‘Before you even think about it, I should say that any shout or cry that you may make will never be heard by a soul outside of this room. We are in a cellar of a safe house.’
Musa felt a tremor of fear ripple down his spine. There was only one reason why someone would want to have access to such a place. He glanced at the bench again and understood what the tools were for.
‘Good,’ said the other man. ‘You realise what’s coming. I won’t insult your undoubted intelligence by saying that you will tell us what we want to know in the end. If your master has trained you as well as I have trained my men, you will present something of a challenge. I should warn you that there is no better man than Ancus in his field. Given enough time he could make a rock talk. And you, Musa, are no rock. Just a thing of flesh and blood. A weak thing. You have vulnerabilities, like every man. Ancus will discover them in the end, just as surely as day follows night. You will tell us what we want to know. The only question that matters is how long you can hold out. We have plenty of time to find out the answer to that. Or you could talk now and save us all from an unpleasant experience.’
Musa let his mouth open a fraction to curse the man, then clamped his lips shut again. One of the first things he had been taught about such situations was that it was vital not to utter a single word. The moment you spoke, you opened the door to further exchanges and aside from the danger of letting slip snippets of information, it provided the interrogator with the opportunity to establish a relationship and a means of working his way into your thoughts to play on your weaknesses. Better to say nothing at all.
‘I see,’ the other man said. ‘Then we must proceed.’
In the tense silence that fell between them the only sound that intruded was the steady drip of water on the other side of the chamber. All the time the other man did not move, but stood still, his face concealed. Eventually Musa heard the distant approach of footsteps, then the steady slap of sandals on the steps outside. The door opened and two men entered, the one he already knew, and a squat, powerfully built man with closely cropped hair and scarred features. At first Musa thought that he must have been a gladiator but then he saw the mark of Mithras on the man’s brow and put him down as a soldier.
‘He’s all yours, Ancus,’ the man in the shadows said.
Ancus cuffed his nose and looked Musa over. ‘What do you want from him, master?’
‘I want to know why he was visiting the house of Vespasian. And I want to know what designs our good friend Pallas has on the campaign in Britannia. I want the names of any agents Pallas has in that province and what their precise orders are.’
Ancus nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘That will do for now.’
Ancus nodded, approached the table and leaned over Musa. ‘I expect you know the form. I’m a stickler for following procedure so we’ll start with the horrors, eh?’
He crossed to the bench and considered the tools of his trade before making a few selections and returning to the table where he laid them down beside Musa.
‘Here we go. Thought we’d start with the feet and work up.’ He held up a pair of iron pincers and winked. ‘For the toes. After that I’ll flay the skin back to your ankles.’ He held up a surgeon’s knife and a pair of slender meat hooks. ‘Then I’ll break your legs and break your knees with this.’ He showed Musa an iron bar. ‘If that don’t loosen yer tongue then it’s off with your cock and balls, my friend. Trust me, you’ll want to speak before I do that.’
Musa forced himself to control his expression and stare back impassively. A bead of sweat broke free from his hairline and ran across his forehead. The interrogator reached a stubby finger out and delicately lifted the drop from Musa’s skin.
‘Not so brave as we make out, eh?’ He chuckled and licked the drop of sweat from his finger before he picked up the pincers and moved down towards Musa’s feet. Musa gritted his teeth and strained every muscle in his body as he fought to control his terror over what was to come. Then he felt a hand seize his foot and hold it tightly. Musa squirmed, twisting his foot as violently as he could one way, then the other, trying to loosen the grip.
‘Hey, Septimus, make yourself useful. Hold that still.’
The man in the brown tunic stepped up and grasped Musa’s foot and wrestled it to stillness. Musa felt the metal close round his big toe, pressing on the flesh and bone. Ancus took a sharp intake of breath and pressed on the arms of the pincers. A loud cracking snap cut through the grunts of Septimus and Musa’s face twisted up into an expression of torment.
‘Let me know when he’s ready to talk,’ said the man in the shadows. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’
He moved out of the alcove and Musa blinked away the tears in his eyes so that he might see the man better, and his heart sank as he caught sight of the thin, dark features of the imperial secretary of Emperor Claudius. Narcissus, so long the real power behind the throne, but now challenged by his rival, Pallas. The latter was Musa’s employer. He aimed to eliminate Narcissus the moment the Emperor died and power passed to his adopted son, Nero. Pallas had already wormed his way into the bed of Nero’s mother. It was only a matter of time before he controlled Agrippina as thoroughly as Narcissus had once controlled Claudius. The men were the most bitter of rivals, Musa knew, and that meant that he would be spared no agony until he told Narcissus what he wanted to hear. He felt the pincers shift to the next toe and saw Narcissus glance back with a look of disgust as he left the chamber, just as a second toe bone snapped between the iron jaws of Ancus’s pincers.
The sun had set by the time Septimus climbed the steps to find his master. He was rubbing his hands clean on a strip of Musa’s tunic as he entered the small kitchen above the chamber. Narcissus was alone, sitting on a simple stool by a table, an empty platter and clay beaker beside him, bearing the remains of a meal he had bought from a nearby market when the screams from below had become too irritating.
‘He’s ready to talk.’
‘About time, nay? I was beginning to lose faith in Ancus.’
‘No call for that, Father. He was doing his best. The truth is Musa was a hard man to break.’
Narcissus nodded. ‘That’s good. If we can turn him, then he might be a useful asset in time.’
‘If not?’
‘Then he’ll be another casualty of the conflict between myself and that bastard, Pallas. Let’s hope we can persuade Musa to pick the right side. Come on.’
Narcissus led his son down into the system of cellars beneath the safe house and descended the steps into the chamber where Ancus was waiting with his victim. Narcissus averted his gaze from the bloodied ruin of Musa’s legs and snapped. ‘Cover that mess up!’
Ancus pursed his lips but did as he was told and reached for the torn remains of Musa’s tunic and arranged it over the man’s legs as best he could. When he was done, Narcissus approached the table, trying not to notice the blood spattered across it and dripping on to the floor, nor the gobbets of flesh and strips of skin. Narcissus struggled to contain his frustration. Musa was in a pitiful state, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling as his body trembled. He was beyond saving. Any thought of turning him was pointless. Musa was muttering a prayer as Narcissus leaned over him.
‘They tell me you are ready to talk.’
Musa did not seem to notice him and Narcissus leaned a little closer and took the man gently by the jaw and turned his face so that their eyes met.
‘Musa, I want the answers to my questions. Are you ready?’
There was a blank look in the man’s eyes and then recognition and a struggle to concentrate before he nodded, swallowed, and replied, ‘Yes.’
Narcissus smiled. ‘That’s better. Now then, this morning you set out from the palace at first light to visit a house on the Aventine.’