He lifted up the briefcase and tapped it with one finger.
“King Æetes instructs Jason to seed the freshly tilled field with Dragon teeth. Can you guess why?”
Smiling at the worried look on Hannity’s face, Bruno came toward him.
“I know you’ve been curious as to why I sent you halfway around the world for these relics, Mr. Hannity,” he said. “And since you won’t read the book, allow me to show you what the wise King Æetes had in store for Jason. Come, we’re going to the garden.”
…
On the veranda, the two men descended a classical marble staircase to a white-gravel footpath below. More than a little concerned, Hannity kept stealing looks at Bruno in the dark. These Dragon teeth, as the boss called them, had cost a small fortune to procure, nearly 2 million Euros for the lot. On top of that, it had taken Hannity nine weeks of hard travel just to track them down; the Cyclades in Greece, Tunisia, Algeria, Libya, Chad, the CAR, the DCR, the jungle. And now, after all that, it looked as if the boss intended merely to shove the fossils right back into the ground, effectively burying 2 million Euros worth of treasure in his own back yard.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Bruno.
“I’m—not thinking anything at all,” replied Hannity evenly.
Far enough from the mansion that its windows offered only enough light to see the path, Bruno smiled up at him.
“It’s all right if you don’t believe the myth,” he said. “But you will. I’ll show you.”
“Seeing is believing, I guess,” muttered Hannity.
Coming to a high, dark wall, the two men stopped. Set back in the thick stones, a wooden door marked the sole entrance to Bruno’s private garden. Hannity had waited outside of this door many times, yet he had never gone through it.
Inserting an iron key into the lock, Bruno gave it a sharp turn and swung the door open on squeaky hinges. Scattered about the luscious garden, statues stood guard—ghosts in the moonlight. Growing near a fountain in the center of the space, an olive tree shimmered with dangling strips of bent silver.
“After you,” smiled Bruno.
Hesitantly, Mr. Hannity stepped through the low entrance and into the garden. Lit only by the glow of the moon, reddish brown above the city lights, the space had a distinctly otherworldly air to it. In the shadows, a kind of conscious presence lurked, making Hannity’s skin crawl. Behind him, Bruno set down the briefcase and removed his tuxedo jacket. Rolling up his shirtsleeves, he gestured to the skeleton of a shovel, leaning against one of the marble pillars.
“Dig a short trench if you will, Mr. Hannity. Right over there is fine.”
Sinking the shovel into the fleshy soil with ease, Hannity carved away a few feet of sod.
“I know I’m not Jason or anything,” he said, unable to help himself. “But do you think that’ll do?”
Bruno cracked into a toothy grin and ushered Hannity over. Crouching before the briefcase, he popped the clasps and opened the lid. Just as they had the night before, eight hooked fossils leered up, their strangeness a thing of some beauty.
“Are you sure you really want to do this?” Hannity asked.
Bruno pulled the teeth from their elastic straps and stood.
“Four for you, and four for me,” he said. “It’s very important we plant twice as many as we actually need.”
Hannity accepted the teeth, weighing them in his hand and trying to calculate their exact value.
“Have faith, old friend,” Bruno assured him. “I haven’t lost my mind.”
“It’s your money,” Hannity said. “Waste it how you want.”
Taking a step back so that the moon could light his face, Bruno frowned.
“How long have you worked for me?” He asked. “Five years? In all of that time, have I ever given you the impression that I am a man without purpose—a man without a plan?”
Calm but wary, Hannity shook his head.
“I thought not,” smiled Bruno. “You have helped me in ways I cannot explain—ways you will soon see with your own eyes. But even still, do not let your faith in me waver just yet, old friend. I have a plan...”
Letting his words hang in the air like a noose, Bruno turned and went to the bed of open soil. On his knees, he pressed the teeth into the dirt so that only their tips were left exposed.
“Your turn,” he said. “Have faith.”
Still utterly baffled, Hannity nevertheless nodded. He knelt before the plot and shoved the teeth into the ground. When all eight were buried, he leaned back and wiped his hands.
“Done,” he sighed. “Now what.”
Bruno began to sprinkle dirt over the teeth, mumbling strange words under his breath. Eyebrows raised, Hannity tried to maintain a flat expression, but things were beginning to spiral. He’d never seen the boss like this before, never seen him go full-on occult.
Finished with his incantation, Bruno stopped whispering and climbed hastily to his feet. Pulling Hannity up with him, he turned and headed for the doorway.
“Let’s go,” he hissed. “We need to leave right now.”
“What about your tux?” Hannity protested.
Already ducking through the exit, Bruno waved a hand.
“Leave it. Come on—now!”
Hannity eyed the moonlit dirt for a second then sighed and quit the garden. Slamming the door behind him, Bruno leaned on the thick wood and set the bolt. Ear pressed against the grain, he closed his eyes and listened. A few paces off, Hannity took his cigarettes from his pocket and struck a light. Cupping his hand around the flame, he inhaled deeply.
…
It was the dry rustle of displaced earth that announced their arrival. At first thinking he was imagining things, Hannity didn’t bother to look up. Yet, when the sound persisted then grew louder, his gaze shifted from the orange tip of his cigarette to the garden door. Bruno had turned stiff, his entire body as rigid as bronze. Rejoining him, Hannity leaned forward and strained his own ears to better hear through the wood.
“What was that?” He whispered.
Bruno flashed him a triumphant smile, and Hannity felt his doubt falter. Suddenly, an eruption of horrendous guttural noises leapt up from within the garden. Hannity dropped his cigarette and took a step back. Yips, snarls, and screams poured forth, echoing off the high walls.
“What the fuck—” Hannity began, but the words fell short.
Someone or something bashed against the other side of the door, making it shudder. Small voices cried out, morphing from pain to rage as the sounds of a scuffle, just inches away, ignited. The unseen combatants tore at one another until a loud, wet crunch marked the end of their struggle. Dark and reflective, a sheen of black blood spurted from under the door, pooling around Bruno’s expensive shoes.
“Boss?” Hannity asked, thinking of blunt force trauma. “What’s going on in there? What is this?”
“Only the strongest survive the first few minutes,” swallowed Bruno. “They are the elite—the one’s we want.”
More shrieks of pain and anger landed, lapsing in rhythm so that they came in waves rather than beats. Mixing with the shatter of ancient pots, and the bassy slaps of fists on skin, they swelled like storm breakers. Concerned that the noise would attract attention from the street, Hannity started to worry—an emotion he was not fond of having. Yet, just as he was about to turn for the mansion, and his gun, the violence behind the garden door abruptly came to an end.
Returned to the still, calm quiet of a few moments before, everything resettled. In that silence, Bruno and Hannity stared at one another. Slowly reaching out, the boss took hold of the iron key, still in the lock, and turned it.
When the door swung open, it was Hannity who had the best view of Cosimo Bruno’s now utterly destroyed garden. Slick with blood and marred by bits of gore, the entire space had been transformed into an exhibit on the art of carnage.
Unrecognizable as human due to the nightmarish violence that had been exercised upon them, several co
rpses rested among the uprooted plants in brutalized heaps of bone, hair, ligament, and skin. Pillars had been tipped over, and shards of pottery dotted the ground like flower petals. Only the olive tree, dripping blood from its lower branches, was left unharmed.
Taking this in with a killer’s calm, Hannity digested the scene. Tentatively, he stepped forward. Something near the fountain moved, making him halt in his tracks. A beat passed and it moved again. Hannity squinted against the darkness. Huddled in a small group, each just shy of ten years old, four alabaster boys crouched in the shadows. Distinguishable only by the wounds they had suffered during the melee, their identical faces were smeared with dirt and blood.
Hannity blinked and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Slipping around him into the garden, Bruno patted his arm.
“Seeing is believing, no?” He spoke. “I told you to have faith.”
Unable to reply, Mr. Hannity simply stood and watched as the boss crouched in front of the four wary boys and ushered them into his arms for a fatherly, if not bloody hug.
VI
Two days later, Flight D3619 descended from golden skies and landed at Rome’s Fiumicino International Airport under. Disembarking the plane with a chattering group of tourists, one man, taller than the rest, cut ahead of them to the front of the passport line.
“Buongiorno signore,” drawled the woman behind the glass. “Good morning, sir.”
“Vediamo,” replied the man, speaking in accented Italian. “We’ll see.”
The customs officer looked up and eyed him critically. In his late twenties, he had jet-black hair and a pallid complexion that spoke of grey skies and little sun.
“Passaporto,” she sighed, then in English. “Passport please.”
The man flicked an eyebrow at her and produced an American passport.
“I can speak Italian,” he said
The customs officer flared her nostrils as if to say she doubted the validity of that statement, and peered at his information.
“Is that really your name?” She smirked.
“Yeah,” said the American. “And it’s pronounced K-toe, not Cat-o.”
Punching the passport with her stamp, the woman shoved it back under the glass. “I know that, Mr. Fin!” She snapped. “Cato is a Roman name and we are in Rome in case you’d forgotten. Now have a good morning.”
…
Riding the escalator down to baggage claim, Cato Fin surveyed the scores of travelers flooding about on the landing. It was early still, too early for people to be this active. Then again, airports were places where such notions didn’t apply. All clocks were correct, regardless of the hour. For Cato, this meant he was on Seattle time—home time.
With nothing waiting for him on the carousal, he followed signs to the train, but arrived just as the last car was rattling off. Cursing his bad luck, he stood and watched the train fade away toward the city. When it was out of sight, he felt an edge of nervousness creep in.
Glancing around the empty platform, Cato spotted a small tabacchi situated in the far corner. He smiled with relief, and checked his pockets. Fishing out the wallet he’d lifted from a businessman on his last flight, he found a wad of colorful Euro and some soon to be deactivated credit cards. Casually, lest the cameras catch anything incriminating, Cato pocketed the cash and ditched the rest in a waste bin.
“Buongiorno,” said the tabacchi clerk, not bothering to look up from his cell phone.
Cato approached the counter.
“Sigarette?”
The clerk squinted at him for a moment then shrugged and tipped his head toward a display case.
“What brand you want?” He asked in English. “I have American Marlboro.”
Cato made a face and tapped the glass.
“How about those?”
Still squinting, the clerk leaned in to see where he was pointing. When his attention was diverted, Cato deftly plucked a lighter from an arrangement near the register and put it in his pocket.
“These are Nazionali,” said the clerk. “Maybe you want Marlboro?”
“Nah,” smiled Cato. “I’ll try those.”
Back on the platform, he shook a cigarette free and lit it with the lighter he’d stolen. Enjoying the duel rush of nicotine and petty theft, he passed under a Vietato Fumare sign and paused to blow smoke rings at it.
…
Four cigarettes, and fifteen minutes later, the 5AM train bound for Termini Station arrived with a clatter. Boarding with two-dozen other riders, Cato found a spot by the window and sat alone. As the train gained speed, he watched the graffiti covered apartment buildings and tenement blocks of the new Rome skate past. Bored by the urban slideshow, his attention began to wander, and his thoughts turned to the letter in his bag.
Cato took it out and stared at it. Written in the same familiar hand that only appeared on or around his birthday, it was sparsely worded, and poetically ominous.
Victis honor.
My son,
Tonight we honor the dead.
One of our numbers has been slain and we must discover why.
Return to your home immediately.
Return to Rome where I await you.
Blood deserves Blood.
The dead deserve company.
A blank space marked the spot where there should have been a signature, yet Cato didn’t need one to know whom the letter was from. It was his Benefactor, the Man from Rome.
The train swayed gently, and Cato ran a thumb across the letter’s raised wording. He’d never received anything like this from his Benefactor before. He’d never been summoned. Feeling nervous again, he reread the letter in the hopes that doing so would set his mind at ease. It didn’t.
Though Cato hadn’t actually laid eyes on his Benefactor since he was six years old, he hardly went a day without thinking about the man. Corallina, his adopted mother, had seen to that. Tucking Cato in each night as a boy, she had set his mind on fire with tall tales meant to illicit wonder and awe. To hear it from her, the Benefactor was a living legend, a man who never wasn’t there, a God—the oldest of all the Gods.
‘You have to grow up fast, Cato,’ she’d said. ‘You have to get tough. Because someday, he’s going to need you, and you better be ready when he does.’
Still echoing in Cato’s memory, Corallina’s warning perplexed him now more than ever. The strange letter had come in a blank envelope, appearing just inside the doorway of an apartment he subletted under a fake name. Whether or not this lent any credence to Corallina’s wild beliefs, Cato couldn’t say for sure. Thankfully, besides filling his head with delusions and myths, she had also taught him a thing or two about taking care of himself.
“Stazione Termini,” announced the train’s loudspeaker.
A platform materialized and the train came to a stop with a pneumatic hiss. Cato stepped off and joined the ranks of early morning business commuters. Slowly making his way through the crowd, he kept one hand free. Scanning the pockets of those around him, he used the crush of people to hide his probing fingers. He found what he was looking for, a cell phone, and slipped it into his own pocket. Just as Corallina had taught him, he did not look back.
‘Never let the mark see your face,’ she had said. ‘What they don’t know can’t hurt you.’
Cato climbed a wide set of stairs to the station’s main level. There, the flow of human traffic came from a different direction. Shoving his way outside, Cato exited the station onto the Via Giovanni Giolitti.
Cars filled the street and people bustled by on the sidewalk. Coursing with the ubiquitous pulse of a modern city, the scene reminded Cato of home. He was comfortable in cities, confident in them even. Packed with places to hide and crowds to vanish among, they were the ideal environments for someone with his upbringing.
Lighting a cigarette, Cato took a long, hard drag, and peered down the street. Parked a short ways-off, a cobalt blue Bentley idled quietly, its windshield reflecting back the pink rays of the morning sun. Smarter tha
n to think nothing of the car, Cato pretended he hadn’t seen it and strolled up the block. The car edged along to draw level with him.
“You are Mr. Cato, no?” Came a thickly accented voice from within.
Primed to run, Cato looked inside the leather cockpit. Sitting behind the steering wheel, a paunchy man of about forty met his gaze. Not the Benefactor, but rather an overly tanned Greek, the driver had long, wavy hair and gold chains around his wrists.
“I am sent to get you,” he smiled, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. “Get in”
Taking a moment, Cato studied the street, then returned his eyes to the Greek.
“I don’t know you,” he said at last.
“So?” The man shrugged. “I am not know you too. I am just told, ‘go get Cato’ so here I am.”
“Who sent you?”
“Who you think?”
Cato nodded slowly, watching the man’s face for signs of malice. Having spent years in the company of crooks and criminals, he knew how easy it was for dangerous people to mask their true nature. He was one of them.
“Why didn’t he come get me himself?”
At this the Greek chuckled and rubbed the wheel with his fat fingers.
“He cooking. Now come get in—you have breakfast.”
Taking another drag, Cato issued a reluctant sigh and nodded.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m ready.”
…
In the back seat, Cato was treated to a much different version of Rome than the one he had seen from the train. Instead of apartment buildings and commercial offices, churches, medieval ruins, and ancient marble statues now dominated the landscape. Gone was any semblance of the ubiquitous modern city, replaced by a shifting leviathan whose very face was history itself.
The Man From Rome Page 4
