Nothing. No response. Just a blank gaze.
Valentina edges closer. She bends a little and tries to be more intimate. ‘Late last night, were you in Cosmedin, at Chiesa Santa Maria, at the Bocca della Verita?’
Suddenly the prisoner lunges.
The top of her head smashes into Valentina’s jaw.
The guards are too slow reacting.
The prisoner starts shouting and punching and kicking.
Valentina reels backwards, holding her bloodied mouth.
One of the officers finally grabs the woman.
The prisoner is hysterical, screaming and lashing out uncontrollably.
Ferrera and Federico bump into each other as they rush into the narrow cell.
Blood pumps from Valentina’s mouth. She’s bitten her bottom lip and maybe knocked a tooth loose.
The prisoner is now pinned on the floor. One of the guards twists her arms behind her back and clicks on some steel cuffs.
‘Now do you see what I mean?’ says Ferrera triumphantly. He looks across to Valentina. ‘With the captain’s permission, perhaps we could now sedate the prisoner and save ourselves a lot more pissing about?’
7
My corpse has been bathed.
My colourless skin sags as it is oiled and perfumed by the skilled hands of the pollinctores.
Bless you, gifted artisans from the temple of Venus Libitina.
Bless all of you who have put your judgement aside and now prepare me to stage a dignified escape from my death.
I see familiar faces around me.
My family and friends are dressed in the dull mourning wools of vestes pullae, their bodies unwashed, their hair uncombed, their nails uncut and clothes unchanged since I passed.
Flutes play outside in the darkness where they are waiting for me. The conclamatio has begun.
I hear my name being chanted.
Cassandra… Cassandra… Cassandra…
One by one they bend over me to say their final farewell, my extremum vale.
Musicians lead the way as they carry me feet first with my face respectfully covered.
The female praeficae follow. Their tearful funereal dirge further chills the cool night air.
Sadly, there will be no stopping in the forum. My redemption in death is not complete and the honour that should befall me as the wife of a senator has been denied because of my unjust shame.
The walk to my resting place is a long one. Way beyond the city walls, as decreed by the code laid down in the Twelve Tables.
The dirge has stopped by the time we reach the ustrina, the sacred enclosures. Those who have carried me are tired but do their best not to look pained or drawn.
Much work has been done to observe proper ceremony. My husband has shown me more attention in death than in life.
My altar is high. Four equal sides of strong timber. A fine exit.
In the dead of night, the pyre is lit.
The flames rise endlessly into the night sky and reach beyond the earth.
So does my spirit.
Cassandra is unshackled.
8
Paris
Just after midnight, in a cobbled back street off the Champs-Elysees, Tom Shaman finds himself cradling a bottle of Mexican beer in a dubious club. It’s the type that privately promotes gambling and other pursuits that even in Paris aren’t legal.
Jean-Paul has been coming here for more than a decade. He leads his friend away from the crowded main bar to the back of the club, where raucous cheers come from behind a long row of black curtains.
‘Do you know what savate is?’ shouts the Frenchman over the top of the crowd noise and the froth of his own beer.
‘Not a clue.’
JP leans closer, ‘It is the boxe francaise, the only martial art to originate in Europe. It has been shown in an X-Men film, featured in Captain America and even Tintin.’ He laughs. ‘It is very select – very famous.’
‘A kind of kickboxing?’
‘Yes, if you like. It is a style of fighting with foot and fist made famous by Napoleon’s troops. Now it is something of a back-street sport, with heavy wagers. Do you want to see?’
It’s his last night in Paris; Tom is up for almost anything. ‘Sure.’
JP digs one hundred euros entrance money out of his jeans pockets and pays a burly, bald-headed man in a black suit to pull back the curtains. They’re ushered through a door that leads to what was once a large loading bay. Now it is filled with close to two hundred people, clutching drinks and gathered around a large, one-rope ring.
Tom soaks up the scene. He’s not a violent man, never has been, but there’s something about boxing that attracts him. It’s a personal failing. An indulgence of one of his baser instincts. Some overdeveloped survival gene craving release through physical combat.
On the right-hand side of the room, a small, scruffy man in his late twenties is taking bets, marking odds and writing names in felt tip on a whiteboard easel. A metre away, some better-heeled business types are torn between watching the bout and checking on the shifting odds.
In the ring, a hopeless mismatch is under way.
A Neanderthal the size of a house is kicking lumps out of a kid who must only be in his late teens. Judging by the throwback’s face, he’s been in some nasty fights in his time. Part of his right ear is missing – probably punched or chewed off in a street brawl. His nose has been broken enough times to leave it crooked, and shiny snakes of scars slither across both his cheeks and forehead. The kid is well muscled and gym fit, but gives away more than a foot in height, fifty pounds in weight and around twenty-five years in experience.
JP points to the fighters. ‘Originally, the aim of savate was to kick at the shins and legs, up to waist height. You could strike blows to the head only with the palm of your hand. Now you see many high kicks and maybe even sumo wrestling.’
Tom puts his beer down on a thin shelf on the back wall. ‘It’s a freak show. That kid would need a stepladder to high-kick the giant there.’
‘True. But this is part of the entertainment, no? David and Goliath.’
Tom notices something else. ‘Why are they standing strangely?’
‘The stance is from fencing. You must remember that at one point this was a very noble art, fought not only here but across Europe, and especially in England too.’ Jean-Paul warms to his subject, ‘There was one famous French fighter, Michael Casseuse, who made the sport his own. He was very powerful. To frighten his opponents he used to carry a cannon over his shoulders as he entered the ring.’
‘A canon? You mean like a bishop or cardinal?’
The Frenchman laughs. ‘Fool! A cannon like a ship’s cannon.’
The kid in the ring takes a terrible kick to the face and drops unconscious. Blood spatters the sawdust floor. There are beery cheers. The business types high-five each other and some lackeys drag the boy to the corner and splash him with water. Neanderthal circles the ring, chin up and arms aloft, parading like he’s won a championship
