The Romulus Equation Page 5
Bidding farewell to the crew that he had intentionally avoided since beginning his voyage, the conjuror set off down the ship’s gangplank towards a row of waiting horses and carts. Approaching the nearest driver, a leathery-skinned man with an array of makeshift tattoos decorating his arms, Quaint quickly reacquainted himself with his Italian. It had been some years since he had been forced to employ his knowledge of the language, but he reeled off his request effortlessly.
‘Trinità dei Monti,’ he said, swiftly followed by, ‘and if you can recommend any decent cafés once I am there, I’ll double your fare.’
The long journey into Rome was a blissful one for the conjuror, and he almost forgot the reason for his being there. He had a natural affinity for this part of the world, and carried many fond memories from time spent there in his youth. The Eternal City wore its achievements with pride; from the rustic rectangular buildings of the port rose more grandiose structures, cathedrals, spires and domes. The sunshine was warm but not intrusive and there was a refreshingly cool breeze to the air. Quaint adjusted his panama hat to soak the beads of sweat from his brow and loosened the tie at his neck. He stared up at the sun as he felt its warmth tighten his skin.
For a brief moment, he was somewhere else; transported to another time. The moments were there somewhere, hidden within the mire at the back of his mind. The joyful days with his circus crew putting on shows up and down a variety of countries, the gasps of astonishment from the audience in the front row as he performed a succession of miracles to dazzle their senses, the wall of applause after every one of the shows. It seemed so long ago, another lifetime almost and, very definitely, another Cornelius Quaint. It was this that galled him the most, if he was being honest. He missed his old life, his old self. Accepted, in the circus he was seen as a stern taskmaster, but a harsh word or a clipped look would always be to better the performance, never to placate his own ego. His performers trusted him, they respected him, and some were even in awe of him. His belligerent nature was a part of the man, and he was adored in spite of it. Yet now it seemed that pieces of his circus – pieces of his life – were being stripped away from him. Irreplaceable pieces. Fate had been unkind to him, taking from him so much that he could not help but wonder how much more he would be forced to lose.
Soon, Quaint arrived at his destination. Ascending a steep set of precarious steps, he approached the edge of a marvellous piazza, teeming with people and an array of small tables laid out in a crescent formation around a central café. A fountain was set in the middle of the piazza and Quaint pushed his hat further back onto his nest of wild curls to get a better look. Two marble cherubs lifting jugs of water. Renaissance styling, but the fountain was new. Quaint smiled to himself. Rome was probably the only city in the world that decorated even the most common of places with works of art that would not look out of place in a museum.
A heavy bag was slung over his shoulder, and its strap bit into his skin. He needed somewhere to rest and form his plan of action and the piazza seemed as good a place as any. His driver had recommended the accompanying marketplace to buy anything that a passing traveller might want. Quaint doubted that. What he wanted most of all was information about Adolfo Remus and only the sanctorum of the Hades Consortium could provide him with that.
Finding a small table under the shade of a gathering of trees, he ordered a drink and forced his body to relax. His mind was like a clock and it would not work if it was over wound. He needed to think calmly about the most appropriate course of action. Easier said than done, for the conjuror’s mind did not enjoy slowing its pace for anything.
By mid-afternoon the piazza had quickly filled, and the marketplace had a frenetic buzz about it. It was impossible now for Quaint to even think about relaxing above all the boasts and jeers. As his eyes drifted across to the busy marketplace, something caught his attention. A smartly dressed man strolled across the piazza past the various market stalls. Dressed in a silk three-piece suit, top hat, and carrying an umbrella in his hand, he stood out in the crowd – for all the wrong reasons. The well-dressed gentleman had attracted the attention of a group of three youths tracking his every move, keeping just out of sight. Like prowling tigers, they were hunting their prey patiently. With the finery of the man’s attire, he was practically advertising his wealth. He might as well have walked around with a large sign above his head, advertising to all the thieves in town to relieve him of his valuables.
The well-dressed gentleman flitted around the scattered stalls, meandering along absent-mindedly, all the while followed by his would-be attackers. Quaint was soon transfixed.
In even the most civilised of continents, petty theft is commonplace – even more so where travellers and tourists congregate. Rome was the rule rather than the exception. Should a traveller lose his bearings down one of the many labyrinthine alleyways, his fate was an uncertain one. The lanes branched off from the marketplace like the roots of a tree, ideal hunting grounds for a thief wanting to empty someone else’s pockets and fill his own. Strolling across the piazza, never taking his eyes from the three youths, Quaint entered the marketplace. Up ahead, he saw the gentleman round a corner into an alleyway and the trio of prowling tigers followed.
Unsurprisingly, so did Cornelius Quaint.
The earthy-toned alleyways were a maze to the eyes. All the same colour, all the same height walls fashioned from rough sandstone. They were confusing places, and easy ones to get lost in. Quaint memorised the direction he had come, trying to keep the sound of the bustling market in his right ear at all times. It would not do for him to become as lost as the gentleman, then he too would become prey. As he turned a corner, he looked ahead and saw the man with the umbrella walk into a dead end, looking at ceramic items and trinkets on a rug on the ground whilst the seller of the items begged him to purchase something (anything) in order to feed his family. Quaint had heard that one before, but that was not what intrigued him. Oddly, the three jackals were nowhere to be seen. In a dead end, that made no sense. They had definitely followed the gentleman, so where could they have gone? As he heard a trio of guffaws, he realised.
‘Planning to attack him from behind, eh?’ he said to them in fluent Italian, and then called to the gentleman with the umbrella ahead of him. ‘My friend, you really need to be more careful. These tykes were about to rob you blind.’
The man with the umbrella looked up and grinned at the conjuror. Not only did he look completely unperturbed about his imminent robbery, his mismatched teeth immediately rang alarm bells. No man of apparent wealth would have teeth in such disarray. That left but one answer: the well-dressed gentleman was not who he seemed. Continuing this thread, if the gentleman was fake so were the pickpockets. Quaint heard the sound of a very large penny dropping. The whole thing was fabricated. For his benefit, or just simply bad luck on his part, he was unsure. Whatever the answer, he was now in big trouble – a fact confirmed as the youths pulled out knives. The not-so-gentlemanly-after-all gentleman brandished his umbrella – which was when Quaint noticed that the pointed metal tip was as sharp as a blade.
‘You’re making a big mistake if you plan on robbing me,’ he warned them.
‘Possibly,’ said one of the youths. ‘But we are not.’
‘You’re not?’ smiled Quaint.
‘No.’
‘Well, that is good news!’ exclaimed Quaint.
‘We are going to kill you first… and then we will rob you.’
At that precise moment, the three golden rules of how to survive being robbed in a foreign city ran fleetingly through the conjuror’s mind.
1. Remain Calm
‘Now, everyone just hold on a minute,’ he said, holding his hands up.
Outcome = Failure.
2. Offer Amicable Resolution
‘What say we sit down and talk about this, hmm?’ he suggested.
Outcome = Failure.
3. Flourish Bravado
‘I don’t want to have to get rough,’ he warne
d. ‘I used to box at county level, and I could wipe the floor with little snits like you lot!’
Outcome = Failure.
It seemed the four robbers were quite unfamiliar with the golden rules, but as their ferocious sneers intensified, Quaint suddenly recalled a fourth one, a rule only to be relied upon when all others have failed.
4. Resort to Physical Violence
Outcome = Pending.
In such a confined space this fight would be in uncomfortably close quarters, and Quaint did not have time to muck about. He would deal with the threat swiftly, taking victory where it could be found, no matter how brutal it might be. Quaint threw the first punch and it was a good one. One of the ruffians fell to bended knees, clutching his nose. Another of them broke off from the main pack and kicked his boot into Quaint’s ribs. The conjuror stumbled, clutching his side.
Stay on your feet, he told himself, or this will all be over.
Sound advice, but as a succession of punches assaulted his body, staying on his feet was a lot harder than he had anticipated. Sunlight reflected off a knife heading in his direction, and he grabbed the nearest thing to him to use as a shield – alas for the well-dressed gentleman, the nearest thing happened to be him. As his friend lunged with his knife, Quaint swung the gentleman by his elbow and the knife pushed into his guts. The gent went down, a thick red blotch seeping through his three-piece. The conjuror winced, mourning the loss of such finery, and snatched up the umbrella. As another rain of blows descended upon him, Quaint’s knowledge of fencing came into play and he deflected them with the umbrella, but in the tightness of the alley, defending himself was all he could do. So far his luck was holding out, and just as he could not forge a more brutal attack, neither could his foes. But as Quaint knew from personal experience, good fortune does not sit well with prolonged altercations. Using the umbrella as a spear, he jabbed it towards one of the callow youths’ throat and the boy slumped to the ground, gasping for air.
Now Quaint only had two assailants left. One patrolled around him, stepping over the moaning bodies of his two friends as he paced. Quaint gauged his chances. He was doing marginally well considering the odds, but it would only take the assailant to get the upper hand and he was done for. Acting swiftly, he swiped the umbrella through the air and when his assailant took a step back to avoid it, Quaint was already there waiting for him. He swung out wide with a haymaker, hitting him with a powerful blow to the jaw. As his enemy reeled, Quaint slashed the umbrella, its sharpened tip causing a nasty gash across the youth’s brow. Blinded by the mist of blood that swamped his eyes, he fell to his knees clutching his face. Nursing their various injuries and realising that they were hopelessly outmatched, three of the four thieves scrambled to their feet and took off down the alleyway and out of sight.
This left but one. He had stood back and watched the fight unfold, waiting for the right moment to attack. Unfazed by Quaint’s trouncing of his compatriots, he took slow and purposeful strides forwards, backing Quaint deeper and deeper into the dead end. The conjuror’s nerves jangled as he felt the wall touch his back.
He had nowhere left to go.
The approaching thief pulled his tunic to one side to reveal a fearsome machete.
‘Let me introduce you to my lady,’ he taunted, slashing his blade through the air, reflecting the sunlight into Quaint’s eyes. ‘I call her Clementine… because there is nothing better than a nice slice.’ He danced a blurring two-step, slashing madly with the machete. The edge of his blade caught the conjuror’s forearm on the backswing and blood came instantly from the wound.
‘Have you any idea how much this shirt cost me?’ Quaint glared, plucking at his torn garment distastefully.
Laughing brazenly, the youth struck the blade against the walls causing sparks to fly. Slashing at an imaginary foe, he raised the machete above his head and charged, screaming like a banshee – until Quaint shoved the umbrella into his open mouth. The youth gagged violently on the obstacle blocking his windpipe.
‘You’d better hope there’s no rain in the air,’ said Quaint, preparing to open the umbrella to its fullest extent. ‘Blink if you submit.’
The youth blinked and Quaint pulled the umbrella out. He struck it hard against the boy’s temple and as he crashed to the ground, his machete fell from his limp hand, skidding along the ground before coming to rest under the toe of Quaint’s boot. With a deft flick, the conjuror kicked the machete into the air and caught it.
‘A word of advice,’ he said, with the blade at the thief’s chin, ‘if you’re trying to kill someone, for God’s sake take it seriously! All that showing off impresses no one. Now, first things first, why were you trying to kill me?’
‘It… is nothing personal, sir,’ the youth wheezed. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘Surely there are better ones.’
‘You know nothing of the life of a street child in this city. Now, let me go, or my employer will hear of this and then your life will not be worth spit!’
For the second time that day, Cornelius Quaint’s heart missed a beat. He knew that the Hades Consortium’s reach was far, and it certainly would benefit from employing packs of wild animals to do its bidding, and a thought occurred to him.
‘Your employer? What is his name?’
The youth’s eyes flared with rage. ‘You will die!’
‘That’s up for debate,’ said Quaint, pushing the blade deeper at the youth’s chin. ‘Who are you working for?’
‘I… I work for Romulus!’ spat the boy. ‘And when he hears how you have humiliated us, he will hunt you down and kill you!’
Quaint ignored the threat – he’d heard better. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Romulus is the master of all crime!’ continued the youth, quite helpful when he wanted to be (especially when a blade was pointed at him). ‘There is nothing that occurs in this city that escapes his notice. And if I were you, stranger, I would not want to anger him.’
‘Oh, and why is that?’ asked Quaint.
‘Because he will hunt you down and kill you!’
‘Yes, so you said,’ Quaint replied. ‘Tell me, where can I find him?’
The boy laughed. ‘You will not have to. He will find you. His name is a curse! Whenever it is spoken aloud, Romulus hears it. And then he will hunt you down and—’
‘Kill me?’ offered Quaint.
‘Yes.’
‘Thought so. Tell you what, why don’t you tell me where I can find your boss and I’ll make it easier for him to find me,’ said Quaint. ‘And put your hands down, for God’s sake, this isn’t a bloody hold-up!’
‘You… you really wish to know where Romulus is?’ asked the youth, lowering his hands. ‘Very well. If you promise to let me live I will show you!’
Had the conjuror’s complete attention not been focused on the possibility of meeting this man called Romulus, he would probably have noticed the youth reach slowly behind his back, into the folds of his tunic where he slid a curved dagger from its scabbard.
‘I promise,’ said Quaint, crossing his heart.
This was just the distraction the youth needed; he whipped out his blade and thrust it towards Quaint’s chest, but then he froze mid-leap with his mouth in a silent scream. The boy stumbled, as though tripped by the wind. He was quite dead by the time he hit the ground, and the conjuror was at a complete loss as to how it had happened. But then he saw something protruding from the boy’s back.
It was the handle of a dagger.
Quaint’s mouth fell open. It was highly unlikely (and rather more impossible) that the youth had killed himself. The blade had killed him instantly. The thrust was one in a million. Perfect precision; right between the shoulder blades and into the heart.
Quaint held his machete ready for an attack, but all was silent save the hubbub of the marketplace in the near distance. He searched around, high up on the rooftops. He clambered up a nearby wall, attempting to gain a little more height, eager to spy the hidden assassin.
There was no one to be seen.
‘Maybe this Romulus chap really does have eyes and ears all over the city,’ he thought aloud. ‘Which makes him just the sort of person I want to find.’
Chapter X
The Thrill of the Hunt
Not far from Rome’s centre, the Palazzo dei Diamante was a grand hotel. It had a wide, open foyer in marble and gold decorated with a fountain just inside the doors. Everywhere shone and sparkled, as if it had been built only the day before. As one of Rome’s most luxurious hotels, its reputation had spread far and wide across Europe making it the residence of choice for the passing traveller – provided they could afford the extortionate tariffs, that is.
‘How much?’ demanded Quaint. ‘Look, I’ve only been in the country a few hours and already I’ve had enough excitement to last me a week. I only want to rent a bed for the night, not buy the bloody place!’
‘Perhaps sir would prefer alternative accommodation?’ enquired the receptionist.
‘Or perhaps sir would prefer to stay right where he is,’ retorted Quaint. ‘Look, can we not come to some sort of deal?’
‘Deal, sir?’ asked the receptionist, as if the concept was unknown to him. ‘If it is a cheaper rate that you require, might I suggest other premises on the outskirts of town? I am sure that sir would find something a little more… suitable to the constraint of his budget.’
Quaint squinted at the man. On any other occasion, a pompous attitude like that would have earned him a clip round the ear, but Quaint was tired after his fight in the alleyway and he still had a long night ahead of him. ‘Which floor is my room on?’
‘Third, sir,’ sneered the receptionist. ‘Room 23. Have a good night’s rest, sir.’
‘At these prices, I’d better,’ grumbled Quaint, heading for the stairs.
*
Cornelius Quaint knew that if he was to find Romulus, he would have to head deep into Rome’s underbelly, into the Gothic quarter. That place was rife with crime, day or night, but there might be someone willing to share information for the right price. He knew that he could not just turn up at Romulus’s door without something to offer in return, a bargaining tool of some kind. But what did he have? Certainly no amount of wealth (especially considering the hotel’s nightly rate), so he would just have to improvise. Once he was dressed accordingly in dark clothing, he snatched open the door to his room and was stunned to find a black-clad man hovering just outside. The conjuror scaled his eyes up the man’s torso, right up to his masked face.