Chapter 1

Chapter 1

From the Blossom Year of our Empress

05.17.03.03.01.02

“‘We, I mean they, let the world become hell once; do not let it happen again. This diary is for the future, of which we hope to return to. If we do not make it, this journal shall survive, somehow, documenting the beginning of our downfall. We knew there was something in the shadows, we knew they would not be prepared. They are all pacifists with not a single weapon among them, yet they are still content to bicker amongst themselves, not knowing they could start another rift or divide these islands even further. Do not, for the sake your lives let any two near Lonargh’s artefacts or the temple near the foundry! The world will become consumed in flames of hatred, war and pestilence. For the Muses and for all those who still live, stop his resurrection.”

July 12^th Genova, Italy: Fontana Bar -Back Room

“What do you mean she’s left the country?”

“I’m sorry Boss. We lost track of her outside of Fredo’s last night, we heard from the dockyard that she left soon after. The rain didn’t help either”

“You know what? I think that rot gut got to ya. You got sloppy. Boys, can you take him for a little walk would ya? He’s put me evil and it’s hard to restrain myself if he’s still in my sight.”

“But Boss. Senior Brogetti. No, I, no...” He protested till the sound of his dragging feet on the tiled floor stopped and gunshot hung in the air. Today was not a good day. It wasn’t even lunchtime and Senior Tiziano Brogetti had blood on his hands. Not for the first time however; but for in his lapse of composure, he had forgotten to get information before the lackey was executed.   He paced his office, his brogues clacking against the floor. The coffee on his desk started to grow cold as he tried to figure out what to do. One slip of that serpent tongue, one warble of that songbird; and he flew across the Atlantic, looking over his shoulder at every turn. Where did she go? She was the key to this whole thing, her scarlet hair, her siren’s ditty. You find Cassandra Shriver; you find Cobra and his traitorous law loving words. He was a man that could stride oceans if he wanted to, in this case he did, he could kill anyone, which he had, but to be truthful about the matter, that he couldn’t be bothered with.

He would tell his follows, his lackeys, those who stood in awe and fear, that they were running from the law. A romanticised outlaw, an idealised pirate, in fact, when he moved they moved, when he decided they needed to leave New York, they followed blindly. Their moral on the other hand, was a different story. A few kills here and there to inspire fear helped, but to keep them at their sharpest, they had to fear the dark, the street corner, and the sirens. He was on a mission of revenge and had decided to leave because he needed this, for himself, his honour. This sort of man saw himself above the law, reproach, handcuffs and jail time. He needed no other reason, to leave, and his men should need none at all. This power he had, the control, the presence, the image, was to him, godlike. He revelled in but knew it needed to be maintained against insubordination. But mortals fall foul of their own kin and emotion, and both of these usurped his sound ruling of his heart and mind. The traitors must be punished. Retribution, justice.

The smell of tobacco, coffee and that of the pavement after the rain perfumed the air. The back room of anywhere let alone this insignificant bar was nothing but beneath Tiziano. The opulence of New York, its bars and clubs overshadowed anything that Genoa had to offer. The walls were thinly covered in plaster, the overhead lamp dangled off a chain. There were cobwebs, crates and various bottles of spirits, most unnamed. This wasn’t a matter of comfort, or a matter of style. He needed to find the girl and the traitor she was with, and for fear of casting his own shadow over the city and scaring them, this dingy back room was the only place to keep hidden. For the couple of days he was to occupy this tiny little office, he had set up some form of home. Mirrors, a painting or two, a sturdy carved desk and a leather chair. The bar next door provided all the fresh coffee and liqueur he desired and the food was tolerable. It could have been worse, but this was the lowest he had ever been, well aesthetically.  He sat down and sipped at his espresso. He judged himself  in the mirror on his desk, adjusted the ivory buttons on his ecru suit, ran his fingers through his hair an savoured the smell of the coffee. I guess we should leave. A pity they didn’t stay, but they value their lives, s lot more refreshing than that brother of hers, timid, on his knees. I shouldn’t have let him live. Traitors run in the blood, but his patheticness it was too easy, there was no sport. Perhaps after he finds out she’s dead...that might put the fight back into his spirit and fire into his heart.

He sighed, the last few seconds of what should have been of Karl Shriver’s life played back in his mind. The memories of a failed execution disappointed and angered him. Karl had spilled his guts all over the floor of his shop. His sister had fled and told him nothing. He hadn’t even met that snitch Serpentine. He was as clueless as a fence, but he was blood, his death would have brought her out of the wood work, and that traitor of a boyfriend with her. His hair was matted, his glasses broken and on the floor. The cardigan was ripped and his trousers torn. Half of the damage was done before Brogetti’s boys turned up. He was pathetic, weak. A gun was pointed to his head and all he could do was sob. Sob and fumble around for his glasses. There was no...confrontation, no resistance. He wasn’t ready to die but too scared to challenge. There is only one proper way a man bows out of life, through his own means, and accepts it with open arms. Of course, some never had that luxury being at the end of one of Brogetti’s men’s’ guns. But they had caused their own death, but Shriver, no, he knew nothing and when the executioner called was like a rabbit faced with a steamroller when it only knew horse drawn carriages. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t ask them to pull the trigger. In anger he trashed the shop, breaking the glasses and the optical equipment. If he couldn’t end his life, then he could end his career.

Brogetti ordered his men to ready ‘The Phantom’, a bespoke clipper ship, for sail. With only a day sail ahead of him, he could catch the traitors and still travel in luxury. He wasn’t a man to mince his words or his orders and the fear instilled by his tone made a three day set up turn into mere hours. Lorenzo and Sergio returned from disposing of the body just in time to familiarise themselves with the boat once again. Brogetti had travelled to Italy by plane but a boat was much more, earthy, grounded, regal. He had command over his men so why not at sea? Sergio was the first mate and navigator and also Tiziano’s right hand man, the dumb gun behind that hand was Lorenzo, his first kill was only hours ago and although excited the blood, the mud, and the burial was still in his head. His heart had not become hardened like Sergio’s but his passion that was something Tiziano could recognise in his younger self. Although to treat him like a son, take him under his wing, he rejected the whole idea. Family is blood and marriage, not a few words and a gentle nudge. He would dishonour his family’s memory by even thinking such a thing more than once.

“Tiziano, the boy wants to know why we’re taking the ship and not the plane? Apparently he gets sea sick.”

“Marinello, Lorzenzo, we are taking the boat, not just because they have taken a boat and it would make sense to follow them to the next port but a plane is not elegant, refined. A plane has no weight to its existence. You must treat history like a dear relative. To lose touch would dishonour both you and your family’s name.”

“But sir the boat is...”Lorenzo was cut short by Sergio’s warning gaze, although passionate, crossing the boss could not save you, no matter how much he identified with you. “...I understand sir. Your charts are in the captain’s quarters, and the rest of the boys are already on the boat. We’ve been told by a few men at the docks that the boat they left on was headed to Bermuda, presumably to change for a plane to the mainland. They aint got long on us boss. We can catch them.”

“Marinello, not ‘can,’ but will. And you will see to that.” The tone in Brogetti’s voice threatened Lorenzo. He gulped, not wanting to be the next on the bosses hit list. The success of this chase and this voyage was in his hands. Although Sergio was the one who would be steering.   The bar owner was thanked with a punch in the stomach and the threat of torching his establishment left as a parting gift. The walk was downhill through the winding streets, women could be heard chattering through the white framed windows. The sun had waned behind the clouds and those same women gossiped still while closing the dark green colonial wooden shutters in preparation for rain. With the sun in hiding the usually warm pastel orange plaster of the walls and tan stone that decorated the outside of the houses instead gave the presence of gloom and the sunny passage ways between them loomed with shadows and grey akin to the brickwork of the paving. Rain was coming. It started to spit with rain and Brogetti and the two that accompanied him sheltered under the archway of Chiesa di San Siro before a brief and frantic run, dodging the open air as much as possible, to the dockyards and to Brogetti’s personal warehouse.

 He and his men stood underneath an awning while ‘The Phantom’ was being quickly supplied by drowning unnamed associates. Brogetti smiled, it was nice to know he didn’t have to lift a finger, or that any document, word of mouth, print or blood stain would lead back to him. He checked his suit for any imperfections, and removed stay threads. There was nothing worse than a stray thread. Image was everything, you had to be able to command without saying a word, inspire fear and awe with just presence, and looking like you dressed in rags, well that would never do. The weather had to be braved, though. There was no chase if the boat wasn’t sailing. After much deliberation, the command was given and Lorenzo was sent forth into the rain. Minutes past, and although the rain was letting up, Brogetti opened up the newly acquired umbrella and walked with quiet confidence to the boat, while his two associates, one wetter than the other, walked with shivers and annoyance.

The crew assembled on the rain soaked deck, there was no salute as Tiziano walked across inspecting his men. There was no maritime formality, they were his men, his boys, to the law his casual associates and acquaintances. They were not pirates, navel officers, no, they had never touched water, breathed in the salty air, caught a cross wind or sailed against the tide. All they knew was how to follow orders. They stood nervously, one small thing out of place and one fo them would be overboard with a bullet in his chest. Tiziano surveyed, then turned to head below deck. There was an audible collective sigh of relief but the last sigh...Tiziano turned on his heels drew his gun and fired blankly into the crowd.

“You are as one, you obey me as one, you defy me as one but you should never stand alone, you dogs don’t have names, numbers are too good for you. Under my watch you are not individuals, so do not draw attention to yourself, for you could be slapped in irons or bleeding out on the floor.” A hushed silence fell upon his men, the body of one of them was quickly covered over by the crowd. One or two even stood on top, the man, the corpse, had never existed. That was all they knew.

Tiziano headed down below deck, the creaking of the wood against the waves and the footsteps on the planks pleased him. This was it, history. He breathed in every last ounce as he walked the narrow corridors to the engine room. The reinforced timber frame was kept hidden under cargo nets, sacks and crates. There was only the slight glint of metal that would show the modernisation of the ship. It was practically flawless. The engine room however was something of a bone of contention, it had to exist for the ship to not just rely on wind power alone but it broke the immersion. And it was for this reason alone, to what all of his men believed, was why nobody but he could enter. There were some that doubted his mechanical prowess, but for their own hides they never spoke of it. The ship had been moored in Genoa for quite a while, like a holiday home on the water. Some doubted it would even run as none had seen it. The ship was the perfect shell, kept in immaculate condition, but to have no mechanic on board, if the ship was to lose power, the engine was to falter, they would drift. One or two thought of leaving, they feared of drifting, but their boss, had eyes everywhere and guns pointed at them from the shadows. So while the crew finished setting up Tiziano closed the door behind him, bolted it shut and turned on the electric light swinging from the beam above him.

It was dark, not to say that the light didn’t illuminate the area, but the engine was substantial and the light dim in comparison. He peered over the engine and blew the dust away, always careful not to damage of stain his suit. After rubbing is eyes and glancing over the lock again he removed a cigar holder from his breast pocket. There was always an oddity about this cigar case, everyone who knew him, or feared him, knew that he did not smoke but that cigar case would never leave his side. He slowly opened it with his left hand to steady it, briefly glanced back at the lock and revealed a cigar sized crystal. He was very careful with it, he dare not drop it and the fear in his body language showed that he had reasons why. It didn’t glow, sparkle, nor did it seem radioactive or abnormal in anyway. To the untrained eye it was a paperweight. He gingerly held it to the light, an examined the inside. The golden red tints seemed like crystallised fire and the etchings on the inside, the remains of some ruin or a mad mans scribble it was hard to tell. He eyed the lock once again and listened. Nothing. With steady hand and steel nerves he placed the crystal into a small slot in front of him. A compartment seemingly designed for it. Brogetti stepped back and tapped the crystal with his finger, a distinctive yet brief tone that could only be made by a crystal or glass chinked in the engine room. What seemed like frozen fire started to seemingly burn for a few seconds and the engine sparked into life. There were no coal or petrol fumes, this was not the catalyst to start the burning of fuel. No this was the lifeblood of the engine; this small crystal, creating enough power to move a frigate across the ocean, even against potential storms. Brogetti was satisfied, his ever so slightly fraying nerves were pulled back together and the engine room door was bolted and locked. Weather permitting it was time to leave.

The wine bottle smashed against the wood, ‘The Phantom’ drifted in silence out of port. Brogetti had chartered a course which skirted the perimeter of the Bermuda waters with a chance to dock to find the whereabouts of Cassandra the Serpentine. It took only a few weeks for the frigate with is minimal ‘crew’ to reach the edges of the Bermuda waters. Through a bespoke telescope from stolen from Karl Shriver, Brogetti could see the local islands, their ports and people. There was no ill weather to speak of, no rising waves, and no darkening skies. The journey as a whole had been easy. The sea, bathed in twilight, seemed to be made of glass, spilling over the horizon without a ripple.

Lorenzo was on his second consecutive shift, and he had only the stamina for one. After fetching the umbrella for his boss in Genoa he had contracted a sickness, some feared it to have been pneumonia but the ship’s doctor dismissed those worries and put him back to work. He hadn’t been cured, but being one of only five men on board to have any knowledge of seamanship, he was never allowed a break. Sergio, was meant to have taken the helm as First Mate, but an unpredictable ‘affliction’ had befallen him, rendering his navigation skills and much of his coherency void. He had been struck down when visiting an odd island, uncharted and inexplicable. As ‘The Phantom’ had reached the island Sergio was struck by a profound notion to land on it himself, alone. So without a word to the Brogetti, took one of the three small boats at the side of the ship and dropped down into the ocean. The crew meanwhile were discussing the possibility of scurvy on board and if the small island would bare any useful fruit.

The oars in the water glided as though he was rowing through air and in a matter of minutes he had beached the craft. He could see the continuous strip of sands around the edge of the island, hemming in the small amount of fruit trees and palms. There was however a dense centre to the island. As he approached a cold wind breathed down his neck, vines tried to clasp at his legs. A protruding rock covered in moss and slime stood in the shadows. Sergio brushed away the lichen with haste, his thoughts grew erratic his actions became frantic. He clawed away at the stone, cleaning and cleaning, till all was left was the black marble and the inscriptions. A perfectly sculpted cube lay before him, blacker than the night sky. The inscription was in English, Italian, German, Arabic and every other conceivable language. His mind tried to make sense of it all. He traced his finger over the Italian inscription, tracing out the words. The lord will come. The shadows will rise. As he traced the last letter he pricked his finger and bled onto the carving. The blood started to multiply from that single drop and in horror the first mate backed away falling over a branch and stumbled further back. The blood filled every inscription, till it overflowed. The marble started to dissolve, the phrase echoed inside Sergio’s head, intensifying with every reverberation.

The boat that had been rowed to shore, bumped up against the side of the caravel. Lorenzo helped Sergio tie the boat back to the ship and with some of the other crew hauled him and the boat back up. There was no yelling or screaming, no shouting, no arguments. Sergio denounced the island as barren of fruit or life and walked to his cabin clinging to a small metal idol in peace. As his body hit the bed the fever grew from inside of him. His eyes once a deep hue of green were bloodshot in a blink, a cold sweat and shivers, mixed with mumbles of “The lord will come. The shadows will rise.” The ships doctor couldn’t tell if it was some disease he picked up or poisoning from a fruit but they left the island immediately in hope that they would not fall to the same fate.    

 So, despite Lorenzo’s limited ability, he was drafted to steer the ship.  While at the helm, he began to succumb to the idyllic waves rocking him into sleep. Lorenzo, wrapped in slumber and tied by its threads, gently turned the wheel to the left. This was not on the charts. The slow swerve went unnoticed by the crew, and not until Lorenzo had rested his entire body on the wheel, and its movement had dropped him to the deck, did he realise his error. He shook himself awake, sprang to his feet, and turned the wheel back to its original position, but the damage had been done. The course was changed, and the rudder had become tangled in drifting seaweed. The Bermuda Islands drifted to the right until they became a blip on the horizon. The rudder was stuck in its position and no amount of frantic pulling at the wheel or shouting at Lorenzo from Tiziano, no number of latitudes or longitudes worked out by compass, could have change the destination.

There was something odd about the way ship was now gliding in the water. The hum of the engine that had been tuned out by the crew had ceased without alerting anyone. Tiziano looked up at the sails, there were for show, to give the impression of an old seafaring vessel but the wind in them and the silence...could the ship really be powered by the sails alone? He pounded the deck and flung open the door to lower decks.. His men hurled themselves to the walls, they did not want die from just being a slight inconvenience. In the darkest reach of the ship he found the lock to the engine room broken. He inspected it, with narrow eyes. This was done by man. He listened, the room was empty and so was the corridor behind him. He entered slowly, trying to not imagine what his logic was telling him. He switched the light on and peered down at the crystal holder. To his lack of surprise he found it gone. His one greatest secret, gone. The hows and whys were not  the thoughts running through his head, no, revenge and justice piled upon themselves. This time, the culprit was now on the list. They had a weapon that could take down buildings, skyscrapers, it could kill as easily as it could power the engine. He must have known it was here. Whoever he was. All this time, waited and waited till we reached Bermuda. The traitor, he will pay. Tiziano turned on heels again with a tight grip on his pistol, but it was too late, the glass started to crack.

There was a sudden surge of waves and foam. Surf lashed against the deck, taking anything that wasn’t nailed down or too heavy to float to a watery grave. The shattering crests brought forth winds of unimaginable magnitude; the force of just one gust could take the breath of a man. Lorenzo grappled wildly with the wheel. It started to gain force with the wind’s hands now guiding the ship. A struggle between them ensued. It is human nature to struggle against mother earth to survive, but against this storm, this was asking the impossible. The hands of the wind gripped tighter and tighter, and then with a glee filled thunderclap twisted the wheel from Lorenzo’s grasp; then flung him overboard.

Seawater poured in from every nook and cranny, over the sides of the ship and onto the deck. Barrels rolled over the sides, doors of cabins flung open and shut. Tiziano, already below deck, took the next best thing to his prized crystal and grabbed the metal idol from Sergio’s room, locked it in his cigar case and prayed for his life. The water engulfing the ship could only be described as the entire ocean at work. The rain came down in bullets. It pierced its way through the planks and portholes, drowning every crevice. The lightning and thunder clapped, and sparked its way into the tempest. The raging storms against the Phantom had boiled into pure electricity. Sparks of the lightning hit the main mast, bringing it crashing down to the deck. Its force smashed through several lower decks and through the people in its path. Its stump burned fiercely, unnaturally. The rain should have dampened its blaze, but it raged on, fed on the wood as the ship sank around it. The glass settled. The stump burnt alone among the wreckage. The rage of the storm returned to its thunderous home with one last resounding and hallowed clap of thunder.

The bodies of the crew littered the sea. Pieces of wood, charred at the edges, supported some of the corpses. There was no forewarning and no signs in the sky. This strike on the Phantom seemed more personal than natural, but there was no denying it had done its job. The ship was no more and its crew were dead. The gentle swirling of the waves rocked the souls of the departed into a tender sleep. The docile skies whispered brief harmony as the bodies fell through the glass into the embrace of the water and the sand. The flotsam and jetsam floated silently in search for land.