The Great Game (51 page)

When he replied, Phaestor sounded relaxed once more. ‘I don’t know whether we need him to write, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep one hand working. And I want him to be able to see everything that’s coming. Take your time. Start small and build up. Do your best work and you’ll be paid handsomely.’

‘Then I shall begin with his hand and arm.’

Suddenly, a swarthy-skinned face with a small pointed beard and shiny black hair appeared beneath Rufinus, peering at him with interest.

‘It’s a shame you beat his face flat. I like to work with faces and he could have spared one eye.’

There was a thoughtful pause as Amardad looked him over. Finally, Phaestor spoke up again, just out of sight. ‘I remember seeing him write with his right hand, so you can start with his left. What are you planning? We want Rustius to know in advance so he has time to savour the anticipation.’

A frown creased the dark face below Rufinus.

‘For the best possible process, I push needles beneath his nails until they press home. Then, after a time, I remove them, and then
the nails too. I will then break each finger, and then the bones of the hand. I have a spike and mallet for the wrist. I find spiked wrists are exquisite. It is irreparable, though, I must warn you.’

‘He won’t need it again. Go on.’

‘There follows shaved elbow bones, broken forearms, broken upper arms and finally removal of the limb near the shoulder. After that we move on to a new body part.’

‘They were right’ Phaestor said with a carefree lilt. ‘You
are
a master. How long will this take?’

The Persian shrugged. ‘The whole arm? I can make it last as long as you like. For best effect, I would recommend at least four hours.’

Rufinus, tears welling in his eyes, could picture Phaestor shaking his head. ‘We only have tonight. I need him on a cross at first light before we leave. Skip any steps you have to, but I want him completely broken before dawn.’

‘Then I must pass on some of the more exquisite choices, for they are also the longest.’

‘Just make sure that he suffers, and that he talks.’

‘There is no doubt about this.’

There was a series of shuffles and metallic noises, and Rufinus’ blood ran cold again. Moments later, he was aware of the presence of someone beside him.

‘Aren’t you going to show him, first?’

The Persian made a ‘tsk’ sound. ‘Some things will be better anticipated. Some things are better as a sudden shock.’ Rufinus felt the little finger of his left hand being grasped and held tight. Panic gripped him and he tried to pull free, but his finger was held fast as something cold and metallic probed around the tip.

‘No!’

Rufinus’ world exploded in agony.

* * *

He surfaced again sometime later and his mind immediately furnished him with the memories of the last hours: after the fingers - the removal of the nails had been agonising in particular, though it had now been lost amidst the sensory explosion that filled him with pain - the burning had begun. To add insult to the injuries, rather than using a poker or simple heated blade, Phaestor and Amardad
had used a branding iron – the one used to identify slaves who had lied, cheated or otherwise proved false. The three letters ‘KAL’ were now fully or partially visible in half a dozen places on his body. Miraculously none appeared on publically open body parts, though that was simply due to their application being aimed at the more tender, pale and soft areas.

Each application of the brand, accompanied by the sizzle of burning flesh, had brought fresh waves of pain, and Rufinus had almost cracked twice during that time, only holding his tongue out of spite, because he knew wagging it would not save him even a moment of torment.

And each application of the brand had brought Phaestor’s leering face, close enough to smell his fetid breath even over the odour of crackling flesh. Each time, he had asked the same simple question.

‘Who sent you?’

After those half-dozen brandings, Rufinus had begun to make gagging sounds and convulse. The torturers had stepped back and allowed him time to rest, to prevent a repeat of the previous event and avoid his heart taking him from them. It had been a ruse to buy him breathing time, of course, and it had worked, but he couldn’t pull it off too often.

Then the cuts had begun.

Small narrow cuts, all carefully placed to be painful without nicking any major blood vessel and ending things too quickly. In his infinite attention to detail, Amardad had selected three different knives for the task. The razor sharp one was the easiest to bear, while the dulled, wide one was more painful. Neither compared to the jagged, saw-toothed monstrosity that the Persian favoured.

That last hour had been the most humiliating, as the blades were taken to more private areas of his naked body. Fortunate he had been that after only quarter of an hour, he had blacked out again. Now, as his eye opened and he stared wildly around, his mind focusing quickly and reminding him of where he was, he tried not to move. Moving would just make them aware that he was awake once more and spur them into fresh torment.

‘Why does he keep doing this?’ Phaestor’s voice demanded from somewhere across the chamber.

‘The medicus said he was weak. I have caused him intense pain but nothing we have done is truly damaging or incapacitating. It is all just pain, and he seems to have a delicate system.’

Rufinus frowned in his silent hell. It was odd. He didn’t black out like this. He’d never had a bad heart, and he could resist the pain of cuts. The first time it had happened, with the finger torture: yes, that had been too much; but the cuts were a different matter. He shouldn’t be falling unconscious over these? He tried to swallow, which was difficult with the wedge holding his swollen tongue flat. Actually, the tongue seemed to have gone down a little, and certainly it had stopped bleeding. No longer could he taste only the overpowering tin of blood.

There was the clunk of a latch and a door out of sight swung open noisily.

‘Ah, Good. Check on him.’

A moment later, footsteps closed on Rufinus and the face of Pompeianus’ servant appeared beneath him, looking up with concern. Disgust filled him as he tried to keep his eyes closed and feign unconsciousness. The medicus peered at his face, prising open the better of the eyes and squinting to see the contraction of the iris. The man drew a thoughtful breath through his teeth, tutting.

‘He’s out cold. He needs at least another quarter hour of rest. With any luck you’ll have a couple more hours with him, but I don’t hold out much hope of him lasting the night, so be prepared.’

‘Wonderful’ snapped Phaestor. ‘If we don’t get the information out of him, the empress will tear me a new arsehole. And I expect you don’t need me to tell you what that means for you, Persian?’

In the background, Amardad muttered something about weak victims and inferior Roman specimens, earning another slap from Phaestor.

Phaestor sighed. ‘He’d damn well better survive until we have what we need. Don’t go too far. If I send someone for you, I want you back here in a hundred heartbeats.’

‘Of course, captain.’

Rufinus slumped again. He felt a thick fog enveloping his senses. Even if there was room, he’d no longer be able to lift his head. Sleep. That was what he needed now. Sleep.

* * *

Rufinus’ eyes opened wide. Even his battered, glued-shut eye widened fractionally. This was a new pain. A different pain. This was something unexpected. He felt himself shudder and jerk. He gasped.

‘What did you do?’ snapped Phaestor somewhere to his left.

‘Nothing!’ The Persian replied angrily. ‘I barely touched him. Just prodded him with the tip of the knife to see if he was awake yet!’

Rufinus felt a pain that easily rivalled Amardad’s ministrations, as if someone had opened up his chest, planted a boulder between his lungs and heart, and then snapped him shut again. He couldn’t breathe. His veins were on fire.

The sound of Phaestor’s boots running across the room. ‘You drew blood.’

‘Only a trickle. In the name of Aditi, I barely touched him.’

‘That’s his spine… get the Medicus!’

As the Persian slapped out of the door in his sandals to find the nearest slave for a messenger, Phaestor reached for Rufinus’ head. The boulder in his chest was too large. His lungs had no room to take in air. His heart had no room to beat. He couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t…

* * *

The medicus ran into the room ahead of Amardad.

‘You needn’t bother,’ Phaestor said flatly. ‘He’s dead. Died a few moments since. Pissed himself again; on my boot this time.’

The medicus bent beneath the limp, swinging corpse, opening his good eye with two fingers and peering inside. He opened the dead man’s mouth and examined it. A last cursory glance across the back and he spotted a small fresh rivulet of blood.

‘Perhaps you touched the spine cord. There is an important cable that runs down the backbone. If you damage it the effects are extremely unpleasant.’

The Persian spat angrily. ‘Preposterous. It was a pinprick. No one dies from that!’

Phaestor took a deep breath, his lip wrinkling into a livid sneer. Before Amardad had time to react, Phaestor snatched the ‘KAL’ brand from the glowing brazier next to him, bringing it round
in a wide arc until it smashed into Amardad’s face. The Persian shrieked in agony as the red-hot iron shaft broke his cheek, sizzling skin and blinding him in the right eye.

‘Persian piss-pot. Never trusted your lot.’

Amardad managed to raise an arm in a pathetic attempt to ward off another blow, screaming as he covered his ruined face with his other hand.

‘Noooooo!’

The second blow was a lunge, and the sizzling brand slammed into the torturer’s face, burning as he pushed it ever harder. Amardad fell back and collapsed to the floor, grasping at his bubbling face.

Stepping over him, ignoring the screaming, Phaestor took out his anger and frustration on the Persian, repeatedly smashing the iron into his face. Again and again the blows struck, melting, smashing and ripping away bubbling, crisped skin. By the time he stopped and straightened, Amardad had been dead for a while, with little left to tell he was ever a man.

On the far side of the room, unheard beneath the violence of the flurry of blows, the screaming and the snarling of the captain, the medicus bent to look up at the sightless, dead eyes of Rufinus.

‘And yet, life goes on…’

XXV – Rebirth

PHAESTOR paused at the door. He was not given to nervousness but this was a meeting he would have given an arm not to have to attend. Taking a deep breath, he knocked.

‘Come’ called the light voice of Menander, the empress’ chamberlain, a man for whom Phaestor privately maintained the most spiteful loathing.

Another deep, heaving breath to steady himself and Phaestor pushed open the door and strode in with a purposeful gait. The room was well-lit, oil lamps and braziers adding a warm orange glow to the gilded room with its wall paintings of country scenes and white pavilions and its decorative marble floor.

Lucilla stood, already bathed and dressed in her finest stola and shawl, poring over her jewellery collection with Senova, while her
cosmeta
slave mixed white lead for her cheeks in a small bronze bowl. Menander stood talking to another slave, a list in his hand.

‘Phaestor?’ the chamberlain said in surprise. ‘What brings you here at this time?’

‘There has been a … development’ he said in a strong voice.

Lucilla stopped mid-task, ears pricking up at the words. Slowly she turned, and Phaestor wondered, not for the first time, why she bothered with the white lead paste, given the unhealthy pallor of her natural skin.

‘Problem, captain?’ she asked quietly.

‘After a fashion, ma’am. I beg to report that the traitor Rustius suffered with a weak heart.’ His voice tailed away and cracked a little towards the end, and he winced.

‘ Suffer-
ed
?’

Phaestor flinched at the sudden rise of voice by an octave.

‘We did everything we could. Even your husband’s pet medicus could not save him. We barely got started before he started having attacks.’ Again, he flinched at the empress’ eyes. ‘We did everything we could. Had Dis been alive…’

‘But he isn’t, Captain. Because of this very traitor. Tell me something I
want
to hear.’

Another nervous swallow. ‘The Persian we hired from Tivoli appears to have made a mistake and pushed him too far for his heart
to take. I dealt with the Persian appropriately. Fortunately, we hadn’t paid him in advance.’

Suddenly, Lucilla was close enough to him that he could smell the salt and honey on her breath from her morning teeth-cleaning.

‘
Pay
? You think I care for petty coinage? I need to know who else might be aware of our plans, and I do not believe that there was any other source of such information but the miserable little runt that you just killed, no?’

‘No, ma’am.’

Lucilla, her eyes blazing, stepped back. ‘We will have to be careful in the coming hours. It was always my intention to leave most of the staff here and travel with a small, appropriate entourage of personal slaves and the best of the guards. You were to accompany us in the stands, of course.’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘That is no longer the case. This place is unimportant now, while security will have to be stepped up in the city. You will leave a skeleton staff of half a dozen men. The rest will be posted around the amphitheatre, covering every possible entrance. Annianus’ guards will watch over us at our seats, while you and your men secure every foot of the arena and its stands and tunnels.’

‘Yes, my empress.’ Phaestor’s reply sounded deflated.

‘And if anything goes wrong today, for any reason, I will lay the culpability square upon your shoulders, just before I have you beaten, broken, and crucified. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Very, majesty.’

Lucilla turned and walked away, back to Senova who, keeping a carefully neutral expression, reached up with the earring. ‘Ouch!’ Lucilla turned and slapped Senova across the face, leaving a beetroot coloured handprint on her cheek. ‘You clumsy barbarian cow. You’ve made my ear bleed!’