The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  “Shit,” swore Louisa, crestfallen.

  From the corner of the room, a low chuckle carried out, making her heart skip a beat despite its drive.

  “Hello, Louisa.”

  She turned, and put on a cutting smile.

  “All hail the conquering king,” she said.

  Dressed in a splendid, purple suit so dark it was almost celestial, and fully returned to his radiant beauty, the Man from Rome came forward.

  “Rome is a democracy, these days,” he said. “But thank you all the same.”

  “Cato?” Asked Louisa. “Did he make it?”

  “Yes,” the Man bowed.

  “And Artemis?”

  “Dead.”

  Louisa nodded slowly and relaxed a little.

  “Then I guess you were able to stop her from making off with Apollo’s body as well.”

  The Man offered her blank stare and did not reply.

  “So where is Cato anyway?” Asked Louisa

  “I have no idea. He took Leta’s ashes and disappeared. But fear not, I believe this was his plan. He wants to be rid of me, and I cannot blame him.”

  Louisa allowed a happy smile to grace her lips and felt somewhat lighter for it.

  “Good,” she said. “Cato—he deserves a break, don’t you think?”

  Sitting down in Nunzio’s vacant chair, the Man scooted it closer.

  “Wholeheartedly,” he nodded. “Yet I am not here to talk about Cato, Louisa.”

  He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” she lied. “Perfect.”

  The Man glanced at the door and smiled.

  “You need not fear those men, they cannot hear us for we speak in tongues too subtle for their ears.”

  “Okay…” Louisa frowned. “Thanks I guess.”

  Still smiling, the Man returned his gaze to her.

  “Tell me about your mother,” he said.

  Perplexed, Louisa furrowed her brow.

  “My mother?”

  “Yes. I knew your father, and Niccolò, and Farro. But your mother—who was she? What was her name?”

  Louisa blinked and frowned deeper.

  “My mother’s name was Louisa,” she answered. “I am named in her honor.”

  At this, the Man’s gaze became sharp.

  “Clever,” he said. “Your father’s idea I’m sure. And what was her maiden name—her family name?”

  “I—” Louisa hesitated. “I honestly don’t know. She died giving birth to me, and it was always something of a secret between my father and Niccolò.”

  Slowly, the Man sat back in his chair and folded his legs.

  “Of course,” he sighed. “Very well. Where is she buried then, your mother?”

  Starting to grow more confused by the moment, Louisa tugged at the handcuffs again.

  “Listen—why are you asking about my mother?” She demanded. “What are you getting at?”

  The Man examined his knuckles, then met Louisa’s eyes.

  “Strange don’t you think,” he said. “That you do not know your own mother’s maiden name, nor where her grave can be found. Was your brother as disinterested in this mystery as you?”

  Faltering, Louisa felt her cheeks begin to burn.

  “I don’t think he was,” continued the Man. “In fact, I think he was very interested—too interested.”

  “What are you talking about?” Exclaimed Louisa. “Speak plainly.”

  The Man smiled and smoothed his tie.

  “As you have often said—you are a proud member of the Anastasi family. And why not? They have policed the streets of Rome for centuries. They command a legacy worthy of praise. Yet, this is merely one half of your identity, Louisa—one side of the coin, so to speak. I’m curious what sort of legacy you inherited from your mother.”

  He let the statement hang, ringing like a bell.

  “You asked me some days ago about the word Demi—about what it stood for. Do you remember?”

  A lump began to form in Louisa’s throat.

  “And I told you,” said the Man. “That it was short for Demigod.”

  “I’m not—”stammered Louisa. “I’m not—”

  “You are,” the Man chuckled. “How else do you think you survived the explosion at La Spada Spezatta, or my kiss, or that bullet in your gut?”

  The room began to vibrate, threatening to ink out and go black.

  “Yes,” the Man nodded, reading Louisa’s troubled expression. “Somewhere on your mother’s side of the family tree, there is an offshoot of Immortal origin. However, I think you already knew this on some level. Perhaps it is why you so readily threw yourself into my war with Artemis. Perhaps it is why you never accepted the official story regarding Ferro’s murder. In any case, Niccolò and your father took great pains to hide your condition from everyone—including you.”

  Leaning forward, he rested a hand on top of Louisa’s just as Nunzio had done; only his was much larger and far heavier.

  “You say your mother died in childbirth, but such a thing is impossible. Demis are like Immortals in this respect. Thus, she if she really is dead, then she was killed—just like Ferro.”

  “No,” Louisa quivered, fighting to control the level of her voice. “You’re lying again! You’re trying to—to manipulate me for some reason!”

  “Given my past transgression,” spoke the Man. “I do not fault you for think so, but in all honesty, I’m not lying to you now. From the moment I kissed you, Louisa—from the moment I discovered what you were, I understood a great many things. Long had I pondered the motive for Ferro’s murder. Now I know.”

  Louisa shook her head, trying to dispel the haze of shock.

  “The motive?” She choked. “Then—then you already know who killed him?”

  The Man rose from his chair and turned away.

  “If I give you the answer to that question, then you must promise to let me explain.”

  Louisa strained against the handcuffs, causing the machines to beep frantically.

  “Tell me!” She cried. “Tell me who killed Ferro!”

  Facing her again, the Man made his eyes shimmer.

  “You’ve met the culprit already,” he said. “You saw me snap his neck in 1945.”

  For several seconds, Louisa did not understand. The magnitude of the statement, coupled with its impossibility, made her mind skip like tracks on a broken record.

  “Apollo?” She said at last. “Is that what you’re saying? Apollo killed my brother?”

  “Yes,” nodded the Man. “And likely your mother too.”

  “But—but—”

  “You are confused,” spoke the Man. “I sympathize. This is why I asked you to let me explain.”

  He returned to her bedside and knelt.

  “All that I told in Santa Æmelia is true. I merely omitted the fact that Apollo had already succeeded in finding his way back from Elysium.”

  “How long?” Uttered Louisa. “How long have you known?”

  “Since 1955,” replied the Man. “Not ten years after I laid him to rest, he was back.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know—such a thing should have been nearly impossible to achieve alone. Moreover, when he resurfaced, he made no effort to reunite with his brokenhearted sister, or contact his pupils at the Order of Delphi. Instead, he spent the last sixty-one years picking off one Demi after another. Your brother was merely the latest in a long line of murders committed for reasons I fail to comprehend.”

  Louisa closed her eyes, attempting to make sense of what she had just heard.

  “So there you have it,” said the Man. “I’ve made good on my promise to you—I’ve told you who killed your brother. When I learn what motive fueled these dark deeds, I will get word to you—no matter what bottomless hole Interpol decides to stick you in.”

  Looking up suddenly, Louisa fought against the handcuffs.

  “No fucking w
ay!” She shouted. “You made a deal with Cato, remember? You have to help me get revenge—you gave him your word!”

  The Man smiled and his entire countenance grew brighter by degrees. Seeing this, Louisa grew calm and narrowed her eyes.

  “But that’s why you came here today, isn’t it?” She said. “You’re not really going to let them throw me in prison—you never were. You’re here to fill my head with so much mystery that I beg you to break me out. That’s what you do isn’t it—string people along like blind rats in a maze? Cato was right about you.”

  The Man maintained his smile despite Louisa’s fiery stare.

  “You are no rat, Louisa Anastsi,” he spoke. “But you are correct. Still, I want you to consider what you will be leaving behind if you come with me on a quest for revenge.”

  He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “More importantly though,” he said. “I want you consider what you will do when you find Apollo. Have you the strength to do as Cato did? Have you the strength to become a God-Killer?”

  Jaw set, eyes burning, Louisa Anastasi stared up at the Man from Rome.

  “You already know the answer to that question,” she whispered. “Now get me the hell out of here.”

  LV

  It was the dead of night and a strong southerly blew across the island of Delos. Whistling between crumbling pillars and down the rows of ancient temples, it whipped the sea beyond into a shifting range of pitched waves. Uninhabited this time of year, and only open to day-tripping tourists, the entire island was as dark and empty as the starless sky.

  And yet, standing atop the highest hill, a single man could be distinguished among the crumbling statues. Dressed in white slacks and a fine Kashmir sweater, he seemed at odds with the island’s rugged terrain. Binoculars pressed to his fearful eyes, this man—Cosimo Bruno, stared out at the bay below and trembled. There, floating in the wine-dark waters of the Aegean, a cargo ship, his cargo ship, listed and rolled. Unlit by port lights and devoid of life, it mirrored the island’s deserted appearance, drifting in the sea like a bad omen.

  Thinking of the last time he had seen the ship, moored at the port at Ostia ten days ago, Bruno lowered his binoculars and made a quiet moaning sound. Back then it had been fully manned by a crew of faithful mercenaries. Now, it was a ghost ship, a veritable Demeter, come to bring a monster to the shores of his island.

  As if to confirm this, something stirred from the blackness behind Bruno. He spun and wrestled a large revolver from his pocket. Glinting in the faded moonlight, the weapon danced uncertainly, it’s wielder a novice when it came to violence. The sound drew nearer and Bruno jerked the trigger. A bright flash of fire erupted, startling him so badly that he dropped the weapon. Briefly silhouetted by the blast, a figure imprinted upon his vision.

  Bruno turned and fled, leaving the revolver where it smoked on the ground. Following the ridge of the hill down to the island’s leeside, he made for the lighted window of his small hut. Just out of range, the figure dashed after him; always there but never close enough to see. Crying now, weeping, Bruno cast about and almost tripped over a loose rock on the slope. Adrenaline surged like sour fire in his veins, making him burn with terror, burned with dread. Sure that he would be overtaken and set upon at any moment, he kept tossing wild glances into the darkness despite the obvious risks such an action posed.

  Within seconds, he lost his sense of direction and ran squarely into the low fence that outlined his hut. Flipping over it, he slammed face-first into the ground and nearly bit off the tip of his tongue. Stunned and bleeding, he scrambled to his feet and sobbed miserably. From the corner of his eye, a shadow vaulted the fence with ease, landing nearby. Bruno howled and stumbled toward the door of his hut, a lone kerosene lantern hanging in the window to light his way. Spilling through, he slammed the door shut and threw the bolt. A second later, his pursuer leaped against the wood, causing it to shudder in its frame.

  “Adalina?” Slurred Bruno with his bloody tongue. “Get the guns!”

  Backing toward the center of the room, he cringed as another blow rattled the door.

  “Adalina! Adalina!”

  Eyes round and red, Bruno recalled an invocation to Jupiter the Redeemer, and began reciting it in the hopes of gaining divine protection. However, when the planks of the door started to splinter and give way, he stopped muttereing and screamed.

  “Adalina!”

  Panic stricken, Bruno spun around and darted toward the bedroom at the rear of the hut. Suddenly there to block his path, a hulking man emerged from within and ducked through the low frame. Dangling lifeless in his arms, Adalina stared out with glassy eyes.

  “Cosimo Bruno,” said the Man, laying the corpse on the ground. “At long last.”

  Bruno froze, his bladder releasing. Like a bloom on the front of his slacks, a long wet stain crept to the floor. Unhurriedly, the Man—quello Vecchio, came toward him, bowing beneath each successive ceiling beam as he approached. Powerless to remain standing in the presence of such a force, Bruno fell to his knees and wept openly.

  “P—please—” he began.

  “Stop.”

  “Forgive me—”

  “Enough.”

  Bruno leaned forward and tried to clasp the Vecchio’s legs—to kiss his shoes. Brushing him off, the Man chuckled and shook his head.

  “Now, now, Procurist. In one breath you beg redemption from Jupiter himself and in the next you kiss the feet of his daughter’s killer. Where is your sense of self respect?”

  The door gave one final creaking shudder, then blew in on broken hinges. Stepping into the lamplight, the pale specter of Boreas appeared in the frame. Scarred by scattershot and whiter than marble, his face was a mask of indifference.

  “My son!” Bruno choked. “Save me!”

  Boreas made no sign of recognition and stayed where he was. Wrapped around his alabaster neck, gold chains caught the kerosene glow.

  “What do you call this one?” The Man asked. “What is his name?”

  Seized by sinking doom, Bruno swayed and threatened to faint.

  “His name, Cosimo,” demanded the Old One. “What is his name.”

  “B—B—Boreas,” Bruno stuttered. “His name is Boreas.”

  The Man smiled and rocked on his feet.

  “Is that so,” he said. “How rich. Though, I appreciate the irony of this statement, not knowing what to call him these last few days has been somewhat annoying. Thank you.”

  “Please,” Bruno tried again. “Please don’t kill me Divinity—”

  “Stop.”

  “Divinity—”

  “Hush.”

  Bruno let out a tremulous whimper and grasped great handfuls of his rich, grey hair.

  “Have you read the newspapers lately, Cosimo?” Said the Vecchio. “They’re calling you a modern day Nero—a man who would see his city burned and bathed in blood for his own selfish reasons.”

  Chin quivering, Bruno glanced to the door for escape, but Boreas filled its splintered frame entirely.

  “I always hated Nero,” the Man went on. “I found him intolerably mediocre—wholly undeserving of his renowned. Worse still, his acts of sedition against Rome went unpunished until his dying day. Oh what I would give to go back and correct that oversight.”

  The Man raised his eyes to Boreas and issued a shallow nod.

  “Do you know what the punishment for sedition was back then, Cosimo?” He asked. “A man such as yourself—a historian and collector, should know the answer.”

  As the Vecchio spoke, Boreas reached into his hunting jacket and came back with three metal spikes, and a large, flat hammer. Empty as it was, Bruno’s bladder released a second time.

  “I’ll give you one guess what this night has in store for you, Cosimo Bruno,” the Vecchio smiled. “Actually, because I’m in a good mood—I will make it three.”

  FINIS

  Louisa, the Man, and others will return in,

  THE MAN FROM RΩME
II: Between Heaven and Earth

  -Special thanks-

  Writing this book has been a beautiful challenge. It took longer than any of the Ruins novels to complete, required more editing, more research, and caused more headaches than I care to remember. What’s worse, not all of those headaches were mine! I had help—lots, and lots of help. Thus, I’d like to take a minute to thank the people who helped me the most.

  First and foremost, I must thank my wife, Mia. Without her, none of this would have been possible. Day after day—even on vacation—she listened to my ideas, gave feedback, read early drafts, edited, helped me with marketing, and most importantly of all, never let me stop when things got hard. She pushed me to finish this book, and not just finish it, but to finish it strong. We’ve traveled the world together, gotten drunk in strange lands, eaten scorpions and snakes, and felt the cosmic winds blow through our souls. I couldn’t ask for a better companion on this earth because one doesn’t exist. I love you Mia. Thank you.

  Next, I’d like to thank Cougar George. Cougar and I have known one another for over twenty-five years, and during that time, we’ve worked together on countless creative endeavors. I’m proud to have his art on the covers of my books. Really though, I’m taking this opportunity to thank Coug, not just for his art, but for his invaluable assistance in helping me tell this story as well. As is our way, Cougar and I spent hours talking over every aspect of the plot, examining characters, and their motivations, picking the bones of each idea until it was clean and ready. Cougar read and edited this book twice, and for that, I thank him! Here’s to many, many more years of friendship, buddy!

  The next person who deserves a formal mention is Molly Gilbert. Molly served in the U.S. Army as a gunsmith during the second Iraq War. As such, her knowledge of firearms is extensive. More than once, she took time out of her busy schedule to give me a crash course on guns. As any creative snowflake can attest, firearms are more complicated than they look in the movies! That said, Molly broke things down into bite-sized pieces that even I could understand. Thanks Molly, I own you big time!