The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  Picking up Leta’s camera, Louisa turned it on. A full memory card of photos winked up from the screen. Tossing one last glance at the door, Louisa watched it for a moment, waiting to see if Cato would return. When he did not, she blew out a thin breath and opened the first photo.

  XXXIII

  The Man from Rome stood in Cato’s bedroom, and gazed out the window. Gathered in the sky above his house, a huge clutch of yellow finches circled. Holding an apple in one hand and a penknife in the other, he carved himself off a slice and eyed the wheeling flock with distain. A sound like miniature church bells broke his concentration. Wiping his fingers on a handkerchief, the Man took out his cell phone and answered it.

  “Louisa,” he said, putting her on speakerphone. “Have you found anything yet?”

  From the other end of the line there was a slight delay, then the lyrical voice of Louisa Anastasi replied.

  “Yes. We’re at a hotel on the border of the Vaticano and Gianicolo—it’s an old dormitory. Leta was staying here—using it as a base of operations.”

  The Man rested the phone on the windowsill and began carving himself another slice of apple.

  “And—” he said.

  “And there were two bags hidden in the walls—a backpack, and a bag of guns.”

  “Excellent. Was there a journal in the backpack?”

  “Yes. But I can’t read it.”

  “Of course not. What else? There should be a camera—photos.”

  “There are,” said Louisa. “I’ve got the camera here, I’ve just looked at the photos. Most of them show a man—salt and pepper hair, mid-forties, cold around the eyes. Looks like he could be a soldier.”

  “Hannity,” spoke the Man. “He works for Bruno and is another unwitting minion of Artemis’.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Louisa replied. “The photos start in Greece—Agios to be exact. I know because I’ve been to Crete—as a kid. Anyway, this Hannity fellow met with someone on the island—a merchant sailor by the looks of him. I don’t know what they discussed obviously, but money was exchanged—a lot of it.”

  The Man processed this and waited for Louisa to go on.

  “From there,” she continued. “Hannity crosses the Mediterranean into Libya, or Tunisia—I can’t tell which. Once he’s out of the desert though, the pictures start to get greener, much greener. I think Leta was following him south—down into Africa.”

  There was a pause as Louisa shifted the phone, presumably to fiddle with Leta’s camera.

  “There’s a photo,” she said. “I don’t know for sure where it was taken—but it’s the last one to feature Hannity. He’s in the jungle and there are other men with him—rebels, or mercenaries. They have these weird fossils, and they’re giving them to Hannity.”

  The Man set the apple down, ribbed with missing sections.

  “They look like teeth,” Louisa concluded. “Big, long teeth.”

  “Teeth?” Clarified the Man.

  “Yeah, like dinosaur teeth,” said Louisa. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Backing away from the window, the Man assumed an introspective air.

  “Spartoi,” he whispered.

  “What is that?”

  “They are an ancient race of pseudo Demi, typically bred for war.”

  “What is a Demi?”

  Unable to help himself, the Man smiled.

  “Demi is short for Demigod, Louisa.

  There was another pause.

  “Okay,” said Louisa hesitantly. “That still doesn’t really explain anything. It’s just a photo of teeth.”

  “Metamorphosis,” sighed the Man. “Teeth today, men tomorrow. Don’t over think it.”

  Louisa did not respond.

  “The Spartoi come in packs,” prompted the Man. “How many teeth are in the photograph?”

  “Um—I count eight.”

  “Then there will be four,” said the Man. “You spoke of guns. What do you have?”

  “Well, there’s a shotgun, an Uzi, a carbine, and some handguns.”

  “Ammunition?”

  “Yes.”

  “Adamantine?”

  “Only eight rounds—one mag in a .45. The rest of the boxes are either 9MM—full metal jacket, or shotgun shells—birdshot.”

  The Man closed his eyes and thought for a moment.

  “No matter,” he grunted. “The Spartoi are not Immortal, merely very difficult to kill.”

  He walked back to the window and looked outside. Still swarming his house, the yellow finches distorted the cloudless sky.

  “Here is what I want you to do,” he said. “Load the weapons and lock the door. Admit no one. Sleep in shifts.”

  “What?” Stammered Louisa. “Aren’t you coming here?”

  The Man watched the finches contemptuously.

  “The streets of Rome are not safe tonight,” he spoke. “Artemis has returned to strength and harries me even as we speak. If I go to you, or you to me, the outcome could be disastrous.”

  Slow to answer, Louisa sounded concerned.

  “And what if she decides to pay us a visit? She knows about the room—she searched it before we got here.”

  “And found nothing, yes?” Spoke the Man. “Why would she return unless we gave her a reason to? Besides, Cato is there—he can protect you.”

  “Oh,” said Louisa, her tone suddenly fearful.

  “What?”

  “Cato is gone. I’m alone right now.”

  The Man tensed.

  “He—” faltered Louisa. “He found Leta’s file. He knows that she was his sister—his twin. We had an argument, and he left.”

  “I see,” said the Man.

  By the sound of it, Louisa stood up and began to pace around the hotel room.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no idea it was so dangerous or I never would have let him go! It’s just that—”

  “Stay your fear,” the Man interrupted. “I will have Cato returned to you soon. In the meantime, arm yourself with Adamantine and lock the door.”

  Louisa stopped pacing and shifted the phone to her other ear.

  “I—” she started then stopped. “Why did you keep it from him—about Leta, I mean? Why would you do that?”

  Picking up his apple, the Man cut off another slice and ate it.

  “The best kept secrets are often the most deadly. So it is with Cato.”

  “He thinks you’re a monster,” said Louisa. “He hates you.”

  The Man put the freshly-cut wedge in his mouth and chewed.

  “He should.”

  A beat passed, then Louisa spoke again.

  “Did you have a good reason for it—for keeping them apart?”

  “I did,” the Man said. “Many lives will be saved because of my lies. Do you know the church of Santa Æmelia?”

  Louisa struggled to change gears.

  “Uh—isn’t that the church where you killed Apollo?”

  “Yes,” nodded the Man. “Meet me there tomorrow morning, just after sunrise. It will serve as a good place to formulate our countermove against Artemis and her Spartoi. Until then, we must remain utterly still. Stay in the room. Do not leave until daybreak.”

  “What about Cato?” Louisa asked.

  “What about him,” said the Man.

  “He’s—” Louisa hesitated. “He’s heartbroken. What if he doesn’t want to come back—what if he’s finished with all of this?”

  “Load the weapons,” spoke the Man. “Prepare for tomorrow. Cato will soon see that his anger is misdirected. Artemis killed his sister, not I. She is his real enemy.”

  He picked up the phone.

  “Until tomorrow. Buona notte, Louisa Anastasi. Dream of me.”

  Hanging up, the Man quit Cato’s room and headed for the door. As he walked down the long hallway toward the bank of high stained-glass windows, he dialed a familiar phone number and pressed call. Corallina answered on the first ring.

  XXXIV

  Mr. Hannity
put his tongue between his teeth and issued a shrill whistle. Beside him, the four pale brothers let loose a great drum-roll of gunfire. Socking into the back wall, their bullets pockmarked the stone like rainfall on melting snow. Torn to shreds, paper targets disappeared in a flurry of cinders. Smiling to himself, Hannity relished the deafening chatter of their guns, hearing not the sounds of chaos, but rather a kind of feverish music. When the last of the targets exploded into scorched tatters, he whistled again and raised a hand. At once, the brothers ceased firing.

  “Okay,” he said. “Not bad, not bad at all.”

  He went to the table and picked up one of the M249 SAWs. Running a belt of ammunition through the feedtray, he closed the cover, then repeated the process with the other SAW.

  “You’ve got the basic idea. Now it’s time to get creative.”

  He gestured for Notus and Boreas to come over.

  “We’re going to run some formations now, and we’re going to mix it up a bit. I’m sure you all can handle it.”

  He traded the boys their M16s for SAWs then sent them back to the others. Heavy as the new weapons were, neither brother showed any strain in carrying them.

  “Bruno said this Vecchio guy is dangerous,” said Hannity. “That just means we have to be more dangerous. If we’re ready—tested—he won’t stand a chance. No one will.”

  He reached into one of the duffels for more targets, then got an idea and grabbed something else as well. Pocketing the object—a small, cylindrical gadget, he walked to the far wall. Still smoldering, the bullet holes from the latest barrage smelled of burnt dust and hot metal. Tingling with anticipation, Hannity wondered what Adamantine would smell like when it was fired. He replaced the shredded targets, and came back toward the brothers.

  “Okay, Boreas, Notus—you two take up positions there and there. You’re going to use those machine guns to lay down cover. But, don’t just stand still and shoot. I want you to push forward in a cross pattern every fifteen seconds, you hear me?”

  He turned to Zephyus and Eurus.

  “You two stay low—below their line of fire and move forward from side to side. When it’s done right, this whole thing should look like DNA. They wind—you cut back and forth. Let them draw the fire so you can get close to the targets. Everyone understand?”

  Eyes flashing eagerly, each brother seemed to smile without actually smiling. Falling into position, they primed their weapons and waited for the signal.

  “Now you guys can all shoot just fine,” said Hannity. “But there’s something called the fog of war—it’s a kind of confusion that clouds your thinking. You don’t know where you are, or what you’re doing. You don’t know if you’re going to die or not. It can make even the simplest tasks seem impossible.”

  He took the object from his pocket and held it aloft.

  “I can’t exactly put it into words, but this smoke grenade should get the point across.”

  Pulling the pin, he tossed the grenade into the center of the cellar. A bright flash threw molten sparks into the air, and a billowing cloud of white began to unfurl in waves. Hannity put his tongue between his teeth and whistled.

  Like a lit fuse, the brothers leaped into action. Gun barrels blasting, they advanced on the far wall, one tawny monster with four fire-breathing heads. As the gap closed, Notus and Boreas unloaded on the targets, while Eurus and Zephyrus wove back and forth, punching out holes with their Mossbergs.

  Once they were far enough along, Hannity reached into the gun bag again and produced a tube of tennis balls. Uncapping it, he started hurling the balls over the brother’s heads so that they struck the far wall and bounced back in the smoke. As if expecting this, Boreas and Notus quickly pulled their aim from the targets and cut down the streaking yellow orbs. Grinning proudly, Hannity watched his young charges maneuver in and out of smoke with the ease of battle-tested mercenaries. Louder and louder, their echoing chorus grew, filling the long cellar with the whine of ricochets and the clamor of shattered brick.

  Soon, there would be no more paper targets to decimate, and no more lessons to learn. Soon, blood would flow. Tapping along with the brother’s thunderous assault, Hannity’s trigger finger began to twitch.

  XXXV

  Dangling his legs over the edge of the scaffolding, Cato gazed out at Rome, and lit himself a new cigarette. Three stories below, a wide scattering of butts had accumulated on the street like dead leaves. After getting slapped sober by Louisa, Cato had found an open hallway window and climbed out onto one of the catwalks that criss-crossed the face of the hotel. Now, he sat facing the river, smoking cigarette after cigarette, watching birds wheel in the evening skies above the centro storico, near the Pantheon.

  On the plank beside him, Leta’s file lay face up, flashing the word Gemina into his stormy mind every time he glanced at it. Wanting to stop himself, but knowing he was powerless to, Cato picked up the folder again and opened it to the page containing photos. First among them was the image of Leta and him as children. Together only in that moment, they held hands and stood in front of an old church that seemed somehow out of place amidst the modern buildings, which surrounded it.

  Cato frowned and leaned in close. He knew that church, had seen it recently even. Strangely though, it wasn’t in Rome; it was back home in Seattle. Frowning deeper, he tried to remember the early years, the years before he had gone to live with Corallina. As usual, they were shifty and insubstantial. Swearing under his breath, Cato felt a hot stab of anger. His life was a mystery to him, a tangle of secrets and lies. Before he could think better of it, he fished out his cell phone, and dialed.

  ‘Hello,’ said the answering machine. ‘You’ve reached the home of Corallina, and sometimes Cato. Please leave a message after the tone and one of us—probably me, will call you back. Caio!’

  Letting out a breath, Cato chuckled into the receiver.

  “Hello Corallina,” he said. “It’s your son. I bet you’ve been waiting for this call—waiting ever since I left.”

  Cato dragged on his cigarette and blew out smoke.

  “It’s been a rough few days. I’ve seen some things I’ll never be able to unsee. It’s a mess over here, Corallina—a god damned mess. You might have caught some of it on the news—restaurant bombing, tons of dead. But uh—I’m not calling to talk about that.”

  He paused, letting the receiver record the nighttime sounds of the city.

  “You lied to me ever since I was a kid. You manipulated me for him. You made me into a soldier—into a weapon.”

  Glancing down at the photo, Cato sighed.

  “But the real kicker is that you never told me about my sister. My twin sister.”

  The line sizzled.

  “Why? Why did he do it—the Benefactor? Why did he separate us, lie to us? Why did you help him?”

  He let the question hang, pregnant and heavy.

  “I—” Cato faltered. “I want to believe there’s a good reason for it, but fuck if I can’t think of a single one. How am I supposed to live with this, Corallina? How am I supposed to go forward, knowing that the past has been a lie? What else don’t I know? What more is coming?”

  Suddenly, the phone began to buzz in his hand. Cato broke off and checked the screen. It was Corallina, calling him back.

  End Call & Answer? Offered the phone. End Call & Answer?

  Cato stared at it, caught between betrayal and curiosity. The phone continued to buzz, its screen blinking incessantly. Creeping down to the filter, Cato’s cigarette became a pillar of ash.

  “No,” he said at last, making up his mind. “No.”

  Sitting up straighter, he took a deep breath, and resumed his message.

  “You’re calling me right now,” he said. “But I’m not going to pick up. See, I just thought of something. No matter what you say, nothing will be any different. I was brought here to avenge Leta—to kill her killer. I didn’t really have a choice before, but at least now I have a good reason. Isn’t that right?”

&nbs
p; Cato flicked his butt into the street and went for another cigarette.

  “Maybe that’s why he chose me for this job—the Benefactor. Maybe this is all his fucked up way of saying he’s sorry. Maybe it’s some kind of conciliation prize, I don’t know. But, that’s what I’m getting at. Even if I knew, even if you told me, it wouldn’t matter. I can’t control any of that stuff—I can’t control the past. What I can control though, is what I do next.”

  Striking a light, Cato peered across the city to the Palatine Hill. Cast in beams of eerie light, Rome’s ancient monuments flickered like ghosts.

  “I’m going to kill Artemis, Corallina,” said Cato. “And then I’m going to vanish from the face of this world. You’ll never see me again, no one will. I’m going to use what you taught me to make a new life for myself. That’s how I’m going to win. You aren’t my mother anymore, and I’m not your son. I’m writing you out of my story, understand?”

  He smiled sardonically.

  “Thanks for all the memories, Corallina. Goodbye.”

  Ending the call, Cato cocked his arm back, and hurled the phone away in a gesture of finality. It arced high and fell, shattering on the cobblestones just as a new call came through. Taking a long, pleasurable drag of his cigarette, Cato closed Leta’s folder, and looked out upon the city of Rome anew.

  XXXVI

  Doing as the Man had instructed, Louisa busied herself by loading magazines with their corresponding rounds. Though the work was a welcome distraction, she kept glancing at the door, hoping Cato would walk through it at any moment. As if in response to this unspoken desire, a floorboard in the hallway creaked. Smiling with relief, Louisa stood up and went to unlock the door. Louder than blade against bone, a key entered the lock. She stiffened, and halted mid step. Cato had no key, and neither did she. They’d broken into the room.

  Quickly, silently, Louisa retrieved the Kimber Compact from among the other weapons. Still rattling in the lock, the key worked back and forth, trying to throw the damaged bolt. Going to the corner of the entry hall, Louisa killed the lights and raised the pistol. A sharp click emanated from the door, and it swung open. Entering through the shadows, a face appeared.