Alaric's Gold

By Robert Fortune

410AD – Alaric the Goth, the man who led his victorious troops through Italy after capturing and sacking Rome, has died suddenly and has been buried underneath a river bed in southern Italy. One of the most priceless hoards of Roman treasure has been buried with him.

Over 1600 years later, a group of friends living in modern day Italy find themselves in pursuit of Alaric’s infamous gold. As they set out to find the treasure, their adventure leads them into conflict with the mafia, resulting in a jail break, kidnappings, and a very public shoot-out.

Alaric’s Gold is full of suspense that will leave readers wondering what’s reality and what’s fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803133430

Book preview

9781803133430.jpg

Alaric’s Gold

Robert Fortune

Copyright © 2022 Robert Fortune

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador

Unit E2 Airfield Business Park,

Harrison Road, Market Harborough,

Leicestershire. LE16 7UL

Tel: [phone]

Email: [e-mail]

Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 9781803133430

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Chapter 1

As Gina Moro left one of Rome’s most exclusive hair salons on the Via Condotti she felt on top of the world. Nor was this an idle turn of phrase. Tottering along in a brand-new pair of Louboutins – a gift from the Italian Prime Minster in recognition of some very satisfactory ‘after hours’ work – she did indeed seem to be viewing the world from an unusually elevated position.

While these shoes had the advantage of embellishing an already ravishing ensemble, they had the disadvantage of requiring so much concentration merely to place one foot in front of the other, that the wearer had become oblivious to her surroundings.

The model turned actress was still blissfully ignorant of the interest she had attracted from the mafia during her recent sojourn in the Prime Minister’s villa on Capri, and she was equally unaware of the grubby white van with blacked out windows that had been dogging her steps as she negotiated her uncertain course along the pavements of Rome.

The result was that when Gina turned into a narrow side-street she was wholly unprepared for the long arm of the mafia foot-soldier who reached out from the back of the van and tried to drag her inside.

Unprepared she may have been, but she was not unarmed.

As her assailant crouched on the edge of the van Gina gripped his hand to steady herself and drew back the exquisitely chiselled toe of her elegant new shoe before delivering a merciless kick to his groin.

He let out a howl of pain and, doubling up in agony, he tumbled out onto the road. With his immaculately combed hair and pencil thin moustache, it was only the shiny texture of his suit that gave any clue that Maurizio was anything other than a successful businessman. This same suit was now rapidly losing its sheen in the gutter of a Roman side-street.

His driver, Paolo, by contrast, was a thickset dwarf with a week’s growth of beard. His head was covered with a mass of greasy black hair. Where the skin on his face was visible it was the dark brown of the south, and when he opened his mouth he displayed two rows of teeth that were alternately black and gold giving the bizarre impression that he was chewing a mouthful of wasps. For his ensemble he favoured oil-stained overalls and he appeared to be untroubled by the fact that much of the oil had migrated to his face and hands.

This ill-assorted pair had thus far been spectacularly unsuccessful in carrying out the orders of their mafia bosses and it did not appear that they were on course to redeem themselves today.

No-one had ever accused Paolo of being intelligent, but even his slow brain had grasped that snatching an attractive and well-known young woman off the streets of Rome in broad daylight was something of a tall order; an enterprise that was unlikely to be crowned with success.

He had not put it like that of course. He had simply told Maurizio that he thought his plan was crap, adding for emphasis that it was the crappest plan he had ever heard.

When, having been asked to come up with a better suggestion he had, inevitably, failed to do so, it was agreed that, crap or not, Maurizio’s plan would be put into action.

Hearing the uproar from the rear of his van, Paolo hopped out of the driver’s seat and sprinted round to the back. Hopping and sprinting did not come naturally to Paolo but he had had a bad feeling about this day’s work, and the furore that assailed his ears tended to confirm that his fears had been justified.

Nor was the sight that greeted his eyes a happy one. A crowd had gathered and, to Gina’s fury, they were restraining her from administering a second kick to the writhing figure on the ground. The male spectators seemed to have some sympathy for the moaning character in the roadway, while their female counterparts appeared to regard it as sacrilege to employ so perfect a shoe on so unworthy an object.

Male and female alike, however, were disconcerted by the sudden appearance of Paolo, his face more fearsome than usual and his oil-stains more marked than ever. They released the struggling Gina and stepped back. Before Gina had a chance to regain the initiative and line up her next kick both she and the stricken Maurizio had been picked up bodily and thrown into the back of the van.

Paolo secured the door, nodded to the dumbstruck crowd and ran back to the driver’s seat. As he tore off down the narrow street he had good reason to be pleased with himself. He raised his hand for a high five before remembering that his colleague was now languishing in the back of the vehicle at the tender mercies of a tigress.

He chuckled as he pondered which of his passengers would be in better shape when he presented them to his mafia boss, Luigi Destro. This time he would not be treated with contempt and told to wait outside in the rain while Maurizio was invited in to present his report. This time he would render his own account to il Capo; it had indeed been a crap plan, but luckily he, Paolo, had been on hand to save the day.

*

Having been kidnapped in broad daylight from the streets of Rome, followed by a five hour journey in the back of a van exchanging hostile glances and sporadic outbursts of violence with someone who looked as though he could cheerfully strangle her, it was a highly combative and querulous Gina who found herself being manhandled down steps leading to a gloomy cellar in Cosenza that had recently acted as a makeshift prison for a young English couple.

Paolo had hold of her arms while Maurizio kept a firm grip on her feet. His own legs were black and blue as a result of further Louboutin damage inflicted whilst he and his recalcitrant guest had been in close confinement during the journey south.

The aromatic smell of pine rose from a brazier. Maurizio paused by the fire and with great satisfaction he pulled off the offending shoes and threw them into the flames. The sound of crackling leather made – to his ears – a pleasing counterpoint to the hiss of sap rising from the pine logs.

An anguished cry escaped Gina’s lips as she watched the adored objects flare into golden balls of fire before curling up into sneers of indignation.

As Paolo had anticipated, Luigi Destro had been mightily impressed by his heroics in Rome, and when il Capo cast a scornful glance at Maurizio, it was clear that the balance of power had begun to shift in his favour.

Paolo had shaken his head when Maurizio indicated that he wanted Gina handcuffed to the chains that straddled the high beam that spanned the cellar. He had formed a sneaking regard for this fiery young woman and he had no concerns that she would be foolish enough to take him on. Moreover, his good opinion was boosted by the recollection of an image that was seared into his memory. It was the image of a naked girl of whom he had caught but all too brief a glimpse before taking his involuntary plunge into a swimming pool in Capri.

For Maurizio, however, it had become personal; the well-aimed kick to his groin had been quite literally a challenge to his manhood and he was determined that the humiliation should be expunged.

You don’t need to handcuff her. She’s much smaller than you and she’s hardly going to escape.

She may be small, but she’s got a kick like a mule.

Well tie her feet then, said Paolo, before adding mischievously, and stop acting as if you’re afraid of her.

Of course I’m not afraid of her, countered Maurizio, the dart having well and truly hit its mark, but Signor Destro was furious when the English pair escaped, so I’m not taking any chances with this one.

As Maurizio made good the bonds he was rewarded with a jet of spit that began to trickle down the side of his face. He pulled back his hand to deliver a slap but was stopped by a shout from Paolo.

You can’t hit her, she’s just a kid, said Paolo who was beginning to enjoy his new found authority. Stop behaving like a frightened bully.

This provoked a smile from Gina.

"You’re sooo brave," she mouthed at Maurizio while treating him to look of unutterable contempt.

The latter tried to return her gaze, but failed and slunk away scowling impotently.

To complete his discomfiture Destro’s deputy, Rosina Rossetti, had decided to pay a surprise visit. Maurizio was still wiping his face.

It was a dramatic entry; she threw open the cellar door and, without troubling to close it, she marched down the steps.

She sniffed the air as if trying to place an unfamiliar smell before noticing the charred remains of the shoes.

"Bravo Paolo," she smiled as she walked towards him.

For a moment it looked as though she might be about to plant a kiss upon Paolo’s cheek, but as she advanced within touching distance and saw the glistening sweat and greasy hair it was clear that she had thought better of it. Instead she gingerly patted his arm.

How much has she told you?

We haven’t had a chance to question her yet, but we shall . . . , Maurizio looked across at Gina bestowing a baleful stare.

Well you can’t keep her here.

Why not? Paolo seemed genuinely puzzled.

Oh Paolo, Rosina said witheringly, you were doing so well, don’t spoil it.

Paolo still looked perplexed.

Maurizio, put him out of his misery.

We brought the English couple here, remember? They might be able to find it again.

But if you remember, said Paolo solemnly, when we seized them from the river we blindfolded them.

"And if you remember, when we took them back to the river we did not make them wear blindfolds, because I did not realise you were going to let them escape." Maurizio looked scornfully at Paolo.

I didn’t let them escape; you were the idiot who left them and went back to the Land Rover. Paolo returned the look.

Each now turned towards Rosina seeking her endorsement.

You were both idiots for letting them get away, she said bluntly.

And you were the biggest idiot for trusting them in the first place.

They had briefly forgotten about Gina.

Rosina walked over to make amends. She did not share Paolo’s sense of delicacy over the propriety of striking a defenceless woman, and by way of introduction she gave Gina a hearty slap across the cheek.

Gina retaliated with the only weapon in her armoury and sent a generous salvo of spit cascading down Rosina’s face.

Rosina responded with a second slap to the other cheek.

Gina, whose intelligence had never been in doubt, realised that this was one encounter she could not win; she pursed her lips but kept them closed.

Rosina had not condescended to wipe the spittle from her face. Instead she fixed Gina with an icy stare as if daring her to continue the engagement. When she saw that Gina had lost all stomach for the fight she relaxed.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I want you to realise that however long it takes you will co-operate with us.

You’ve hardly chosen the right way to make me want to help you.

And you are hardly in a position to negotiate terms.

I have friends in high places, the young woman stated defiantly.

And do you really think they are going to trouble themselves for you? Wake up little girl; you were a rich man’s plaything, do you suppose he’ll lift a finger to help you now? You’ve caused him enough embarrassment already.

For a moment Gina looked downcast.

Listen to me Gina, and now Rosina’s tone softened, you and I have more in common than you might imagine. We both come from modest backgrounds, and in our different ways we have each advanced in the world. You may have been enjoying your moment in the sun, but how long did you think it could last? As soon as there is an election to be fought, or a jury that needs to be wooed, your friend will go scuttling back to his wife, and that will be the last anyone will hear of pretty little Gina.

Rosina paused to let her words sink in. To her alarm Gina began to screw up her face. Rosina thought she was going to be spat at again and she drew back her hand to deliver a third slap, but to her surprise the girl just dissolved into tears.

Untie her, Rosina ordered, and Paolo leapt forward to cut her loose.

Gina looked a picture of misery as Paolo, with unaccustomed gallantry, helped her to a seat. He and Rosina were now all solicitude. Only Maurizio maintained his feelings of hostility, glaring at Gina with undisguised loathing.

As they relaxed into this new found spirit of rapprochement they were quite unprepared for what happened next.

As quickly as they had arrived, Gina’s tears evaporated. She leapt to her feet and, pausing only to give Maurizio another disabling kick to the groin, she skipped up the stone steps. She was about to make her exit when, hesitating, she turned and with a look of triumph addressed Rosina.

Don’t flatter yourself that you have anything in common with me, she sneered, I am a friend of the Prime Minister while you . . . you’re just a mafia whore.

So saying she launched herself through the open door and with one bound she was free . . .

. . . or at least she would have been if Luigi Destro had not chosen this moment to come and inspect the new arrival. Known as il Vulpo because of his sly cunning, Destro was the capo crimine, the undisputed head of the local mafia. His urbane countenance and silver hair gave no indication of a man whose life had been steeped in criminality.

Despite his background, he had been clever enough to ensure that he had only ever seen the inside of a prison on visiting days. An outwardly respectable businessman, he was a leading light in Cosenza society and had shown himself most generous in his donations towards the upkeep of the medieval castle and the cathedral.

He seldom travelled alone, and on this occasion he was accompanied by his young nephew who was acting as his bodyguard.

Il Vulpo was an habitually cautious man, and the role of bodyguard tended to be short on excitement and long on boredom. Today was different, and the nephew was at first astonished and then delighted when he found that an extremely attractive young woman had quite literally thrown herself into his arms.

Time slowed down as he instinctively wrapped those same arms around this glamorous windfall, accommodating, as he thought, her delicate curves to his manly chest. Time soon speeded up again as a furious Rosina catapulted through the door and sent both bodyguard and windfall flying. As they picked themselves up Rosina began belabouring the girl with slaps of such ferocity that the brave bodyguard promptly dropped his charge and, fearing for his own safety, ducked for cover behind his uncle.

You’re right, Rosina shouted in between slaps, we have nothing in common. You are just a stupid little girl.

Enough, cried Luigi Destro, struggling to make himself heard above the racket of two brawling women.

He had been only slightly less startled by this sudden uproar than his gallant nephew. Maurizio alone appeared to have been unfazed by the proceedings, and with studied nonchalance he walked over to Gina and applied cable ties to her wrists and ankles.

Maurizio, said Destro, "take this girl to the cathedral crypt. Paolo go with him; do not untie her and just for once, try not to let her escape.

The nephew looked on wistfully as Gina was led away.

Once they were out of earshot, il Vulpo turned with a look of exasperation to face Rosina.

I don’t know what’s happened to you lately. You lurch from one disaster to another.

Rosina stood silent, like a shamefaced schoolgirl.

Destro reflected for a moment and then shook his head.

I am sorry to have to say this, and to you of all people Rosina, but there’s too much at stake. I am going to have to put a man in charge.

Chapter 2

Gina’s predicament had started with a summons to the Prime Minister’s apartment in Rome.

As Alberto Borelli climbed the stairs to his private quarters in the Palazzo Chigi, he took to bed the cares of state. He also took to bed two pretty young escort girls. He had met them during the previous weekend at a party thrown by some of his supporters.

His supporters were rapidly becoming an endangered species as fresh and ever more lurid scandals beset his premiership. A cocktail of corruption charges laced with sexual shenanigans filled the television screens and newspaper columns; except of course the channels and newspapers that he owned himself.

A youthful forty-five, he kept in shape in the gym when time allowed, and when it did not, an apparently endless stream of young women were prepared to assist with his exercise regime a little closer to home.

He had a boyish face with a mischievous expression, and although his hairline had sounded the retreat some years ago, it had recently staged a comeback following some expensive work on his scalp. Eschewing anything as vulgar as a hair transplant, the prime ministerial coiffure had been augmented by what his trichologist was pleased to style ‘follicle relocation treatment’.

It seemed baffling, at any rate to Alberto, that the Italy that had taken this roguish but amiable man to their hearts a few years previously, could have fallen out of love with him so comprehensively.

It was the ingratitude that hurt the most. He had raised the profile of his country; he had hosted summit meetings of the G8, G20, G whatever, and he had made world leaders smile. Admittedly it was open to debate as to whether they were laughing at or with the Italian premier, but no one ever complained that his conferences were dull.

What did it matter if he had an appreciation of the fair sex, especially its younger members; compared to the venal behaviour of some of his predecessors, his sins, if they were sins at all, were the most venial transgressions.

It was in this spirit that he chose to refer to these young ladies as his ‘peccadillos’. This had the advantage of saving him the trouble of remembering their names, and it also served to underline the light-hearted nature of their relationship.

It was only when his long-suffering wife Barbara caught two of his peccadillos creeping out of his study window in the early hours of the morning that she decided the time had come to put her foot down. For some months he had been excusing himself from attendance in the marital bedroom claiming that he was being kept up by affairs of state. When Barbara was confronted by these ‘affairs of state’, their hair dishevelled and their clothing askew, she delivered her verdict.

You are a disgraceful old man and I am no longer prepared to share your bed. If you wish me to stay here any longer you will have to arrange private rooms upstairs. And do not imagine that you will be welcome.

Although pained by the epithet ‘old’, Alberto reflected that this was not quite the draconian punishment his wife had intended, but he had the good grace to look chastened and disappointed as his wife’s impedimenta were relocated to an upper floor.

Thenceforward he was at liberty to enjoy his peccadillos as often as he wished. They were introduced into the Palace under the pretence of being junior interns in competition to join the official secretariat.

His officials fought to keep a straight face as the Prime Minister solemnly explained that he did some of his best thinking at night, and it was vital to have a secretary on hand to capture the full immediacy of his ben pensati.

Nonetheless, the officials could not help observing that despite the nightly attendance of these trainee secretaries there did not appear to be any diminution in the workload for his day-time staff.

As for the girls themselves, their duties were far from onerous. After a little inconvenience at the start of proceedings, they could usually count on a good night’s sleep. The less experienced among them enjoyed the cachet of a call to the Palazzo Chigi, while their older colleagues regarded it as something of a rest cure.

On this particular evening the Prime Minister had had to remonstrate with the junior peccadillo, nineteen-year-old Lollia, as she scampered up the stairs in her new and unfeasibly high heels. Her friend Gina, an urban sophisticate of twenty, walked demurely beside Alberto looking, if not every inch, then certainly an inch or two, the budding secretary.

Gina please, less noise, you will wake the whole house, said Alberto.

I’m Gina, she’s Lollia, said Gina indignantly.

That’s what I mean. Lollia be quiet, take off your shoes, he said, reinforcing the message with a gentle smack on her behind.

Lollia giggled and jumped skittishly in the air guaranteeing that she made even more noise. Gina raised her eyes to the heavens and affected a look of world-weary ennui at the antics of the young ingénue. Previously an escort, she was now a model with aspirations to become an actress, but if the prize was sufficiently alluring she was not above reverting to her former ways.

The Prime Minister had good reason for feeling somewhat distracted. There was much to occupy his mind. The polls were, as usual, dreadful. Another corruption trial was due to start in a few weeks’ time, but he was not too concerned about that; a vague and unsubstantiated allegation of bias in the awarding of the rights to a sporting event to one of his television stations. If his lawyers could not bat that one away, then he really was in trouble.

What intrigued him more was a bizarre and slightly ‘off the wall’ suggestion that had been placed before him by his usually level-headed Director of Communications, Alessandro Muti.

Alessandro was one of Alberto’s closest and most loyal friends. They had been in the same year at the University of Bologna and together they had climbed the greasy pole of politics. Although Alessandro had been content to yield the limelight and the high offices of state to Alberto, everyone was aware that he was the real power behind the throne, and in the newspapers that Alberto did not own he was, inevitably, dubbed Alessandro Machiavelli.

He was the same age as Alberto but he wore his years more lightly. Not for him the arts of the trichologist; his full head of hair framed a youthful and deceptively honest face, although people who fell into the error of judging this