“Louisa,” he said silkily. “My sweet girl, what are you doing here?”
Tight and almost plastically smooth, his smiling face was an unsettling mixture of Botox and suntan.
“Comandante,” Louisa returned with a bow. “Sir.”
“Oh pish,” Savino waved. “Don’t call me that. Call me Sesto—your uncle does, and so did your father.”
He put a hand over his heart.
“And your brother—God keep him.”
Louisa sighed internally.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Savino.”
Watching them with a confused look in his eye, Nunzio shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“And who are you?” Asked Savino.
“I’m Nunzio, sir. I’m with the ME’s office and—”
“Back to work then,” Savino interrupted. “Same goes for you Stanto. Stop fucking around and get down there.”
Giorgio, who had just arrived, saluted the Comandante.
“Yes sir.”
He lifted the police tape and passed under. Trying to follow after him, Louisa started toward the line.
“Not you, Louisa,” said Savino. “I have something I want to discuss with you.”
Heart sinking in her chest, Louisa hung back. As Giorgio followed Nunzio down the embankment, he cast her a meaningful glance and mouthed the words, ‘I’m sorry.’
“So,” began Savino, speaking intimately. “Now that you’ve had a chance come back to work, and settle into things again—I wonder if anything has changed for you.”
“Sir?”
“Now, now. It’s Sesto—not sir.”
“Right,” said Louisa. “I’m not sure I understand you.”
“Field work,” grimaced the Comandante. “This—”
He waved around.
“It’s a horrible business—really. After everything you went through with your brother, it’s the last place a person like you should be. Don’t you agree? You’re so much better than all this filthiness.”
“I like police work,” Louisa interjected. “It’s in my blood. The Anastasi have been serving this city for a long time.”
“The Anastasi men have held that honor, yes,” Savino sniffed. “But I’m offering you a way out of the mire. Come work for me—be my personal assistant. You’d go everywhere with me, meet all of the people I meet—important people, Louisa—powerful people.”
His hand closed around her upper arm.
“I can teach you—guide you. You’re very beautiful, Louisa, and smart. It’s a shame to waste such gifts when they can take you so far in life. Why, who knows—you could even be the next Comandante.”
Keeping her eyes locked on the crime scene below, Louisa held her tongue. Savino leaned in close, his cologne overpowering.
“It’s what Ferro would have wanted—a better life for his baby sister.”
Unable to stop herself, Louisa wrenched her arm free and spun on the Comandante.
“You don’t know the first thing about me, or my brother!”
“That’s not true,” Savino said in mock protest. “He was like a son to me, and you’re like a daughter. I’ve known you both since you were children, Louisa—since you were a little girl.”
Louisa made a fist and contemplated using it to break Savino’s nose. The man’s shameless guile disgusted her.
“You don’t have a future with them,” spoke Savino, nodding toward the riverbank. “You belong with me.”
Trembling all over, Louisa stared down the Comandante’s covetous smile.
“No thank you,” she said.
Savino shook his head.
“Louisa,” he purred. “You’re not listening to me. Your uncle is in agreement—I spoke with him this morning. This is the best option for you—the only option.”
He reached for her arm again.
“I said no!” Louisa snapped loudly. “No thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I prefer to stay where I am, sir.”
Below, Giorgio, and Nunzio were watching. Dropping his friendly demeanor, Savino turned cold and stepped closer.
“Do you have any idea how ungrateful you’re being?” He said. “Niccolò and I want what’s best for you, but you’re just as fucking stubborn as your brother. If he wasn’t rotting in the ground right now, he’d probably be proud of you.”
Faltering, Louisa sucked in a breath. Savino backed up and smoothed his hair.
“Because I care for you,” he said evenly. “And because I believe in you. I’m going to give you a little more time to consider my offer—time to consider your future. Until then, you’re suspended—two weeks.”
“What?” Louisa balked. “Why?”
“Intending to interfere with a murder investigation,” said Savino, lifting the police tape. “Niccolò told me about your little body-boy down there—Nunzio, isn’t it? It’s disgusting Louisa—so below you.”
Backing away down the path, Savino held his hands apart in a gesture of helplessness.
“Think of your future—your reputation. If nothing else, think of that.”
Filled with anger and shame, Louisa Anastasi felt her cheeks begin to burn. Needing a cigarette more than anything in the world, she turned away from the crime scene, and stalked off into the burgeoning evening, pursued by black thoughts.
IV
The room was cloaked in darkness. Haunted and motionless, objects of strange provenance cluttered the corners, and shelves. Drawn against the night, thick black curtains hung like clouds, blotting out the stars.
Seated at a wide desk made of old pine and iron nails, the Man with golden eyes—the Man from Rome, laid flat a single sheet of letter-paper. Not quite ready to pen his note, he sat for a moment and smoked. Somewhere in the gloom behind him, the drip, drip, drip of an Alexandrian water clock marked the rhythm of time’s ceaseless current.
A full day had passed since the Man’s meeting with Charon, and thus far, he had refrained from taking any action. The murder of his agent—his Orphanus, was a brazen affront to his authority, but he could not let himself rise to anger. Many had come before her, most of them suffering equally violent deaths. In this case at least, hidden gains had been made.
Still, the girl had been a child of Rome—an orphan like all of the others. Retribution was owed. The dead deserved company.
Closing his eyes, the Man felt the subtle current of time ripple with each drip from the water clock. He drew deeply on his cigarette. When the next drip came, he slowed the outbound rings to a stop, and sank below an ocean of memory.
…
The winter air is biting and harsh, but the Man does not feel it. Stalking through the woods just south of his seven hills, he follows the scent of blood on the wind. Ahead, the forest thins and a rocky clearing comings into view. The scent grows stronger, making the Man’s golden eyes churn. He breaks from the tangled trees and comes upon the huddled figure of a girl.
Not more than thirteen years old, she clutches two newborn babies to her waifish body—twins. Rattled by the wind, branches throw streaked shadows upon the figures, making them appear to sway and move. In truth, the girl and her babies are frightfully still.
The Man comes near, and the girl looks up with great difficulty. Misted with broken blood-vessels, her eyes are dark. Torn from childbirth, and marred by a beating, she is not long for this world. Nursing fruitlessly at each of her breasts, her babies are but filthy flesh, wrapped in strips of the girl’s own Vestal robes.
“What is your name girl,” asks the Man, crouching before her.
“I don’t remember, Dominus,” she speaks thickly. “My babies—my sons—they won’t eat. They’re hungry.”
“You’re too starved to nurse,” the Man says. “How old are you?”
“I can’t say,” she frowns, unable to keep her head from rolling. “I never knew. I think I’m a woman now though, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” nods the Man.
He holds her face in his hands, watching death draw nearer in the po
ols of her eyes.
“I’m tired,” whispers the girl. “And my babies—they’re so hungry. They haven’t the strength to cry anymore.”
“Give them to me,” says the Man.
The girl seems to consider this for a moment, her breath coming slower and slower with each thin pull.
“But the wolf,” she murmurs. “She’s been at me for days—she’s a hungry bitch, and mean too.”
The Man glances over his shoulder to edge of the clearing where a shadow moves in the trees.
“Yes,” he says. “But such worries are beyond you now.”
“Are they?” The girl asks meekly.
“Yes.”
Putting a gentle hand on her boney chest, the Man presses firmly. Soon, the girl no longer stares at him but rather through him, all of the pain and worry in her brief, hard life washed away. She slumps to the side and her arms go limp. Catching her gently, the Man lifts away the two dark haired boys, and peers at them. In his arms they are so small that he feels a strange tinge of wonderment when they substitute his fingers for their dead mothers nipples.
Appearing quietly from the brush, a she-wolf, large and black, growls. Teeth dripping from an unfed mouth, she eyes the Man and then the babies.
“She is yours,” the Man says with a nod to the dead girl. “But these two are not for you.”
The wolf whines, and her pink tongue darts out to swipe around the edges of her snout. Tail tucked, she approaches the girl.
“When you’ve had your fill,” the Man continues. “Come to me. Payment is owed for the meal you are about to enjoy.”
With that, he leaves the clearing, putting his back to the sounds of snapping bone and torn cloth.
…
The Man inhaled and returned to the present. Blinking away the traces of the memory, he peered down at the sheet of paper. The boys from the clearing that day—the twins Remus and Romulus, had been his first Orphanus. Together, they had changed the world. No other Orphanus since had come so far—until now.
Selecting a pen from the drawer, the Man began to write.
Victis honor.
My son,
Tonight we honor the dead.
One of our numbers has been slain and we must discover why.
Return to your home immediately.
Return to Rome where I await you.
Blood deserves Blood.
The dead deserve company.
Leaving the letter unsigned, the Man inserted it into a red trimmed envelope along with an airline ticket. In bold print, a passenger name could be read beside the flight number.
Cato Fin, it said. A son of Rome, an orphan like all the others.
V
With the first knock, Mr. Hannity awoke to an unfamiliar room. By the second, his feet were on the cool marble floor and his senses had returned. He was in Rome, a guest in the boss’s mansion.
“Yeah?” He called into the dark.
The tinkling of china on a silver platter sounded.
“It’s me, Mr. Hannity,” came the voice of Adalina, Bruno’s maidservant.
“What time is it?”
“It’s 10PM,” Adalina returned. “You’ve slept the whole day away. I’ve brought you some espresso and a sandwich. Mr. Cosimo wants to see you.”
Rising, Hannity pulled on a tight-fitting sweater and went to the door.
“Fucking jet lag,” he muttered, rubbing his tired eyes.
In the hallway, Adalina waited, flanked by marble busts of Castor and Pollex. Older than Hannity by several years, she had an obliging face, and hair the color of dried blood.
“Sorry to wake you,” she apologized. “Mr. Cosimo, he—”
“I understand,” said Hannity.
He took the tray from Adalina.
“Where is he now?”
“Where else? The library of course.”
Nodding, Hannity retreated into his room. Sheethed snuggly in its leather holster, his .45 caliber 1911 lay on the table.
“I was sure you’d be hungry,” said Adalina, gesturing to the sandwich. “I made it just how you like—no crust, with pork loin and sliced eggs.”
Hannity drained his espresso in one shot and picked up a wedge of sandwich. From the doorway, Adalina watched him.
“You’re very honest when you eat, aren’t you Mr. Hannity?” She said. “When you like something, it’s quite obvious.”
Reaching for the second half of the sandwich, Hannity grunted.
“We don’t have funny little sandwiches like this back home. And pork loin is a hell of a lot better than bologna. Thanks for the snack.”
Adalina hugged herself with one arm, and the golden cross around her neck fell between the buttons of her blouse.
“It’s pretty quiet around here,” said Hannity, coming out into the hallway.
“Yes,” Adalina replied. “Mr. Cosimo had me...dismiss everyone last week. It is only you and I left to do the work now.”
Wordlessly, Hannity processed this.
“Come,” said Adalina, flashing him a mysterious smile. “I’ll walk you there.”
Allowing himself to be lead past tablets of Corinthian bronze and ancient statues with missing limbs, Hannity trailed Adalina to the library. Dispossessed of the wonderment that drove Bruno to collect such artifacts, he glanced over them with an air of mild indifference. The collecting was the boss’s side of the business; Hannity’s was the hunting.
“Entrate!” Cried Bruno at Hannity’s knock.
Pushing the double-doors wide, Hannity stepped into the library. Lofty and grandiose, the room was a monument to antiquity. Everywhere, bookshelves sagged under the weight of their priceless riches, and the air smell of ancient paper.
“Mr. Hannity,” called Bruno, standing at the balustrade of a high balcony. “How was your nap? The jet lag seems to have you beat, my friend. Perhaps a drink might help?”
Sheathed in an expensive tuxedo, Bruno appeared to have just returned from a social event. Clutched in his hand, a glass of dark green liquor clinked with ice.
“No thanks,” said Hannity.
Knocking back his drink, Bruno walked to a sinewy spiral staircase and came down. He stopped beside a small, bronze table and scooped up a book.
“Have you read this one?” He asked, holding it out. “It’s a classic.”
“I’ve never been in here without you,” said Hannity. “And reading isn’t my thing.”
“That is a terrible shame, and a waste,” frowned Bruno. “But at least the surprise won’t be spoiled.”
He offered the book to Hannity in a manner that suggested he was expected to take it.
“Here.”
“What’s it about?” Asked Hannity, turning the thing over in his hands.
“It’s a Greek myth,” said Bruno.
“Like the Odyssey?”
Laughing, the boss put a hand into his pocket and fingered the little wooden box.
“Not every Greek myth is the Odyssey, Mr. Hannity,” he said. “There are countless other tales with equally interesting things to teach us.”
“Yeah? So, which one is this?” Asked Hannity.
“That one is about Jason and his quest for the Golden Fleece,” said Bruno. “Open it to the bookmark if you will.”
Hannity thumbed through the pages and folded back a strip of scarlet ribbon. He read the page and knit his brow.
“Seems like this King, um—”
“Æetes,” Bruno assisted.
“Yeah him,” nodded Hannity. “Seems like he’s the villain.”
“And why do you say that?”
“He wants to kill Jason. Or at least—he keeps thinking about it.”
Moving across the patterned carpet to the far wall, Bruno stopped in front of an elegantly framed painting of Orion beset by scorpions.
“Jason and his Argonauts have come to King Æetes’ island to plunder the Golden Fleece, Mr. Hannity,” he said in his perfect English. “All the King wishes to do is to defend that which is his from t
he foreign invaders.”
Gently pushing on the corner of the painting’s frame, Bruno caused it to rotate inward on hidden hinges.
“I hardly think that makes him the villain in this situation. And besides, I thought you Americans were all about protection of personal property.”
“Yeah I guess,” Hannity conceded, closing the book.
“Actually, I was hoping you would read a little further than Æetes’ monologue,” Bruno sniffed. “I wanted you to see the part where he decides how he will stop Jason from accomplishing his mission.”
“Oh,” said Hannity flatly.
Chuckling, Bruno reached behind the painting and removed the briefcase Hannity had brought him the night before.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” he smiled. “I’m just giving you a hard time. If you really hate it that much, I won’t make you struggle through any more. Allow me to paraphrase it for you.”
Hannity folded his arms and put on an expression that said he was ‘all ears.’
“It goes like this,” began Bruno. “King Æetes knows he cannot murder Jason outright. Zeus does not permit such acts against honored guests. Thus, Æetes must devise a way by which Jason might be killed through no direct fault of his own.”
“Smart guy,” said Hannity.
“Indeed,” nodded Bruno. “His plan is simple. He tells Jason that he may have the fleece free of charge, if he can complete three seemingly impossible tasks.”
Bruno wagged three fingers at Hannity, gold rings flashing in the lamplight.
“First, he must yoke two bulls who breathe fire and have feet of bronze. Now, while this may sound dangerous—and mind you it is—it’s nothing to a hero like Jason, and the King knows that.”
Ticking off one finger, Bruno went on.
“The second task is like the first. It offers no real threat to our young Adonis. All he must do is till a massive field with the two bulls—making nice even rows as if he were planting crops.”
Here Bruno paused, his eyes straying to the briefcase in his hand.
“The third task however,” he said with affected seriousness. “That is the real challenge, Mr. Hannity—the real danger.”
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