solely because of his extraordinary powers of healing.
‘Pour me water, Tetia. There are jugs and bowls outside. Be quick!’ He barks commands from his toothless mouth before he even reaches the place where Teucer lies.
The young netsvis is clutching his face and moaning.
‘Teucer, Teucer let me help you. You must let me move your fingers and treat you.’
Seeing the healer struggling to prise away the young priest’s hands, Venthi takes over. He kneels and holds them in his own, something he’s not done since Teucer was a child. He leans close to his son’s ear: ‘Larthuza will help you, my son. Trust him. Do as he says and let him work his magic.’
The healer moves about the room, gathering cloths from one corner, then oils and herbs from another. He washes his hands in water Tetia pours for him, then he dries them on a rough, clean scrap of cloth, praying all the while to the gods.
Larthuza rubs tincture of root of arum on Teucer’s forehead to dull the pain and help him relax. He layers wet ram’s wool on his face and instructs Tetia to keep checking the dressings. ‘When they become warm to the touch, remove them. Squeeze them out and then dip them into a clean bowl of water and re-lay them on his face.’ She diligently follows instructions while Larthuza searches for his metals - thin instruments fashioned from silver and blessed not only by Teucer but by many preceding seers. The healer’s shelves are stacked with salt, garlic, leaves of rue, plants of Sabine and other herbs, but he cannot find the instruments. He is becoming forgetful. ‘The wounds show anger,’ he calls to Venthi, as it is customary for the head of the family to be informed and his approval sought for all the healer’s actions. ‘You should say your own private prayers for forgiveness to help calm the fury on his face.’
Finally he finds what he wants. A small wooden box filled with silver probes, knives and grips. ‘Tetia, leave those wools and pour hot water from the hearth into a metal bowl.’
He empties the instruments into the bowl and bids her rinse them in water. ‘When you’re finished, drain off the water and pass them to me.’
Slowly he peels back Teucer’s right eyelid. Ash and splinters of burning wood have pierced the pupil. Larthuza begs the gods to steady his fingers as he uses the silver grips to pull out the remnants. Teucer flinches. ‘Boy, you must keep still! Venthi, hold
‘And you?’ There’s a hint of mischief in her eyes. ‘You don’t get out of answering that easy. What do you feel?’
The sun is blazing outside the window. He can hear Italian voices laughing and chattering on the street below. The world seems perfect. ‘Complete,’ he finally answers. ‘You make me feel wonderfully complete.’
CAPITOLO IX
666 BC
The Sacred Curte, Atmanta
Tetia drags Teucer from the fire.
His face is badly burned and she fears for his sight. She brushes burning embers from his flesh as she leads him from the curte, screaming for help.
Teucer’s father, Venthi, rushes down the hillside. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
Her knees are buckling from the weight of supporting her husband and she struggles to speak. ‘He - fell - in the sacred fire - we were making divinations - for Magistrate Pesna. Look at his eyes!’
Venthi stoops. Terrible blisters are appearing on his son’s cheeks, in his eye sockets and on the lids. He scoops his son into his arms and carries him - legs dangling - as though cradling a child who’d grazed his knee.
They are only minutes from the home of Larthuza the Healer. The old man is standing at his door, drinking wine and watching life go by, when he sees them approaching. ‘Take him through to the back. Lay him on the bed by the hearth.’
Venthi ducks through the doorway, Tetia following closely. No one quite knows Larthuza’s age but many believe the gods have extended his stay on earth solely because of his extraordinary powers of healing.
‘Pour me water, Tetia. There are jugs and bowls outside. Be quick!’ He barks commands from his toothless mouth before he even reaches the place where Teucer lies.
The young netsvis is clutching his face and moaning.
‘Teucer, Teucer let me help you. You must let me move your fingers and treat you.’
Seeing the healer struggling to prise away the young priest’s hands, Venthi takes over. He kneels and holds them in his own, something he’s not done since Teucer was a child. He leans close to his son’s ear: ‘Larthuza will help you, my son. Trust him. Do as he says and let him work his magic.’
The healer moves about the room, gathering cloths from one corner, then oils and herbs from another. He washes his hands in water Tetia pours for him, then he dries them on a rough, clean scrap of cloth, praying all the while to the gods.
Larthuza rubs tincture of root of arum on Teucer’s forehead to dull the pain and help him relax. He layers wet ram’s wool on his face and instructs Tetia to keep checking the dressings. ‘When they become warm to the touch, remove them. Squeeze them out and then dip them into a clean bowl of water and re-lay them on his face.’ She diligently follows instructions while Larthuza searches for his metals - thin instruments fashioned from silver and blessed not only by Teucer but by many preceding seers. The healer’s shelves are stacked with salt, garlic, leaves of rue, plants of Sabine and other herbs, but he cannot find the instruments. He is becoming forgetful. ‘The wounds show anger,’ he calls to Venthi, as it is customary for the head of the family to be informed and his approval sought for all the healer’s actions. ‘You should say your own private prayers for forgiveness to help calm the fury on his face.’
Finally he finds what he wants. A small wooden box filled with silver probes, knives and grips. ‘Tetia, leave those wools and pour hot water from the hearth into a metal bowl.’
He empties the instruments into the bowl and bids her rinse them in water. ‘When you’re finished, drain off the water and pass them to me.’
Slowly he peels back Teucer’s right eyelid. Ash and splinters of burning wood have pierced the pupil. Larthuza begs the gods to steady his fingers as he uses the silver grips to pull out the remnants. Teucer flinches. ‘Boy, you must keep still! Venthi, hold
Similar Books
