The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  When the Bentley skirted the base of the Capitoline Hill, Cato felt a powerful swell of memory, and suddenly he was eight years old again.

  …

  “Long ago,” began Corallina, smoothing the comforter around him. “When Rome was still a Republic, still young and not yet made of marble—she met a race of men who nearly destroyed her. Well before Hannibal and his elephants, it was the Gauls, Cato—bearded giants with wing-tipped helmets who threatened the Italian peninsula.

  “They came down from the mountains, hungry and vicious. Like boogiemen, they sacked villages in the night and burned them to the ground. The women and the children, they kept. The men, they sacrificed in the light of the Moon.

  “Only one power existed back then strong enough to stop these marauders, and that was Rome. Marching out to meet the advancing Gauls, 40,000 Roman fighting men—twenty-five whole Legions, arrived in a display of Roman might.

  “Can you see them, my boy? All lined up in perfect rows—spears and standards gleaming, red banners flapping in the wind. To them, it seemed like victory was assured. The Gauls had less than half their numbers, and were a rowdy, disorganized mob.

  “Yet, as you and I well know, the Gods can easily tip the scales of any battle. So it was on that day, Cato. The Romans lost. They were slaughtered like lambs—cut to pieces. Desecrating the fallen soldiers, the Gauls threw their corpses in a great pit and covered them with salt and stones. Even to this day, no tree will grow on that spot.

  “Yes, Cato…the Gauls were victorious. However, the worst was yet to come. Word of the Army’s defeat ran quick upon the heels of the wind, reaching the city by nightfall. Panic broke out, and all hope was lost. Abandoning Romulus’s sacred walls for their far-flung villas, the rich patrician families fled first—can you imagine?

  “Left behind, the poorer masses scrambled to hide. Some devised a plan to wall themselves up in the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. These few—these lone survivors, they bore witness as a flood of death entered their city through open gates.

  “The Gauls were ravenous. Their bloodlust was unquenchable. It was Rome’s darkest hour, Cato—a tragedy mourned by the very Cosmos, even as they whirled it into creation. And though the survivors stayed safe from the carnage, high atop the steep cliffs, they nonetheless suffered terribly.

  “There was little food—little water. Every day, the rancid smoke of burning Roman flesh would fill the air. At night, disembodied screams would float upon the breeze, chasing away the God of sleep. After many long weeks, it became clear that the northern Legions were not going to retake the city. Had you or I had been there, my boy, I fear suicide would have sounded like good idea.

  “So it was for the survivors at the Temple of Jupiter. Knives poised above their hearts, they lamented their black fate and prepared to kill themselves. Luckily, just when it seemed that Juno would finally get her wish to see the Roman race wiped from the face of the earth, salvation came to the people on the Palatine!

  “It was he, Cato, the Man—your Benefactor. He saved their lives and put an end to their suffering. History may give the credit to Marcus Furius Camillus, but you, and I, and all of the other Orphanus like us—we will always know the real truth.

  “Scaling the cliffs like a spider in the night, he came to the tormented survivors at the temple of Jupiter and delivered to them this speech:

  ‘Citizens! The Sun and the Moon have conspired against you. They trapped me—bound me to a rock, and cast me into the sea. But now I am free. This Army of Savagery—these filthy Gauls—have drunk their last drop of Roman blood. I will end their lives tonight, and teach their masters a lesson in humility.’

  “Then he looked up into the face of the full moon and shouted:

  ‘All that you see is mine!’

  “See him now, Cato? In the streets—narrow and twisting, he flies like the wind. When he spots a bearded Gaul, he tears the man to pieces and takes his blade. Now, he is not like the wind. Now, he is like a pestilence—a roving plague of slaughter.

  “Some men lay eyes on him and attack. The first two die by the same stroke—their heads tumbling, their necks like fountains of blood. The others swing their steel, but the Man has already opened their stomachs onto the ground. In their final moments of life, as the light chases from their eyes, they see his face—see his golden glory. They do not know what he is, and they fear him. They die that way, Cato—afraid.

  “More come, shouting a call to arms. The Man lifts an axe, dripping with blood, and hurls it into their ranks. Now—I call him a man, Cato, but he is not a really man—not really. Because of this, because he is so special, the axe reaches the men at the same moment he does. They never stood a chance, did they?

  “New victims arrive, slipping in the blood of their fallen comrades. They bring hounds, Cato, huge mangy animals that have been fed on the flesh of Roman virgins. The beasts snarl and groan, straining their ropes, rolling their terrible yellow eyes. They are set free and rush at the Man—teeth glistening, jaws oozing bloody foam!

  “But don’t worry, my boy—don’t cry, there, there. See? Can’t you see how the Man is ready for them? He catches the beasts by their snapping heads and crushes them together. He pummels them with his fists. He grinds them into the very dirt itself. And when he is finished, he turns his to the Gauls and smiles.

  “They try to swarm him, heaving their blades, and axes, and spears. Always ducking—always twisting, the Man weaves among them, killing wave after wave.

  “Can you see it? Do you hear the clang of naked steel; smell the hot dust of shattered bones? The Man is untouchable, Cato—a moving shadow with no solid form to attack. And as the dead pile at his feet, the living begin to loose their appetite for revenge. They see it is impossible to kill him—they know they are in the presence of a God.

  “One last giant steps forward to challenge our dear Benefactor. He is the King of the Guals, and he wears a grand helmet—bedecked with silver stag horns. In his hands he carries an enormous sword made of the rarest metal in the world—Adamantine. He has killed many Immortals with that sword, Cato, hacked them to shreds.

  “Letting out a roar, the King charges at your Benefactor. Sword cutting through the air, he aims to split him down the middle. But our hero, calm as ever, strikes first. At a speed all his own, he claps the blade in prayer, wrenches it free, and uses it to open the King like an oyster.

  “After this—as you can imagine, all is silent. Those who still live, stand a safe distance up the street and look on with horror. The Man from Rome is covered from the top of his head to the soles of his feet in the blood of their butchered friends, yet his face is utterly serine. He is unmoved, Cato, while they are crumbling inside. And Rome, is saved again.”

  …

  Returning to himself with a start, Cato glanced about the Bentley in an almost-panicky confusion. Not sure if he’d been recalling the story to himself, or speaking it out loud, he swallowed. Silently peering at him through the reflection in the window, the Man smiled.

  “That’s quite a story, Cato,” he said, confirming the worst. “Although, I don’t remember giving any speeches on the mountain.”

  Cato didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. From the front seat, the Greek flicked his eyes to the mirror and spoke. Nodding, the Man turned in his seat.

  “We’re getting out,” he said to Cato.

  Despite the early hour, the Via del Teatro di Marcello hummed with thick crowds. Nevertheless, the Man led Cato through them with uncanny ease. Parting before them, people reflexively moved away as they approached. Apparently unaware that they were doing it, every vendor, street hawker, tourist, and petty thief simply swerved his vision elsewhere as the Man came upon him.

  Following in his wake, Cato tried to keep up, but shock was creeping in. Ahead, the Man turned nimbly and slipped between a chatting French couple—interrupting their conversation not in the least. Seeing this, Cato stumbled.

  “What is it?” Spoke the Man, halting to look a
t him.

  “Um,” he covered. “Didn’t we—didn’t we already come this way?”

  The Man smiled.

  “Yes. We passed by here in the car a few moments ago. But, if I remember correctly, you were lost in a memory at the time.”

  “Oh,” said Cato lamely. “Well, why are we retracing our steps?”

  “Because we were being followed.”

  Cato cast a quick look over his shoulder.

  “By who?”

  The Man waved a hand and produced his cigarettes.

  “The polizia,” he said, offering one to Cato.

  “The cops? Do they know about you?”

  The Man chuckled and struck a light.

  “No,” he said. “They don’t know anything about anything. They’re just doing someone else’s bidding, per the norm.”

  He extended the lighter to Cato.

  “Who’s bidding?” Cato puffed, hoping to ground himself with a few solid facts. “Who is having you followed?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said the Man. “They can’t follow us anymore—not here.”

  Looking around at the busy street, people everywhere, eyes nowhere, Cato blew out a thin trail of smoke.

  “These people don’t even know we’re here do they?”

  “No,” said the Man. “They can’t see us.”

  “You mean they can’t look at us,” Cato corrected

  “I don’t see the difference,” shrugged the Man.

  He turned began walking up the street.

  “Wait,” Cato called after him. “Why won’t you tell me what the hell is going on? Where are we even going?”

  “Home,” spoke the Man over his shoulder. “We’re going home, Cato.”

  …

  Joining the throngs of tourists, Cato and the Man moved through them like ghosts. Eventually, they broke from the crowds and turned into a maze of side streets and alleyways. After forty minutes of confusing twists and turns, they came to an empty lane and stopped beneath the triangular gable of a recessed entryway.

  The Man pulled out a silver key, and smoothly inserted it into the lock. Thrown wide, the heavy door gave way to a dark, round entrance hall.

  “Here we are,” he announced. “Welcome home, Cato.”

  Stepping inside, Cato jumped a little as the door swung shut behind him. Warily, he took in his surroundings. The room was cool, the polished stone helping to retain night’s embrace while the sun beat down outside. Set back in the curved walls, death-masks stared out with forlorn, and haunted eye sockets. On a short pedestal of ash-black marble, a single birdcage balanced. Trapped within, five solitary, silent, yellow finches pecked feebly at the bars.

  “Come,” said the Benefactor, moving toward the atrium. “Your quarters are through here.”

  Cato shuffled after and passed beneath an archway of such exquisite craftsmanship that it seemed to have grown that way, rather than to have been carved by hand. He squinted as the sunlight fell upon him. The atrium was a soaring room with hallways leading off in every direction, and a domed-ceiling of glass overhead. Scattered among the potted plants, and bronze statues, watchful cats swished their tails in and out of sunbeams.

  “Who are they?” Asked Cato.

  “Their names are many, and complicated,” replied the Man.

  Cato nodded, and glanced up.

  “And—who are they?”

  Mounted to every wall, large paintings hung in gilded frames. Depicting a set of four brothers, the paintings were done in the classical style, their brushwork hinting at the hand of a true renaissance master.

  “Boreas, Notus, Zephrus, and Eurus,” the Man smiled. “The Four Winds.”

  Removing his silver cigarette case, he placed it on a reading table.

  “Feel free to smoke in here,” he said. “The cats won’t mind. But, please take these. That pack you’ve got in your pocket makes you smell like dog piss.”

  Not sure if the Benefactor was kidding or not, Cato tried to think of a witty response, but the Man had already begun to stride toward one of the hallways.

  “This way,” he called.

  Cato quickened his pace and came into a long hallway with exposed ceiling beams. On either side of him, closed doors hid numerous rooms of mystery.

  “What’s in here,” he ventured, touching one of the iron knobs.

  “Many things,” the Man answered cryptically. “Now come.”

  At the end of the hall, they climbed a set of carpeted stairs that lead to the next floor. High above, a bank of stained glass windows sliced the air into patterns of color. Cato lingered on the landing, turning his face into the rainbow of light. Marching down the corridor without looking back, the Benefactor stopped before a black door.

  “Your room,” he said.

  Hung with banners of turquoise and teal-silk, the chamber reminded Cato of a grotto, or a subterranean lake. In the center, a sumptuous bed waited for him, its covers already pulled back in a neat triangle. Reaching out with curled fingers, nymphs and ferries grew from the wooden headboard, beckoning Cato to come and sleep among them.

  “This is my room?” He breathed.

  “Yes,” smiled the Man. “Does it suit you?”

  Dropping his bag into an armchair by the door, Cato twitched out a nod and sat on the corner of the bed. As soon as he did so, the gravity of that morning’s events slid over him like a lead vest. Just a few hours ago, he had been on an airplane above the Atlantic. Now he was in Rome, and nothing would ever be the same again.

  “I imagine you’re very tired,” said the Man, echoing Cato’s feelings. “I’ll leave you to sleep, and decompress. But, before I go, I require your passport.”

  Cato frowned.

  “Why?”

  “You are not here to see the sights, Cato,” said the Man. “You are in Rome on assignment.”

  “Assignment?”

  Issuing a soft sigh, the Man folded his hands behind his back.

  “Yes,” he said. “As I wrote in my letter: There has been a murder.”

  Cato rubbed his tired face and took a wavering breath. He’d completely forgotten about the letter.

  “Murder huh?” He grunted.

  “Yes,” replied the Man.

  “Is that why the police were following us earlier? Because of that?”

  The Man shrugged.

  “Not directly,” he said. “But I suspect the two things are related.”

  Feeling heavier still, Cato closed his eyes.

  “Who was it?” He asked. “I mean—who got killed?”

  “She was a fellow Orphanus,” spoke the Man. “A daughter of Rome.”

  “And who killed her?”

  “My enemies.”

  Cato nodded.

  “Right.”

  “Passport, Cato,” said the Man. “Please.”

  Getting to his feet, Cato did as he was asked.

  “Just so you know,” he muttered. “I don’t understand anything that’s happening.”

  “You will—” said the Man. “—in the morning. For now—rest. You have a bathroom through there, and outfits are in the closet. Be aware of your appearance. You represent me now, Cato. I will return in the morning to collect you for breakfast.”

  He smiled.

  “Sleep my son, and set your mind straight.”

  X

  The Man left Cato and struck out in the dry mid-day heat toward the river. Traversing half-deserted backstreets, he cut through the inner heart of Rome’s secret second city. At the Tiber, he followed the river south to the Ponte Garibaldi. Crossing the bridge, he entered a shady piazza at the edge of the old Trastevere ghetto.

  A few blocks later, and he was standing outside an antique camera shop named Lente. Pushing open the door, he flipped the sign from aperto to chiuso. Behind a glass counter, an old clerk squinted over the top of his book.

  “You,” he smiled.

  “Me,” the Man smiled back.

  The clerk shuffled around the counter and made to sh
ake the Man’s hand but hesitated and hugged him instead.

  “Dominus,” he said.

  “Hello, Felix,” spoke the Man, cocooning his brittle friend in an Immortal embrace.

  Sniffling, the clerk—Felix, patted the Man twice on his broad shoulders, and stepped back.

  “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon,” he said. “Here to send another of your Orphanus on a wild adventure, is it?”

  The Man inclined his head.

  “Something like that.”

  “And how fares the last one?” Asked Felix. “She was a pretty young thing—too pretty for such a dangerous job if you ask me.”

  “She is dead, Felix,” replied the Man.

  At this, the old clerk froze and put a hand to his chest.

  “It wasn’t me was it?” He stammered. “Not my passport? You’re not here to—to—”

  “No, old friend,” the Man soothed. “The passport worked perfectly. She died here in Rome I’m told—murdered.”

  Tipping his cap back, Felix scratched his grey head and frowned in disbelief.

  “Murdered here? No.”

  The Man nodded.

  “Here?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  Felix leaned against the display case.

  “By whom?” He asked.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Working on it? What does that mean?”

  “It means, I’m working it, Felix,” said the Man.

  Shaking his head, Felix blew out a breath.

  “I wouldn’t want to be them right now. You’ll get them won’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You always take care of your own—papa told me that about you.”

  “I do.”

  “She was young,” stated Felix. “Too young to die.”

  The Man said nothing.