The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  He pointed at the other man—tall and lanky.

  “We want information on the blond girl, and one of you is going to give it to us. Who that is, is up to you.”

  Hefting his crowbar, the man glanced at Svek, and the bartender. Cato’s eyes narrowed, and he put on a chilling smile.

  “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.”

  He lunged at the man, forcing him to swing in defense. With a crash, the bar missed Cato and sliced into the wooden crate. Gushing out onto the floor, red wine spewed between the slats. Struggling to his feet again, the man named Svek reached for a hammer and went to attack Cato from behind.

  “Look out!” Louisa warned.

  Cato turned, catching Svek in the face with an elbow. The man yowled and swore bloody murder.

  Seeing that all hope of a peaceful resolve was lost, Louisa jumped into the fray. As Cato dealt Svek another blow, she engaged the tall man. Crowbar arcing high, he chopped down at her. She ducked, then sprung up, and drove the heel of her palm into his nose. Hot tears filled the man’s eyes, and he made a whistling noise. Quick to press her advantage, Louisa hit him again, just as her brother had taught her—leaning into it with all of her weight. Reeling, the tall man crashed into a table and knocked over a slew of green bottles. Dark on the bright tiles, they exploded in a spray of shattered glass. He reached for something in his waistband—a silver revolver. Drawing her own weapon, Louisa clutched the barrel like a hammer and bludgeoned the man’s head. Blood mixed with wine, and the floor turned slick. Stupefied, the man took a few lumbering steps then lost his balance and dropped unconscious.

  Across the room, Svek was lashing wildly at Cato, his hammer wreaking havoc on the kitchen. Nimble and mean, Cato kept free of the barrage, countering from time to time with incisive punches. Still wearing his cold, calculating smile, he seemed to be enjoying himself, taking pleasure in the bedlam. Roaring, Svek tried to rush him, but Cato tucked in and flipped the man head-over-heels.

  The bartender, who had until this moment been cowering for cover, scooped up Svek’s hammer, and brought it down on Louisa’s hand. A flash of pain danced up her arm and the pistol dropped. She spun, kicking the bartender in the balls hard enough to lift him from the ground. Mewling, he fell back and grabbed a dark stain on his trousers. Nearby, Cato too had subdued his enemy. However, instead of backing down as Louisa had, he now straddled the poor Frenchman, landing punch after punch. Retrieving her gun from a pool of wine and blood, Louisa shoved it in her waistband, and rushed over to pull him off.

  “Cato!” She yelled. “Stop—that’s enough!”

  Cato ignored her, pummeling Svek’s bloody face.

  “I said that’s enough!” Louisa shouted. “We need him able to speak you stupid bastardo!”

  Chest heaving, skin hot to the touch, Cato relented and stumbled back.

  “Yeah,” he breathed. “Right—you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Crouching beside the beaten Frenchman, Louisa checked his injuries.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” She said. “You’re lucky you didn’t kill him!”

  Cato closed his eyes and exhaled shakily.

  “I know, I’m sorry. Instincts took over—training.”

  Louisa shook her head in exasperation and stood.

  “Well you’d better get your instincts under control,” she said. “Now pick him up—he’s still conscious. We’re doing things my way again.”

  …

  Cato nodded and went to the Frenchman. Tasting the lingering bite of adrenaline in the back of his throat, he did his best to be gentle as he pulled the man up and lead him to a table in the center of the room.

  Almost swollen shut, Svek’s eyes darted fearfully from Cato to Louisa, then back again.

  “Don’t kill me,” he said through puffy lips. “Please.”

  “Shut up,” warned Cato.

  He put the man on a stool and held him by the collar. Seating herself across from them, Louisa pursed her lips.

  “Listen,” she said. “We never wanted any of this. We only wanted information. Your man pulled a knife on me, and my friend…reacted.”

  Swaying, the Frenchman spat out a mouthful of blood and wilted as if he might faint.

  “Hey,” barked Cato, shaking him. “Wake up.”

  Svek blinked several times and wiped his mouth.

  “I already told you people everything I know,” he murmured. “You promised it was over. You promised to leave me alone.”

  Cato and Louisa exchanged glances.

  “What are you talking about?” She said. “Who promised to leave you alone?”

  “That woman—that fucking nightmare. Look what she did to me.”

  Reaching up, the Frenchman pulled the bandage from his head. Raw and puckered, a crescent moon shaped gash marked the spot where his ear should have been.

  “She tortured me,” he began to cry. “She tore off my ear with her bare hands, and—and ate it in front of me.”

  Cato’s eyes widened.

  “Artemis,” whispered Louisa, reading his expression. “It has to be. She beat us here.”

  “When was this?” Demanded Cato. “When did the woman torture you?”

  “The day after,” mumbled the Frenchman.

  “The day after what?”

  “The day after we sold weapons to la fille blonde—eh, the blond girl.”

  Again, Cato and Louisa exchanged glances. Taking the photo of Leta from her pocket, Louisa slid it across the table.

  “Is this the girl?” She asked. “Is this who you sold guns to?”

  Svek’s teary eyes focused on the photo.

  “Oui,” he nodded. “That’s her.”

  “And the woman who tortured you,” continued Louisa. “What exactly did she want to know?”

  The Frenchman blinked heavily and sagged on his stool.

  “She wanted to know where she could find la fille blonde,” he spoke. “So I told her.”

  XXX

  Across the Tiber and up the Esquiline Hill, the Man from Rome dined at a rooftop restaurant. Sitting beneath the shade of a wide umbrella, he sipped his Aperol Spritz, and gazed out at the soaring, checker-box arches of Il Colosseo. All around him, other diners enjoyed similar cocktails, set alongside plates of pasta cacio e pepe, saffron risotto, veal scaloppini, and gnocchi alla Romana.

  Draining his tumbler, the Man looked to a pretty young waitress and blinked. Trancelike, she came over at once. Holding out the empty glass, he tapped the side with a single finger, and sent the girl away for another. As she moved toward the bar, the unfiltered sunlight caught her honey colored hair, creating a mirage of mistaken identity.

  For the second time that morning, the Man heard Louisa’s Anastasi’s cries of ecstasy, reverberating in his memory. A thought occurred to him, something hitherto unacknowledged. Had it not been for Artemis and her bloody rampage, the Man might never have crossed paths with Louisa. Truly, there was opportunity in every disaster.

  The waitress returned, bringing both a fresh drink and the Man’s lunch—a whole roasted chicken. Placing both before him on the table, she curtsied, struggled to find his face, gave up, and left. Wholly ignoring her, the Man bent to inhale the dish’s full bouquet—perfectly roasted chicken, Tuscan olive oil, black pepper, Tyrrhenian sea salt, garlic, rosemary, thyme. He smiled, always appreciative of the sensuous interplay between simple ingredients and careful preparation. Plunging his knife between the thighbone and the ilium, he released a whiff of steam.

  With a bang, something slammed into the next table, and a woman screamed in alarm. Annoyed, the Man looked up to see what the commotion was about, but before he could, another bang and another after that rang out from nearby tables. He felt a shift in the atmosphere, and the sky began to darken. Flittering shadows played across the rooftop.

  Quick to his feet, the Man rose as a yellow blur tore through the umbrella overhead. His tumbler blew apart, spilling Aperol and Prosecco all over the table. Downy feathers hung in
the aftermath, settling upon the spreading pool like fall leaves. The Man clenched his fists and smiled. Finches, it was raining finches. It seemed that Artemis had regained her strength, and was having a bit of fun.

  Terrified, the other diners ran for the stairs, toppling chairs, and tables as they went. Joining their frantic cries of distress, the chatter of flapping wings descended over everything. Falling in waves, the little birds exploded on impact, dashing their bodies across the rooftop in a blind rush.

  Coming out from beneath his umbrella, the Man stared up into a cyclone of suicidal birds. Unprotected, he held his ground as they swirled around him, killing themselves at his feet. Shooting out a hand, he snatched one from the air and gripped its squirming body. As casually as if it were his ruined lunch, he put the bird in his mouth and chewed.

  Let Artemis have her fun. Now that Cato and Louisa were on the case, the Man was confident he would soon have his.

  XXXI

  Cato and Louisa arrived at the address Svek had provided them just as the sun entered its westward sloping arc. Snubbing out his final cigarette, Cato sighed and flicked the butt into the street. The building was an old Vatican dormitory, halfway through the process of being converted into a modern albergo, or inn. Faced with metal scaffolding, it offered cheap rooms during the renovations and bore only a hand-painted sign for advertisement.

  Immediately, Cato understood why Leta had picked this place. Buried deep among the winding back streets of an obscure neighborhood, it seemed like the perfect hideout for someone like her. Then again, she’d ended up brutally tortured and killed, so maybe it wasn’t that perfect after all.

  The lobby was cool and the air smelled of paint and drying plaster. Large in scale, nearly daunting, it wrapped around a central staircase, at the foot of which Corinthian columns spread out in a radial pattern. Covering the floor at furrowed intervals, painter’s cloths protected the intricate tile-work. Draped over statues and dry fountains, sheets raised up like childhood ghosts. Echoing down from the upper levels, the sounds of construction workers could be heard, hammering, sawing, and laughing.

  Giving himself a moment to take all of this in, Cato scanned the length of the empty lobby. To his left, a concierge station of slatted, dark wood stood empty. He moved over to it and read a sign propped up for any would-be guests.

  ‘Went for cigarettes,’ it said in Italian. ‘Be back soon.’

  “Lucky bastard,” Cato muttered.

  He glanced around once more just to be sure they were alone, then jumped over the counter, and began searching the drawers and file cabinets behind.

  “Hey,” hissed Louisa, eyeing the street outside. “What are you up to back there?”

  Cato tried a long drawer with brass handles and found it locked. Kneeling, he took out his picks and worked them in the keyhole. The drawer clicked open, revealing a pile of receipts and a large, tan notebook.

  “Here,” he announced, removing the book. “The ledger.”

  Louisa came away from the door.

  “Room 306,” she said. “Svek said they brought the weapons to 306.”

  Cato nodded and slid his finger down the last page.

  “Found it.”

  He tapped the name beside 306 and grinned.

  “Jane Smith,” he said. “Paid through the end of the month. That has to be her.”

  Spotting something else, he leaned and squinted at a hand-written message beside the signature.

  “What does that say?” He asked, turning the book for Louisa. “I can’t make out the handwriting. I speak Italian better than I read it.”

  “It says—no maid service. No cleaning.”

  Looking up, Cato met Louisa’s gaze.

  “So no one has been in there since she checked in,” he said, jumping back over the counter. “That’s good! Come on.”

  “Wait!” Louisa called after him. “Shouldn’t we inform your Benefactor of this?”

  “No,” Cato waved. “Not until we have something concrete.”

  “What about the key then? Won’t we need the key to get in?”

  “I am the key,” Cato announced.

  …

  Taking the stairs two at a time, Cato bounded ahead of Louisa. Slower and more warily, she followed at a short distance. Svek had admitted to telling Artemis about the hotel; she could be there right now, waiting for them in Leta’s room. If so, Louisa hoped Cato really was as good a shot as he claimed.

  Another text came through, buzzing loudly in Louisa’s shoulder bag. She started at the sound, and paused on the second-floor landing.

  “What’s up?” Asked Cato, waiting for her.

  Down the hallway to their right, carpenters and painters moved between open rooms. Screeching loudly, buzz saws cut the hazy air, and the sounds of hammering nails spiked above busy voices.

  Louisa unlocked the screen and repressed a groan. The message was from Giorgio.

  “Come on,” said Cato impatiently. “We’re almost there.”

  Ignoring him, Louisa read the message anyway.

  ‘Little Rabbit. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, be safe. Because I love you.’

  Louisa faltered and put a hand to her mouth. She reread the words, unable to make sense of them. And yet, they made perfect sense. Why wouldn’t they?

  From the stairs, Cato’s expression softened.

  “Is—everything okay?” He asked.

  Looking up, Louisa tried smile, but failed. Giorgio was in love with her. She put her phone away and resumed climbing.

  “Did you leave anyone back home when you came here?” She asked.

  Seemingly thrown by the question, Cato recovered quickly.

  “Not really. I mean—I don’t have a girlfriend or whatever…”

  “What about just friends?” Said Louisa.

  Cato hesitated.

  “I don’t have any friends,” he admitted. “It goes with the territory. How about you? Are you a lone wolf like me too?”

  “Not entirely,” Louisa replied. “I have my uncle, and I have someone I care about very dearly, but I’m not sure there’s a place for them in my life any more.”

  She glanced around.

  “I mean—everything is different now.”

  Chuckling, Cato nodded.

  “I hear you. The Benefactor has a way of taking over your entire world until your life isn’t your life anymore. Trust me, I know.”

  Louisa brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

  “But,” she began. “Isn’t it worth it in the end—what we’re sacrificing, that is? Do you even want a normal life, Cato? Do I? I’ve never met anyone like the Man before—never felt such power and purpose. Maybe this world is where we belong. Maybe we’re meant to be here.”

  Reaching the third floor landing, Cato halted and gave her a dark look.

  “What?” She asked.

  “Be careful,” he said after a beat.

  “Be careful? What do you mean?”

  Cato glanced away.

  “It’s just that, well—you don’t know anything about the Benefactor, do you? Not really? And yet here you are, doing his bidding, talking about leaving your old life behind to—to what, to be with him?”

  Prickled by this, Louisa began to defend herself, but stopped. Cato was right. She didn’t know the Man, not in any meaningful way. All she had were her feelings, and they were far too strong to be trusted.

  “What happened to Leta—” resumed Cato. “What happened to those people in the restaurant last night; that was his fault, Louisa. All of this is his fault.”

  “But they started it,” she countered, unable to help herself. “Artemis and Apollo. They came after him.”

  “Maybe,” said Cato. “Or maybe that’s just the part of the story we saw. You can’t trust him on this stuff—not really. Look at me Louisa—look at my life. Lies upon lies, you get it? That’s how he operates.”

  Louisa frowned and touched her blue silk scarf.

  “Look,” Cato went o
n, easing off some. “I know you have other things you’re pursuing here. Ferro—your brother, right? I’m sure the Benefactor can help you figure out who killed him—I’m sure he knows something. Just don’t loose sight of that. Don’t let him confuse you. He gets in your head, Louisa—gets under your skin. He’s dangerous.”

  At the invocation or her brother, Louisa folded her arms.

  “And what about you Cato Fin?” She said. “Just this morning you were swearing up and down that you weren’t a monster like your Benefactor. And yet, had I not stopped you, you might have killed Svek—maybe all three of them, I don’t know.”

  Cato flinched and dropped his gaze.

  “Whatever I am,” he spoke quietly. “They made me that way—the Man and Corallina. I didn’t have a choice. You do.”

  He turned and sulked off down the hallway to their right. Watching him go, Louisa sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Cato had hit upon the truth—an annoying reality. Nevertheless, Louisa had come too far to give up now. Perhaps there could be room in her new life for Giorgio, Niccolò, and the Man, yet as long as Artemis posed a threat to Rome, she would never know. Moving from the landing, she followed after Cato.

  Unlike the lower levels, there were no signs of new construction, or workmen anywhere on the third floor. Pealing and faded, the walls were in need of paint, and the floors in need of new carpeting. At room 306 Cato stopped and tried the knob. It was locked. Producing a set of lock-picks, he knelt before the door.

  “You’re the key, eh?” Louisa chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “Now I get it.”

  “One of the many skills Corallina fed me,” answered Cato.

  He inserted his tools into the keyhole and began twisting.

  “Better than mothers milk.”

  …

  As he worked his picks up and down, Cato stared silently at the lock. Reflected in skewed shades of gold, his face was set and sullen. Moving the tension rod, he was met with resistance. Cursing under his breath, he tried again. Though the pins inside the lock were springy enough, something was catching the bolt so that it refused to retract. He kept at it, searching for that special motion that would send everything tumbling into place.