The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  A moment later, he reached the tall, double doors of Cosimo Bruno’s library. Bathed in warm firelight, Bruno and the brothers formed a semi-circle around the hearth. Speaking in an animated voice, Bruno glanced over as Hannity entered.

  “My friend,” he said. “Come sit with us. I was just telling our boys about the island of Delos. You remember it, yes? You ought to.”

  He gestured to an antique table where a map of the Greece had been spread flat.

  “I know it probably didn’t look like much when you were there. Yet, it is a most important place. Not one, but two Immortal Gods were born upon its shores. Twins no less.”

  Looking soulfully at the brothers, Bruno wagged a finger.

  “Our Artemis is no immigrant like Quello Vecchio—no traveler. She is native to this earth, organic. Thus, we are her defenders—restorers of the natural order.”

  Hannity set the box down and came toward the firelight.

  “And what have you there?” Asked Bruno, turning to look at him more closely.

  “Armor,” answered Hannity. “It’s time to restore the natural order.”

  For a beat, Bruno’s face remained smiling, then it began to drain of color.

  “H—how do you know this? Who gave you that box?”

  Dismissing his boss with a shrug, Hannity turned to the brothers.

  “Boreas, Notus, Zephyrus, Eurus—no more talk, okay? We have blood to spill—mayhem and murder. Go get dressed, we move out in thirty.”

  “Wait—” stammered Bruno, leaping to his feet. “This isn’t what we discussed. This isn’t the plan!”

  He reached for the departing brother, but Hannity caught him by the arm and held him back.

  “Sorry, boss,” he said. “I’ll take it from here. She says you know what to do next. She suggests you get to work.”

  XL

  Patterns of gold stitched themselves across Rome’s elegant skyline. Silhouetted in the domed glass of his private quarters, the Man stood with his face angled to greet the coming dawn. Dressed entirely in crimson, he wore a slim-fitting three-piece suit dyed the color of the old Roman Legions. If his enemies made him bleed on this day, they would not have the satisfaction of seeing it stain his clothes.

  Leaving the view behind, the Man went to a spiral staircase and descended. Three stories of metal steps cork-screwed away beneath him. At the bottom of the shaft, he came through a shrouded doorway and into the darkened atrium. Stifled by the gloomy heights, the eastern light fell colorless, and weak upon the faces of the four winds. The Man checked his wristwatch, then headed for the kitchen. If he employed prudence and skill, there was plenty of time for him to enjoy a breakfast of pancetta-fried eggs, and honey-glazed sweet buns. Given the opportunity, the Man always obliged a meal before battle.

  He entered the long hallway and walked toward the kitchen door. Suddenly, the chime of tiny bells emanated from his breast pocket. He stopped and took out his phone.

  ‘Popi,’ flashed the screen. ‘Popi—Popi—Popi.’

  Ticking up at the corners, the Man’s eyes narrowed. The Greek had been in abstentia for the last two days, a curious departure from his normally submissive behavior. Were it not for Artemis and her unpredictable outbursts, the Man would have tracked Popi down by now, and added another shrinking chain to his collection.

  “Popi,” he said into the receiver. “Where have you been?”

  “D—D—Dominus,” Popi sobbed. “Dominus, please forgive me—”

  The line went dead. Like a shift in the wind, the Man smelled it, smelled her. He lowered the phone and hit redial. Somewhere in the dusky house, a faint ringing started up. Tilting his head, the Man listened carefully, then turned, and moved back toward the atrium. Narrow rays of sunlight had begun to pierce the room, yet darkness still reigned.

  “Diana,” he called. “At long last, you have succumbed to your own madness.”

  Laughter arose, reverberating among the shadows. The Man stepped into the cavernous room and made a fist.

  “You must be mad,” he said. “For an attack on me within these walls is unwinnable—even for you. Your chances were better at the restaurant. You should have sprung your Spartoi on me there.”

  Again, a reply of airy laughter dappled the scene. The Man rotated, trying to pin down Artemis’ exact location. Suddenly, a rustle moved past him, and Popi’s golden-chains landed at his feet. The Man bent to retrieve them, slipping the broken links into his pocket.

  “Cheap tricks,” taunted Artemis, her voice echoing from all around him.

  There was movement ahead, something shambling forward on unsteady legs. Collapsing into a beam of sunlight, Popi sprawled out on the floor. Missing long, swirling strips of flesh, he appeared to have been meticulously flayed, transformed as it were, into a piece of living, bleeding art.

  “D—Dominus,” he slurred. “Dominus please help me!”

  At his extreme age, the Man from Rome had seen every kind of violence imaginable. Though creative and extensive, Popi’s injuries were nothing to him.

  “Dominus please!” Moaned Popi. “Please don’t leave me!”

  The Man shot him an incandescent glare and scanned the murk. Circling him, a figure darted just out of view. Seeing it too, Popi began to wriggle toward the Man, seeking safety and protection. Revealing herself at last, Artemis stepped into the light and placed a porcelain hand on Popi’s mutilated shoulder. Clad in gleaming plates of form-fitting armor, she wore her bow slung over one shoulder, and a full quiver of arrows over the other. Popi stopped at her touch and let out a strained moan.

  “Now, now, Popi,” she chided. “No one wants to hear you do that, do we?”

  She eyed the Man and sneered.

  “Your standards in company have dipped, Old One. Wherever did you find such an ugly creature?”

  Smiling, the Man savored the moment.

  “Hasn’t he told you yet?” He said. “You two share a rather singular connection—a father to be precise.”

  Artemis frowned quizzically and looked down at Popi.

  “Yes,” chuckled the Man. “You know how your father is, Diana—fucking every mortal that moves. Don’t you recognize your own half-brother?”

  Sinking her fingernails into Popi’s back, Artemis raked down and tore away a ragged handful of flesh. Shrieking in agony, the Greek fell to the ground and writhed.

  “Oh, Diana,” sighed the Man. “Look what you’ve done. You’ve ruined your design.”

  He shook his head in disgust.

  “Cruelty and art do not mix.”

  Suppressing a laugh, Artemis tossed the dripping hunk of flesh aside and licked her fingers.

  “Have you forgotten where we are, old goat? This is Rome—birthplace of cruelty! Tell me, were you this disgusted when your precious Caesars were raping and murdering their way into posterity? I think not.”

  The Man fixed Artemis with a flat stare.

  “It was not me who whispered in their ears, feeding their envy and covetousness. Mankind has the so-called Gods to thank for that.”

  Artemis jabbed Popi with a boot-tip and grinned.

  “Maybe, but where would they have been without us, Ancient? We gave them purpose—gave them meaning. What have you ever done for the human race? You don’t even have a name for them to remember you by—a name for them to worship.”

  Doing a series of calculations in his head, the Man took an exploratory step forward. His eyes counted the arrows in Artemis’ quiver.

  “In fact,” she went on. “I said very much the same thing to your sweet, darling Orphanus the night I killed her. I explained to her in great detail just how unimportant her life had been—how futile her master’s efforts truly were.”

  She licked at the blood on her fingers again and laughed.

  “You’ll have to forgive me though, I’m afraid I can’t recreate her response. Her tongue was in a glass of port on the windowsill, you see.”

  The Man’s features hardened, and he took another step forward.r />
  “What’s the matter, Ancient?” Artemis teased. “Nothing to say now, no pithy wit to share. Does the thought of your little Orphanus, screaming and crying for her Benefactor, truly bring you that much pain?”

  Now within striking distance, the Man tightened the cords of his muscles, waiting for Artemis to give him an opportunity.

  “That has always been your greatest weakness,” she said. “Your love for these stray mortals—runts of the cosmic litter. What you see in them, I will never understand.”

  She chuckled and shook her head.

  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy killing them.”

  In a nightmarish burst of speed, the Man attacked, blurring across the room before Artemis could react. Knotting his fingers in her flowing hair, he swung her off her feet, and slammed her into the floor. Like a halo, a great web of spidery cracks framed her head. Kneeling, he seized her by the throat, and squeezed. Laughing despite the crushing pressure, Artemis spawned a network of sizzling black veins that burned the Man’s hands to touch. He let go of her, and staggered back.

  Wearing a wide grin, Artemis rolled to her feet and spat out a mouthful of Ichor.

  “Well, well! Not up to the task any longer? And here I thought you were a God killer. It appears the Fates are against you and Vengeance shall be mine after all. She protects me, Ancient—shields me from your wrath.”

  Snarling, the Man dealt a lethal uppercut. Neck snapping back, Artemis sprayed blood into the air, and nearly lost her footing. Heaving his fists again, the Man tried for a second strike, but Artemis spun away before he could connect. In another instant, her bow was loose, an arrow already in flight. The Man turned just in time, the bolt grazing his brow. Artemis hissed with bitter rage and fired another shot, and another after that. Pirouetting toward her, the Man stayed one step ahead of each bolt—one heartbeat faster than she.

  When he was upon her once more, he tore the bow from her hands, and drove his fist into her gleaming armor. Wheezing, Artemis lashed back with a combo of wild, biting jabs. Pivoting through the assault, the Man stomped down, shattering her leg with an audible crunch. Crippled, the Goddess dropped to the floor.

  “Black day, this!” Bellowed the Man. “Even imbued with the unassailable power of Vengeance, you still fall beaten at my feet. Pathetic. Where are your Spartoi? Bring on my real challenge!”

  From the floor, Artemis let out broken laugh. She rose onto one elbow, blood trickling from her mouth.

  “I should have known the night I met him,” she said. “But I was distracted.”

  The Man faltered.

  “Blood deserves blood, yes?” Smiled Artemis. “Yet, when there is none for Vengeance to seek, one must orchestrate the spilling of it.”

  She laughed again and struggled to her knees.

  “Cato Fin—gemina. You really are a ruthless planner, Ancient. Unfortunately, it’s all be for nothing, I fear. You ask where my Spartoi are. Take a guess.”

  Leaping his eyes to the glass dome above, the Man beheld the rising sun. At this very moment, Cato and Louisa would be leaving the hotel, heading out into the open to meet him.

  “It’s over,” said Artemis. “The boy can’t exact Vengeance on me from beyond the grave. He will die, and I will still have all the time in the world to finish you off.”

  She drew an arrow from her quiver and gripped it by the shaft.

  “Even still, I offer you an olive branch. Accept your end—let me kill you now, and I will spare the rest of your Orphanus. Minus Cato, of course.”

  The Man dropped his gaze from the skylight, and glanced at the front door.

  “It might take me decades to track them all down,” Artemis warned. “But you know that I will. And when I do, each one will suffer as she did—the twin. What do you say, Ancient? Their lives for your death.

  Taking a slow, deep breath, the Man smoothed his jacket.

  “Mortem appeteret aut glorie,” he said. “For death or glory.”

  Cursing savagely, Artemis hurled her bolt like a streak of silver lighting. It shot through empty space and showered the far wall in a blast of molten sparks. Gone was the Man from Rome, leaving nothing, but a shadow in his wake.

  XLI

  Pulling up to the scaffold-covered hotel, Mr. Hannity jumped from the Benz and went around to the back hatch. Simultaneously, all of the passenger-side doors sprang open and the brothers stepped out to join him. Matching in royal blue Armani suits, the four looked like male models on their way to a photo shoot. Truer to his tastes, Hannity wore a tan hunting jacket and a red-checkered keffiyeh, or Middle-Eastern scarf, wrapped loosely around his neck. Adalina had offered him a suit as well, but he had declined. No longer did he dress to please Cosimo Bruno. Now he served another.

  Popping the hatch, he reached into the bed of the Range Rover and hoisted out two black nylon gun bags. Secured by clips and fitted with padded shoulder straps, they contained everything the group would need for their day of destruction.

  “Here’s the deal,” said Hannity, passing both bags to Notus and Eurus. “You two are on the street. I want you to use the SAWs and hold it down. If you see the cops, don’t hesitate to shoot, we can’t have anyone interrupting us. Remember though; try to save the Adamantine rounds for Mr. Vecchio. Use regular rounds on the cops.”

  He turned to Zephyrus and Boreas.

  “You’re both coming with me,” he said. “We’re going inside.”

  Wordlessly, the brothers split, Notus and Eurus loading huge barrel clips into their belt-fed, M249 SAWs, while Zephyrus and Boreas armed themselves with Heckler & Kotch submachine guns.

  “No matter what happens, we don’t scatter,” Hannity went on. “We retreat as one, you hear me? If things get too hot—if we need to jet, Zephyrus, Notus, it’s up to you to clear the street for a clean get-away.”

  He pulled the keffiyeh up over the lower half of his face and shouldered his MP5.

  “You boys were born to kill, it’s in your goddamned DNA. Let’s get down to business.”

  With that, he jacked a round into the chamber and dashed for the entrance.

  …

  Cato descended the stairs at a trot, walking ahead of Louisa and her uncle. Snugged tightly over his shoulders, Leta’s backpack was a comforting weight to carry. It reminded him that she had once been real—breathing and alive. It reminded him that he had once had a sister.

  Coming down into the lobby, Cato looked out at the empty rows of columns. Pale in the morning sun, the large room was deserted and cavernous. He paused on the last step and shook his pack of cigarettes. Slipping free, one fell between his fingers. The lobby doors banged open, and suddenly, Louisa was there beside him, shouting something in his ear, pushing him toward the floor. Falling awkwardly, Cato hit the tiles and sprawled out.

  “What the—” he began.

  A bright crackle of submachine gun fire tore between the pillars, shredding the stairs where he had just been standing.

  “Correre!” Yelled Louisa. “Come on—run!”

  She pointed to the nearest row of columns.

  “Who’s shooting?” Cried Cato. “What the hell is going on?”

  They reached cover, ducking as another barrage of bullets pocked the stone.

  “It’s them,” Louisa gasped.

  “Them?” Cato repeated. “Them, them?”

  Louisa glanced around the edge of the pillar and nodded.

  “Yes, it’s Hannity, I recognize him despite the mask. He’s got two of those things with him—two Spartoi. But I don’t see the others—I don’t know where they are!”

  More bullets rattled out, biting powdery chunks from the marble that snowed down in drifts. Cato tugged at the gym bag in Louisa’s hand, fumbling for the zipper.

  “Where’s Niccolò—where’s your uncle?”

  Eyes widening, Louisa darted her gaze to the smoldering stairs, but they were empty.

  “Zio?” She shouted. “Zio, where are you?”

  “I’m here!” Niccol�
� responded from somewhere to the left. “How many do we face?”

  “Three,” Louisa called back.

  Cato found the carbine rifle and extended the stock. Another staccato of shots slashed the air, morphing in pitch.

  “Shit!” He swore, hazarding a glance. “They’re trying to flank us!”

  He broke cover and scanned the scene beyond. Like a forest of white, limbless trees, the pillars spread out in evenly spaced rows. Staying low, he inched forward, hoping to get a better look. Just then, someone cut across open space, framed for a millisecond between trunks of smooth stone. Remembering the night in northern California, and screams of startled men, Cato leveled his rifle.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ Corallina spoke in his head. ‘When the moment is right, let everything else go and squeeze the trigger.’

  Cato exhaled. The carbine flared to life in his hands. With a jerk, the runner, a pale, snowy haired young man, twisted sideways and stumbled. Re-settling the stock, Cato fired again, but unlike his first shot, the second whizzed over the man’s shoulder just as he slipped behind a column.

  “Got one,” he announced.

  “You did?” Said Louisa, her face hopeful.

  “Winged him at least,” Cato amended. “You see where the others went?”

  Louisa took the shotgun from the bag and pumped it.

  “Hannity is by the door—I don’t know about the others.”

  “Right,” nodded Cato. “Okay, here’s what were going to do—you take the guns and go get Niccolò. I’m going after Hannity—the head of this fucking Hydra.”

  “Wait you idiot!” Cried Louisa after him. “The Hydra had many heads!”

  …