The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

Thomas stared at her but did not reply.

  "I'll be at the boat," she said.

  An awkward silence settled around them, a silence that Marcus finally broke.

  "You know it's very noble of you to care so much. But I don't think it's about saving the world or freeing man from God's domination. I think it's about you and your inability to deal with what happened. I've heard this all before…a long time ago."

  "What?"

  "Soon after my wife died." Marcus took a deep breath. "A man came to me. There was something strange about him, something that didn't sit right. He knew everything about my family and me. You sound eerily similar to him. He asked me how a loving God could let such horrible things happen. And he made promises." Marcus shrugged his shoulders. "But I'm not sure he understood who I was, what being a Roman meant. My Gods were vindictive, greedy, hateful…that's all I knew. His story rang hollow, as did his promises."

  "You never told me."

  "Why would I? I said no."

  "And I said yes."

  "I'm just more stubborn," Marcus said.

  "I'm probably going to regret that someday."

  "I think you already do."

  Thomas allowed himself a slight grin. "Perhaps."

  "We could all leave tonight," Marcus offered. "Go far away from this place."

  A long pause provided a measure of hope, but it disappeared with a single word.

  "No."

  "I had to ask."

  "You did." Thomas's face clouded with emotion. "I've been told to kill you…but I cannot. However, I'm warning you—leave the city."

  "We can't do that."

  "Then you both will die." He took a deep breath. "We've chosen different paths, but it would be foolish to think they'll never cross again."

  "Yes, it would be." Marcus met his gaze, emotions welling inside.

  "And the next time we meet," the affection faded from his eyes, "there shall be no peace between us."

  "I know." He extended his hand. "Goodbye, Thomas."

  "Goodbye, Marcus." He returned his grasp and forced a smile.

  Marcus walked away, leaving behind his best friend and any dreams they had ever shared.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.

  — Albert Camus

  Modern Day

  Germany

  "Marcus?"

  He opened his eyes to see narrow beams of moonlight seeping through the dark wooden ceiling. The musty odor of wet straw filled the stagnant air and had settled around him like a damp cocoon. He tried to sit up.

  "Hold on, let me help you."

  "I'm thirsty."

  She pulled a water bottle from her backpack, twisted off the top, and handed it to him. He gulped it down, nearly emptying the bottle.

  He wiped his mouth with his hand. "Where are we?"

  "A small farm, next to the rail line. We got lucky. It was right next to where you got thrown from the train."

  "I wasn't thrown. I was shot…I mean, technically, I shot myself…twice. Then I crawled off the train."

  "Anyway, when I saw you weren't right behind me, I started walking along the tracks. You were a fucking mess. I think this was one of those times where you almost died. Were you trying to kill yourself?"

  "No, I wasn't."

  "Okay, because it looked like you were. Then why did you shoot yourself?"

  "It's a long story."

  "Anyway, I half carried, half dragged your ass to this barn. I can't tell if the owners are away or sleeping." Sam flicked her thumb over her shoulder. "There's an old car parked in the driveway."

  "That's a start. What time is it?"

  She looked at her watch. "Just after 4 AM."

  "All right, we need to get moving. That was quite a mess on the train, and either the authorities will look for us, or Thomas will cover it up and his team will hunt us down. We should assume that Thomas will activate his entire network. He's never done that before, but it looks like we've poked the hornet's nest. There's virtually no limit to the resources and access he has at his disposal, so we must stay off the grid as much as possible. Cash only. Landlines or burners."

  "Sounds good to me, some real old school shit."

  Marcus nodded toward the door. "Can you check the car, see if it's locked?"

  As she exited the barn, Marcus pulled out his burner cell phone, and he sent a quick text.

  Off the train, forget Milan. Meet in Florence in AM. Send me hotel info. Find a doctor.

  10-4. You or Sam?

  Me.

  Good.

  Marcus stuffed the phone into his pocket and lifted himself from the ground, grunting as a sharp pain shot down his hip. As he limped to the door, Sam reentered the barn. She rushed over to help him, placing his arm over her shoulder and her arm around his back.

  "It's unlocked. But no keys."

  "Damn." He took another tepid step. "Hot wiring is a fucking pain in the ass."

  "Just kidding!" She held up a set of keys with her free hand. "They were in the visor. Very trusting farmers."

  "Too trusting."

  They moved out into the cool, crisp night. Crossing the small courtyard, Sam leaned Marcus against the side of the car. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wad of money, scowling when he saw the dried blood staining the Euros. He counted out what he deemed a fair market value for the car, adding a few extra bills for good measure, then handed them to her.

  "Find a rock or something and put these under it."

  She frowned back at him.

  "It might keep them from reporting it stolen." He shoved the bills toward her. "And it's good karma."

  She shrugged and took the cash. Marcus walked to the passenger side and was just settling in when she returned. She closed the driver's door and turned on the car.

  "I hope they are not light sleepers."

  "We'll be gone before they get outside."

  They were soon pulling out of the drive and onto a narrow country road. When they were a mile or so from the house, Sam flipped on the headlights. Marcus switched on the radio, turned the dial, and settled on a national news station broadcast in Italian. Thirty minutes later, they were merging onto the main expressway.

  Just after dawn, they stopped for food and coffee. By noon, they were going through the outskirts of Florence. They parked the car in a long-term storage facility and caught a taxi to a small, independent hotel. Sam grabbed the bags, and they went inside. She walked up to the desk, but Marcus motioned for her to follow him. She did, a confused look on her face.

  He got into the elevator and pushed a button for the third floor.

  "Did you book something already? I thought we were staying off the grid."

  "We are."

  They exited the elevator, walked to the end of the hallway, and Marcus knocked on a door. After a few minutes, it opened to reveal a familiar face.

  "Uncle Cormac!" Sam sprung forward, hugging him.

  "Sam!" He kissed her cheek, then shifted his attention to Marcus. "How bad is it?"

  Before Marcus could reply, Sam said, "Shot twice, one bullet still in his leg."

  "Hip." Marcus raised his hand.

  "Yeah, whatever."

  "Okay, come on in. I've made some calls. We can get it fixed after we eat. I'm starvin'."

  Thirty minutes later, they were eating room service.

  "What's the plan after we get that slug out of you?" Cormac asked.

  "The Vatican." Marcus wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  "Official visit?" Cormac had stopped eating and had both hands intertwined, his elbows on the table as he studied Marcus.

  "No."

  "Good, it wouldn't be a very warm welcome."

  "Why is that?"

  "Over the last 24 hours, everything has gone silent. I've lost access to the Vatican network. And I'm sure you already know the accounts are frozen."

  "Yeah."

  "Ramirez," Cormac stated.

  "That's what
I'm gonna find out," Marcus replied.

  "Do you know how we'll get in?" Sam looked from Marcus to her uncle.

  "There's no we. Marcus is doing this alone." Cormac looked over at Marcus. "Right?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?" Sam asked.

  There was a long silence that Cormac finally broke.

  "Marcus has a long history with the church. This is none of our business."

  Sam was about to protest, but the look on her uncle's face made it clear it would make no difference. She shook her head and left the room.

  "That was harsh."

  "She doesn't get involved with the church. We talked about that."

  "Understood." Marcus took a sip from his water and changed the subject. "Did everything go okay in Milan?"

  "Yeah, picked up the car and just about everything else you asked for."

  "Just about?"

  "I couldn't find Oban, at least not the good stuff. You're stuck with Laphroaig."

  "I'll manage." A smile cracked his lips at the thought of half-decent scotch.

  "I'm sure you will. Now let's get that bullet out."

  Marcus lay back on the cold, stainless-steel table, squinting into the bright lights. Sam and Cormac were sitting on a nearby bench, their eyes averted. Marcus watched as the doctor examined his wound. The doctor was cautious with his questions, careful to avoid being told any information he would regret later. It was good practice, especially when dealing with gunshot wounds and cash.

  "How long ago did this happen?" He studied the wound, frowning as he poked and prodded.

  "Four days ago," Marcus lied. "My friend has been keeping it clean."

  "I can see that. It has healed quickly—I'm amazed you didn't get an infection from the bullet." He tilted his head. "I'll have to reopen it to get to the bullet. I can put you to sleep with gas or an IV."

  "Nah, I'll stay awake."

  "Then I need to give you a local."

  "Fine."

  The doctor shrugged and began to work. After numbing the area and cleaning the wound, he sliced along the pink scar tissue that had just formed. Once open, it took less than thirty seconds of probing for the doctor to locate the bullet. Marcus watched him work, gritting his teeth as the slug was extracted and dropped into a metal tray. The physician stitched up the wound, then covered it with a thick gauze pad.

  "You should avoid walking as much as possible." The doctor put a last piece of tape across the bandage.

  "I will."

  Marcus eased his legs over the side of the table, wincing as he pulled up his trousers. A few moments later, the doctor reappeared and handed Marcus two pill bottles.

  "Pain and sleep."

  "Thanks."

  Marcus slipped them into his coat pocket and nodded to Sam. She pulled out a stack of fresh Euros and handed them to the doctor. He nodded and stuffed the roll into the pocket of his smock before exiting the room. Marcus limped to the door, followed by Sam and Cormac.

  The morning drizzle showed no signs of abating as they moved through a narrow alley to a parked Mercedes. Sam opened the rear passenger door for Marcus, who carefully settled into the soft leather seat. She moved over to the driver's side while Cormac sat in the passenger seat. She turned the ignition and slipped the car into gear.

  The drive to Rome took about four hours. Marcus slept, with the aid of the pills, while Sam and Cormac took shifts driving. By late afternoon, they reached the outskirts of Rome, and Sam guided the car through the traffic that packed the crowded freeway. Pointing to an exit, Marcus directed her along the busy streets as they moved deeper into the ancient city. Marcus leaned forward and studied the buildings as they crawled down a narrow avenue, finally motioning for Sam to park in front of a tall hotel nestled between a church and a brick apartment house.

  "Wait here." Marcus slipped out of the door and into the hotel.

  Ten minutes later, Marcus emerged from the door holding a silver key ring. Sam rolled down the window as Marcus leaned in, resting his arms on the door.

  "I got us a suite—it's Room 504. We can unload the bags here, but you'll need to park in the underground garage at the end of the street." He handed Sam a metal disk. "Just show them this token when you go into the garage."

  "Will you be using the car later?" Sam dropped the token into the ashtray.

  "No, I'll take the bus. It's easier to blend in."

  Cormac hopped out of the car as she nodded and popped the trunk.

  Marcus grabbed their bags, but Cormac held out his hand.

  "I thought you didn't carry these things?"

  "That was before you dragged me back into this shit. I always carry my weight."

  Marcus smiled and handed him one of the smaller bags.

  The room was a standard, two-bedroom suite. After putting the bags away, Cormac made them both a drink from the minibar and settled onto the sofa.

  "How's the leg?"

  "Good. Stiffness is mostly gone."

  "So, how did she do?"

  "Good, she's smart." Marcus looked down into his glass. "Still, I almost killed her when I resurrected. It was pretty bad this time."

  "Any idea why?"

  "No, no clue. I'm more disoriented, and I take longer to remember. We must be getting closer."

  "Closer to what?"

  "That's just it. I don't know."

  "So what next?"

  "I'm gonna contact Isabella."

  Sam walked in and set her bag on the coffee table before she dropped onto the couch. "Who's Isabella?"

  "How did you get in so quietly?" Cormac asked.

  "I've been practicing." She looked from Cormac to Marcus. "Who's Isabella?"

  Marcus replied, "She's an immortal. Here in Rome."

  "Well, why haven't we asked her for help before?"

  "She kind of hates the church—" Marcus said.

  "And you," Cormac added.

  "She doesn't hate me…our relationship is complicated."

  "Your relationship with everyone is complicated," Sam noted. "If she isn't working with you or Thomas, what does she do?"

  "She helps people in need."

  "Bingo, that's us," Cormac said.

  Marcus shot him a glare and looked back at Sam. "She has a network here in Rome and connections all around the Med. I just need to see if she's willing to help."

  "Well," Sam leaned forward on the couch, "you better talk to her and fix that shit."

  "I will. First, I'm going to take a shower."

  Marcus got up and wandered into the bedroom. Turning on the shower, he undressed and waited for the water to heat up. He tossed his dirty clothes into a pile in the corner and leaned on the pedestal sink in the tiny bathroom, studying his features in the mirror. Nothing had changed, save for the dark bags under his weary eyes. He peeled off the bandage taped to his hip, examining the wound beneath. The suture was healed entirely now, only his light pink skin revealing the once gaping hole's location. He moved toward the shower, pulled back the curtain, and stepped under the cascading stream of hot water.

  Thirty minutes later, he emerged from the bedroom dressed in black pants, a black shirt, and a Roman Catholic priest's small white collar. He buttoned his cuffs as he walked across the room to the large duffel bag Cormac had brought from Milan. He found a double shoulder holster, and after slipping it on, he secured it to his belt. He dug into the bag, pulled out a pair of pistols, checked to see the magazines were full, and then slid them into the holsters. Then he grabbed a few extra clips and locked them into the pouches below the gun. Marcus donned a heavy black overcoat and shook his shoulders so that the coat hung flush. Satisfied, Marcus zipped up the bag and turned back toward Sam and Cormac.

  "Be careful. Rome is a big city, but they know we will be here eventually. Don't go out unless you have to—order in. If something goes wrong, remember that you guys are not the target. Do whatever they say and stay alive. I'll get you out."

  "That's very comforting—I'll think of that while they're pullin
g off my fingernails," Cormac responded.

  Marcus ignored him. "If I'm not back by midnight, call this number. Isabella will know what to do."

  "She's still talking to you?" Cormac asked.

  "Just call the number."

  Without waiting for confirmation, Marcus left. The clerk was gone when he passed through the lobby. When he stepped out into the street, he could feel the temperature change as the sun gave way to evening. Turning right at the first intersection, he passed an elderly couple walking their miniature dog. They returned his nod as he passed them. Within minutes, he had reached the much busier Via dei Fori Imperiali. To his left was the coliseum, or at least what remained. He crossed the street and stepped right toward the Piazza Venezia. As he made his way past a dozen replica statues, he moved to the edge of the sidewalk and leaned against the railing as he looked down into the excavated area below. The deepening shadows buried the forum, but he could just make out the scattered columns that had once lined the majestic entrance to the square. Over the centuries, the old city's bones were buried, and subsequent generations had built upon its ruins. Much like him, the city had endured, and in doing so, bore the scars of both triumph and disaster.

  Marcus pushed back from the railing and started down the sidewalk, eventually recognizing a sign that pointed to the local bus stop. He went around to the back of the stand and studied the map of the city. He traced the bus route he was interested in, checked the timetable, and looked at his watch.

  Satisfied, he searched until he found the source of the enticing aroma that floated on the gentle breeze and quickly made his way to the nearby street vendor. He waited in line, reading the menu while the hawker completed a transaction with an American couple. When the two had moved on, Marcus ordered a tramezzino and an espresso, then walked to a nearby bench to eat his sandwich. When he finished the last of his coffee, he headed to the ticket kiosk, where he bought a 24-hour pass.

  The bus arrived, packed with tourists and a sprinkling of locals. He climbed into the stairwell, tapped his card, and made his way to the back, where he stood holding onto the metal railing. They rolled down the street, joining the chaotic evening traffic. Stopping at nearly every corner, they made slow progress across the sprawling city. Finally, Marcus spied the familiar silhouette of the Vatican as the bus came to a jolting halt. As they exited the bus, most passengers moved to the right, securing a splendid view of the old towers radiant against the deepening night.