The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  He smiled at Hannity.

  “Like you my friend. You are a modern day Hector, a man supreme above all others on the field of war. You know what it takes to survive when the bullets rain, and the cordite thickens the air to a haze. I have seen you in action—it gave me nightmares for weeks.”

  Hannity shot the brothers a malicious grin.

  “Something tells me they aren’t going to have any trouble adapting, boss. We’ll show you nightmares, isn’t that right boys?”

  Becoming strained, Bruno’s smile faded.

  “We aren’t killing a man, Mr. Hannity. Quello Vecchio is a fiend. It will take all of your skill—every ounce of grit you have to end him. He is like a raging elephant.”

  Hannity pull the trigger and the submachine gun clicked in his hands.

  “Yeah, but is he faster than a bullet?”

  “Yes,” said Bruno matter-of-factly. “Not that it would matter unless you were using the right kind of ammunition.”

  Frowning, Hannity looked up.

  “Are you surprised by this?” Asked Bruno. “You shouldn’t be—not after everything you’ve seen.”

  He gestured to the foot of the stairs where a third duffel bag sat in the half-shadows.

  “Boys,” he spoke. “Zephrus—will you please fetch that and bring it to Mr. Hannity?”

  Breaking away from the others, Zephyrus hauled the heavy bag to Hannity’s feet. Abandoning his work, Hannity crouched to inspect the contents.

  “Rounds,” he grunted.

  “Yes,” said Bruno. “But not just any kind.”

  “Armor piercing?”

  “You could say that. Hand me one, will you?”

  Hannity passed up a .50 caliber sniper round—muted and silver.

  “This is Adamantine,” said Bruno, tapping the slug. “It is the only metal that can kill quello Vecchio—or any God for that matter. As such, it is something of a secret to the rest of the world. One must know the right people, and have the proper funding to secure it.”

  He held the bullet up to the light.

  “This Adamantine was repurposed from the melted down axe-heads of a lost Viking army. They were found in a subterranean lake near the border of Finnmark. According to my supplier, they had lain at the bottom of that abyss for over one thousand years, and yet you see what I see—the metal is as fresh as ever.”

  Catching the light, the bullet shone.

  “It cost me a fortune to procure this much Adamantine, and another to have it crafted into bullets.”

  Bruno tossed the slug into the air and snatched it in a closed fist.

  “That having been said, when you find quello Vecchio in your crosshairs, I want you to fire every last round you have into his body. Reduce him to a pulp, my sons. Utterly destroy him, am I understood?”

  In unison, the brothers nodded.

  “Good,” whispered Bruno. “Mr. Hannity will show you how to accomplish this, won’t you my friend?”

  Rising, Hannity held out his hand. Instead of shaking it, Bruno gave him the sniper round.

  “Teach them well, for they are dear to me.”

  Hannity wrapped his fingers around the bullet and squeezed.

  “I’ll do my best, boss. You know I will.”

  XXVI

  Leaning in a shaded archway, Louisa Anastasi peered up the street. Eerily empty, it had few windows and only one door. The dead-girl’s tourist map had worked. As if existing only on the peripheral, the street seemed to be a space between spaces—a wrinkle in the fabric of the city. Without the map, Louisa never would have found it.

  She touched the scarf at her throat and sighed pensively. Ahead, the door was dark and foreboding.

  “Abbandonare ogni speranza,” Louisa muttered, half-quoting Dante. “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”

  She opened her purse and took out her pistol. If events went off the rails again and the Man tried to get his massive hands around her neck a second time, she would be ready for him. She racked a round into the chamber, then eased the hammer down, and turned on the safety. Tucking the pistol against the small of her back, Louisa hid it with her shirt.

  Sunglasses a mirror of blue skies and Bzyntine brick, she stepped out of the archway and strode toward the door.

  …

  Cato descended the stairs at a jog and moved toward the atrium. Though sharp and clean in his new black suit, he wore a pinched expression of apprehension. The dreadful visions he had suffered all night refused to dissipate, following after him like guilt.

  Entering the Atrium, Cato squinted against the sunlight. Spiced with cigarette smoke, coffee, meat, and the smell of baked bread, the air was deliciously heavy. Waiting in the center of the room, a veritable treasure trove of food sat on a table. Cato’s eyes widened, and his face grew bright. Thanks to Artemis, he had never gotten his dinner last night and he was starving as a result. At the sight of the delicious breakfast, his mood improved ten-fold.

  Rushing over, he fell upon the spread with zeal.

  “There now, what did I say?” Cooed a voice.

  Stepping into the light, the Man took a slice of melon and ate it.

  “Okay, you were right about breakfast,” said Cato, chewing loudly. “This is fucking amazing.”

  “I am right about many things,” spoke the Man.

  Finishing off a roll, Cato devoured two more, then poured himself a cup coffee. He drained it in one gulp and went back for another. When at last his appetite relented, he let out a satisfied sigh and glanced around.

  “Where is our guest?” He asked. “I though you said she was here.”

  The Man lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

  “She’s at the door,” he replied.

  “Aren’t you going to let her in?”

  “I thought you might do it,” said the Man. “For effect.”

  …

  Poised on the landing, Louisa stared at the heavy wooden door. Pulse thrumming, she raised a hand to knock, but the door opened before she could. Cato appeared in the frame.

  “I’d tell you to turn around and run for you life,” he said. “But somehow I don’t think you’d listen.”

  Louisa pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and smiled.

  “Hello Cato. I—I believe I have information that can help you. I’m here to talk to your boss.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Cato moved aside.

  “Be careful in there,” he warned. “And for the record—he’s not my boss, he’s my Benefactor.”

  Louisa gave him a questioning glance and stepped over the threshold.

  “He’s your what?”

  “My Benefactor,” Cato repeated.

  Taking in her surroundings—the masks, the finches, the cage, Louisa frowned.

  “I don’t know what that means,” she said. “But it sounds weird.”

  Cato chuckled and closed the door with a resounding clank.

  “You have no idea. Come on, he’s in here.”

  Leading the way, he brought her through an ornate archway into the next room. Caught in the smoky air, sunbeams flashed and winked, while overhead, a dome of glass webbed the sky. Louisa looked around with wonder. When her eyes reached the breakfast table, she froze.

  “Ms. Anastasi,” said the golden-eyed Man. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  Sweeping a hand to the table, he bowed.

  “You’re just in time for breakfast. Won’t you join us?”

  Absently, Louisa reached toward her lower back. Catching this, the Man’s face tinged with regret.

  “What I did to you was inexcusable,” he said. “It pains me to see you flinch. I am not your enemy.”

  He came nearer and fixed her with a penetrating stare.

  “In fact, if you allow me a second chance, I will show that quite the opposite is true.”

  Like Saint Elmo’s fire, flashes of last night danced through Louisa’s head. She tried to suppress them, but they took on a life of their own.

  “You have your
father’s eyes,” said the Man softly. “And Ferro’s soul.”

  Utterly blindsided, Louisa gasped.

  “It is a shame you were kept from me for so long, Little Rabbit,” the Man whispered. “We have much to discuss, you and I—many goals in common.”

  …

  Sensing a shift in the atmosphere, Cato eyed Louisa worriedly. Whoever this Ferro character was, his very name had drained the color from her like an arrow to the heart.

  “So,” said the Man, seeming to prod her. “Would you like to stay for breakfast, or shall I have Cato show you to the door?”

  “I’ll stay!” Louisa blurted. “But—but, how do you know Ferro?”

  Turning his back on her, the Benefactor shrugged casually and walked toward the center of the room.

  “You told Cato you have some information that can help us. If that is true, perhaps we can make a deal. You assist us in our endeavor, and I assist you in yours. I mourned your brother’s murder, Louisa. I seek his killers still. Would you like to know what I know? We can help one another. What do you say?”

  Cato saw Louisa stiffen. Obviously, the Benefactor had just struck a nerve. She drew a handgun from behind her back, and let it hang at her side. Tucked against his ribcage, Cato’s own .45 was within easy reach, but he left it alone. There was no need to pile on; Louisa was in enough trouble already.

  “Tell me what you know,” she spoke. “Tell me now.”

  Spreading his arms to make himself a wider target, the Man grinned.

  “After,” he said. “Do we have a deal?”

  Louisa weighed the weapon in her hand, then shot Cato a bitter glance.

  “You weren’t kidding were you?”

  “I told you to run,” he smiled weakly.

  Shaking her head, Louisa refocused on the Benefactor.

  “Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this?”

  “I am under attack,” he answered. “Artemis means to kill me. I am merely defending myself. She is the villain here, not I.”

  “Then by all means,” snapped Louisa. “Tell me why Artemis has come to Rome to kill you.”

  Lighting a fresh cigarette, the Man disappeared behind a veil of blue smoke.

  “Why tell,” his voice resonated. “When I can show.”

  With that, the smoke parted, and the room fell away.

  XXVII

  It is midday and the sun hangs at its zenith. Dark and full of distant gunfire, the air is tinged with the haze of burning fields. Flapping from shuttered balconies and porticos, long red banners dangle over empty streets. Painted with swastikas and verses in German, Rome’s ancient monuments stand abandoned.

  Dressed plainly in the garb of a peasant, the Man rounds a corner. Somewhere behind him, boots chatter in pursuit. Turning into an alley, he heads down the hill. At the bottom, a small piazza awaits. He hears the grinding tread of metal on cobblestones and slows. Rolling into the piazza, a hulking grey Maultier transport truck blocks his path.

  Without hesitation, the Man turns and enters a tenement house. He bolts the door and snaps off the handle. Despite this abrupt maneuvering, it is no accident that he has ended up here. He knows the building well, has a room on the upper floor. Nothing is ever an accident with the Man.

  He moves into the dim foyer. Slumped behind locked gates, a defunct elevator flanks a winding staircase. Taking to the steps, he covers five flights like the shadow of the wind. On the top floor, he walks down the hallway and breaks the chains that bar his door.

  Boarded over, the windows admit only horizontal slivers of light. A shifting mélange of dust motes fill the air. The room has been neglected for a long time, and there is evidence of a struggle. Chairs are tipped over and bullet-holes scar the walls. Thick upon everything, dust lies like ash.

  Moving into the kitchen, the Man finds a half-empty bottle of wine in the cupboard and uncorks it. Thirsty from the summer heat, he drinks what is left of the vinegary booze and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The last time he was here, there had been laughter, drinking, and revelry. Today, the room is silent.

  Voices echo in the alley and someone bangs against the lobby door. Unhurriedly, the Man goes to one of the chairs, picks it up, and sets it down before a faded wooden table. He sits facing the door. Below in the entrance hall, the lock shatters and men take to the stairs. By the sound of their breathing—shallow, hot, full of excitement, the Man can tell they know at least a little about who they are hunting. He will soon show them more.

  The first boots reach the landing and pound down the hallway. Fixated on the door, the Man’s eyes begin to smolder as if he has a head full of hot coals. A charge sizzles through the room, the scent of lightning lingering in its wake.

  Suddenly, the door bursts off its hinges and rattles across the floor. In the broken frame, two uniformed SS officers stand side by side. One is Artemis, deathly pale in black, and silver. The other is a man—tall, well built, and handsome beyond comparison. He is Apollo, and though his face is soured by arrogance, it yet shines with the perfection of art.

  Artemis lifts a finger and a stream of heavily armed troops pours into the room. They surround the Man, leveling their machine guns. Smeared across their brows, sacrificial blood gives them the power of second sight. Loaded with Adamantine rounds, their weapons give them the power to kill what they don’t understand.

  “Hello Divinity,” speaks Apollo. “You’re looking well as ever.”

  The Man nods but holds his tongue.

  “How long has it been since the three of us were under one roof like this? Was it at Bithynia—at that bloody council of yours? Dear me, Ancient. You need to get out more.”

  “I told you we should have killed him then,” sneers Artemis. “It was a missed opportunity.”

  “That is true, sister,” concedes Apollo. “A bear is easier to kill when it ventures from its cave.”

  He glances at the soldiers.

  “Unless of course you have dogs at your disposal, in which case it makes no difference at all.”

  Still smiling, the Man shifts in his chair. Like the first ripples of a stone cast in water, Apollo, Artemis, and the ring of soldiers all draw back together.

  Quickest to regain his composure, Apollo chuckles.

  “Your stoicism in the face of total destruction is commendable, Ancient. However, I fear it’s wasted on me. I command the Order of Delphi—we see the future. Your day has come. My sister and I are here to relieve you of your invisible crown.”

  Finally breaking his silence, the Man glances at the Nazis.

  “And what do Himmler and your new Führer make of these predictions? Does the Reich have enough room at the top for all of you?”

  “Please,” Apollo waves dismissively. “Who do you think sowed the seeds of their grand design?”

  He beams at Artemis.

  “Few can whisper as subtly as my dear sister. Sleep lightly, or you may wake with her ideas in your head.”

  The Man grins.

  “Whenever I dream of your sister, Apollo, we’re far too busy with one another to bother speaking.”

  Baring her teeth, Artemis takes a step forward. Creeping beneath the surface of her skin, dark veins begin to throb.

  “Enough,” she hisses. “He mocks us—spits venom in our eyes. I say we set the dogs on him and put an end to his wretched life.”

  The soldiers tense, but wait for the final order. Laying his hands flat on the table, the Man joins them.

  “He is a wicked old bastard, isn’t he?” Smiles Apollo. “If I could toss him into Tartarus, or bind him to a rock, I would. But, we both know that won’t do it, don’t we sister. Death is what I have prophesied for him—death and more death.”

  He nods to the men. They take aim.

  “Any last words, Ancient,” he asks. “Anything more to add?”

  The Man shakes his head.

  “Very well,” sighs Apollo. “Then this is goodbye.”

  Though time is a rushing torrent, a deluge of for
ward-flying action, to the Man it can be as unhurried as a babbling brook. Thus, before Apollo has even given the signal, he is already out of his chair and in motion. Pressing down, he splits the table in half, then flings the two pieces at the surrounding soldiers. They scatter, their machineguns pumping bullets into the air.

  Narrowly missed, Artemis screams and ducks the flashing muzzles. Barreling toward her, the Man strikes like a blast-wave. Sent flailing, she smashes through a boarded-up window, and vanishes into the open.

  Bright sunlight floods the room, illuminating the gun smoke. Hidden within the blazing confusion, the Man lashes out to shatter skulls and necks. Falling dead in droves, the soldiers are but a minor inconvenience to him, a thing to be batted aside.

  From the fray, Apollo shrieks with rage. Drawing a saber of pure Adamantine, he vaults toward the Man. Blade glinting; he slashes, jabs, jabs again, then kicks out with a leather boot. Pivoting, dodging, weaving from side to side, the Man avoids the bite of metal, but Apollo’s heel catches him in the chest. He stumbles, giving his opponent time to aim a vicious thrust at his face. The blade descends—a death stroke that will cleave meat and bone.

  Rolling backwards, the Man springs away. Where he lands, he seizes the nearest Nazi by the head and crushed his skull like an egg. He flings the twitching corpse at Apollo. Unperturbed, the wrathful Immortal advances and cuts the flying body in half. Blood paints his uniform in a radial pattern of wet droplets.

  The Man attacks through the red mist, catching Apollo by the arm. The two grapple and the sword is knocked free. Rattling across the floor it disappears into the smoke. Executing a swift maneuver, the Man pulls Apollo off balance, then kicks his legs out from beneath him. Like a machine, he slams the startled Olympian between the ceiling and floor until plaster begins to rain and the building shakes on its foundations. Summoning a final burst of strength, the Man opens a gash in the roof and sends Apollo sailing into the sky beyond.