Marcus nodded.
‘Take the other one away, out of earshot. I don’t want to risk him hearing any of this.’
Dubnus nodded, gripping the unconscious Briton by the arms and dragging him from the clearing. Marcus squatted down alongside Antenoch as his clerk drew a small dagger. If he condoned the act of torture he could hardly walk away from its consequences. The Briton stared unhappily at the knife, only his eyes and nose visible above the heavy cloth gag that had silenced his muttered protests. Antenoch tossed the blade from hand to hand, staring at the older man until he dragged his attention away from the weapon and returned the gaze. The soldier spoke in the British language, gesturing with the knife to emphasise his point.
‘You know that you’re going to die, don’t you?’
Marcus was perturbed to see the other man nod impassively.
‘But then you’re not that far from dying in any case, five or ten years at the most. Better to go this way than slowly, with no teeth and depending on the help of your sons to eat and shelter, eh?’
Again the nod. The Briton had clearly come to the same conclusion.
‘In fact, the only thing between you and a nice clean death is the fact that you know some things that I need you to tell me. You talk, I slit your throat and make sure you’re buried too deep for the wolves to find you. How’s that for a deal?’
They waited while the Briton digested the suggestion. At length he shook his head unhappily, pulling a deep breath into his lungs, in preparation for what might be to come.
‘Shame. You see, I reckon you’re a respected warrior, with many heads on your walls. I think you’ve earned the rewards of the afterlife, all of the good things you denied yourself to live a life of training and devotion to the sword. The women will be oiling themselves up in the great kingdom over the river, ready for your arrival. Be a shame for all of you when you arrive without your manhood.’
Without warning he reached down and unfastened the bound man’s leggings, pulling them down to reveal his genitalia.
‘Not bad, not bad at all. Think what the girls upstairs are going to miss out on.’
He grasped the Briton’s testicles, separated one from the other and, with a flourish of the knife, neatly sliced it from the captive’s body, holding the bloodied organ up for him to see. One of the watching soldiers vomited noisily into a convenient bush, earning a glare from Dubnus, who had returned to witness the interrogation.
‘Show some respect.’
The Briton’s howl of pain and anguish was muted by the gag to a low moan, his eyes bulging with the pain. Antenoch stopped him from slumping to the ground with an outstretched hand, holding him up as the waves of pain washed over him, waiting until the man’s eyes opened again.
‘Now, from here it can go one of two ways. Either you can be sensible and tell us what you know, or I can remove the rest of your manhood and send you on your way incomplete. I’d imagine even one ball and your cock would be of more use to you in the afterlife than nothing whatsoever…’
The older man nodded, honour satisfied. Antenoch cut his gag away, keeping the knife close to his throat once the obstruction to speech was removed. The Briton spoke through gritted teeth, fighting back the pain with a conscious effort.
‘You’ll kill me cleanly, and put my body where the wolves can’t drag it to pieces?’
‘My word. And his.’
He gestured over his shoulder to the silent Marcus, who nodded gravely.
‘I will tell you what you want to know. But first, there’s a woman…’
Antenoch frowned.
‘What woman?’
The warrior sighed and shook his head at a memory, his breath still shaky with pain.
‘I warned him not to take her, I told him that no good would come of it. It offended Cocidius. She’s one of his people…’
He nodded his head at Marcus.
‘… although I can’t say if she still lives. Or what’s been done with her.’ The confession and burials took another two hours, during which time Dubnus took three tent parties and found the watcher’s hide post betrayed by the Briton, leaving the lone watcher’s head tied to a branch by the hair as a calling card. The century took a swift meal of bread and cheese from their packs, then headed north-east in early evening’s half-darkness, dragging the unwilling noble with them and using their intimate knowledge of the terrain to make reasonable progress under a fat full moon.
When they stopped five hours later, within thirty minutes’ march of their target, Marcus and Antenoch took the noble off into the dark, a tent party of soldiers shadowing them in a watching arc to ensure that no unfriendly strangers interrupted. Dubnus busied the century with the task of camouflaging their faces with saliva-moistened mud, each man painting broad stripes across another’s features to break up the large area of pale flesh. Out of sight of the halted century Antenoch pushed the man to the ground, and pulled his knife, finding Marcus’s hand on his shoulder.
‘My turn. Translate.’
He squatted next to the noble, pulling his regulation dagger from its place at his side.
‘I always thought I’d never use an issue weapon for a dishonourable purpose. This country is changing my mind in all sorts of ways. We’re a mile from your farm where, I’m told, you have a Roman woman captive…’
The other man shrugged at the translation, spitting at Marcus’s feet.
‘We offered your companion the chance to change his mind earlier. My bodyguard here only cut off one of his balls, and then allowed him to think again about telling us what he knew. He told us that you had already taken the woman by force, and that you intend giving her to your men as a celebration of the great victory to come.’
Another shrug.
‘You don’t get that extra chance to change your mind. You will die here, either intact and quickly, or no longer a man and in terrible pain, and very slowly. I expect that the wolves will find you quickly enough if we slit your belly and peg you out for them. Take a moment to consider your choice, but don’t expect to get an opportunity to make that choice more than once.’
The nobleman looked from Marcus to Antenoch, who nodded slowly to emphasise the threat. He coughed noisily to clear his throat, then glared up at Marcus. His Latin, roughened by lack of practice, was nevertheless clear in its emphasis.
‘Better to die without my manhood than to betray my people. You should understand that. Do what you must.’
Marcus turned away, his mind thousands of miles and several years distant. On a windy afternoon late in the year, training inside the house to avoid dust stirred up by the gusts outside, his trainer, sensing boredom in his student, had suddenly dropped his sword to the floor, and indicated to him to do the same.
‘Sometimes you won’t have a blade to defend yourself with, Master Marcus. In the arena I’ve had my blade smashed from my hand more than once, but still won the fight.’
‘How?’
‘Ah, got your attention now, have I? Simple enough, young man, know where to strike a man, and how hard to strike him. If you’re fast enough to get inside his defence and land a blow, you can choose to put your opponent on his back or simply take his life. Just hit him here…’
Pointing a finger to touch Marcus’s throat.
‘… and you’ll stop him breathing. You choose how long for. A little tap will put him down for a moment, short of breath and helpless. A decent thump, carefully measured, will probably knock him out for a few minutes. Anything harder will almost certainly kill him. Since swords obviously don’t entertain today, let’s practise that killing blow, eh?’
He raised an arm, pointing to the back of his wrist.
‘Strike here, as hard as you like… no, boy, I said hard. Your opponent just smiled at you and stuck his sword into your guts. Pick a point a foot behind the target and punch at that… Good, excellent follow-through! Again… Excellent! Now let’s work on the harder job, just knocking the man down for a little while…’