Blood Fever Page 12

  ‘Would you care to stay for dinner?’ said Victor, trying to lighten the mood. ‘It is late and you have a long journey back.’

  ‘That is most kind of you,’ said Ugo. ‘My sister and I would be delighted, Signor Delacroix.

  James was sick of the sound of Ugo’s voice. The man couldn’t stop talking, and he had only one subject – himself. All through dinner he had bored everyone with his views on philosophy and religion and politics, and how the local people were lazy and untrustworthy.

  Now he had got on to the subject of money, or to be more precise, his own great wealth.

  ‘Silver,’ he was saying, as Victor nodded politely. ‘It was silver that paid for everything. Inside the mountain, beneath my palazzo, is my silver mine. I had other mines on the island before – lead and zinc and coal – but they were not profitable. I sold them all and went to the Gennargentu. I had a hunch.’ He tapped his nose. ‘I can smell silver. Everyone said that I was mad. But I didn’t listen. I tunnelled into the mountain with explosives. No silver. I tunnelled deeper. Still no silver . . . but then one day – silver! I proved them wrong.’

  He laughed, then stopped to wipe his lips on a pristine white napkin, which he instantly dropped to the floor as if it were some disgusting dead animal.

  There were five people around the table. Victor and Poliponi, Ugo and Jana, who barely touched her food, and James.

  James missed the relaxed informality of his previous meals at the villa. Victor had pulled out all the stops tonight and the table was covered with gleaming silverware, fine porcelain and a crisp white linen tablecloth.

  ‘I tore the heart out of the mountain,’ Ugo went on. ‘And I used the stone I removed to build my palazzo.’ He turned and said something quickly to Poliponi in Italian. The artist smiled and looked impressed.

  ‘I was just saying to Signor Poliponi how much art I have in my palazzo,’ said Ugo. ‘I love art. I am a very cultured man. I love art and architecture and music. I want to live among beautiful things. The Emperor Napoleon stole art from all around Europe, including much Italian art, the greatest art the world has ever seen. Like him, I am filling my home with art.’

  ‘Napoleon was a great man,’ said Poliponi. ‘A strong leader. He understood that fame is the most important thing. To be immortal.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Ugo. ‘The human body is frail and when it finally gives up, it becomes the same decaying matter as everything else. In death we are all soup. We soon become forgotten unless we can do something tremendously good, or tremendously bad. It does not matter which. But you must do it always with style.’

  ‘Exactly so,’ said Poliponi. ‘If you kill a few men you are simply a common murderer, but if you kill millions you are a great general, remembered for all eternity, like Attila the Hun or Julius Caesar.’

  ‘How true!’ said Ugo. ‘The very word “Caesar” has come to mean a glorious ruler. The Russian word “Czar”, the German word “Kaiser”, they all come from “Caesar”. The Romans built the greatest empire this world has ever seen. They brought civilisation to Europe. Their achievements were extraordinary, far in advance of anyone else at the time. They put the rest of the world to shame. Well, I hope to remind the world of all this. My dam is just the beginning.’

  Ugo had become so excited that he was waving his hands around and he jogged Mauro’s arm just as he was attempting to serve him some food. Red sauce spilt over his white suit.

  Ugo leapt up from the table, madly wiping at the stain and screaming a torrent of Italian at Mauro in a horrible, high-pitched voice. Finally he stormed out of the room on to the terrace, still yelling and followed by his anxious guards.

  ‘It appreas that dinner is over,’ said Jana, putting down her knife and fork. ‘We must go home now. Thank you for your hospitality.’

  She stood up to leave and Victor jumped to his feet.

  ‘Surely he can be placated, madam?’ he said. ‘It is not so bad.’

  ‘A serving girl once stained his clothes with wine,’ said Jana. ‘And Ugo had her thrown from his dam.’

  She laughed mirthlessly and followed her brother out into the night.

  ‘What a man!’ exclaimed Poliponi, when they had gone. ‘He is like a crazy god!’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet,’ said Victor. ‘He is a bore. I do not think we will be going to his carnival.’

  ‘But I insist,’ said Poliponi. ‘We must go. I want very much to see his palazzo and the dam, and the aqueduct.’

  ‘I would like to see the mountains,’ said James. ‘After all I’ve heard about them.’

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ said Victor. ‘But we shall not be going. There are rumours about Ugo Carnifex.’

  ‘What rumours?’ said James.

  ‘I don’t want to go into it,’ said Victor. ‘We are not going.’

  ‘You are an old woman, Victor,’ said Poliponi. ‘Frightened of ghosts and shadows.’ The artist poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Ugo is just a man who loves secrecy. He does not welcome many visitors; we should be honoured. I adore carnivals, James,’ he added. ‘Such fun. There will be music and dancing and wrestling. I love wrestling. It is so manly.’

  ‘Carnifex is a crook,’ said Victor. ‘And we are not going.’

  ‘Oh, many men in that part of the island are crooks; it is bandit country,’ said Poliponi. ‘But Carnifex is different. He is a strong man, a modern-day Augustus. He could make this country great again, like Mussolini is trying to do.’

  ‘Mussolini is a clown,’ said Victor. ‘They are all clowns. Why can’t they just leave us alone and stop trying to change the world?’

  ‘The world needs changing,’ said Poliponi. ‘It is boring. I insist that we go, Victor, or I will sulk.’

  Victor stood up. ‘I will think about it,’ he said, and went outside.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Poliponi with a sly grin and a wink. ‘We are going, James.’

  In the distance, James heard the roar of the Sikorsky’s engines and saw its lights as it climbed into the night sky.

  12

  Let Down Your Hair, Rapunzel

  Amy sat at her window and looked out at the now familiar view. Slowly the sun was setting and the light was fading, but she could still see, far below, the dry valley, dotted with yellow stubble fields, and on the other side, the craggy grey mountain rising up to the darkening sky, its lower slopes carpeted with trees that from this distance looked like tiny green pompoms.

  Under different circumstances she might have found the view beautiful, even romantic, but now she just found it bleak and desolate and lonely.

  She was a prisoner in this room.

  There was a thick iron bar in the middle of her window, but even if it hadn’t been there she wouldn’t have dared to climb out. There was a drop outside the window of several hundred feet.

  As prisons went she supposed that this room was at least comfortable; it was certainly better than the hold of the Charon. It was nicely furnished with a dressing table and chair, a comfortable bed and a rug on the floor.

  But she was still a prisoner.

  By the time they had arrived in Sardinia Amy had grown used to the routine of life on board the Charon. Since coming ashore, however, things had changed, and changed for the worse.

  When was that? She tried to think. Could it really have been only just over a week ago? So much had happened.

  She and Grace had spent the first few days in a dingy hotel in the backstreets of Terranova, sweltering in the damp heat, while Zoltan waited for his transport to arrive. They hadn’t been allowed to leave the room and one of Zoltan’s men kept watch outside the door 24 hours a day.

  At first they passed the time by playing cards, practising their French and fighting off the mosquitoes, but Grace had slowly become more and more depressed until she just sat in the corner all day, hugging her knees and sobbing. In the end Amy had had enough of it and let fly at Grace, telling her that they had to be strong and look after each other. Feeling sorry for themsel
ves wasn’t going to help.

  That seemed to snap Grace out of it. She dried her tears, washed her face and got busy around the small room, tidying and cleaning and trying to create some sense of normality. Then one evening Zoltan had come to the room and told them they were leaving in the morning.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ Amy sneered. ‘To market? To be sold?’

  ‘No,’ said Zoltan.

  ‘I told you my grandfather would never pay you the ransom,’ said Amy.

  ‘He will pay,’ said Zoltan. ‘But it will take a little more time.’

  ‘What about me?’ wailed Grace. ‘My family’s not rich. They can’t pay for me.’

  ‘Be quiet, Grace,’ said Amy, softly. ‘You’ll be all right. We won’t be sold like cattle.’

  ‘I have brought you something to wear,’ said Zoltan, dropping some packages on to the bed. ‘In the morning I want you to be clean and dressed. There is everything you will need here, including…’ He stopped and blushed slightly. ‘Other clothes. To go underneath.’

  ‘I don’t want them,’ said Amy. ‘I don’t want anything from you.’

  ‘You get rid of those filthy clothes you are wearing and put this on,’ said Zoltan, angrily tearing open one of the packages and pulling out a frilly yellow dress. ‘But first you will wash. There is soap here. Use it. You smell.’

  ‘I won’t wear that dress,’ said Amy. ‘It’s ugly.’

  ‘It is all I could find here in Terranova.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m not wearing it.’

  Zoltan grabbed Amy and thrust her in front of the mirror. ‘Look at yourself,’ he said. ‘You have been wearing these same clothes for weeks.’

  Amy looked, but hardly recognised the person she saw reflected in the mirror. Her face was pale and grimy, her hair had grown into an untidy tangle and her borrowed clothes were now grey and ragged.

  ‘We are going to the house of a wealthy man who has a hatred of dirt,’ said Zoltan. ‘I am going to sell him some of my treasures, and I do not want to do anything that might make him angry.’

  ‘And am I one of your treasures?’ said Amy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Zoltan. ‘My greatest treasure. But I am not going to sell you to him. I will keep the best for myself.’

  In the end Amy was too tired to fight and the next day, wearing the ill-fitting yellow dress, she was loaded with Grace into the back of a canvas-sided military truck. The truck was part of a small convoy made up of two other trucks and an open car that moved slowly out of Terranova southward down the coast road. They travelled at a snail’s pace and had to make frequent stops as one or other of the vehicles broke down.

  Zoltan rode alongside on a big white horse, his Samoan lieutenant at his side on an even bigger horse. Zoltan had his bad arm in a sling and seemed frustrated by the slow progress they were making and frequently lost his temper and shouted at members of his team. As well as the crewmen from the ship some local men had joined them: fierce-looking bandits wearing long black stocking caps. Amy had noticed them watching her and Grace, and asking questions, no doubt curious as to who they were.

  The lorry was full of packing crates and, as much as for something to do as anything else, Amy tried to open one of them, working away at the nails with a cutlery knife she had stolen from the hotel.

  After a couple of hours she managed to loosen the lid enough to prise it back and look inside.

  She found a row of oil paintings and a marble bust that looked like it might be Roman.

  She was just showing the contents to Grace when they felt the truck rock on its springs and she looked round to see one of the local men climbing over the tailgate.

  He was clutching a bottle of wine and appeared to be drunk.

  ‘Buon giorno!’ he said and offered them a wobbly bow.

  He smiled at Grace. ‘Come sì chiama?’ he said, and Grace shrugged.

  ‘What does he want?’ she said, turning to Amy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Amy replied. ‘I think perhaps he wants to know your name.’

  ‘I am Grace Wainwright, from England,’ said Grace. ‘And I do not wish to be here.’

  The man laughed and mimicked her thin, frightened voice, and then he patted his chest. ‘Mi chiamo Salvatore,’ he said and offered her some of his wine, nearly falling over as the truck lurched around a bend.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Grace, pushing the bottle away. Again Salvatore laughed and copied her.

  ‘Please,’ said Grace. ‘Please, go away.’

  The truck suddenly braked and they were all thrown forward. Salvatore fell in a heap on the floor, laughing like a madman. Grace tried to hide behind the packing cases.

  The Sardinian got shakily to his feet, spilling wine down himself. He wiped his mouth and held out his arms as if to welcome her into them. Amy had had enough. She quickly stepped forward and gave Salvatore a shove. He tipped over the tailgate, falling into the road with a startled shout.

  The following lorry had to brake sharply and veer to the side of the road to avoid running over him.

  There were angry shouts and the driver jumped down in a cloud of dust, gesticulating wildly.

  The whole convoy came to a halt and Zoltan galloped over on his white horse.

  Salvatore lay very still in the road, spread-eagled on his back. One of his friends went to him and slapped him, trying to revive him. Then he poured water over his face from a canteen and Salvatore spluttered and groggily raised his head before he snapped back into life and stood up, yelling a stream of insults at Amy, who was looking out of the back of the lorry.

  ‘Shut up!’ said Zoltan, and there was silence. ‘Now, will somebody please tell me what is going on here?’

  Again a stream of excited Sardinian poured out of Salvatore and one of his friends translated.

  ‘He say the girl push him from the truck. He say he is going to kill her.’

  ‘He is going to do nothing,’ Zoltan snapped. ‘I am in charge here.’ He turned angrily to Amy. ‘Is this true? What this man is saying?’

  ‘Perfectly true,’ said Amy calmly. ‘That man is drunk.’ She picked up the bottle and tossed it into the dirt. Salvatore looked disappointed as the dark wine spilt out into the road.

  Zoltan closed his eyes and fought to control his emotions. For a moment he looked very weary, then he wiped his face, opened his eyes and walked his horse over to Salvatore, so that he was towering over him. When he finally spoke, he spoke quietly. ‘I gave orders that nobody was to interfere with my prisoners.’

  Salvatore tried to interrupt and Zoltan yelled at him. ‘You should not have disobeyed my orders!’

  ‘You not my boss,’ said Salvatore with a note of scorn in his voice.

  ‘As long as you are travelling with us,’ said Zoltan, ‘you will respect my authority. Rispetto. You understand? If you go near the women again, I will have you thrashed.’

  Salvatore raised his chin defiantly, made an obscene gesture and muttered a curse. One of his friends laughed and Zoltan suddenly kicked Salvatore in the face, knocking him to the ground.

  Zoltan swung down out his saddle, and by the time Salvatore had scrambled to his feet the Magyar was standing next to him.

  ‘Do you understand?’ he said.

  Salvatore swore and took a swing at Zoltan. The Magyar easily dodged it and hit Salvatore hard with the back of his hand. For the third time Salvatore ended up lying in the road. His face was battered and streaked with blood, but Zoltan stood calm and relaxed. He pulled the Italian to his feet and looked at him.

  ‘Do you understand now?’ he asked.

  There was still a dim glow of defiance in Salvatore’s eyes. He feebly raised a fist and Zoltan hit him again. The blow was so powerful it whipped Salvatore’s head back and he spun away into the arms of one of his friends.

  ‘Stand him back up,’ said Zoltan.

  ‘Stop it,’ Amy screamed from the back of the truck. ‘Stop it. Can’t you see he’s had enough?’

  Zoltan turne
d to face her and at that moment Salvatore’s friend pulled a knife from his belt.

  Zoltan saw Amy react and turned back again, reaching inside his tunic. By the time he was facing the Sardinian his Beretta was in his hand and levelled at the man’s head.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Try me. I will shoot you three times between the eyes before your body hits the ground.’

  The fight went out of the Sardinian and he dropped his knife.

  Zoltan looked at Salvatore. He was barely conscious. ‘Get that sack of horse manure in one of the vehicles and let’s get moving,’ said Zoltan, and he glanced at Amy before jumping on to his horse and riding back to the front of the convoy.

  The rest of the journey passed without incident. Amy sat in the back of the truck, staring out as the road unwound behind them, too numb to know what to think any more.

  They left the coast behind and climbed up into the heart of the island, passing through the town of Nuoro, before veering southward towards the Gennargentu Mountains.

  As darkness fell they arrived at their destination: a large, man-made cavern at the foot of a mountain. It was lit by harsh, yellow lights and the smell of oil hung in the air. There were more trucks parked here and various large pieces of rusting machinery.

  Zoltan’s crew unloaded the crates on to what looked like miniature train wagons and Amy saw a narrow track disappearing down a tunnel cut into the rock wall.

  Once the cargo was safely loaded, Zoltan helped Amy and Grace on board before climbing in beside them with Tree-Trunk and a couple of his men.

  ‘It is a mining car,’ Zoltan explained. ‘To bring the ore out of the mountain.’

  There was a jolt and the car moved forward into darkness.

  The tunnel snaked up through the inside of the mountain, lit here and there by flickering lamps. At regular intervals they passed other tunnels going off into the shadows on either side and everywhere were piles of seemingly abandoned tools and equipment.

  After what felt like ages the car finally emerged into a large vault lit by powerful arc lights. This appeared to be the centre of activities in the mine. Men in purple uniforms were waiting to unload the packing crates and they quickly began moving them into various side chambers that were already half-filled with similar boxes.