The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  He reached for the mostly-full tumbler of liquor and took a quick, painful sip.

  “Ah, what is this?”

  “Whiskey,” Louisa returned, scanning the empty street outside the window.

  “Whiskey?” Giorgio grumbled. “Who drinks whiskey? This is Italy not the wild west!”

  Shooting him an absent glare, Louisa stood up.

  “Are you alright?” Giorgio asked. “You’re acting kind of funny.”

  “I’m fine,” said Louisa. “It’s just that—are you sure you didn’t see a man right there, right there, I was talking to him when you arrived.”

  Giorgio looked where she was pointing and shrugged.

  “Seriously Little Rabbit, I didn’t see anyone.”

  Reluctantly, Louisa dropped back into her seat and began chewing her fingernail. After a few moments of awkward silence, Giorgio cleared his throat and rapped a knuckle on the table.

  “So, do you want to hear about this crime scene or not? As much as I’d love to sit here all night and bask in your beauty, I think you’ll find it pretty interesting.”

  Louisa pulled her gaze back from the brink of infinity and nodded.

  “Yes—I’m sorry. Go on, tell me what happened.”

  Giorgio put on an expression that hovered somewhere between gossipy and serious.

  “Do you know those two detectives, Mora and Bifona?” He asked.

  “Sure,” said Louisa. “They’re the Comandante’s little fucking lap dogs. I actually arrested Mora once for assaulting a Roma lady when he was off-duty. The Comandante made me drop the whole thing though. Bifona is no better from what I hear.”

  “Well I wouldn’t bother harboring any grudges,” Giorgio spoke. “They’re both dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Murdered,” Giorgio amended. “Pulverized, crushed, smushed. I don’t know Little Rabbit—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Where?”

  Giorgio flourished a hand.

  “A few kilometers from the Vatican, near the river.”

  Eyes wide, Louisa was still.

  “That’s not even the worst part though,” Giorgio went on. “When I got there, the Special Investigators were still numbering the crime scene for photos. Guess what number 33 and number 34 were?”

  Louisa waited for the answer.

  “Their tongues,” said Giorgio. “That’s right, I said tongues. Lying right there on the pavement with those little folded yellow number cards beside them. Tongues! Can you believe this city?”

  Missing a beat, Louisa’s heart caught in her chest.

  “Their tongues were cut out?” She whispered.

  “Ripped out,” Giorgio corrected.

  Louisa sat back.

  “Anyway,” Giorgio resumed. “The Comandante showed up and began demanding all kinds of answers, but what can you do with a scene like that? The two looked like they’d been tossed into a trash compactor. There wasn’t any murder weapon around—no fingerprints, just two dead detectives with their tongues ripped out.”

  “My God,” Louisa breathed.

  Giorgio drained his glass and squinted against the burn.

  “I know, right.”

  Lapsing into silence, Louisa flashed back to the other day, and the dead-girl in the river. She too had been missing her tongue—coincidence? Not likely.

  “Giorgio,” she said, lifting her gaze.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going out of town for a while—Spain, I think.”

  Giorgio lit up.

  “Give me two days and I’ll come with you. I just need to submit the request. I’ve got tons of vacation saved up anyway.”

  Louisa gave Giorgio a tender look and shook her head. In another life, she could have seen herself falling in love with him. But not this life.

  “Save your vacation,” she said. “I need to do this on my own.”

  XII

  Cato awoke to darkness, disorientated and alone. Clinging to him, the bed-sheets were damp with cold sweat. He tried to recall where he was and how he’d gotten there, but it was as if his life was a film, and someone had pulled the relevant frames. Groping for the nightstand, he turned on the bedside lamp.

  Lofty and grand, the room snapped into focus. On a chair near the door, Cato’s shoulder bag lay where he’d dropped it the night before. Poking out from the open zipper, an unaddressed envelope caught his eye.

  Cato felt a jolt as his memory returned. All at once, he knew not only where he was, but why, and with whom. He sat motionless in the bed, unsure what to do with himself.

  ‘Start with the basics,’ Corallina had taught him. ‘And work your way out from there.’

  Slipping from between the sheets, Cato padded to the bedroom door. Just as he’d left it the day before, it was still firmly locked. He was safe—for now. Going to the window, he pulled open the curtains and stared out. The city beyond was a sleeping giant, wrapped in dreams of faded glory. His eyes strayed back to his shoulder bag, and he thought of the cell phone he’d stolen yesterday at Termini station. Retrieving it, he sat on the corner of the bed and dialed.

  “Hello?” Came a voice after the ninth ring.

  “Corallina?” Said Cato. “It’s me.”

  In the background a radio shut off and Cato could hear Corallina shift the phone to her other ear.

  “Well there you are. I’ve been wondering when I’d hear from you. How is everything—are you holding up alright?”

  Cato stared at the ceiling, the cadence of his adopted mother’s voice stirring in him a swell of melancholy.

  “Everything is pretty messed up,” he spoke at last. “But I guess I’m okay.”

  “Good man,” she said. “What’s happening? Is he there with you now?”

  “No. I’m alone, it’s like—”

  He held the phone out to check the time.

  “It’s 4AM here.”

  Corallina laughed softly.

  “No rest for the wicked, eh?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So where are you now?”

  “I’m staying in a house,” said Cato. “A big house.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah—why, is that weird?”

  “Not necessarily,” murmured Corallina. “It’s just that—we Orphanus usually stay in a little apartment near the river whenever we come to visit. You must be special, my boy. I told you so.”

  Cato snorted.

  “Tell me though,” Corallina went on. “Are there any large—very, very large paintings where you are?”

  “Yeah,” said Cato. “There’re these four naked guys—”

  “Boreas, Notus, Zephrus, and Eurus,” interjected Corallina with excitement. “My, my, Cato, do you know where you are right now?”

  “No.”

  “You’re in his house—his home! How’s that for special!”

  Cato felt a cool shiver run down his spine. Growing up, he had heard many things about this house, many strange tales. According to Corallina, it was built upon an intersection of ley lines and constellations—a veritable crossroads of supernatural energy.

  Swallowing, Cato cleared his throat. He had been so overwhelmed upon his arrival that he hadn’t put two and two together yet. This was that house.

  “So—” he whispered. “You’ve been here too then?”

  On the other end of the line, Corallina was slow to answer.

  “I was there once, just briefly. It was a long time ago—a long, long time.

  “You never told me that story.”

  “Maybe someday I will. But—not today. Today is about you and your life, not mine. Now go on, let me hear it. What do you think of our Benefactor? He’s magnificent isn’t he?”

  “He’s…” Cato wavered. “He’s real, Corallina. He’s not a joke.”

  “I told you so.”

  “You told me a lot of bullshit and fairy tales, you never told me any of it was actually fucking real.”

  Corallina laughed.

  “Do
you remember when you were maybe ten or eleven? You used to beg me to tell you stories about the Benefactor—beg me. Of course by that point you’d already heard all of mine so you would ask me to make up new ones. Do you remember that?”

  “A little,” Cato smiled. “Yeah.”

  “And I would always tell you that it was not my job to make up new stories about the Man from Rome, it was yours.”

  Cato’s smile faded. He saw where this was going and he didn’t like it.

  “Well,” Corallina said inevitably. “Look at you now, Cato. You’re in Rome with the Benefactor. You’re inside a story. In fact, you’re telling it as we speak. It seems like you finally got your wish.”

  Wilting, Cato cradled the phone to his ear.

  “Mom,” he spoke after a beat. “I’m afraid. I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

  Again, Corallina was slow to answer. Hoping for one of her little instructions—one of her perfectly applicable pieces of wisdom, Cato waited.

  “I know you’re afraid,” she said at length. “Your whole world is changing and that’s scary. But sometimes we need to be afraid, Cato. Fear is good, it keeps us careful.”

  Cato shut his eyes and let Corallina’s words work their magic.

  “Besides,” she continued. “Without fear there can be no bravery, and without bravery, there can be no heroes. And when there is no hero, my boy, there is no story.”

  Opening his eyes, Cato took a deep breath and gazed at the bedroom door.

  “It’s all real, isn’t it,” he stated. “Everything you told me. It’s all real.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now I’m in it.”

  “Yes you are, but to be fair, you’ve been in it your whole life.”

  Cato bit his lip and nodded.

  “So what now?” He asked.

  Corallina chuckled once more—a warm, comforting sound.

  “This is your story, Cato, I can’t tell you what to do with it. But if I were you, I think I would start by figuring out just exactly what kind of a story it is that you’re telling.”

  …

  Cato stepped out of the shower and stood in front of the steam-frosted bathroom mirror. Thanks to Corallina, he had embraced a daily exercise regimen that had crafted him, over the years, into a lean but fierce young man.

  Eyes locked on his reflection; Cato stared into himself and searched for the bravery his mother had said would be there. Seeing nothing but his own fear and uncertainty, gazing back at him across the void, he turned away.

  In the bedroom, he went to the closet.

  ‘Be aware of your appearance,’ the Man had warned. ‘You represent me now, Cato.’

  Flicking on the closet light, Cato was met by a stunning array of suits, shirts, and ties of every variety. He puffed out his cheeks and sighed. The one thing Corallina had never taught him was how to shop like a gentleman. Back home, he only owned one suit—a black, funereal thing, worn for court appearances.

  Pulling a three-piece Canali from the rack, Cato held it up in a mirror. Well cut and dyed the color of construction steel, it looked every bit as expensive as it was. Cato checked the label, and saw with some unease that the suit had been tailored to his exact measurements. Apparently the Benefactor knew far more about him than just his arrest record.

  …

  The hallway outside Cato’s room was cavernous. Murky around the edges, it undulated in the sputtering light of antique gas lamps. Dressed and combed, Cato stood in the open doorway and listened to the stillness of the house.

  “Okay,” he said aloud. “Time to be brave.”

  Descending the stairs to the corridor below, he gazed down the row of doors. Spotting the one he had touched the day before—the one said to contain many things—Cato ambled over to it. He tested the knob, but as he’d expected, it was locked. Unperturbed, he returned upstairs to his room and searched the contents of his toiletries until he found his lock-pick kit.

  Crouching before the door again, he eyed the keyhole. Selecting the right pick for the job, Cato inserted it into the lock, then followed after it with an L-shaped tension wrench. Carefully moving the pick along the pins, he applied pressure with the wrench.

  ‘Feel for the right combination,’ Corallina had taught him. ‘It’s not magic, its mechanics.’

  A satisfying click rang out and the door eased open.

  “Abracadabra, mother-fucker,” Cato whispered.

  Half-hidden in smothering shadows, the space appeared to be some kind of storage room. Significantly lower than that of the hallway, the floor was made of flagstones, and the walls, Roman concrete. Arranged with only enough space to walk between them, towering racks of shelves stretched from one end of the clammy room to the other. Laden with strange artifacts, they leaned ominously in the gloom.

  Cato shut the door and came down onto the flagstones. An unearthly chill crept through the soles of his shoes, making him shiver. Feted and damp, the air had a poisonous edge to it, as if it had been trapped for eons and gone bad. He wrinkled his nose and squinted to better see.

  Just visible in the low light, a skull and a neat pile of bones rested on a nearby shelf. Dusty with age, the skull wore an eager smile. Cato took step toward it, and froze. Longer than his thumb and curved dangerously, the skull’s canines protruded from its upper jaw with hypodermic points.

  “No way,” he said, fishing out his stolen cell phone and turning on the flashlight.

  Harsh and bright, the light threw the bones into clear relief. Spilling from the ribcage like a cornucopia of bones, the skull and the rest of the skeleton bore the marks of a violent death. Amidst the butchered fragments, a glint of silver flashed.

  Cato’s pupils dilated, and he came closer despite himself. Nestled inside the crumbling basket of the ribcage, a single coin had been inserted in place of a heart. Tilting the phone to cast a contrasting glow across the coin’s ancient, tarnished face, Cato licked his lips. The image was that of queen Cleopatra, stamped in silver.

  Just as he had with the cigarette lighter in the tobacco shop, Cato felt an inescapable desire to steal the coin. At a young age, he had developed the nasty habit of nabbing shiny objects that didn’t belong to him. Corallina had tried her best to cure him of this, but to no avail.

  Poking his finger at the coin, Cato reached through the ribcage. Afraid to crack the brittle bones, he tried the longest of his lock picks instead, but still, the coin was out of reach. Looking around for something even longer, he stole down the row of shelves.

  Here and there, bits of bone jewelry, and fragments of ancient idols entered the light of his cell phone. Interesting as it all was, none of it offered him any assistance in his mission. About to give up, Cato came upon a section of shelving filled entirely with arrowheads. Splayed out in order of size and shape, they ranged from tiny, rough cut stone wedges, to sophisticated metal weapons of war.

  He scanned the blades until he found one he could use. Of Greek design, the arrowhead was about six inches long, and made of a silvery metal. Tapering gracefully, it looked as though it could pierce armor and flesh in a single stroke. Flecked with spidery-dust and webbed by patterns of tarnish, the arrowhead clearly hadn’t been touched in a very long time.

  “Perfect,” said Cato.

  He took the blade and went back to the skeleton. Sliding it through the slats of the ribcage, he began to gently prod the coin.

  A voice sounded behind him.

  “How clever would you say you are?”

  Cato let out a yelp and jumped back. Palming the arrowhead, he whirled around, and shined his light into the darkness. The Benefactor materialized like an apparition.

  “Good morning, Cato,” he said.

  Cato slipped his hand into his pocket, depositing the arrowhead.

  “Where did you come from? I didn’t hear the door.”

  “There are some doors which cannot be heard,” the Man shrugged. “Now tell me, how clever do you think you are?”

  “I hav
e my moments.”

  The Man smiled.

  “This is not one of those moments though, is it?”

  “No,” said Cato quietly. “Probably not.”

  The Man stared at him, his expression unreadable. Cato wrapped his hand around the arrowhead in his pocket.

  “What are you thinking about, Cato?” Asked the Man. “You look as though you have something on your mind.”

  “I—” Cato swallowed, casting about. “I—I want to know what’s going on around here. I think I deserve that much.”

  The liquid-gold of the Benefactor’s eyes began to churn.

  “And what precisely would you like to know?”

  Suddenly at a loss, Cato faltered.

  “Uh,” he said. “Well…”

  The Man watched him, waiting.

  “Well—what is that?” Cato ventured, pointed to the skeleton. “Why are its teeth like that? It’s not a…”

  He trailed off.

  “It’s not a—”

  “Strix?” Finished the Man. “Laestrygonian? Strigoi? A Vampire? Yes it is. Why do you ask?”

  “How?”

  “How?”

  “Yes!” Cato exclaimed. “How is it real—how are you real? You’re a God for Christ’s sake!”

  Stepping around him, the Man walked to the skeleton.

  “There are no Gods here,” he stated. “No demons.”

  He picked up the skull.

  “Yet, there are cracks—cracks in the stonework of history, cracks in the stonework of science, cracks in the very walls that separate one reality from another. This world is fractured, Cato.”

  Stupefied, Cato couldn’t find the words to respond to this.

  “Can—” he asked instead. “Can you die?”

  The Man chuckled.

  “Everything dies,” he said. “Yet, some of us find cause to resurrect. ”

  Turning the skull in his hand, he smiled.

  “Like our nocturnal friend here. He was a nasty one—cruel. I killed him a long time ago—cut him up as you see. It is only the silver coin that keeps him from coming back. Can you imagine what would happen if it were stolen?”