Free The Venice Conspiracy by Jon Trace Page B

poultice smells worse than the sulphur baths her mother is so fond of. ‘I hope its healing power is as strong as its stench. What will it do?’
    Larthuza laughs. ‘It will make you feel sick, such is its noxiousness. But it will further remove the fire from Teucer’s burns. I dare not give him more valerian, so this will help keep him bound in the healing folds of gentle sleep.’
    Larthuza removes the pads of ram’s wool and pats the poultice gently over the netsvis’s eyes. ‘Injuries such as Teucer’s are similar to those of the battlefield. When the body is wounded it creates its own medicines, powerful potions that race in the blood and kill the pain, but only for a short spell. When the body’s potions are spent, then terrible pain surfaces. Feverfew will ease the agony in Teucer’s mind.’
    Tetia is still grimacing from the smell. ‘I hope it is so.’
    ‘It is, my child. Now I must go. There is sickness with a newborn and I promised its parents I would attend.’
    Tetia touches his arm tenderly. ‘Thank you again.’
    ‘You are most welcome. Now I think you should settle beside your husband for a while and get some sleep.’ He leans closer and whispers, ‘Baby will need it too.’
    Tetia smiles as he leaves. She would indeed like to rest. And she supposes it is her duty to endure the awful smell of the poultice. She wipes Teucer’s brow and moistens his dry mouth with fresh water, then she lies next to him and kisses him softly on his dampened lips. She closes her eyes and prays for a speedy recovery.
    She is in that magical space between daydreams and sleep, when it happens -
    Teucer grabs her by the throat.
    Squeezes so hard she cannot breathe.
    She kicks out but can’t get free. Grabs his wrists but can’t unlock his grip.
    ‘Be gone! Be gone!’ shouts Teucer. ‘Dark demon with no name, I vanquish you!’
    Tetia gasps for air.
    ‘I need to kill it. I must kill it!’ His grip tightens murderously.
    Tetia kicks again. Connects with something fleshy. She thrashes harder. Her foot hits Larthuza’s fire and scatters embers.
    Blackness floods in.
    She’s losing consciousness.
    Through the sickly fog she sees Teucer’s outstretched arm, his blistered face and the creamy poultice masking his eyes.
    And then she collapses.

CHAPTER 16
    Present Day
Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice

    By the time they’ve finished making love, the coffee is undrinkable and the pastries too paltry to pacify Tom and Tina’s raging hunger. They quickly shower and dress. Downstairs, in the hotel’s palatial Canova Room, they persuade staff to let them catch the last of the breakfast buffet.
    Tom takes in the splendour of the giant ancient oils hung on rich, oak-panelled walls as they work through fresh fruit, smoked salmon with scrambled eggs and enough fruit juice to fill the lagoon outside their window. ‘So, my wonderful writer friend, what can you tell me about Venice?’
    Tina looks over her coffee cup. ‘You didn’t read a guide book before you came?’
    ‘Glanced at some guff.’
    ‘Hey, travel writing isn’t “guff ”. It’s how I earn my living.’
    ‘Sorry. I forgot. But tell me anyway - give me the verbal tour.’
    ‘Okay. Well, next to Rome, Venice is my favourite place on earth. La Serrenista has blessed us with so much: Marco Polo, Canaletto, Casanova, Vivaldi - the Red Priest . . .’ She laughs. ‘The list of famous Venetians is endless! This is the place that gave us wonderful words like mandolin and ciao and awful ones like ghetto and arsenal. But more than anything, I love the fact that in Venice time stands still - there are no cars on the streets, no overhead power cables and none of those ghastly cell-phone masts. Come here, and you just drift back hundreds of years.’
    ‘Here’s to drifting.’ He raises a tumbler of juice to toast the fact.
    ‘To drifting.’ They clink glasses. She sips then asks him, ‘You remember any of the guff?’
    Tom looks thoughtful. ‘Some. Way back,