THE MAN FROM RΩME
By Dylan James Quarles
© 2017 Dylan James Quarles
All rights reserved.
PROLOGUS
In the primeval woodlands of southern Italy, something insidious had come to dwell. Drawn across the globe by the sorcery of magnetism and weather, it settled over the seven hills like a draught. Beneath its spell, everything was made brittle and charged.
It was she who had done this, the woman who came from the sky. Though the tribes that hunted these forests did not yet know her name, her divinity was undisputed. She was the Hunter-Goddess, the Daughter of Storms.
Bow and quiver resting near her tunic; she floated naked in the cool waters of a natural spring. Shining like ivory, she was a living source of light in the small clearing. Lifting her hands, she let droplets of water fall away from her fingertips. The sun pierced these liquid prisms, creating luminescent bursts that shimmered hypnotically. Gazing down at her from the banks, peculiar looking trees shuddered with excitement. Aware of their wooden-eyes upon her, the woman laughed and rose from the water to expose herself. Beaded and smooth, her body sent shivers throughout the straining branches.
It was the crack of a twig that gave him away. Disrupting the tenuous spell, the sound caused the woman turned, her feet still standing upon the surface of the water.
“A watcher,” she said, draping bronze hair over her breasts. “Shy creature—make yourself known.”
When no answer came, the woman stepped forward, ripples distorting the spring.
“Come now. Be not afraid. I only wish to look upon you, and smile.”
Moving silently from behind the cover of a brawny oak, a man revealed himself and came to the edge of the sunlight. Taller than most, he wore a common tunic, bland and poorly dyed. Yet, on his well-defined body, such failings melted away.
“Well,” breathed the woman admiringly. “Aren’t you a specimen to behold?”
She batted her kaleidoscopic green eyes and allowed her hair to reveal one breast. Staring blankly back, the Man replied in a low, accented voice.
“One could say the same thing about you.”
Intrigued by the stranger’s boldness, the woman put on a smile that would have stayed a lion’s bite.
“Have you never beheld a Goddess?” She asked.
The Man took another step, coming fully into the open. The light caught his eyes and revealed their unnatural luster. Inlayed with bands of gold, they locked upon the Goddess and made her shiver. Sensing danger, but too proud to heed its warning, she bent and scooped clear water into her palm.
“Are you thirsty, stranger?” She inquired.
“Always.”
Beckoning for the Man to come nearer, the Goddess raised the offering. He strode to the edge of the pool, confident and unconcerned. Drifting over to meet him, the Goddess inserted a finger into her upturned palm and stirred until the water became murky.
“Tell me your name,” she said. “From where do you hail? If I am to kill your thirst, it is the least you could do.”
Close enough to smell the Man’s subtle musk; the Goddess again felt a shiver of danger. His was the scent of a predator.
“My name?” He said.
“Yes, what do they call you?”
The Man allowed a grin to spread across his lips.
“They call me God Killer, girl. Have you never heard of me?”
The Goddess recoiled and saw that things had changed. No longer frozen in ecstasy, the trees had become twisted by terror. Suddenly laughing, the Man reached for her. In a blur, she flung the palm-full of murky water in his face and leaped away behind a cascade of brown curls.
Fading into the forest, the echoes of a thunderclap pitched low and dissipated. Slowly, the Man raised a hand and brought it across his face. Unaltered by the Goddess’s powerful alchemy, he remained a man. A fresh shock of ice surged through her veins, causing them to darken and form patterns upon her skin.
“Such tricks are wasted on me,” said the Man. “I am evolved beyond them. Try again.”
Bearing her white teeth, the Goddess vanished amidst a burst of yellow finches. Reappearing nearby, she snatched up her bow and nocked two arrows. Naked and fierce, she fired both in rapid succession. To mortal eyes, this would have taken place between the wing-beats of a bird. But to the Man, it unfolded at a crawl. The arrows tore across the clearing with a deafening boom. Effortlessly, he dodged the first, letting it whizz past his cheek. The second, he plucked from the air and held.
A rolling shadow passed over the seven hills. Studying the arrow, the Man used his thumb to snap the head from the shaft then tucked it into the pocket of his tunic. Bowstring still humming, the young Goddess snarled.
“My father is King in heaven! If you harm me—”
“Your father—” interrupted the Man, switching tongues to the First Language. “He who hides behind storm clouds. Scion of the crooked minded Kronos, progenitor of the Sun and the Moon. I know him well, girl. I fear him not.”
The Goddess blinked and tasted bitter fear her mouth. Until now, she had only heard this tongue used in the halls of her mighty house. Hurriedly, she gathered her hair around herself, clasping it to her milky flesh. Shifting his gaze, the Man gestured to the trees, and acknowledged for the first time their unnatural shape and size.
“You are to cease your torment of these simple huntsmen,” he said. “They are under my protection as are all things on the seven hills, and in the valleys, and along the river. If they are to die or be destroyed, it will be at my hand.”
“Be you—” the Goddess began. “Be you a Titan—escaped?”
“Dear girl,” smiled the Man. “Even Titans shrink from me. Now fly away—go home to your father, and your brother. This place is not for you.”
Trembling slightly, the Goddess wavered amid tides of anger, fear, and curiosity. She had never been commanded to do anything in her entire life, and she did not enjoy it. Nevertheless, she was like a child in the presence of a mountain, or a volcano. She had no other recourse but to bow down to it—for now.
“What is your name, stranger?” She asked quietly. “Tell me, so that I may curse it when I return to destroy you.”
Smiling sinisterly, the Man backed away and slipped into the shadows of the forest.
I
Greeted by the electric glow of Rome’s city lights, a withered old man emerged from below ground into the night. Turning his back on the entrance to the Catacombs, he went to the corner of a busy road and watched cars streak by like a modern river of metal and glass.
Sticking out from the dusty folds of his stolen burial suit, the man’s wrists were boney and white, and his feet were bare. Cold and clammy, he had an air of hopelessness about him—an air of death.
He checked his newly acquired wristwatch and clicked his yellow teeth. Nearby, a Chinese tourist on an iPhone glanced up and frowned in his direction. Though he was unable to actually see the old man, his nostrils nonetheless wrinkled as if perceiving a hint of something foul.
The old man moved northward, likewise ignored by the headhunting restaurant hosts and doe-eyed tourists who filled the busy sidewalks. When he reached the Via del Fori Imperiali, he turned west and walked toward the staggered pillars of Trajan’s Forum. The crowds thickened, and cell phone cameras flashed in the night. Skirting the spot-lit monument, the old man gave it a passing glance before entering an unnamed alleyway. Leaving the bright city lights behind him, he followed a narrow path into the darkness.
After several twists and turns, he came upon a small church set back from the alley. Climbing the worn steps, he undid the heavy chains that barred the door, and let them fall to the ground. Inside, the booming echo of his entry bounced off th
e frescoed walls, and stirred pigeons from their sleep. Glaring down at him, angels clung to the domed ceiling, their wings frozen in flight.
Shambling toward the center of the church, the old man gazed across the shadowy checkering of pews.
“Hello?” He called. “Are you here my friend? Are you watching me now?”
From the darkness, a voice replied, accented and even.
“Hello Charon,” it said, followed by the snap and scratch of a Zippo lighter.
In the resulting orb of light, a tall man, impeccably dressed, leaned forward and touched his cigarette to the fire. He exhaled smoke and straightened his double-breasted blazer. In the gloom, his golden eyes shone like undying sparks.
With a crooked grin, the Ferryman bowed his head.
“There you are. And look at you—not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle. Time has no teeth when it comes to you, does it?”
The Man with golden eyes smiled thinly and motioned for Charon to sit.
“I don’t concern myself with time, Charon, and neither should you.”
The Ferryman flashed his yellow teeth.
“It must be easy to ignore the clock when you stay as fresh as you do, my friend. Very easy.”
The Man shrugged in response and drew on his cigarette.
“Why have you summoned me?” He said after a pause.
Charon eased himself onto the pew and stared down at his hands.
“Well,” he muttered. “You know my business—my trade. This might be a bit hard for you to hear, I think.”
The Man saw where this was going, and nodded solemnly. Charon dug in his pocket and produced two coins, brought with him on his journey from below.
“She gave me these,” he stated. “But you know; I can’t take her across—not yet. She’ll have to wait ‘till you’re done.”
The Man inspected the coins, turning them carefully over before handing them back.
“Where did it happen?”
“Er…” faltered Charon. “It happened here in Rome I’m afraid…”
His face remaining unreadable, the Man stared at the orange tip of his cigarette.
“I—I didn’t get her name,” Charon continued. “But I could tell she was one of yours right away. I can always tell with them. They have a look—a cagey sort of look, like they’ve been trained to fight all their lives. I used to see it a lot, but not so much any more…”
Trailing off, he began to stroke his stringy beard.
“She was pretty,” he offered. “Very pretty and young.”
“Why didn’t you get her name?” Asked the Man, flicking his cigarette into the darkness.
“Well,” Charon said, hesitantly. “You see—there were things done to her. Bad things.”
“Explain.”
The old Ferryman furrowed his brow into a mass of wrinkles and tugged his beard harder.
“Her tongue was cut out,” he grunted. “And molten silver had been poured down her throat. She couldn’t tell me who did that to her. She couldn’t tell me anything at all.”
The Man sat motionless for a long moment then rose and adjusted the cuffs of his blazer.
“Thank you for bringing this to me, Charon,” he said. “For your trouble, you may roam the city until sunup. Eat, drink, satiate whatever hunger you have.”
“Your kindness humbles,” Charon called after him. “But please—before you go, do you know who she is, this girl? I know you have quite a collection of them—these cagey people of yours. But you don’t seem so surprised by what I’ve told you. Do you know her—this poor girl?”
“Yes,” spoke the Man, receding up the aisle.
“And do you know who did that to her—why they did that to her?”
But there was no answer to this question. The Man was already gone, the door clanging shut in his wake.
II
Mr. Hannity eased off the gas pedal and crossed the Ponte Umberto back into his familiar Roman stomping grounds. At the next intersection, he joined the nightclub circuit and pulled the Benz G500 into a slow moving convoy of luxury vehicles. Crouched behind the steering wheel, the quiet American eyed the other cars with a scowl. In his opinion, such flippant displays of wealth were a poor indicator of character.
Feeling suddenly aware of his own expensive SUV, and the tailored suit upon his back, Hannity had to remind himself that these were not his things. They were Cosimo Bruno’s things—loaned to him, given maybe, but not his. In fact, the only thing Hannity really owned in this world was a .45 caliber 1911, acquired on the day that he died.
He broke from the procession of sports cars and turned up the private drive of the Palazzo di Inmortales. Headlights cutting the darkness, he brought the SUV through a stone archway and eased it to a stop. Barring his path, the twisted necks and pointed teeth of a seven-headed Hydra formed the palazzo's outer gate. Patinaed from countless years of exposure, the gate was like some relic plucked from another time.
Punching in his security code on a bronze keypad, Hannity unlocked the gates. When they parted, he eased the Mercedes through and drove down a lane of manicured hedges and spindly Roman Pines. The grounds of the palazzo stretched out on either side, enclosed by high walls of stone and ivy. Shadows fled as Hannity crested the hill and came into the moonlight.
Years ago, he had been a soldier on campaign in Afghanistan. He was good at the work; possessing a sort of calm cruelty that had allowed him to carry out actions others would not. Some in his unit had feared this cold indifference to killing, calling him dead in the heart because of it. They were not wrong.
On the eve of his thirtieth birthday, Hannity had been out with some meat-eaters from his unit. Tightly packed in their stripped-down Humvee, they had each carried drop-guns and wore keffiyahs over their faces. Before it blew, the IED hadn’t looked like much—a bundle of rags by the pitted roadway. Yet when it went, every window in the vehicle had exploded in a shower of fire and glass, and the whole world had flipped upside down.
Hannity was never really sure just how long he had been out for. When he came to, the smoke was filling the Humvee quickly, and there were bits of gore clinging to the wreckage. Finding that he was unharmed save for few shards of glass in his cheek, he cut his seatbelt and pulled himself out of a window.
For almost an hour, he sat in the brush, bleeding a little and contemplating what to do next. In the end he decided that he was finished fighting another man’s war for pennies on the dollar. He wanted a new life—a new deal, but first he needed to die. Trading the driver a pair of dog tags for a 1911, Hannity dumped the contents of the Hummer’s spare gas can over everyone inside, and flicked a lit match on the whole thing.
An approaching glow drew his attention back to the present. Ahead, the lane widened and became a kind of piazza, complete with statues and fountains in the center. Pulling around, Hannity stopped the SUV before the steps of a two-story Palladian mansion, and killed the motor. Getting out, he stretched his travel weary frame, and lit a cigarette. From the entryway above, a man emerged, dressed in white slacks and a loose fitting, cotton shirt. In his mid-fifties, he had the striking good looks of an Italian film star, yet his sharp smile was too wolfish to be considered attractive.
“Mr. Hannity,” he said in unaccented English. “You’re back.”
“Boss,” nodded Hannity.
Strolling down the stairs, Cosimo Bruno held out his hand.
“How was your flight? Have you eaten? I can have Adalina prepare you something.”
He clasped Hannity by the wrist and squeezed.
“Anything you like, my friend. Anything.”
“That’s alright, boss,” Hannity shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”
Bruno stared at him amusedly and put his hands back in his pockets.
“So here you are at last,” he said. "You must tell me—did everything go as we discussed?”
Hannity puffed on his cigarette and smoothed his tie.
“It’s all done.”
“Good!” Bruno
nearly shouted. “But quickly—before we proceed—were there any complications? Anything I should know about?”
“Yes,” said Hannity, carefully tapping his cigarette. “I think I might have been followed. I saw the same face a couple of times—a girl. She popped up once in Greece and once in Tunis.”
“Ah,” nodded Bruno. “Yes I know. Don’t worry about that—it’s been taken care of.”
“Oh yeah?”
Bruno nodded a second time and made a dismissive face as if to say he was ready to move on.
“So, you have them?” He said. “They are here—with you?”
“Yeah,” replied Hannity, pointing to the backseat. “They’re in the brief case—eight of them, just like you said.”
“And the guns?”
Again Hannity pointed to the SUV.
“They’re in there too. It’s a lot of fire power though, boss—high end stuff. Hope you know what you’re doing with it.”
“Of course, Mr. Hannity!” Laughed Bruno, taking from his pocket the little wooden box he always carried and giving it a dry shake.
Once Hannity had asked Bruno what was in the box to make it rattle so loud. Bruno had winked and told him it was opium seeds from The Island of the Lotus Eaters. Whether or not this was true, it certainly sounded like something Bruno would possess.
“Lets have a look, shall we,” said Bruno excitedly.
Hannity popped the back door and retrieved a simple black briefcase. He set the case down on the hood and unlocked it with a key. At his shoulder, Bruno drew in a breath that matched the speed with which Hannity opened the lid. Inside, held fast by bands of black cloth, were eight strange fossils. Curved like bone daggers and carved with arcane symbols, they shone yellow and naked under the radial glow of the mansion’s windows.
Thinking of all the hassle he’d gone through to procure these weird artifacts, Hannity gave Bruno a side-long look.
“What are they, boss?” He asked. “Some kind of bone?”
Bruno smiled darkly.
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