There followed a momentary deep breath, and then the inevitable struggle to see if there was any hope of freeing himself. The simple answer was: no. He was bound and tied so securely he couldn’t even bend his elbow.
The reality of the situation started to sink in. He was a spy and a traitor. Spies and traitors had no rights, even in civilised circles. Traitors were expected to suffer every possible pain and indignity, all the way from their unmasking to their excruciating and degrading death on the cross.
He had absolutely no doubt as to the reason he was bound like this.
He opened his mouth to shout, but quickly shut it again. The urge to scream at his captors that he would tell them anything was almost unbearable, but he managed to bite down gently on his lip and prevent it.
It would be useless, anyway.
They could have killed him quickly, outside the furnace tunnel. That they had not, spoke volumes about his near future and the unbearable pain it held. They would suspect Rufinus was no lone spy; that he was part of some Praetorian or Frumentarius plot to bring down Lucilla. They would want to know everything he had learned, who he had spoken to, who else was involved… they would want to know everything.
Rufinus knew a few things about pain. Battle wounds and beatings were a brief flare, followed by a long stretch of aching and stinging, though the pain decreased with every convalescent day as you knew that you were improving.
Torture was the opposite. It would begin smalclass="underline" a sting. An ache. Discomfort, even. Gradually, the pain and the damage would increase to the point where no living creature could suffer it and live. He had once seen his father torture a slave who had stolen food. It had seemed harsh for such a meagre crime to warrant so brutal a punishment, but the things the old man had done to the Illyrian still sometimes haunted Rufinus’ nightmares.
And that was as nothing compared to what the ‘empress’ would have in store for a spy in her camp. Involuntarily, a whimper escaped his lips at the memory of the slave, lying on the floor with his severed ears swimming in the pool of crimson on the floor before him, crying through blood and snot and promising never to take anything ever again.
‘He’s awake.’
Rufinus tried to jerk his head back, but some ingenious knot in the ropes nestled at the base of his skull prevented even fractional head movement. He had a horrible feeling that knot might come into play later.
The other thing he knew about torture was that no man could endure it without breaking. They said some heroes went to their grave with their secrets, but that simply could not be true. If it did happen, then the torturer was not competent. The right man would get a screamed confession from a corpse if he worked it right.
Again, he remembered the brutalised slave, babbling about every wicked thought and pilfered apple in his entire life, spilling his guts over every misdemeanour he remembered, knowing that the villa’s master was about to spill his guts for real.
Rufinus sagged again, releasing the pressure from that knot on his neck.
‘Ah, Rustius, you piece of maggot-ridden filth. About time you woke up. Amardad here has had to feed the brazier three times to keep the coals hot.’
Phaestor’s voice. Not a surprise. He might have expected Lucilla, though. It was not common for a noblewoman to take a close interest in such grisly business, but the lady of this villa was no ordinary noblewoman, and her cold demeanour suggested that she would not baulk at such duty.
‘Nothing to say for yourself?’
Rufinus bit his lip.
‘I won’t lie to you, even though you’re an untrustworthy, spying shit bag. You’re going to die tonight, but how that happens is up to you. You tell us everything and we’ll cut things short and just open your throat. What do you say?’
Rufinus felt his stomach knot into a ball of fear. He’d assumed his end was going to be drawn-out, agonising and grisly, then Phaestor had thrown in a shard of hope for a quick, clean death, but he knew deep down they’d make him last the night, and possibly longer. He couldn’t have been asleep for long, so this was probably the same day he was caught. The conspirators would still be in the villa. If they’d gone to Rome to carry out their scheme, Phaestor would have gone with them.
A realization filled him that he was the only man who knew what was going to happen tomorrow, and he was going to die before then. The only hope for the emperor, then, would be if someone else discovered what was happening, and there was only one man in the villa who might. Rufinus knew that before the end he would tell Phaestor everything, but the longer he could hold off, the more chance there was that perhaps Pompeianus might act.
‘Shall we get started then?’
Phaestor’s grinning snake-face appeared beneath him, bent at the knees and leaning back to look up into the prisoner’s open eye. Rufinus spat as hard as he could, though little came from his dry mouth but a spatter of foam. Phaestor easily ducked out of the path of the insult and grinned.
‘Spirited. I hope the Persian is up to the challenge. Dis would have loved it.’
Rufinus felt cold dread rush through his veins as he heard the sizzle of something metallic being placed in a brazier of embers. ‘I’ll tell you nothing.’
There was a snigger from the other side of the room, and then Phaestor grinned up at him.
‘We both know that’s not true. You’ll tell me everything by the time we’re finished with you.’
Rufinus swallowed uncomfortably in his dry, scratchy throat. When the full confession came pouring out of his broken body, his words would condemn Senova, Pompeianus, and even the man’s doctor-servant for treating him in the aftermath of the fight with the Sarmatian cannibal… unless Pompeianus did what Rufinus hoped and took it upon himself to reveal the whole thing before his noble name was muddied by the poor wretch hanging in the cellars.
‘How do you want me to begin?’ asked the thick, Persian voice.
Phaestor rolled his eyes and shrugged with comic apology to Rufinus as though excusing himself from a social engagement. As he disappeared from sight, Phaestor’s voice took on an irritable edge.
‘Are you, or are you not, an expert? My contact said you were.’
‘I’m not asking you how to do my job, Captain, but I need to know how you want to approach this? How long do you want it to last? How mobile and capable do you want him? Does he need to be able to write as well as talk? Does he need to be able to see, or can I deal with such things?’
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.’