The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  “Louisa,” he whispered.

  …

  Hearing the Benefactor utter the name, Cato stopped talking and frowned.

  “What?” He said.

  “Nothing,” replied the Man. “Never mind.”

  Glancing at the body-bag, Cato grunted.

  “Was that her name? Louisa?”

  “No,” said the Man, his eyes dropping to the covered heap before him. “Her name was Leta.”

  He reached down and pulled the zipper. A face of pure agony, fell into the light. Instantly horrified, Cato was only able to process the devastation one detail at a time—burnt flesh, singed hair, papery eyes, a yawning maw of silver.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” He swore. “Oh God—what the hell happened to her?”

  The Man was slow to respond.

  “She was murdered,” he said at last.

  “Yeah no shit!” Cato stammered. “Is that—is that silver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who the hell would do something like that?”

  “A Goddess,” replied the Benefactor sarcastically. “Or rather, one who wrongly believes herself divine.”

  Cato shut his eyes to the wreckage before him.

  “Listen,” he sputtered. “You—you didn’t say anything about this earlier. You didn’t tell me it was like this!”

  “I’m telling you now,” the Man spoke, smoothing Leta’s messy yellow hair.

  “It’s a little late, don’t you think?” Cato shot back. “I mean, what exactly is it I’m even doing here?”

  The Benefactor touched the hardened spatters of silver that had melted Leta’s lips. “Vengeance,” he whispered.

  “Vengeance?” Repeated Cato. “Like, you want me to take revenge for this—on a God? Are you serious?”

  Sighing, the Man looked up.

  “There are no Gods, Cato. Her kind came through the cracks, colonized this world. Besides, vengeance is a fundamental right—open to all. Leta was your fellow Orphanus—your sister. Blood deserves Blood.”

  Cato glanced down and saw his reflection warped in the silver.

  “But,” he faltered. “But, I’m just a human. The person who did this, she’s—she’s like you, right?”

  “She and I are not the same,” said the Man.

  “Right,” Cato swallowed. “But like, she’s not normal though, right?”

  The Man tipped his head from side to side.

  “It is true that she has certain—abilities. However, you are not without your own advantages, Cato.”

  Cato blinked and glanced at the door.

  “What if I say no? Like, what if I just get out now, and hop the first flight home?”

  “You cannot,” spoke the Benefactor. “And you will not. This is your destiny Cato. You were born to spill Olympian blood.”

  Feeling light-headed, Cato patted himself down for cigarettes. The Man watched him, then took out his sliver case, and offered it over.

  “Allow me to tell you a story,” he said. “Or at least, the parts of the story that apply to you in this moment.”

  Cato shakily lit a cigarette and puffed on it as if his life hung in the balance.

  “Before she was murdered,” began the Man. “Our Leta was on an important mission. I asked her to investigate the dealings of a man named, Cosimo Bruno—Procurist, and collector. Long had Bruno been of interest to me, for I believed him in league with the one who did this.”

  His eyes fell to Leta.

  “The so-called Goddess.”

  “Why did they kill her?” Asked Cato, afraid to look at Leta’s face. “Bruno and the Goddess? Why did they do this?”

  The Man smiled somewhat proudly.

  “Leta uncovered evidence that Bruno was looking for some kind of weapon—funneling money and resources into the search.”

  “A weapon?” Cato echoed.

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of weapon?”

  Zipping up the body-bag, the Man shook his head.

  “I do not know,” he answered. “Leta was murdered before she could tell me.”

  Cato rubbed his jaw.

  “I’m confused,” he said. “Why are Bruno and this—this Goddess looking for a weapon?”

  “Vengeance.”

  Laughing despite himself, Cato cast the Benefactor a nervous glance.

  “That is a popular theme with you people, isn’t it?” He said. “But, it doesn’t really answer my question. I want to know why.”

  The Man made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

  “That is of little consequence to you at this moment,” he asserted. “Believe me when I say, the threat is real, and immanent.”

  “Okay,” muttered Cato. “Fine. So what do you want me to do about it?”

  The Man settled back on the wheel well opposite him.

  “First, I want you to finish what Leta started,” he said. “Then I want you to finish what Bruno and his Goddess started.”

  XVI

  From her new vantage-point in the alley, Louisa saw the van rumble to life. Scrambling for cover, she hid as it drove by en-route to the main road. Determined not to let it escape, she turned and dashed down the alley. Emerging onto the sidewalk, she spotted the van, nosing its way into the flow of cars at the end of the block.

  A cab was parked nearby, two tourists fumbling to pay the driver as they simultaneously clicked away with their cameras. Louisa slipped into the back seat, and handed the driver a Fifty-Euro bill.

  “Follow them,” she said, pointing at the van. “Go!”

  Doing as he was instructed, the driver put the car in gear, and pulled away from the curb. At the Via Settembre the van turned down a side street, then turned again and joined the traffic of the Via Barberini. Following with some difficulty, the cab driver muttered under his breath that Fifty-Euros wasn’t going to cut it if he got into an accident.

  “Stay on them and I’ll make it a Hundred,” said Louisa, waving another Fifty-note bill in his face. “Just don’t fucking lose them.”

  …

  In the van, Cato and the Benefactor rifled through Leta’s belongings.

  “What are we looking for?” Asked Cato.

  The Man lifted the backpack and sniffed it.

  “We need to know where Leta was staying in the city.”

  Cato furrowed his brow, remembering something Corallina had said the other day.

  “Don’t you have a safe-house for Orphanus?”

  Setting the backpack aside, the Man shook his head.

  “It isn’t safe any more.”

  Unsure what that meant, Cato held his tongue.

  “No,” continued the Man. “Leta hadn’t been to the safe-house in some time. Her investigation set her on the trail of Bruno’s errand boy—a man named Hannity. She followed this Hannity to Africa and back, but when she returned to the city she did not use the safe-house. She must have known she was being watched.”

  He picked up a wrinkled tourist map.

  “These maps are given out by concierge agents all over town,” he said. “Most highlight the same few landmarks for their guests—Trevi Fountain, the Coliseum, and so on. But look here—”

  Running a finger across the map, he traced a single road with extra marks made in pen.

  “It is also common to recommend bars and restaurants in the area around the hotel. What I see here, circled on this map, tells me that Leta got it from somewhere near the Vatican.”

  “Hmm,” Cato nodded. “So you think she was laying low in a hostel or something— blending in, like a regular tourist?”

  “Exactly,” said the Benefactor. “And since none of her field equipment was found with her body—no journal, no camera, no weapon, I feel cautiously optimistic that it might still be in her room.”

  He placed a hand atop the body-bag and smiled.

  “Leta herself may not be able to warn me of Bruno’s plot, but her journal most certainly can.”

  Cato loosened his tie.

  “All right,” he said
. “So how many possible spots are we talking about?”

  Lighting another cigarette, the Man thought on this.

  “Two dozen at least,” he replied. “Leta was careful, she would have chosen a place with a low profile. If I had to guess, I would say she was staying at an inn, or a hostel. Hotels require too much information these days.”

  “Makes sense,” Cato agreed. “When do we start?”

  “We don’t,” the Man said curtly. “You do.”

  “You mean you’re not coming?”

  Shaking his head, the Benefactor sat back.

  “No. This is your task. We will reconvene tonight when you have finished.”

  Cato stole a glance at the body-bag. While he didn’t really like being in the company of Leta’s mutilated corpse, he didn’t want to end up like her either. Reading his mind, the Man reached into his jacket.

  “Here,” he said, handing over a nickel-plated Springfield XDM Compact .45.

  “Be careful, it’s loaded.”

  Cato accepted the gun and tested its weight.

  “I assume you know how to shoot,” the Man said.

  “Yeah,” Cato returned. “Corallina taught me when I was…”

  Trailing off, he locked eyes with the Benefactor and sighed.

  “She taught me when I was a teenager, said it was important for me to know how to shoot. Now I see why.”

  The Man chuckled and leaned against the wall of the van.

  “I know how much you cowboys love your guns,” he grinned. “But, please refrain from firing unless the target in your sights is of—unusual provenance. The bullets in that weapon are custom-made Adamantine hollow points. They are not something one should waste on innocent bystanders.”

  “Adamantine, huh?” Said Cato. “As in the metal Vulcan uses to make weapons for the Gods? I didn’t think that stuff was real.”

  Flashing his golden eyes, the Man grinned wider.

  “Be grateful that it is, Cato, for without it—you would be lost.”

  Cato fingered the trigger lightly.

  “What would happen if I shot you right now?”

  “You would be dead before you could pull the trigger,” said the Benefactor.

  Thinking that this was probably true, Cato moved his finger away from the trigger and ejected the magazine. Just like the arrowhead in his pocket, the slugs were silvery and muted.

  “Guess I better not try to shoot you then,” he said, sliding the clip back in and checking the safety.

  The Man chuckled and patted Cato’s knee.

  “That’s probably a good idea.”

  He picked up the map again, and pulled a pen from his breast pocket.

  “Here are all of the hostels and inns nearest to the Vatican. You should start your search with these five then radiate out as you go.”

  Cato bent forward to study the marks.

  “That’s a lot of dots,” he said.

  “Check each one,” the Man spoke sternly. “When the hour strikes 9PM, come to this address and report on what you have found.”

  He drew the symbol of a broken sword on the map.

  “The restaurant is called La Spada Spezzata. I will be waiting for you there.”

  He moved his pen north, and slashed it through a bank of buildings in the oldest part of the city.

  “Should you run into trouble before we meet, this is my home. The street and the house itself are hidden to most, but if you follow this map exactly, you will be able to find your way there. Any questions?”

  Gingerly, Cato accepted the map and folded it. He had many questions, but he knew better than to ask them by now.

  “No,” he said. “But I’ll need a picture of Leta to show around. You know, preferably one from before she got turned into that horror-movie nightmare.”

  The Man produced a small black and white photo of Leta, and held it out. Taken with the ocean at her back and a smile on her pretty, wind-swept face, the picture stirred a swell of strange feelings in Cato.

  “She’s—” he faltered. “She’s lovely. I can’t believe someone would do that to her—kill her like that.”

  The Man watched Cato with hooded eyes, then glanced away.

  “Vengeance is obsession. Obsession is madness.”

  “But why?” Asked Cato again. “Why is this Bruno asshole looking for mysterious weapons? Why is some Goddess telling him to do that? You say it’s vengeance but I don’t understand. Vengeance for what?”

  Snubbing out his cigarette, the Man signaled to Popi. The van decelerated, and moved to the side of the road.

  “I am a God-Killer, Cato,” he said, opening the back door. “Such titles come with a price.”

  …

  “There,” Louisa pointed. “What’s he doing?”

  The cab driver braked and swerved amidst a barrage of angry honks. Ahead, the van had pulled over. Getting out, Agent Cato Fin slammed the back door, and strode off toward the Tiber.

  “You want me to let you out here?” Asked the cab driver.

  Louisa watched Cato melt away into the crowd, then turned her attention back to the van.

  “No,” she said, thinking of the golden-eyed Man. “Follow them.”

  Moving in the direction of the Pantheon, the van sped through traffic. Safely in tow, Louisa and the cab driver followed after it. At a narrow alley, the van turned left and continued into a small piazza. There, umbrella-shaded tables fringed a crescent-moon of bars and cafés. Swinging around a burbling fountain in the center of the piazza, the van entered a short dead-end lane.

  “Here,” Louisa ordered. “I’ll get out here.”

  Happy to oblige, the cab driver stopped, and rubbed his fingers together. Handing him the second Fifty-Euro bill, Louisa got out and shut the door. Up the lane, the van idled before a metal gate. Skirting the covered tables, Louisa walked around the edge of the piazza to stand at the corner. The gate rose, and the van pulled into a sublevel-parking garage. As soon as it was through, the gate began to fall again, each segment locking together like a carapaced shield.

  “Great,” sighed Louisa. “What now?”

  Stepping into the open, she studied the building under which the van had disappeared. Cased in ancient Cantera cement, it had a wall-like façade with no openings other than the gate. High above, a bank of stained glass windows, and a great dome the color of aquamarine cut the skyline.

  “Scusi,” Louisa said to a nearby waitress.

  “Si?” The girl responded.

  Louisa pointed to the building.

  “What is that place there? It looks like an old church, or temple but I don’t know which one it is.”

  The girl shrugged and gave Louisa a sorry smile.

  “This whole area is old, officer,” she said. “But to be honest I have no idea about that building.”

  Louisa chewed her thumbnail.

  “Do you know where the entrance is?”

  “Pardon?” Said the girl.

  “The front,” Louisa repeated. “I want to see it from the front.”

  The waitress put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side. A look of semi-confusion crossed her face.

  “You know,” she admitted. “I walk to work every day, and I’ve been all over here looking for short-cuts. But, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the front of that building, I wonder what street it’s on? Isn’t that funny?”

  Louisa arched an eyebrow and returned her gaze to the building.

  “Funny,” she said.

  …

  Forty-five minutes later, Louisa reentered the busy piazza by way of an alley, and bit back a cry of alarm. After the van had vanished, she had circled the block several times, searching for the front of the mysterious building. Always finding herself right back where she had started, she was beginning to feel like the victim of an elaborate prank. No matter which way she went, the outcome was always the same.

  Louisa walked back to the corner and peered up the lane. Still as deserted as it was out of place in such a
n historic part of town, it was empty. Drumming her fingers on her thigh, she began to wonder if she had made a crucial mistake. Perhaps she’d been wrong to let agent Fin slip away so easily. Perhaps she should have stayed with him instead of chasing phantoms.

  At the end of the lane, the gate rattled, causing Louisa to snapped her head up. Rolling open part-way, the gate lifted and the driver of the transport van ducked under. The man—a Greek by the looks of him, sauntered down the alley, and came into the piazza.

  Louisa held her breath, watching him go by. Somehow sensing her eyes on him, the Greek glanced her way, then quickened his pace. Before she even realized what she was doing, Louisa moved from the corner of the lane and began to follow him.

  The Greek turned at the fountain, and cast another glance over his shoulder. This time, their eyes locked. Louisa broke into a jog, cutting through the hordes of tourists who clogged her way. Moving again, the Greek rounded a corner, vanishing from view. Struggling to catch up, Louisa reached it just as he was about to disappear into another side-street.

  “Hey you,” she called out. “Hold up, I need to speak with you.”

  The Greek looked back at her, but kept going.

  “Stop now!” Louisa commanded. “Police!”

  With a startling burst of speed, the man broke into a sprint and tore off down the street.

  “Stop!” Shouted Louisa, watching her only real lead get away. “Stop! Police!”

  Barreling full-tilt, the Greek made no sign of slowing. After him like lighting, Louisa hit the cobblestones at a run. In his haste, the Greek knocked down a painter and his supplies. Unperturbed, Louisa vaulted the man, her boots skidding in smears of cobalt blue and chartreuse. Cutting up another alleyway, the Greek launched headlong into a mass of shoppers. Hands clawing at bodies and faces, he fought through them before Louisa could get there. Rallying his considerable mass, he rounded the next corner too sharply and tripped over his own feet. Flailing, he flew headlong into the tables and chairs of an outdoor café.