The Romulus Equation (7 page)

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.'

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.

‘I'd heard room service was discreet, but isn't this taking things a bit too far?' Before the visitor could reply, Quaint slammed the door shut on him – receiving a succession of vicious thumps and kicks against the wood. ‘Keep this up and there'll be no tip!'

‘Open this door, Signor Quaint!' snarled the visitor outside.

Signor Quaint?
thought Quaint. How did this uninvited caller know his name? There seemed to be only one explanation. Romulus's eyes and ears were indeed all over the city, and they had obviously been trained on him as he made his way to the hotel. Payback for roughing up his mongrels in the marketplace, he suspected. With his back against the door (rattling on its hinges as the man outside smashed his weight against it) Quaint was possessed of a dilemma – namely, how to escape now that his only exit was barred. His eyes darted to the window. With a burst of sufficient speed, he could make it. He could leap onto the iron staircase that snaked up the side of the hotel and to freedom. But turning tail was not in the conjuror's nature – and if he were to capture this foe, perhaps he could squeeze Romulus's location out of him and save some time. Neither option seemed particularly appealing, nor were they without their fair share of risk. But as he pondered his next move, his options were dramatically decreased. With an implosion of glass, something crashed through his window – his only possible means of escape. Had his attacker outside given up and tried another way inside the room? Then he felt something big smash against the door. No. The attacker outside had not given up… he had just brought company. Two other masked men clambered into his room through the broken window.

‘You will come with us,' said one of them.

‘Love to, but I'm a little busy right now,' said Quaint. ‘I don't suppose one of you chaps would consider swapping places?'

‘Our employer wishes to speak with you,' said the shorter of the two newcomers. He reached inside his long overcoat, pulling out a swab of cotton bandages. ‘If you resist, I have chloroform to subdue you.'

‘A very wise precaution,' said Quaint. ‘You'll need it.'

Again the man outside pounded against the door, and the conjuror heard the wooden frame split. One more assault was all it would take to smash it in.

‘But if you prove to be a difficulty,' continued the newcomer's ally, ‘then we are ordered to use
alternative
methods.'

‘And by ‘alternative' I presume you mean more painful?' asked Quaint.

The man unsheathed a meat cleaver from within his coat.

‘I'd say that's qualifies as a big Yes,' said Quaint.

The two men advanced and the conjuror had but a second to initiate his plan. Hearing the footsteps of the rhinoceros outside thundering towards the door, he flung himself down onto the carpet. The man with the cleaver briefly wondered why the conjuror would do such a thing – right before his cohort came crashing through the door. The rhino collided headlong into the cleaver-wielder at speed, and they smashed through the broken window. Their flailing bodies slipped instantly from Quaint's view as a duet of anguished cries slowly dissipated into the distance – before being silenced by an almighty thud. Dusting himself down, Quaint stepped over the squat man who was squirming on the carpet nursing a very large splinter of wood in his stomach.