‘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.