He was running - down the long, wide street from St Peters to the river - the traffic stopped and staring as their precious city had it's heart burned and ripped out. The word had gone up for all the XI to report to the Pantheon at once, but who knew when the others would arrive, and Cain had to make good time. Down, down the street and across the bridge - each pillar presenting a cold, marble angel. Cain did not miss the irony. Down the streets, past the shops, he ran like a madman - too fast for his apparent 50 years (and too fast for his true thousands).
He ripped the silver cross from his neck as he ran, brought it to his lips and kissed it, the latin words spilling like thunder over his tongue as the cross flashed white and extended. The spear glimmered in his hand, topped with His Most Holy crucifix, one of the only human-held weapons that could kill an immortal soul.
He would protect God's Holy Children. He would protect those made in His Holy Image.
No matter who it was that was the threat.