‘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!’
Phaestor frowned at Senova. He’d known that she and Rustius had shared words, and possibly more. On occasion it was the cause of ribald jokes among the men. Clearly the news of his death had affected her.
He wondered for a moment whether the curiously attractive British slave girl might have been in on it with Rustius? A momentary feeling, quickly dismissed. She had been at the villa long before Rustius and, even if she did know anything, she would be accompanying the empress all day with the guards and would have no opportunity to say or do anything that might prevent the day’s events from unfolding as planned.
Moreover she had drawn blood from Lucilla and, given the way the empress was treating him at the moment, he felt more inclined to embrace the clumsy slave than chastise her.
‘What is that?’ asked Menander, his shrill voice rising with distaste.
Phaestor frowned and turned to see the men who had accompanied him standing quietly in the doorway. In the face of Lucilla’s invective, he’d entirely forgotten about them. The four men bore aloft the messy remains of the former guard, crimson droplets falling to the marble floor.
‘I brought Rustius’ remains for confirmation of my report.’
The chamberlain’s kohl-painted eyes widened and he spluttered. ‘Get that thing out of the empress’ sight, you utter barbarian.’
The four men made to turn, but Lucilla held up one hand, the other dabbing her ear with a linen swatch. ‘Wait.’
Her golden sandals slapping on the marble, she crossed the floor to the grisly corpse. Slowly she circled the body, her eyes drinking in every abrasion, welt, singe, and tear. When she had reached the head end again, she leaned over it and used a perfectly manicured hand to open first his mouth and then his eye, peering into them and nodding to some unheard thought.
Finally, she raised his mangled left hand and examined it closely, ignoring the blood dripping from it onto the marble, except to take a half step back and keep her sandals from the droplets.
‘Your Persian seems to have known his business, whatever he might have done. His work was immaculate; painful but not damaging. It must have been excruciating for the young fool and, had he not been weakened by the Gods, he could have lasted for days. I have only once before seen such a work of beauty.’
She sighed, almost happily, and ran a perfect finger along a particularly messy cut, raising it to examine the blood on her nail. With a smile, she wiped it on the linen swatch she carried.
Phaestor rolled his eyes, grateful that he couldn’t be seen from this angle, as all eyes were on the empress. He turned to face her.
‘A careless prod to the spine with a knife seems to have done for him, ma’am.’
She nodded slowly and patted the corpse on the head. ‘A shame you achieved nothing other than pain. But at least we know he can no longer do any harm. Have him nailed up, but assign it to the six men you’re leaving behind. I want you and the rest of the guards packed for three nights’ stay and ready to leave for Rome within the hour. When we arrive, I have a number of engagements to take care of before we head for the amphitheatre.’