The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  "Did he know that?"

  "Goodness no," Thomas said. "He would never have volunteered."

  "I can’t say that I am disappointed…but still."

  "Gotta break some eggs…" Thomas nodded his head toward the room. "He'll want to meet you."

  A chill ran down his spine, and Marcus could only nod in response. He followed Thomas out of the room and into the medical suite, Lazarus close behind.

  The blanket had fallen to the ground, revealing a man wearing black pants and a white cotton shirt. As Marcus came to his side, he saw the clone's empty features and his eyes, dark as pitch, staring blankly at the ceiling. But everything else about him was eerily familiar—too familiar. After a few seconds, Marcus turned away.

  "Technology is an amazing thing." Thomas stood next to him, staring back at the body.

  "Don't do it." Marcus fixed his gaze on his onetime friend. "Don't—"

  "It's beyond my control," Thomas cut him off.

  "When?"

  "Midnight."

  Marcus looked at his watch; it was less than a minute away. He shifted his attention to the clones' hands, and the fingers twitched. A few moments later, the figure sat up, then stood.

  As Marcus looked up, his eyes settled on the risen savior. No, not that blue-eyed, blonde-haired savior who Europeans had been painting for a thousand years. This was the true savior. In the flesh.

  He was devastatingly beautiful. Not sexually, though perhaps some might think so. He was like a late summer desert sunset or a set of ocean waves crashing against a shoreline; perfect. Though Marcus could not quite pinpoint what made him so striking, taken as a whole, the man was exquisite in every way. That said, there was nothing particularly unusual about him. He was tall for his race, maybe 5'8", with broad but slender shoulders and a narrow waist. His dark skin was smooth and without blemish. A long, broad nose sat between a pair of high cheekbones. His jawline was strong yet subtle. His lips were full but precise. And his white teeth were perfect when he smiled. And then there were his eyes…But were they his? These eyes were dark, complex, callous. It was like Marcus was staring into the abyss, an abyss that consumed all light and hope. The sense of impending disaster was overwhelming, and within seconds, Marcus's soul felt cold and drained.

  "Hello Marcus, I didn't expect you here." He glanced at Thomas, who shrugged in response. "I'm glad we have the gang all together. I'm sure Isabella is close by."

  "She left the city," Marcus replied, having recovered from his initial shock.

  "Sure she did." He grinned. "So, I imagine you came to stop all this?"

  "No," Marcus looked from Thomas to Him, "it was too late for that."

  "Apparently. Then why did you come? Have you decided to join us?"

  "Not interested," Marcus said.

  "Then why are you here?" He asked.

  "Call me curious."

  "Curiosity can get you killed."

  "Wouldn't be the first time."

  He held out his hand to Lazarus. "Give me your gun?"

  Frowning, Lazarus looked to Thomas.

  "Why are you looking at him?" He snapped. "Give it to me."

  Lazarus pulled the gun from the holster in his jacket and handed it to Him. Marcus watched closely, mentally deciding which of the three men he would incapacitate first. It would have to be the clone since he now had the gun, but Thomas would be second.

  He took the weapon and pulled back the slide, confirming there was a round in the chamber. He released the slide and flipped the gun around, handle facing Marcus.

  "Let's get this over with."

  Marcus looked at Him, then at Thomas. The latter had a puzzled look on his face. Marcus reached forward and took the handgun. It felt heavier in his hand than expected. He raised it and pointed at Him, his finger hovering over the trigger.

  "Go on, it's not like you haven't done this before," He sneered.

  The weapon trembled ever so slightly, then Marcus set his jaw and pulled the trigger. The round hit His forehead, right between the eyes. There should have been a tiny hole and a massive blood splatter on the nearby wall from the exit wound, but there was not. There was no wound. His head snapped back a few inches, then the bullet dropped to the floor, bouncing a few feet away.

  "I wasn't sure how this was going to work." He chuckled. "I thought it would hurt; I'd start bleeding all over the place, then I'd recover. I rather prefer this."

  With Thomas and Lazarus just as surprised, Marcus realized this was his best chance to escape. He swung his weapon around.

  "Sorry."

  Marcus pulled the trigger, the gun aimed at Thomas's head. As Thomas fell to the ground, Marcus spun around and fired at Lazarus, one round missing his head, the second catching his shoulder. Before Lazarus hit the ground, Marcus was already bolting to the door.

  He called after him, "I'm not done with you Marcus!"

  Marcus reached the door, pulling it open as He yelled after him, "I want him alive!"

  There were a dozen men in the hallway, all of them holding batons or stun rods. Luckily, the room was at the end of the hallway, so none were behind him. He knew Lazarus would be close behind, so he had to move fast. Most concerned by the rods, he concentrated his initial fire on the two closest men holding them. He used two rounds apiece to take them out. He focused the rest of his fire down the hallway. Several of the men were down by the time he ran out of bullets. He dropped the pistol and quickly bent over to pick up one of the stun rods.

  It was tight quarters, but his speed and the ability to take punishment proved invaluable allies. He sprinted forward and quickly dodged the first blow from the closest guard. He then came up hard with an uppercut. But the maneuver slowed him down and left him open to attack. The next guy caught him in the rib cage with a baton. He felt a rib crack, but that also meant the man was closer than he should be.

  Marcus smashed his elbow into the attacker, then followed with a vicious blow to his head with the baton. He could hear the man's skull crack as he moved on to the next two. They hesitated. Already, half their team was incapacitated, and Marcus had been in the hallway for less than ten seconds.

  He took advantage of their trepidation and sprung forward. Marcus blocked one attack with his baton and drove his foot into the man's chest. The man stumbled back, knocking down the other assailant. Marcus could not avoid the thrust of the other attacker, whose stun rod hit his side. Marcus's torso felt like it was on fire as the electricity exploded through him. He fell to his knees but lashed out with his fist, catching the man in the groin. The man dropped his weapon, clutching his crotch.

  Marcus climbed to his feet, still fighting the lingering effects of being electrocuted. One man stood blocking the exit. The guard was holding a baton, but he dropped it and pulled a gun from his jacket.

  Marcus grinned and thought, Good, now I'll have a gun.

  The man fired off one round that tore through the soft flesh of Marcus' shoulder. Two seconds later, the man was lying unconscious on the floor, and Marcus pulled open the exit door, gun in hand.

  Marcus fully expected another team inside the staircase, but there was none. He could hear yelling from the levels below and was sure that indicated additional strike teams. He had no plans to go down. Sprinting up the steps, he ignored the sharp pains that jabbed through his side each time he took a breath.

  "He's going up!" The familiar voice filled the stairwell.

  Lazarus was back in the game. Two levels up, he reached the end of the staircase and burst through the door, finding himself on the roof of the building. The city lights filled his view in every direction. The Vatican, lit up like a Christmas tree, dominated the skyline in the near distance. Above him, the bronze statue of Saint Michael stood upon a square pedestal, behind it a metal pole with several wires hung from it. But those were not the wires Marcus was looking for.

  "I'm on the roof." The message would go out in about ten seconds.

  Marcus examined the pedestal facing the River Tiber, hoping G
ustav had delivered as promised. At first he didn't see it, then he noticed a metal hook caught around the arm of the statue. Unbuckling his belt, he pulled it out and followed the wire toward the fortress walls. It extended over the wall, above the plaza, before cutting across the St. Angelo Bridge and disappearing over the Tiber river. Marcus assumed it was anchored somewhere on the far side. As he approached the edge of the roof, the door he had exited burst open. Marcus fired several shots in that direction and then dropped the gun.

  Standing on the wall, the wire hung a few feet above his head. He wrapped the belt twice in his hand and flipped the buckle over the wire. Grabbing just above the clasp, he stepped off the wall and zipped towards the river.

  He heard yelling behind him, then gunshots. He was zipping along at some speed now, so he hoped it would be difficult for them to see or hit him. But the sheer number of bullets they fired made up for their precision. One round caught his calf. He heard several more buzz past his head.

  Marcus looked up, hoping the belt would not melt from the friction. He had reached the river, but the wire's trajectory had taken him over the St. Angelo bridge. He was fifteen feet above it when the belt snapped.

  "Oh shit," he said as he plummeted.

  It looked like he might miss the bridge, his feet just skimming past its walls. But his upper body was not so lucky. His left arm and shoulder crashed into the unforgiving stone, immediately shattering his clavicle and scapula. His head grazed the railing, and he was knocked unconscious. Seconds later, his body splashed into the water.

  EPILOGUE

  Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat.

  — F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Modern Day

  Naples, Italy

  Around midnight, Gustaf drove them to the docks, stopping near a chain-link fence.

  "Good luck," Gustaf shifted the car into park.

  "Thanks, we'll need it. Stay low, and I'll be in touch," Isabella said.

  The three of them slipped into the cool evening air, and the car pulled away.

  "Is he going to be okay?" asked Sam.

  "Yeah, he's not on Thomas' radar. He can move around easier." There was a sadness in her eyes. "He wants to see if anyone from his team survived."

  "Got it." Sam turned back toward the dock. "Whoa."

  Marcus chuckled when he spied the old steamer.

  "You were expecting a cruise ship?" Isabella inquired pointedly.

  "No," he replied with a smile, "but something built after World War II would've been nice."

  "Considering all that is going on, I'd think you'd be a bit more appreciative." She glared at Marcus. "Maybe I should have left you in the river. Perhaps, you could have floated out of town."

  Marcus winked and moved to open the door, grimacing as he shifted his weight.

  Isabella looked at Sam in the rear-view mirror. "And don't say anything to the captain. He is very sensitive."

  "Maybe he should try a fresh coat of paint," Sam said.

  Perhaps the steamer had been painted, but the flaking white remnants of the endeavor were all but gone. It was hard to say precisely how old the tramp freighter was, and even harder to know what various names this derelict vessel had sailed under. Currently christened the Alexandroupolis, she boasted a Greek flag, to nobody's surprise.

  The captain, a short, stocky fellow with greasy hair and shiny olive skin, waited for them on the dock. He stood with both hands buried in his dirty blue overalls while chewing the remains of a cheap cigar, the little brown nub rolling back and forth across his chapped lips. A pair of plump cheeks threatened to blot out his fidgety eyes. He paid particular attention to Marcus, who limped as he struggled to stay up with the others.

  "Madame." He nodded to Isabella.

  "Captain." Her eyebrows creased when she noticed a smaller tanker alongside the freighter. "Are we not ready to leave?"

  He followed her gaze but quickly shrugged off her question. "There was an issue refueling, but that's fixed. We're almost ready." The captain recognized the suspicious eye Marcus was casting upon the freighter. "She does not look like much, but she has two brand-new turbines and a well-seasoned crew. I've navigated more water than a horny dolphin, and not once have I lost a ship or cargo." He paused, a twinkle flashing in his dark-brown eyes. "Well, not one that I didn't mean to lose."

  "That's very comforting," Marcus said.

  Ignoring his sarcasm, the captain jabbed a stubby finger toward their vehicle. "What's the cargo?"

  "Us." Isabella met his gaze.

  He paused for a moment, looking at the sling Marcus had on his left arm. A silent war waged between caution and greed. As in most cases, greed prevailed, and he flicked a thumb toward the nearby metal gangway.

  "At least human cargo loads itself. Though that one," he pointed at Marcus, "looks like he needs a wheelchair."

  "I'll be fine," Marcus assured him.

  Grunting, the captain walked away.

  Taking their cue from Marcus, Sam and Isabella waited patiently for him to proceed. After prying his gaze away from the vessel, Marcus turned to Isabella. "You trust him?"

  "Yes."

  He waited for her to elaborate, but she was not so inclined.

  "All right. I've ridden on worse old crates—although the last one sunk a hundred miles out of port."

  "Wonderful." Sam fell in behind him, shaking her head. "I'm sleeping in a life-jacket."

  Marcus watched as the city disappeared into the dark horizon, leaving him alone on the ancient sea. The twin propellers of the old freighter tore through the murky water, generating a bright frothy wake that the undulating swells meticulously erased. The moon had deserted its majestic throne in favor of a more secluded haven behind a set of puffy gray clouds.

  "You okay?"

  "I feel like I fell off a ten-story building," he mused, "and got shot a couple of times on the way down."

  "What a surprise."

  Marcus looked up to find Isabella standing beside him, the cool breeze whipping at her hair. She wore a black turtleneck sweater that accentuated the fullness of her breasts and her slender waistline. His gaze met hers, and he quickly realized how much he had missed her.

  "Well, at least I had a plan," he quipped.

  "Part of a plan."

  He tried to smile, but it faded before it could set. She studied the troubled lines that had creased his chiseled features.

  "Marcus, what happened to Cormac was not your fault. And neither was what happened this morning."

  "Really?" He met her gaze. "Whose fault was it?"

  "Cormac knew exactly what he was doing. We all do."

  "His death was meaningless." He looked back toward the sea.

  "You know better than that." She lifted one hand to his chin and turned his eyes to hers. "Don't ruin the sacrifice he made with your self-pity."

  "I'm just tired. Tired of it all. I just want it over."

  The words hung between them, finally fading with her soft reply.

  "Marcus, it's not your place to choose when and where this journey ends."

  "So, what do we do now?"

  "We fight on until none of us remain."

  "That's the problem…I always remain."

  He looked over to see her studying him in the moonlight.

  "You should get some sleep."

  "I will." He turned back toward the horizon.

  "There's plenty of room in my cabin."

  His heart skipped a beat as her hand slipped over his. He did not respond. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the rippling surface of the water.

  "I once thought I couldn't compete with her, but I'm willing to try."

  "I know." He gazed into her sparkling green eyes. He felt a yearning to lean over and kiss her, to take her into his arms, and never to let her go. He remembered the years of loneliness and solitude and realized that it could all go away with just one kiss. But the emptiness in his soul prevented him from reaching for her. He was scared that he might pull her into t
hat emptiness and that it would consume them both. His mouth went dry.

  "I want to…"

  She forced a smile, her frustration poorly masked.

  "Our timing is always off." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, her lips hot and tender on his cool skin. Stepping back, she met his gaze. "Goodnight, Marcus. When you're tired of sharing your bed with demons, you know where to find me."

  She disappeared into the night, just like the wake of their ship.

  Thomas lay in the hospital bed, picking at the bandage around his head when He walked in. He had changed into a dark suit, and someone had cut his hair.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "Fine." Thomas tugged at the bandage again. "I don't need this."

  "Two more inches to the right and I'd have been waiting three days to have this conversation."

  "Yeah. I'm just fast enough not to get killed."

  "I'm glad you brought him. It was worth the opportunity to bottle him up and have him out of our hair." He sat down in a chair by the window. "And now he knows I'm invulnerable."

  "I think he got the message." Thomas shifted in the bed. "You want me to go after him?"

  "No, send Lazarus. He won't catch him, but he's just competent enough to keep Marcus on the run. And out of our way."

  "So we can do what?"

  He pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  "You're going to smoke in a hospital?"

  "Yeah, why not?"

  "Because it will set off a bunch of alarms, and we don't need that attention."

  "Shit," He put the pack away and shifted in his chair. "Have you heard of the Seal of Solomon?"

  "It's a fairy tale, made up in the 17th century."

  "Most fairy tales have some kernel of truth," He replied philosophically. "The seal exists, or at least it did. It's broken into pieces and scattered across the globe. We are going to find those pieces."

  "Why?"

  "The seal can open the gates of hell and take control of what lies within."

  "Demons…?"

  "Yes."

  "How many?"

  "Millions, I suppose, I never really counted." A subtle grin graced his lips.