The Romulus Equation (6 page)

‘That should just about do it!' he said. ‘It's not going to look pretty, but by the state of his face, it's not like anyone would notice. I'll need to patch him up, and then we'll see how long he lasts. I give him a fifty-fifty chance… with gunshots it's hard to tell. He's lost a fair old amount of blood.'

‘Thank you for your efforts, Monsieur Markham, we shall keep him under close observation' said Madame Destine. ‘How long until he wakes?'

‘Depends on how tough he is,' replied Markham. ‘If he makes it through the day, there's as good a chance as any that he'll recover relatively quickly. And if he doesn't, well… let's put it this way… the mess I just made of his guts'll be the least of his worries!'

‘We shall pray for his speedy recovery,' said Destine, quite truthfully.

‘I'd better be off,' said Markham. ‘The cook's got a dose of syphilis that's causing him no end of irritation, and if I don't give him something for the pain, God only knows what's going into the stew!'

Prometheus winced, making a mental note to skip dinner.

Renard was naked from the waist up with a dark red stain seeping through the bandages wrapped around his stomach. He was a ghastly shade of pale, and his chest was speckled with sweat. In truth, he looked dead already. Once Markham had left the cabin, the strongman reattached the leather straps around each of Renard's wrists, binding him to his bunk.

‘Just in case he wakes up and tries to slit our necks in the night,' he said, receiving a firm nod of agreement from Destine. ‘We're still a long way from Rome, Madame. What if he dies on us before we get there?'

Destine shook her head firmly. ‘Do not fear on that score, Aiden. I have heard that some people can survive for several days with a wound such as Antoine's. All depends on his willpower, and this is my son we are talking about, remember? If he has anything, it is a strong will. But he must not die. He
shall
not die!'

‘I'm touched by your faith, Mother,' Renard said, opening his eyes.

Destine was forced to grab onto Prometheus for stability. ‘
Mon Dieu!
How long have you been conscious?'

‘Ever since the medic arrived,' said Renard, his breath noticeably shallow.

‘Whilst he was
operating
on you?' asked Prometheus. ‘You never said a bloody word! Not even a whimper! What kind of unfeeling monster are you?'

‘Oh, I
feel
, ape-man,' seethed Renard. ‘I felt
everything
. I admit, the poker was a little excruciating, but as Mother quite rightly says: I have a strong will.' The Frenchman tried to push himself up on his elbows, but then flopped back down as ice-cold daggers stabbed his guts. Still he did not give voice to his pain. ‘But I heard what he said – that I might not make it through the night – and now I have to decide whether I wish to play along or not. It seems that you are not as in control as you thought, Mother.'

‘What do you mean?' gasped Destine. ‘You
must
live!'

‘I think not,' Renard replied. ‘Especially now that I know you and the ape-man are reliant upon my survival in order to… to do what exactly? Infiltrate the Hive and save good old Cornelius from certain doom? That will not do. That will not do at all. But I am glad that it was you that murdered me, Mother. You gave me life… and now you have given me death. Rather poetic,
ne pensez-vous pas
?'

‘You will
live
, damn you!' shouted Destine. ‘Even if I have to do battle with the Devil himself – he will not claim your soul!'

‘We shall see,' said Renard. ‘Soon my strength will be gone and I shall die… and then your little plan will have failed.'

Destine ground her teeth. ‘I have not failed anything yet. You know that I can read emotions better than words on a page,
mon fils
… but you have no idea what else I am capable of. My empathic abilities have become keener than you know. I cannot just read emotions any longer… I can
create
them!' The Frenchwoman stepped closer to Renard's bed, pounding the words into his skull. ‘I can penetrate your every thought, your every feeling. I can force my will onto your own, breaking down your defences and rewriting it to my whim. Know this, Antoine: I am going to save your life even if it
kills
you!'

Some days later, the
Victorious
glided into Civitavecchia's harbour. Situated on Italy's Tyrrhenian coast, the port had faithfully served Rome since before the city of seven hills had birthed the empire that grew to dominate much of the known world.

Cornelius Quaint had been up on the top deck since sunrise, eager to begin his task. Bathed in amber sunlight, the port was serene – broken only by the droning wail of the ship's horn. The journey to Italy had been uneventful, and Quaint had relished the opportunity to distil his thoughts. What he was about to do was risky, he knew. Taking on an enemy such as the Hades Consortium unprepared was tantamount to suicide, but he planned to change all that. Unusually for him, he would take things one step at a time, and there was much work to be done before he could even think about confronting Remus, if the man was even still alive. It had been almost fifty years since his parents had been killed. What if their killer was also long since dead? No matter, Quaint would find out either way and he would not rest until he had learned the truth, the Hades Consortium be damned.

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 warned. ‘I used to box at county level, and I could wipe the floor with little snits like you lot!'