The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  With Savino’s taillights fading behind them, Hannity and Bruno walked back to the mansion. Glancing sidelong at Bruno, Hannity cleared his throat.

  “I take it you’re not too worried about what just happened back there,” he ventured.

  Bruno chuckled and gazed up at the celestial nightscape.

  “No, Mr. Hannity, not really. Sesto has always been blinded by his own greed.”

  “What about the explosion?”

  “A bit of a shock,” Bruno conceded. “Still, far be it from me to question her methods.”

  “Her?”

  “Divinum Artemis,” he replied reverently. “The Virgin Goddess.”

  Somehow unsurprised by this answer, Hannity nodded.

  “Was that her in the garden earlier?” He asked. “That little yellow bird?”

  Bruno paused mid-step.

  “You—you saw that?”

  Hannity nodded again.

  “Saints alive!” Cried Bruno. “Do you have any idea how special that is?”

  Shrugging, Hannity took out his cigarettes.

  “I guess not.”

  “Beings such as her do not reveal themselves to just anyone,” said Bruno. “Tell me, my friend, have you ever seen things that could not be explained—aberrations in the continuity of existence, ghosts even?”

  Hannity struck a light.

  “You’re kidding right?” He laughed. “That basically describes the last few days to a T.”

  Bruno waved.

  “Before all of this—what then?”

  A distant smile crept across Hannity’s face.

  “My mom told me I was born dead—umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. It took the doctors a bit of work to get me going again. She used to tell me I had one foot in the real world and one in the hereafter. Maybe she was onto something.”

  “She most assuredly was,” Bruno nodded. “I knew I felt a kindred spirit in you. We are not so different, you and I, Mr. Hannity. Only, my path to enlightenment was somewhat more deliberate than yours. I was not born this way—I became.”

  He held up his little wooden box of seeds.

  “Do you remember what I told you about this?”

  “It’s seeds right?” Said Hannity.

  “Not just any seeds,” Bruno corrected. “These are seeds from the Island of the Lotus Eaters. Remember Odysseus?”

  Hannity dragged on his cigarette.

  “Well,” smiled Bruno. “Like the eaters of the Lotus fruit, or Alice with her white rabbit, I too went through the looking glass, Mr. Hannity. And when I came out the other side, there was someone waiting for me in Wonderland. Artemis.”

  Shivering with excitement, Hannity twitched his trigger finger.

  “She told me our lines were intertwined,” said Bruno. “She said I was destined to help her right a great wrong done to her by another.”

  “The Vecchio,” Hannity grunted.

  “Yes,” smiled Bruno. “Quello Vecchio.”

  Hannity dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his heel.

  “So, this whole time I’ve been working for you, it’s all been about killing the Vecchio?”

  Flashing his teeth, Bruno gripped Hannity’s arm.

  “Would you rather it have been about money?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. As I said before, I knew we were kindred spirits, Mr. Hannity. Now fly, my friend—gather the guns and meet me in the cellar. Artemis has purchased us more time at great cost. Let us make the most of it.”

  XXII

  The Man from Rome stood in the kitchen of his house by the Pantheon and cooked himself an early breakfast. Under counters and beneath shelves, several cats waited patiently for table scraps. Steaming in a bone-white mug, French-pressed Kenyan coffee perfumed the heady air, while a fennel and smoked-apple sausage sizzled in the pan. Plated nearby, two poached eggs ornamented slices of freshly baked bread like saffron dumplings.

  Cooking by muscle memory, the Man turned the sausage in the pan, then added bit of butter, white pepper, herbs, and a handful of mushrooms to make a garnish for his eggs. Lost in thought, his mind was elsewhere.

  “Louisa,” he murmured.

  Transferring the sausage and garnish to his plate, the Man picked up his coffee and walked to a marble island. Tails swishing with interest, the cats followed after him. He stabbed his fork into an egg, watching the creamy yoke seep over everything. Shutting his eyes, as he often did before savoring the first bite, he tried to taste the aroma of his meal.

  A voice whispered in his head—an echo from last night.

  ‘Oh Dio, oh Dio, Dio—God yes.’

  “Louisa,” he said again. “Anastasi.”

  The name set fires within him, little torches of memory that leaped up over the dark eons. He had known a great many Anastasi in his day, but none like her. Someone had gone to great lengths to hide Louisa from him, a herculean feat worthy of praise. Of course, looking back on it now, the culprits were almost too obvious.

  “Famiglia, famiglia,” spoke the Man. “For truly—blood is thicker than wine.”

  Opening his eyes, he smiled. How long had it been since he’d made love to a woman? Fifty years? A hundred? Mortals withered beneath him, died from the poison of his kiss. Yet, that hadn’t happen with Louisa. She had seen him, kissed him, and summoned him to her bed. Moreover, she had survived Artemis’ tantrum without any of the same protections as Cato.

  The Man looked down at the cat between his feet and pondered the possibilities.

  “Demi,” he decided. “Daughter of two worlds.”

  …

  After breakfast, the Man went across the hall to the chamber of dusty relics.

  Walking along the rows of shelves, he came to a recess in the wall. There, a round wooden door marked the entrance to his vault of records. He unlocked the door with a skeleton key and entered.

  Inked in blackness, the vault stretched away into the cool earth. Though the Man knew it by heart, he lit an oil lamp nevertheless and brought warm illumination to the scene. From floor to ceiling, deep bookshelves covered the rough walls. Arranged in no apparent order, leather file folders were packed to the brim. Shimmering in the lamplight, their spines shown with gold lettering.

  The Man moved down one wall, searching for the name Anastasi. There was much he desired to know about Louisa, and no better place to start looking. Like any true Roman, the Man was a fastidious record keeper. These files—his dossiers as he called them, contained pertinent information on every Orphanus, Immortal, demi, hero, witch, astrologer, augur, procurist, and person of note that he knew. This included Ferro Anastasi and the rest of Louisa’s clan.

  Guttering, the Man’s lamp flickered as he passed Cato’s dossier. He paused to gaze at it, momentarily forgetting his mission. Inside, Cato’s entire life could be read, right down to his childhood letters to Santa. On the shelf next to it, a blank slot stood empty by contrast. Once upon a time, Leta’s dossier had rested there, but not any more. Always the clever girl, she’d stolen it before departing on her final assignment. Now, the opening served as a reminder of the Man’s great betrayal.

  He let out a sigh and walked on. Even if he could rewrite the past, he would not. Leta’s death had been essential. Artemis was a sickness, a cancer. She was drunk on Vengeance—belligerent and volatile. Eradicating her was worth a hundred sacrificed innocents, and a thousand lies of omission.

  XXIII

  Up before the sun and on her third cup of strong espresso, Louisa Anastasi sat alone at her kitchen table. In the bedroom, Giorgio slept the sleep of the dead. He had returned to himself at the end of their lovemaking, his eyes blinking back from gold to brown. Now, even the clanging of church bells did nothing to stir him.

  Louisa took a sip of her espresso and shivered unconsciously. Ever since waking up, she had been haunted by images of last night, horrors her mind had been too distracted to render at the time. The woman in white—Artemis she was called, had killed all of those people.
Somehow, she had turned herself into a living bomb and destroyed an entire restaurant. It seemed crazy to Louisa that one day, one single day, could have such a profound effect on her world. Then again, yesterday had not been like most days. Mythology was vindicated—fiction was fact. There really were heavenly beings, walking the streets of Rome. There really were unseen monsters, hiding in plain sight.

  Questions piled up around Louisa like sand dunes. The explosion at La Spada Spezzata had opened her eyes, but that didn’t mean she understood what she was seeing. She needed answers, needed to know the truth. Setting her cup aside, she picked up her cell phone.

  The photos of the dead girl’s belongings materialized on the screen. According to Cato Fin, the Man had loved the girl like a daughter. If that was the case, her torture and death had been meant to send him a brutal message. Louisa touched her bruises and swallowed. The Man did not seem like the kind of person you wanted to mess with lightly. What was Artemis playing at?

  A photo of the dead girl’s tourist map slid into frame. Louisa frowned at it, then looked up into the bedroom. Folded on her nightstand, was the map Cato had dropped in the alley, the one she had unwittingly kept. An idea flashed through her mind.

  Getting up, Louisa went into the bedroom and retrieved the map. It crinkled loudly as she unfolded it. Numb to the world, Giorgio did not move. Stealing a quick glance at him, Louisa felt a chill of worry temper her excitement. She had crossed a line last night, made a big mistake. When Giorgio awoke, he would want answers, he would want to involve himself.

  Spread out atop the little table, the map reached all four corners. Pinning it down with her coffee cup and cell phone, Louisa took a step back. Instantly, she saw what had caught her attention. It was the same map from the photo—the dead girl’s map. And yet, it had been embellished and added to with new markings. The symbol of a broken sword now hung above La Spada Spezzata, and a great swatch of dots had been inked throughout the neighborhoods around the Vatican. Penciled over each of the dots, small X’s crossed them off like items on a to-do list.

  Perplexed, Louisa leaned in closer. Every dot with an X had been done in black. The rest were in blue. She checked her phone for comparison, and saw only the blue dots in the photo. Evidently, the others had been made after Cato got his hands on the map. Sliding her finger to the nearest X, Louisa read the address. She knew the building well, had ferried more than a few drunken backpackers to its lobby over the years. It was a hostel, and a cheap one at that. In fact, most if not all of the Xed out dots were low-budget lodgings.

  Louisa exhaled thinly. They were looking for someone, Cato and the Man. Yet, judging by the Xs on the map, and how flustered Cato had been last night, she was willing to bet they hadn’t found them yet. Why? Who were they after?

  Turning her attention back to the blue dots, Louisa ran down the addresses. Restaurants, nightclubs, bars. She froze.

  “The matchbook,” she said aloud. “The fucking matchbook.”

  A blue dot on map confirmed it. The dead girl had been to the bar, perhaps even done business with its black market proprietors. Someone must have seen her. However, without the matchbook to point them there, Cato and Man would have no way of knowing that.

  “They’re looking for the you, aren’t they?” Louisa whispered to the dead girl. “No, not you—you’re dead. They’re looking for your hotel.”

  A new idea began to take shape, as dangerous as it was inevitable. Instinctively, her eyes strayed to the centro storico. Yesterday, she’d spent a considerable amount of time trying to find the Man’s front door. Today, a clear line marked it on the map.

  XXIV

  All night long, Cato had burned, as if by a fever. Trapped in dreams so real they were more memory than mere projection, he moved from one to another without control.

  At first, he was back at the restaurant, watching in slow motion as the woman in white blew apart into a million bloodstained flower petals. Unblinking in the eye of her storm, the Benefactor laughed. Next, Cato saw himself as a tree, frozen in ecstasy. Before him, the same unearthly woman bathed naked in Immortal waters. A twig snapped and a great darkness fell across the world. After that, Cato was in a church, broken open like a skull, and full of sorrow. Again, the woman was there with him. Marred by anguish and wracked by powerful sobs, she knelt in a beam of sunlight and cradled the lifeless body of an angelic man. Bending to pepper his silver face with kisses, she repeated his name like a mantra—like a call to Vengeance.

  “Apóllon! Apóllon! Apóllon!”

  Cato sat up in bed and untangled himself from the twisted sheets. Sour sweat dappled his entire body, and his head throbbed. Rubbing his red-rimmed eyes, he looked around the room warily. Here and there, cats stared back from the shadows.

  He lit a cigarette and took a steadying drag. Checking his phone, he saw that it was 7:13AM. Squinting through the smoke, Cato tried to shake off the dreams, but they clung to him like spider-webs. He thought of Corallina and her wild bedtime stories. They too had produced the same effect, lingering for days, weeks, even years.

  Unlocking the screen, Cato dialed Corallina’s number and sat staring at the call icon. Part of him desperately wanted to hit enter, just to hear her voice—his mother’s voice. On the other hand, he could not unlearn what the Benefactor had revealed. Corallina wasn’t his mother; she was his trainer. He didn’t really have a mother, not any more.

  Cato clenched his jaw and climbed out of bed. Snubbing his cigarette on the nightstand, he tossed the phone beside it and went into the bathroom. Pale and naked, his reflection advanced in the mirror. Not a scratch, not a burn, not a bruise. He clenched his jaw tighter, his teeth grinding audibly.

  ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’ Corallina would have said. ‘Just be grateful you’re still alive and get on with it.’

  Showering quickly, Cato toweled off and went back into the gloomy bedroom. He pulled the curtains wide, and bathed himself in the sun’s cleansing embrace. Streaming in, light filled the room and forced the silent cats to narrow their yellow eyes. Cato put his hands on the glass and drank in the scenery.

  Outside, the sky was a cloudless ocean. Rising above the red-tiled rooftops, copper domes and jaunty crosses made a patchwork of contrasting silhouettes. In the middle distance, wedding bells tolled, while further on, the Tiber ran its ancient course.

  “How did you sleep?” Came a voice.

  Cato lurched and spun around. Dressed in a three-piece suit of unbleached Egyptian cotton, the Benefactor stood watching him.

  “What do you want?” Cato said before he could stop himself.

  Smiling warmly, the Man spread his hands.

  “I came to see how you’re feeling this morning, my son.”

  “Not great,” muttered Cato. “But I doubt you’re very surprised to hear that.”

  “No,” the Man admitted.

  He joined Cato in the bright rectangle of morning sunlight and faced the city beyond.

  “You’ll feel better after you eat,” he said. “Operating in foreign realities saps a man of his strength. It takes twice as much fuel to burn twice as bright.”

  “What do you want?” Cato asked a second time. “I mean, why are you in my room?”

  Drawing his gaze back from the view, the Man turned and walked across the room to the closet. Disappearing inside, he reemerged with an onyx-black Anderson & Sheppard two-piece suit.

  “We have a visitor,” he said. “And I thought you might want to look your best.”

  “A visitor?” Cato frowned. “Who?”

  The Man grinned.

  “Louisa Anastasi is on the street below.”

  Dropping his towel in surprise, Cato scrambled to cover himself.

  “She’s here?”

  The Man grinned wider and held out the suit.

  “I warned you about her last night,” he said. “She is Anastasi. She will not relent. It’s in her blood.”

  XXV

  Mr. Hannity came down the cellar sta
irs with a heavy duffle sack in each hand. When he reached the bottom, he saw that the space had recently undergone a transformation. All of the shelves which had once housed Bruno’s priceless bottles of wine were now gone so that the cellar was open from end to end.

  Waiting for him with the brothers, Bruno waved to an old plank table.

  “Over there if you please.”

  Hannity set the bags on the table, then gazed around.

  “The place looks different,” he said. “Almost like a shooting range.”

  “Almost?”

  “Almost a lot,” he corrected.

  Bruno laughed and clapped his hands together enthusiastically.

  “I’m glad you like it. It’s all for you—well, and for them.”

  He put a hand on Notus’ shoulder.

  “It’s high time we introduced our boys to the magical weapons of the modern era, wouldn’t you say?”

  Hannity smiled and unzipped the duffels. Inside, a litany of military-grade firearms lay in half-assembled, zip-tied bundles. Chief among them, a Windrunner .50 caliber sniper rifle, and a pair of belt-fed M249 SAWs were, by far, the most lethal.

  Taking a combat knife from one of the bags, Hannity used it to cut the zip-ties on an M16. He separated the various parts, then began methodically assembling the weapon. Closing in behind him, the brothers watched with palpable interest.

  “In the age of heroes,” spoke Bruno. “Wars were fought with skill, and brawn, and grit. The Spartoi—your kin, were known for their savagery. No man could challenge them, not even Jason—not really.”

  He gestured to the guns.

  “Now however, the power of Olympus has fallen to Earth, and is accessible to any man.”

  Snapping the stock in place, Hannity set the M16 aside and started on an MP5.

  “We call this the age of gunpowder,” Bruno went on. “And though it is different from what your ancestors would have known, there is yet a place for you among its most infamous elite.”