Eyes blazing, he rounds on the remaining soldiers and unceremoniously tears them limb from limb. Prying dead fingers from hot steal, he picks up two sub machineguns and slings one over his shoulder. At the end of the hallway, men spot him, but are cut down before they can fire. He steps over their shuddering corpses and rips the copper gate from the elevator-shaft. Bolted to the wall, a ladder ascends into shadows.
Climbing hand over hand, the Man emerges through a hatch. He scans the buckled rooftop for signs of Apollo or Artemis. Shouts emanate from below, attracting his attention. He moves to the pitched tiles and peers down into the piazza. There, soldiers close ranks around the broken figure of Apollo, covering him as he writhes weakly on the cobblestones. Settling his weapon in the crook of his shoulder, the Man sights down the barrel.
Bullets rain, and screams fill the square. The cohort thins as men pitch to the ground. Squeezing the trigger again, the Man shreds another layer of soldiers. Suddenly, the clip runs dry and the gun freezes. He tosses it aside and unslings his backup. A volley of whining slugs erupts from the piazza. Forced along the roofline, the Man narrowly escapes calamity.
Across the square, some thirteen meters away, the church of Santa Æmelia, rises high. Launching himself into the air, the Man hangs against the cloudless indigo sky. Arms pin-wheeling, he lands among the weatherworn statues of saints and apostles. Taking a position between Peter and Paul, he aims his machinegun into the piazza. Still sprawled on the ground, Apollo struggles to recover from his fall. At the moment, he is unprotected.
An arrow pierces the Man’s hand, severing ligament and bone. His trigger finger goes limp. Grunting, he turns just as a second arrow skewers his shoulder. The point explodes from his back, spraying Ichor—rich blood of the Immortals, all over Peter’s face. A third shaft flies, but the Man blocks it with his machinegun. Knocked from his grasp, the weapon crashes through a skylight into the depths of the cavernous church.
Holding Peter for support, the Man steadies himself. Artemis stands before him, angled like a gunslinger. Trilling in the breeze, her lustrous hair snaps with serpentine curls, and her eyes shine with murder. She draws her bowstring back, and lets loose an incandescent dart.
Bending the laws of gravity, the Man leaps skyward. He disappears into the eye of the sun, and becomes a mirage. Blinded, Artemis primes another shot, but it is too late. The Man comes down, planting his knee in her skull with enough force to crumble the roof beneath them. Swallowed by shadows, they plummet into oblivion.
For several moments, only the settling of stone, and the fluttering of frightened doves can be heard. Then, another sound begins. Heaving himself from the heavy rubble, the Man sheds debris and climbs to his feet. Teeth clenched, body aching, he pulls the broken arrows from his hand and shoulder and lets them drop. Ichor runs in rivers.
He ignores his injuries and looks around the mighty cathedral. Candles crown ornate scepters, and columns shiver in their soft light. Pinned to each wall, large tapestries depict vaguely pagan scenes, while here and there statues pray for forgiveness. Caught by its strap, the Man’s machinegun dangles from the clasped hands of the Blessed Mother. Smiling crookedly, he lurches forward and pulls the weapon free.
Somewhere in the darkness, double doors bang open and boots chatter in. The Man’s smile turns grim. He moves back to the wide swath of destruction and searches the pile for Artemis. She is there, half-broken atop a mound of jagged stones. Torn and almost unrecognizable, her black uniform is in tatters.
“The prophecy—” she manages, when she sees him. “Delphi—”
“Please,” the Man scoffs.
Artemis closes her eyes and labors to breathe. Blood stains her quivering lips.
“Destiny protects me,” she whispers.
“Not so.”
She reopens her eyes and frowns.
“How can you know such things?”
“I know.”
Lowering his weapon, he puts the barrel to her brow. Though painful to flex, his trigger finger has mended enough to use again.
“No!” Comes an agonized shriek.
The Man turns, but keeps his gun resting against Artemis’s head. Apollo appears, backed by twelve armed men. Switching into the First Language—the old tongue, he approaches fearfully.
“Ancient please. Not this—not this!”
Tears welling in her green eyes, Artemis convulses.
“Brother!”
“She suffers,” says the Man. “But if you like, I can end her suffering.”
“No!” Apollo begs, stumbling with fear. “Please, name your demands—anything! But—but not this!”
“Dismiss your dogs,” the Man instructs.
Apollo rounds on the soldiers and shouts a command for them to fall back. They hesitate, unsure of the situation. Face contorting, Apollo orders them again, but still they hesitate. The Man puts tension on the trigger and Apollo’s eyes widen with terror. Uttering an inhuman scream, he splits the air like thunder. Thrown backwards, the men burst into pillars of ethereal fire, and thrash on the ground.
The Man watches, his nostrils flaring at the scent of roasting flesh. He eases off the trigger, yet keeps the weapon pressed to Artemis’ skull. Apollo turns back, restraining the jigsaw of black veins that have dissected his pallid features.
“Ancient,” he urges breathlessly. “There, I’ve done what you asked, now please—let my sister go.”
The Man smiles and shakes his head.
“And who will die in her place, Sun God? You?”
Beneath the barrel, Artemis shifts. The Man puts a boot on her chest and pins her to the ground.
“Please!” Apollo stammers with dismay. “Punish me, oh Divinity—punish my order at Delphi. This is my prophecy—my vision! She is guilty of nothing more than a sister’s love for her foolish, arrogant brother! She is innocent!”
Artemis sobs, her face minced with horror and shame.
“I think not,” says the Man. “In fact, I know not.”
He peers down at Artemis.
“Shall I tell him what you’ve done, Diana, or would you prefer to?”
Confusion clouds Apollo’s teary eyes. He looks to his sister.
“Monster,” Artemis snarls. “Fiend—tyrant!”
Chuckling, the Man steps down harder on her chest.
“You sister betrays you, Apollo. She feeds you lies. Your prophecy is a farce—a dream whispered to you as you slept. The Order of Delphi has been corrupted, your followers mislead.”
Apollo sways with shock.
“Untrue,” he whispers. “It cannot be.”
“Tell him,” the Man says to Artemis. “Tell him how you twisted his mind—how you entered his dreams like vapor and wove your fantasies through and through. Tell him Diana—tell him and save his life.”
“Brother,” chokes Artemis, defeated and weak. “It is true what he says—everything. I constructed the prophecy—I wanted your help to destroy him.”
“No,” Apollo shudders. “No!”
He takes a step forward.
“I refuse to hear this. It is you, Ancient—you who twists my mind. Your precious Rome will burn for this—I will see it done with my own hands.”
Crackling sharply, translucent flames lick from the tips of Apollo’s fingers.
“Hold,” Artemis pleads. “Stop—brother, no!”
Apollo disregards her cries. Changing, transforming, he takes another step forward.
“You!” He spits in disgust. “You wanderer, you invader! What claim lay you to this earth? We are her children—born on the island of Delos! From whence did you come, interloper? What black tide bore you to our shores? What self appointed title gives you dominion here?”
Peeling away like bark on a burning log, Apollo’s uniform turns to glowing ash. Dissected by patterns of black and red, his body smokes.
“Brother no!” Cries Artemis again. “Stay back—I beg of you!”
But it is no use. Lifting his flaming hands, Apollo unleashes t
he sum of his hatred for the Man. Silhouetted against the raging inferno, the Man smiles triumphantly. It is no accident that he has ended up here. Nothing is ever an accident with him.
He drops his boot and kicks Artemis at the approaching fire. Her powers regained; she vanishes from her uniform in a wild flutter of finches. They are incinerated, yet she reappears nearby, naked and unharmed. Faltering, Apollo drops his hands. Like a kite, the Man takes to the air, sailing high above the distracted Olympian. Blazing down a continuous stream of Adamantine slugs, he keeps him squarely in his sights.
Caught off guard, Apollo tries to shield himself with another wave of fire, but he has little time to hone his power. Melting as they strike his upturned face, the bullets become a molten rain that mutilates and blinds. He screeches, clawing at the ruins of his eyes. Landing behind him, the Man casts away his empty weapon, and wraps his arms around Apollo’s neck with the speed of a striking snake.
Apollo bucks, squealing unintelligibly. Grinding down tighter, the Man is relentless, ruthless, heartless. He crushes Apollo’s windpipe with a sinuous snap. Dropping to one knee, the Olympian struggles to find salvation, but there is no salvation to be found. Not on this day.
The Man pulls harder, his muscles swelling to rip the shirt from his back. Tested to its limits, Apollo’s spine begins to creak and moan as trees do in a fierce windstorm. From her vantage point, Artemis wails for the Man to stop, wails for him to show mercy. But there is no mercy to be found. Not on this day.
Ringing throughout the lofty church, a hollow crack sends doves fleeing from the open roof. Apollo falls to the ground; his neck twisted horridly, his features frozen in bitter shock. At once, everything begins to tilt and move in slow motion. Bound to the dying light of Apollo’s soul, reality ebbs into nothingness. Left alone in the expanding void, the Man from Rome stands over Artemis as she weeps bloody tears of Vengeance.
XXVIII
Louisa returned to herself with a jolt that was like falling out of bed. The room spun in alternating shades of color and light, vision and sound. Blinking between two different realities, she felt dizzy, overwhelmed. Putting her hands out, she tried to steady herself, tried to grasp the very fabric of existence.
“Here,” spoke the Man. “Have one of these. It will help to center you.”
He opened a silver cigarette case and extended it to her.
“I—” swallowed Louisa. “What did you just do to me? What was that?”
She glanced at Cato.
“You—you saw it too, right?”
Cato swayed on his feet and gave a little nod.
“Cato knows well the power of memory,” said the Man with a smile. “He knows that time is a river—navigable.”
Offering Cato the cigarettes, he struck a light for him.
“Then again, he has been training for this his entire life. You, on the other hand, are barely hatched.”
A fresh bout of dizziness washed over Louisa. She wavered and shook her head.
“But, what was it? How did you do that? I—I was there. It was real…”
Shrugging, the Man gestured to the open air.
“Consciousness yearns to be shared, Louisa. Language is thought made manifest. With the right words, anything is possible. I spoke and you saw. It is as simple as that.”
Louisa thought back to the night before, recalling Giorgio’s golden eyes and electric touch.
“Sei Dio?” She murmured, looking up. “Are you God?”
“No,” spoke the Man.
“Il Diavolo?”
He chuckled.
“No.”
“Then—then what are you?”
The Man drew near and took Louisa’s hand. At once, her world snapped into focus.
“I am a Roman,” he whispered.
Shivering at the heat of his voice, the depth of it, Louisa gazed into his eyes.
“Now that you have seen what is facing us,” he said. “You know how dangerous such a designation has become.”
He turned away.
“Artemis seeks revenge for Apollo’s death, and will not relent until she has it. La Spada Spezzata was just a minor display. More will die, mark my words.”
“Can’t you stop her?” Pressed Louisa. “Can’t you do something—anything?”
The Man looked defeated.
“I’m afraid there is little I can do,” he said. “Artemis is planning something—a trap. Since I know not what it is, I am in constant danger of falling into it. Leta had the answers we needed, but she is dead.”
“Leta?”
“The girl from the river,” said Cato, breaking his silence. “The one with no tongue and silver down her throat. Her name was Leta. Artemis killed her.”
With a twitch, Louisa’s hand shot to her purse.
“You—you’re looking for her, right?” She stammered. “I mean—you’re looking for her room, aren’t you?”
Cato and the Man exchanged pointed glances.
“Yes,” said the Man. “How did you know that?”
Moving to the table, Louisa pulled the map from her purse.
“I picked this up in the alleyway last night.”
She tapped the Xed out dots.
“These are hotels and hostels. But, what are you looking for—what are you hoping to find?”
The Man eyed the map for a moment, then sighed.
“Much like Cato,” he said. “Leta was an agent of mine. She was killed because she uncovered what Artemis and are her surrogates are planning. However, that information did not necessarily die with her. I believe it is waiting to be rediscovered in the last place she laid her head.”
“Like a hostel,” exhaled Louisa.
“Or a hotel,” the Man concluded.
“And you haven’t found it yet?”
“No.”
Reaching back into her purse, Louisa produced the matchbook.
“Then I have a clue—a place to start looking.”
She set it on the table.
“I stole this from the morgue before Cato showed up. It’s a matchbook that um—Leta was carrying. It’s from this bar—right here.”
The Man followed her fingertip to a small blue dot.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “You are Anastasi through and through. Tell me Little Rabbit, how long did it take your nimble mind to put all of this together?”
Caught off guard by the use of Giorgio’s pet name for her, Louisa touched the scarf at her neck.
“It—came to me this morning,” she admitted hesitantly.
Smiling, the Man held her captive with his gaze.
“The product of a good night’s sleep, no doubt.”
Louisa tried to look away, but it was impossible.
“I know this bar,” said the Man, releasing her to study the matchbook. “It has a reputation among the criminal underbelly of the city. If Leta was there, it was not because she desired a drink.”
He checked his wristwatch.
“Popi is uncharacteristically late this morning. However, when he arrives, I will have him take you both there. It’s a good place to start looking.”
“Popi?” Frowned Louisa. “Who is that?”
“He’s the driver,” spoke Cato. “A fat guy—Greek.”
Louisa’s cheeks reddened.
“I can drive us,” she said quickly. “We shouldn’t wait on a lead such as this. It could grow cold. Besides, I know Rome better than any Greek.”
The Man smiled again, and parted his hands in agreement.
“So you do,” he said. “Finding your way to my door is proof enough of that. Very well, come this way.”
…
Turning on his heel, the Benefactor walked toward a passageway beneath the South Wind. Beyond, Roman brick and ancient stone fell away into the depths of the house.
Cato stepped in line behind Louisa, and chewed the filter of his cigarette. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he tried to hide the fact that they were shaking. Despite what the Man had said, he was n
ot used to switching realities. His fingers found the arrowhead and closed around it. Making a fist, he squeezed until it hurt.
The Man led them down a set of steep precipitous steps. On the landing below, a gate barred their way. Using a spindly key, he threw the gate wide on an expansive and shadowy crypt. Lit by rows of bare bulbs, a collection of motorcycles, sports cars, work trucks, vans, and luxury vehicles sat parked among the curving pillars.
“Take the Bentley,” said the Man, moving to a lockbox on the wall.
Cato, distracted and only half-listening, furrowed his brow.
“Uh—aren’t the cops looking for the Bentley?”
Next to him, Louisa glanced up.
“That won’t be a problem any longer,” said the Man. “I’ve taken care of it.”
Cato snubbed out his cigarette with the tip of his shoe and nodded. He didn’t need the details, didn’t want to know. Louisa on the other hand looked positively stunned.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Was—was that you?”
The Man took the keys from the box and turned to stare at her.
“It was you!” She exclaimed. “You killed officers Bifona and Mora! But—but I met you that very night for the first time.”
Unmoved, the Man continued to stare.
“Madonna,” Louisa swore. “It makes perfect sense. They had their tongues ripped out just like your Leta. It was revenge—an eye for an eye.”
Cato arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Artemis killed my daughter, Louisa,” spoke the Man in soft voice. “My Orphanus. All who side with her are guilty.”
Louisa winced as if she’d just seen a wounded animal put to death.
“Like Cosimo Bruno and Comandante Savino?”
The Man nodded.
“I suppose I can’t fault you,” said Louisa. “When I find the person who killed my brother, they’ll be in worse shape than those dogs Mora and Bifona.”
Again, Cato’s eyebrow peaked.
“I am happy you understand,” smiled the Man. “And though I would love discuss the essential importance of Blood for Blood, tempus edax rerum, my dear—time is the devourer of all things.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a bone-white business card bearing a single line of neat black numerals.
The Man From Rome Page 17
