The Romulus Equation

  Darren Craske

  THE ROMULUS EQUATION

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Story so far…

  Chapter I: The Wheels of Industry

  Chapter II: The Devil’s Right-Hand Man

  Chapter III: The Advocate of Fate

  Chapter IV: The Grave Question

  Chapter V: The Bloody Madman

  Chapter VI: The Bad Penny

  Chapter VII: The Dead Weight

  Chapter VIII: The Second Opinion

  Chapter IX: The Dead End

  Chapter X: The Thrill of the Hunt

  Chapter XI: The Romulus Equation

  Chapter XII: The Bombastic Explosion

  Chapter XIII: The Undercurrent

  Chapter XIII: The Second Impression

  Chapter XIV: The Burning Soul

  Chapter XV: The Fifth Phase

  Chapter XVI: The Wolves of Rome

  Chapter XVII: The Sticky-Fingered Exploit

  Chapter XVIII: The Devil’s Tide

  Chapter XIX: The Landscape of the Mind

  Chapter XX: The Grace of a Goddess

  Chapter XXI: The Explosive Entrance

  Chapter XXII: The Hive

  Chapter XXIII: The Beast Released

  Chapter XXIV: The Temptation

  Chapter XXV: The Bolt from the Black

  Chapter XXVI: The Dark Side

  Chapter XXVII: The Healing Hands

  Chapter XXVIII: The Moth to the Flame

  Chapter XXIX: The Hot Pursuit

  Chapter XXX: The Jaws of Hades

  Chapter XXXI: The Thorn in the Side

  Chapter XXXII: The Tender Instinct

  Chapter XXXIII: The Unstable Foundation

  Chapter XXXIV: The Melting Pot

  Chapter XXXV: The Fall

  A Word from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Darren Craske

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  For Primrose

  Yet they, believe me, who await

  No gifts from Chance, have conquer’d Fate.

  Excerpt from ‘Resignation’

  Matthew Arnold, 1822–88

  THE STORY SO FAR…

  There are some who believe that all our destinies are mapped to a predefined course beyond our mortal perception.

  There are others – such as Cornelius Quaint – who find this concept laughable.

  But there others still – such as Quaint’s clairvoyant confidante Madame Destine – who believe that the faster you run from your destiny, the quicker you shall receive it.

  After he had successfully prevented the Hades Consortium’s plot to poison the River Nile, Cornelius Quaint felt that he had earned some respite, yet the path of his life had never been one that ran true, and he soon learned that the eminent archaeologist Professor Pollyanna North had become unknowingly infected with a deadly bacterium known as ‘the Eleventh Plague’. Worse still, she would die within thirty days and everyone with whom she came into contact during that time was at risk. Quaint’s race to warn the Professor of her plight proved fruitless, for she had completed her discoveries in Egypt and was bound for England on the steamship Silver Swan, her destination: Buckingham Palace, for a celebration in her honour hosted by Queen Victoria herself, no less. Boarding a spice clipper bound for Dover, Cornelius Quaint and Madame Destine set off in pursuit of the steamship, knowing that it would take a miracle to reach England in time.

  Thankfully, miracles were Quaint’s stock in trade.

  He arrived in Dover only minutes before the steamship and boarded it to find the vessel empty, almost the entire complement had become infected, and now the Silver Swan was nothing more than a floating graveyard of corpses. But Professor North was not amongst them, as Quaint learned from a handful of crewmembers who had sealed themselves in the cargo hold. Ordinarily, finding Professor North would have been next to impossible – had Quaint not known exactly where she would be on the night of the gala dinner.

  Posing as a foreign dignitary, Quaint infiltrated the function, where his worst fears soon came to pass. Queen Victoria and Professor North were mere inches from making contact with one another when the Professor began to violently convulse. Seizing his chance, Quaint barged through the crowds to ensure the Queen’s safety, but he was unable to save Professor North from an agonising demise.

  In a private consultation, the conjuror explained to the Queen that the Chinese warlord Cho-zen Li was responsible for infecting the Professor with the deadly bacterium, and whoever the man was, whatever his motive or intent, he was a threat that could not be left unchecked. Sensing within Quaint qualities that might prove useful to the British Empire, the Queen awarded him with a special key, allocated to individuals of great merit whom she could call upon in times of great crisis. As Quaint made plans for his voyage to China for a confrontation with Cho-zen Li, he soon realised that this was indeed a time of great crisis, for Madame Destine had predicted that death would follow him to China…

  As he often did, Quaint ignored the Frenchwoman’s warning, and departed from London alone. Or so he had thought. Several members of his troupe had stowed away onboard the ship, and reluctantly Quaint found himself forging a plan.

  In a mountaintop village, the troupe met an aggrieved blacksmith who told of decades of torment, of how Cho-zen Li had positioned himself atop a great mountain and every province within its shadow was under his tyrannical rule. Only the masked outlaw called Makoi offered hope to the people, and soon Quaint’s troupe allied themselves with Makoi’s small group in conflict with Cho-zen Li.

  Eventually the conjuror came face to face with his enemy. Cho-zen Li’s physical bulk was fearsome, yet it was during their battle that Quaint uncovered the warlord’s secret. His mind and body were fuelled by the regenerative oil of his prized lotus plants, and injected intravenously to hold his death in arrest. Quaint was then left with a puzzling conundrum: how was he supposed to kill someone that was already dead?

  After a protracted battle with Quaint, Cho-zen Li’s physical body was fatigued, and he desperately needed regenerative oil from his sacred plants in order to repair himself, yet during the combined forces of Makoi’s band and the circus troupe attacking his fortress, his lotus garden was destroyed beyond repair. Blaming Quaint for the attack, Cho-zen Li tortured him, and during the proceedings the conjuror’s pocket watch fell to the floor and into the warlord’s sight.

  For Cornelius Quaint, once again, destiny and coincidence collided.

  The watch, as Cho-zen Li explained, had been a gift to Quaint’s father many years before and it contained an engraved warning: ‘Beware the fifth phase of the moon.’ Cho-zen Li claimed this was a clue to the identity of the man who was to murder Augustus Quaint. Reeling from this latest revelation, Quaint learned that Adolfo Remus had murdered his parents, and furthermore (confirming his suspicions) he had done so on the orders of the Hades Consortium. Quaint then knew the truth about his father’s murder, yet not the reason why.

  Running headlong towards his destiny, the conjuror had no idea what (and not to mention whom) he would face once it found him.

  Hence, he was to be completely defenceless…

  Chapter I

  The Wheels of Industry

  Rome, Italy

  1854

  The foundry stood in disrepair on the outskirts of the city, and although it had been less than a decade since the echoes of industry had resounded from within its walls, the foundry had aged poorly. Away from the hustle and bustle of the capital, no one paid it any mind nor noticed the columns of black smoke that plumed from its chimneys. As empty and disused as it appeared at first g
lance, there was a constant throb emanating from within the foundry’s bowels like thunder underfoot. Deeper below, the wheels of industry were still turning.

  Baron Adolfo Remus, one of the Hades Consortium’s most respected members, walked briskly down the steep stone steps directly underneath the foundry. In his mid-sixties, his ice-white hair and beard were tainted with black streaks at his temples and jowls. The Italian had only returned from Egypt the night before, and he was ill-prepared for the news awaiting him. The inner stratum convening an emergency session was a disturbing enough rarity in itself, but the fact that it was allegedly all for his benefit was not sitting well on his stomach. The steps eventually met a gloomy tunnel with flaming torches fixed to the walls, illuminating a path that seemed to descend for ever. Deeper and deeper went the Baron, further into the tunnel, that much closer to hell.

  ‘Good morning, Adolfo,’ said a corpulent man waiting outside a set of heavy wooden doors. He was not much more than a mass of stomach, and his completely bald head displayed a variety of pockmarks, pits, lumps and bumps. ‘The council is in a fettered mood today. You’d better remember to curb that temper of yours.’

  ‘Jacobi,’ said Remus not at all pleasantly. ‘You are presiding over this session?’

  ‘Indeed, and a sorry state of affairs it is!’ snorted Carmine Jacobi.

  ‘Then you seem to be better informed than I.’

  ‘Has Lady Sirona not spoken to you?’ Jacobi asked.

  ‘It must have slipped her mind.’

  Jacobi’s greasy face was undecided whether to show sympathy or deep satisfaction so it sort of flip-flopped between the two. ‘In that case, perhaps I had better not spoil the surprise. All I can say is that you have my condolences.’

  ‘For what exactly?’ asked Remus, but before he could receive an answer, Jacobi steered his arm brusquely through the wooden doors.

  Remus walked into a cavernous underground auditorium; an uncomfortable amalgam of a cathedral and an amphitheatre. The darkness was almost a physical thing, taking hold completely except for bursts of torches mounted on four wooden posts around a raised platform centre-stage. Lines of Romanesque columns joined the ground to the high ceiling, and beneath crumbling stone arches, a gallery was just about visible on the upper level. Honeycombed with twelve inset booths, the light of a single candle in each save one.

  If the Hades Consortium had a heart, it was to be found here, in a place where matters of espionage and assassination were discussed as casually as the weather. Shrouded in the wrap of darkness, the inner stratum’s gallery was silent as Baron Remus took his position on the platform at Jacobi’s side.

  ‘Greetings revered council members,’ Jacobi began, his rasping tones echoing around the cavern. ‘It is under grave circumstances that we have been forced to convene this session. At this time much is unclear of what occurred in Egypt… but hopefully Baron Remus may provide vital information on the tragedy.’

  Remus’s mind was afire. Tragedy? What tragedy?

  ‘Good day, Baron,’ a booming male voice called out from the gallery, but the acoustics of the cave made it sound everywhere at once. ‘We are aware that you have only just returned from Egypt, so we shall be direct with our enquiry. Are you aware why this session has been convened?’

  ‘My apologies, sir, but I am not,’ replied Remus, lowering his head. ‘I have not yet had time to catch up on my affairs. My journey was delayed off the coast of Portugal due to a local issue that added almost two weeks to my journey.’

  There was a low rumble of chatter from the gallery.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the male. ‘An unknown strain of the plague broke out in Lisbon.’

  ‘One of ours?’ asked Remus.

  ‘Not as far as we can tell,’ replied the voice from above. ‘The spread was contained with minimal loss of life according to our Portuguese sources.’

  ‘You are here now, Baron Remus, so we shall not waste any more time,’ said another voice; a female this time, the accent tainted with the Orient. ‘If you are unaware of our agenda then perhaps we need enlighten you. Speaker Jacobi, if you will be so kind.’

  ‘Certainly, my Lady,’ nodded Jacobi, obligingly. ‘Our operative Heinrich Nadir has submitted a report of what occurred in Egypt. The facts are thus: just before your protégée Lady Jocasta could complete her assignment to poison the Nile, a usurper became embroiled within her plans. This man was not only successful in preventing the poison’s dispersal, but reports indicate that with the aid of a band of Egyptian mercenaries, he wilfully destroyed our citadel in Fantoma. Nadir confirmed that we have sustained heavy casualties. Some close to home.’ Jacobi paused, making sure that he made eye contact with Remus. ‘It is my sad duty to inform you that, Sir George Dray is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ gasped Remus, his eyes darting to the empty booth shrouded in darkness. ‘How can this be? The last I heard, he was in India!’

  ‘It seems that he departed there rather abruptly… en route to see you, Baron,’ said a new male voice from one of the shadowed booths. ‘The inner stratum would very much like to know the outcome of that meeting.’

  ‘Me?’ replied Remus, trying to calm the nerves in his voice. ‘There must be some mistake. George and I never crossed paths in all the time that I was in Fantoma. I did not even know that he was coming. What do we know of this usurper that derailed our plans?’

  The inner stratum paused as a single consciousness, the elongated silence speaking volumes.

  ‘And where is this man now?’ demanded Remus.

  ‘Dead. Nadir claims that he perished with the destruction of the citadel in Fantoma.’

  Remus clasped his hands together, squeezing his knuckles until his tanned flesh went pale. ‘That is a shame… for I would very much have liked to have met him.’

  ‘We are aware that Sir George was more than just a friend to you, Baron… he was your mentor and a very vocal supporter of your ascension within our organisation… but there will be a time to mourn him.’ The man’s voice trailed away slightly, only to return twice as bold. ‘We cannot allow ourselves to become distracted from events in the Black Sea! Great Britain and France have yet to ally with the Ottoman Empire, but soon an act of our making will force their hand. War with the Russians is inevitable.’

  A rumbling murmur served as applause from the shadowed booths, and several silhouetted heads bowed their approval.

  Remus took a stilted breath as silence filled the chamber. ‘I understand, my Lord.’

  ‘If there is no more business to discuss might I suggest an adjournment?’ said Jacobi, and the gallery’s booths echoed the sound of many scraping chairs. Once it was just he and Remus he said, ‘Dear God, Adolfo! You got out of that one by the skin of your teeth!’

  ‘Forget about me, Carmine – what the hell happened in Egypt?’ Remus roared, darting towards Jacobi with his teeth bared. ‘What on earth was George doing in Fantoma?’

  ‘Perhaps you had better ask Sirona… for if Heinrich Nadir was wrong… if this Englishman somehow survived then the wrath of the inner stratum might be the least of your problems.’

  With his brain stewing and temper brewing, Baron Remus wanted to get far away from the underground cavern, and he climbed a spiral staircase three steps at a time to the upper levels. He turned into a long corridor where a single door stood at the far end. Approaching it at pace, he hammered his fists upon it and it crashed open against its wooden frame. The room was black, pierced by the seam of light from the open door.

  ‘Did you know?’ he demanded, his voice rumbling like thunder.

  ‘Poor George,’ said a woman’s voice from the void.

  ‘I will take that as a yes,’ Remus snarled. ‘And may I ask why you did not see fit to mention it before I got dragged in front of the council, Sirona?’

  ‘What did you expect, Baron? The inner stratum has been chomping at the bit for answers to what occurred in Egypt, and I can only do so much to deflect their attention. Thankfully, they are not in possess
ion of all the facts.’

  ‘And you are, I suppose?’ Remus asked.

  ‘Approach me, dear Adolfo, and learn all that I know,’ replied Sirona, her voice cracked and brittle. ‘But you will not like it.’

  The Baron’s eyes adjusted to the darkness as he approached a grand four-poster bed. Its occupant was an old woman, her frail body propped awkwardly among a sea of pillows. Her flesh clung to her skull like wet paper, drawing her sunken eyes and cheekbones into shadow.

  ‘I want to know what really happened in Fantoma!’ said Remus. ‘I must speak with Nadir at once!’

  ‘Impossible,’ replied Sirona. ‘Nadir is presently on assignment in London.’

  ‘London? What the devil is he doing there?’

  ‘An apt turn of phrase, all things considered,’ smiled the old woman. ‘I cannot allow him to reveal the truth, and so I have dispatched him on a little errand, one that he will not return from… in one piece, anyway.’

  ‘Stop speaking in riddles, woman!’ snapped Remus. ‘What truth?’

  ‘The reason why Sir George was compelled to speak with you in Egypt, Adolfo. He was attempting to warn you.’

  ‘Warn me? Warn me about what?’ demanded Remus.

  ‘Grave news, what else?’ replied Sirona. ‘Finding you absent, he sent me a communiqué explaining everything.’ The frail old woman took a letter from the folds of her blankets and offered it to the Baron. ‘It’s come all the way from Egypt, so it’s some weeks old by now, of course. However, its pertinence is only heightened considering recent events. I fear that the worst is to come… and come he will.’

  Remus scowled. ‘He?’

  The old woman nodded towards the letter. ‘Read it and find out… but as I said, you will not like it very much.’

  Taking a pair of wire spectacles from the breast pocket of his white jacket, Remus perched them upon the bridge of his nose and read:

  ‘My dearest Sirona,

  I had hoped to convey this news to Adolfo in person, but he seems to have flown the coop, and so in that case, I find myself wondering if he already knows what has come to pass. Cornelius seems to have inherited his father’s altruistic streak, and he is currently in Egypt, intent on disrupting our plans for the Nile.