He turned back toward the room, picked up a wineglass from a nearby desk, and stepped down into a recessed portion of the room. Moving around a coffee table, he settled into a dark leather sofa and took a sip. Swishing the wine gently in the glass, Thomas looked up from the swirling contents and peered at the Cardinal.
"I told you he would visit."
"Sure, you told me!" Ramirez said. "You should've beefed up my security. He almost killed me!"
"But he didn't." Thomas set the glass down, leaned back, and crossed his legs. "What did he say?"
"He wanted to know when and where."
"It's a good thing I didn't tell you, then. What else?"
"That's about it."
"I'm sure you offered to tell him where I was."
"No, of course not!"
Thomas looked down at the vibrating cell phone on the nearby table. He picked it up and looked at the number, then up at the Rameriz. "He has my number?"
The Cardinal looked away as Thomas answered the phone.
"Hello. Yes…when?" Thomas checked his watch. "Where…yes, of course. I'll call when I reach the stop." He ended the call and looked at the Cardinal. "I guess he wasn't satisfied with you. He wants to meet with me."
"And you're going to do it?"
"Why not?"
"Aren't you going to trace his calls? Can't you do that with the towers?"
"I could, but he's fully aware of that. It would be a waste of time."
"So why are you going?"
"Because I have no good reason not to."
"He is going to try to change your mind."
"Probably."
"Or kill you."
"I don't think so." Thomas stood and took a long sip of wine.
Thomas sat in the back of the metro carriage. It was almost empty, with a dozen or so passengers seated throughout the car. That was to be expected this late on a weekday. He watched as the train slowed and stopped. Circo Massimo. The next stop would be Colosseo, so he pulled out his cell phone. As they started moving, he called Marcus back.
"I just passed Circo Massimo…Alright…Car 614. Got it."
He thought about calling in a strike team, but that could get messy. Marcus had picked a public place and a mobile one at that. There was no way of knowing which stop he would use to get on or off the train. Besides, every one of these Metro stations had three or four exits. Even Thomas did not have the resources for that. The train slowed and stopped at Colosseo, then started up again.
Ramirez was right, as much as Thomas hated to admit it. There was no good reason to meet with Marcus. It's not like Thomas owed him anything. Thomas knew he should just leave, but he also knew he would not. Something compelled him to stay, something he didn't understand. He never would.
Thomas stood as the train slowed and stopped at the Termini station. Following the other passengers from the train, he made his way to the turnstiles. Passing through, he followed the signs to the Orange line. Thomas Held his pass to the scanner, moved through the gate, and out onto the platform. A few minutes later, the Orange train pulled in.
A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. How long had it been? 500 years? More? The sound of the braking train pushed the thought from his mind.
As promised, 614 was the last car. Even though it had an 'out of service' notice, he approached the door, and it opened so he could step inside.
Marcus was seated in the opposite corner, a large gash and angry expression on his face. His shirt was untucked, which meant he was carrying. Thomas was not.
He sat on the bench across from Marcus. "Hello."
"Hi."
Thomas nodded at the scar on his forehead. "This afternoon?"
"Yeah."
"That was a big mess." The train door closed. "How's Isabella?"
"Pissed."
"I can only imagine." The rail car rolled forward.
"I didn't think you'd come," Marcus said.
"Call me curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat."
"We would be so lucky." He squinted. "What do you want, Marcus?"
"You once told me something; don't make a mistake you might regret forever—because for us, forever is a very long time."
"I'm surprised you remember."
"Well, maybe it's you who forgot."
"No, no I haven't."
"Enlighten me. And don't give me that 'God is horrible' bullshit. We both know that's not why you're doing this."
"It's quite simple. I'm tired." Thomas glanced out the window, then back at Marcus. "I want it over. I don't care what comes next. I've been walking this planet for two-thousand years, and I'm sick of it. I'm sick of man, his greed, his cruelty. I'm sick of knowing I'll never die, that my memories won't go away."
Marcus nodded as the train leaned into a shallow curve. After a long silence, he said, "You're going to start the end of times so that you can die. Or go to the next life, or whatever."
"Yes."
"How many people will die because you made that decision?"
"Everyone has to die. At some point, this has to come to an end."
"Does it? What if it just keeps going?"
"My point exactly. I can't do this for another thousand years." He took a deep breath. "I'm not sure I could do it for ten more."
"Honestly, part of me agrees with you. I'm just as tired, but I couldn't do it. Not to so many people."
"I guess that's what makes us different."
"Perhaps." Marcus leaned forward. "Then I have to ask; Why did you let Isabella live…in Constantinople? The only explanation is that you intervened."
"It's what Rebecca would have wanted."
"You can say her name now." Marcus studied him for a long moment, and he realized. "He stopped it, didn't he?"
"Stopped what?"
"The memories… when you die. You don't see her anymore…?"
Thomas did not answer.
"He did that for you." He stopped and glared at Thomas. "What else did he promise?"
"Promise? Nothing. But what better revenge is there? I get to help the fallen angel regain his glory. Even if I lose, at least I tried. And yes, I don't relive the memories anymore. For that alone, it was worth it."
"You should have said no. I've learned to live with this, so could you."
"You're a better man than me."
Marcus dropped his gaze for a moment, then looked back up with glistening eyes.
"No, I'm not."
The train slowed, and Marcus got up, heading toward the exit.
"Marcus," Thomas stood and gripped his arm, "walk away…both of you can leave Rome tonight. Go somewhere and live in peace. I won't chase you, and you don't have to run."
"We're never going to live in peace."
Thomas released his arm and met his gaze. "You will not like how this story ends."
"Probably not." He started to walk away, then stopped and said, "I need to be there."
"Why?"
"I was there when it started, and I should be there…"
Thomas studied him as the train stopped. "The Castel Sant'Angelo. Be there before midnight. But you come as my prisoner. You'll be searched and will have a guard at all times."
"Fair."
He stepped off the train and turned back to Marcus. "And tell Isabella to stay out of my way. I've left her little group alone until now, but if she intervenes, I won't be so restrained."
The door closed, and the train left the station.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
We have fought this fight as long, and as well as we know how.
We have been defeated.
For us as a Christian people, there is now but one course to pursue.
We must accept the situation.
— Robert E. Lee
Modern Day
Rome
"I don't like it." Sam paced the living room of their safe house.
Isabella stood, hands on her hips. "I agree; too much could go wrong."
Marcus sat on a couch, sippi
ng a glass of scotch. Both women waited for him to respond.
"You're right."
"So, what is the plan?" Sam stopped, arms crossed. "And I'm serious this time."
"I don't know. Get inside and kill the clone."
"Is that even possible?" Isabella asked.
"I don't know."
"You'll never get close enough…and you won't have a weapon," Sam said.
"Yeah, but I have to try. I'm not saying it's a brilliant plan, but what other choice do we have?" He looked from Sam to Isabella. They shrugged.
Marcus looked to Gustaf. "Can you do it?"
"Yeah," the Turk replied. His expression did not instill a great deal of confidence. "I'm just not sure how much weight it will hold, and for how long."
"What if they move you from the Castel Sant'Angelo? Or what if you can't get out to the roof?" Isabella said. "And why would he tell us where it will happen, anyway?"
"Because Thomas knows we can't stop it. They will have a dozen tactical teams on call. And it's a fortress, for Christ's sake. No, he's confident enough that he doesn't care if I'm there. Which means my only concern is getting out."
"I think it's too big of a risk," Isabella said.
"And I think it's our only option." Marcus looked to Gustaf. "Do what you need to do."
Nodding, Gustaf left the room.
Marcus looked back to Isabella. "No matter what happens, we need to get out of Rome. Get that sorted, but don't give me the details."
"Oh, I wasn't going to."
An hour later, they were sitting around a table, and Gustaf handed Marcus a watch.
"It doesn't look like a smartwatch, and it won't start transmitting until you press both these buttons. Even then, it only records for 10 seconds, then sends the signal out in a quick burst. Nearly undetectable by a scanner."
Marcus took the watch and slipped it on.
"This," Gustaf handed him a belt, "is made from Cordura fabric. It should hold up well to friction."
"Should?"
"I had an hour. I haven't had time to field test it."
"Good point." He looked around the table to Sam and Isabella. "Any other ideas?"
"No," Isabella said. "You'll never get a gun past their security."
"Suicide pill?" Sam suggested.
"Too slow," Isabella said. "If we had time, we could work on some plastic explosive."
"I'm glad you guys have so many great ideas on how to kill me. But I'll be fine. I was thinking about getting out without dying."
"Then, no." Isabella shrugged. "The only other option is a helicopter. And they would watch for that. Plus, I can't pull that off on this timeline."
"The belt it is." Marcus slipped it through the loops of his pants.
Marcus climbed on the bus and sat near the back. He stood as they approached his stop and slipped out the backdoor. He found himself standing before the Sacred Heart Church of the Intercession. It looked open, and he was early, so he went in.
It was warm inside, and most of the lights were off. Marcus had never really studied architecture, though he was fascinated by the human infatuation with these majestic structures. He was sure there were a dozen interesting points to the church, but he did not care. He moved to the far corner of the room and slipped into the empty stall, closing the door behind him. Sitting down, he peered through the veiled opening.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
The confessor glanced at the dark screen.
"And what sin have you committed, my son?"
"I killed Jesus Christ."
"What?" The bench creaked as the old priest leaned forward. "Is this some sort of joke? I have no time for such things."
"I wish it were a joke—believe me, I do." He studied his hands for a moment before continuing, his voice cold and empty. "My name is Marcus Sempronius Gracchus; I am the son of Proculus Sempronius Gracchus and a soldier of Rome. Two-thousand years ago, I drove my spear into the side of Christ…"
The two suffered through a long, uneasy silence that the nervous priest finally broke.
"I'm sorry, but I don't think I can help you," he replied.
"I'm not looking for help; I'm not sure I'm looking for anything."
"Then why are you here?"
"I don't know. Sometimes, I just have to tell someone new." Marcus stood to leave. "I guess this was one of those times."
"Marcus?"
"Yes?" He stopped and looked back toward the screen.
"May God have mercy on your soul."
A shadow hung across his haggard face. "I think it's too late for that."
He left the warmth behind him and headed toward the Castle. Typically, it would be closed, but a single guard stood next to the open door. He assumed a half-dozen more were hidden around the entrance. Probably a strike team was waiting in a building nearby.
As Marcus approached, the guard stepped aside and waved him through the entry. Following behind, the guard closed and locked the door. Three men waited inside, one with a hand-held scanner.
"Jacket off," he said.
Marcus removed his jacket and lifted his arms. They scanned him with the metal detector, then used a device to look for a transmitter. Another guard did a pat-down.
"Whoa, buddy!" Marcus shifted when the guard checked his groin area. "I don't even know your first name."
"He's clean."
"Phone." The man held out his hand.
"In the jacket."
The guard looked at his wrist, so Marcus turned it for him to see.
"Timex." Marcus pressed the button, and a little light came on.
Grunting, the guard nodded to the others. They moved to a metal door marked for authorized personnel only. As they waited for a guard to unlock the door, Marcus put his hands behind his back and pressed both buttons on his watch. When the door swung open, they walked through and started down a metal staircase, where another set of stairs led up into the building. They stopped two flights down as one of the men unlocked a door and motioned him through. He noticed all the doors had push levers from the inside.
They walked down a long hallway, stopping in front of a door near the end. They knocked, and a few moments later, Lazarus pulled the door open. He looked Marcus up and down, and nodded for the men to leave.
"In here," Lazarus stepped to the side. "Have a seat."
It was a small viewing gallery with two rows of stadium seating that faced a long window, curtains drawn.
"Medical suite for the Pope?"
"Usually." Lazarus sat a few seats down from Marcus and shook his head.
"What?" Marcus asked.
"I've been chasing you for God knows how long, and then you just show up." Lazarus shook his head. "Fucking annoying."
"Yeah, I have that effect on people."
"But it was fun. I always appreciated your creativity."
"I don't feel very creative."
The door opened, and Thomas walked in. He looked at Marcus, then Lazarus.
"You searched him?"
"Yes, sir. But I still don't trust him."
"I do." Thomas walked over and sat next to Marcus. "I trust him to try something stupid."
Marcus raised both hands. "I have no plan."
Even as he said it, Marcus thought that Isabella and Sam would be listening and probably agreed.
Thomas nodded for Lazarus to open the curtains.
Two doctors hovered over a man lying beneath a blanket on a stainless-steel table; one was administering an IV while the other monitored the diagnostic equipment. A green surgical blanket covered the subject on the table, but Marcus could see some of his hair poking out from underneath. Marcus swallowed past the lump in his throat.
"What are they doing?" Marcus asked.
"A sedative," Thomas said. "He's in a comatose state—for now."
"He's fully mature?" Marcus turned his head, but his eyes stayed fixed on the table.
"Yes, quite—a delicate combination of growth hormones and stabilizers." Thomas
squinted. "It took us several tries, but we finally perfected the process."
"And the failed attempts?"
Marcus waited, but Thomas did not reply. Instead, he nodded to Lazarus.
Lazarus flicked on the intercom. "Please remove the IV and clear the room."
The doctors left, and a few moments later, Cardinal Ramirez and two other men walked in, one of them carrying an enormous book. Ramirez opened the book to a predetermined page as they approached the table in the center of the room. The two men went to stand on each side of the table. Everyone but Ramirez wore earmuffs. Marcus remembered reading in the ancient text that the initiator was immune to the ritual.
Marcus watched as the Cardinal read from the forbidden Latin text, his voice settling into a rhythmic cadence. The air grew still as the form beneath the blanket trembled, then convulsed as if gripped by a seizure. The men standing around the table looked to Thomas, who motioned for them to hold the body down. As the ritual continued, Marcus felt somehow drawn to the ancient verse, a longing that grew more persistent with each passing moment. He could feel the words tugging at his soul. At first, it was a tender invite, like the whisper of a lover. But with each reading of the passage, it became more insistent, and soon it called to him like the ancient sirens calling to the Greek sailors.
A low, sorrowful groan, barely audible above the Cardinal's chant, slowly increased to a menacing wail. The Cardinal, with relentless determination, shouted above the howl, both hands extended toward the table. The uproar reached a maddening crescendo, but the Cardinal seemed immune to the din. He made one ultimate gesture toward the body as if he were ripping something from the animated figure, which arched violently and then collapsed onto the steel table with a grief-stricken sigh.
"It is done," Thomas said.
The Cardinal, his face pale and sweaty, crumpled to the floor. Thomas nodded, and several men moved to pick up the lifeless figure.
"What's wrong with him?" Marcus asked.
"Oh, he's dead, heart attack."
"What?"
"The ritual. That's why no one does it—or at least one reason."
The Last Roman: Book One: Exile Page 22
