Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

  Instead a boot lashed out, smashing into his hand, and the knife dropped from his numbed fingers. Another boot struck him in the side, knocking him over and driving what little air was left in his lungs out with an agonising grunt. Musa lay doubled up, mouth open, straining to breathe as he looked up. There was the man in the brown tunic, with one of his thugs on each flank in a half crouch, fists bunched. Musa could not see what had caused him to fall and the look of pained confusion on his face made the man smile.

  ‘Too bad, Musa, me old cock. You put on a decent effort. But it’s over now, nay?’ He looked up, over Musa’s shoulder and grinned. ‘Good work, Petulus. Out you come, lad.’

  A shadow separated from a doorway to the side of the street and moved into the light and Musa saw a small ragged urchin clutching a length of wood. He recognised him at once. The boy he had tipped a coin to misdirect his pursuer. He had been part of the pursuit all along. Not only that, but Musa now realised that he had been steered into this precise alley where the boy had lain in wait. It was a well-worked trap. As good as anything he could have arranged. Better even. He shook his head and rolled on to his back.

  ‘Get him up, boys.’

  Rough hands grasped Musa’s limbs and hauled him on to his feet. A hand reached out and lifted his chin sharply. He saw the man in the brown tunic standing squarely in front of him. ‘Someone wants a little word with you, Musa.’

  Musa stared back, teeth gritted. Then, without warning, he spat in the man’s face. ‘Fuck you,’ he gasped. ‘And fuck that Greek piece of shit you work for!’

  A glint of anger flared in the man’s face before he smiled coldly. ‘The same piece of shit your master is carved from, my friend.’

  Then he nodded and a dark piece of sacking dropped over Musa’s head. He smelled olives briefly before there was a dazzling white explosion of light and sharp pain and then everything went dark.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘That’s a nasty blow.’ A voice penetrated his dazed mind. ‘You better not have scrambled the bastard’s brains.’

  Musa groaned and rolled his head to the side. He opened his eyes a crack and saw that he was in a stone cell, lit by the pale yellow glow of oil lamps. His head was pounding and the movement sent a wave of nausea sweeping through his guts. He was lying on his back; a wooden table from the touch of his fingers. He tried to move his hand but felt the tug of restraints. It was the same with his other hand and feet and he lay still, feigning half-consciousness as his mind struggled to think coherently through the shattering pain in his head. His shin also throbbed and he recalled the boy with a sense of betrayal mixed with self-contempt for having been taken in by him.

  ‘Just a tap on the head, that’s all we gave him,’ a voice growled and Musa recognised it as belonging to the man leading the party who had caught him. ‘He’ll be right as rain when he fully comes round.’

  ‘He’s moving. Musa’s awake.’

  Musa heard footsteps approaching and a pair of hands grasped the neck hem of his tunic and gave him a shake.

  ‘Eyes open, Musa. Time to talk.’

  He fought the urge to respond and played dead. The man shook him again and then slapped the side of his head.

  Musa blinked his eyes open and squinted slightly. He saw the man leaning over him nod with satisfaction.

  ‘He’s good.’

  ‘Then let’s not waste any time. Go and fetch Ancus.’

  ‘Right, chief.’ The man went away and Musa heard footsteps, then a door opening and the sound of sandals climbing steps. He turned his head and saw the full extent of the room for the first time. It was a low-ceilinged chamber, below ground, he assumed, from the dankness of the air, the lack of natural light and the quiet. Two lamp-holders were suspended from the ceiling, each bearing two brass oil lamps that provided the dull illumination. Besides the table, there appeared to be only one other item of furniture: a small bench upon which lay a set of tools, glinting in the lamplight. Beside the table, his head hidden in shadow, stood a thin man in a clean white tunic and calfskin boots that stretched halfway up his shins. The man stood silently for a moment before speaking in a soft, dry tone, too quietly for Musa to identify his voice.

  ‘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 delica
tely 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.’

  ‘Was it only . . . this morning?’

  ‘Yes,’ Narcissus replied patiently. ‘You were followed by Septimus here, who managed to stay with you without being spotted. This time.’ He glanced at his agent son and Septimus had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘Although you took the usual precautions, changing pace, doubling back and so on, Septimus stayed with you and saw you enter the house of Senator Vespasian. Now, I know that the good senator has been spending the last few months at his villa at Stabiae. There are rumours that all is not well between him and his wife, sadly. So I assume that the reason for your visit was to see his wife Flavia, nay?’

  Musa stared at him a moment and nodded.

  ‘Then please tell me that it isn’t because you’ve taken a leaf out of your master’s book and decided to screw someone above your social station.’

  Ancus chuckled until the imperial secretary shot him an angry look and he fell silent and turned his attention to rinsing his instruments clean in a small bowl of stained water. Narcissus turned his attention back to the man lying on the table.

  ‘So what was your business with Flavia?’

  ‘A . . . message, from Pallas.’

  ‘I see, and what was this message?’

  ‘My master asks her for her support . . . when Nero comes to the throne.’

  ‘More if than when, my friend. Your master is fooling himself if he thinks he can draw on the support of Flavia and her circle of associates. Contrary to the face she so carefully presents to the public, the woman is a fervent republican. She’d sooner devour her children than support your scheming snake of a master. The lovely Flavia has been most useful in drawing traitors out of the shadows to join her conspiracy against the Emperor, never suspecting that I watch her every move.’ He paused and stroked his cheek. ‘Tell me, what did Pallas promise Flavia in return for her support?’

  ‘Preferment . . . for her husband. When Nero comes to . . . power.’

  ‘The poet emperor and the professional soldier. I doubt there would be much in the way of small talk there. Besides, Vespasian seems to make his own fortune in this world. An admirable man in many ways, but there’s more than a spark of ambition there as well. He will need to be watched, and I have just the agent for the job. There’s not a man born who can resist the charms of young Caenis. My dear Musa, I fear your visit to Vespasian’s house has been a waste of time. Your master, Pallas, has put you at great risk for nothing. He has caused you this torment on little more than a speculative whim. All that you have endured here today can be blamed on him. On his poor judgement. Surely you can see that?’

  Narcissus scrutinised Musa’s expression, looking for any sign of the doubt he was trying to plant. The business with Flavia was no more than a ploy, the chink in his opponent’s armour that he wanted to prise open to reveal the secrets he was really after.

  Musa’s expression suddenly screwed up and he clenched his teeth as he struggled to contain a fresh wave of agony. The imperial secretary indulged him, waiting patiently for the pain to subside before he pressed him again.

  ‘Musa, you are being used by Pallas. He regards you as nothing more than a worthless tool to be thrown away on the chance of securing the goodwill of Flavia. Think on that. How little regard he has for you. You are a good man, I can see that. Every bit as skilful as the best of my agents. There would be a place for you at my side, when you recover. I swear it. Serve me and you will be treated with respect and rewarded well.’ He cupped Musa’s cheek in his hand. ‘Do you understand?’

  Musa stared up at him, and a tear rolled from the corner of one eye. He swallowed and nodded weakly.

  ‘There,’ Narcissus said soothingly. ‘I’m glad you’ve seen sense. It pains me to see what has been done to you. After we�
��ve spoken I’ll have you moved to a comfortable room in my house, and your wounds will be treated. When you’ve fully recovered we’ll talk about finding you a position in my organisation.’

  Musa closed his eyes and nodded weakly.

  ‘There’s one other thing, before we leave this place,’ Narcissus continued. ‘I need to know what Pallas is up to in Britannia. Has he spoken of his plans for the new province?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘I think you should tell me about it,’ Narcissus coaxed gently. ‘If you are to work for me there must be no secrets between us, my friend. Tell me.’

  Musa was silent for a moment, steeling himself to control his pain before he spoke. He did not open his eyes as he spoke, breathing shallow breaths as he kept his body as still as possible in order to prevent the pain worsening.

  ‘Pallas wants the campaign to fail . . . He wants Rome to withdraw from Britannia.’

  ‘Why?’ Septimus intervened.

  ‘Shhh!’ Narcissus silenced him. ‘Stay back and keep your mouth shut.’ He turned back to Musa. ‘Continue, my friend. Why would Pallas want us to leave the island?’

  ‘He seeks to undermine Claudius . . . If the legions withdraw then it will embarrass the Emperor, and his legitimate son, Britannicus.’

  ‘And it will undermine me, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Narcissus smiled. That was the real reason for Pallas’s scheme. It had little to do with the Emperor, who was old and would die within a matter of years, if not months, in any case. It had everything to do with eliminating any rivals for the position of closest adviser to the Emperor when Nero took the throne. Since Narcissus had supported the invasion and worked hard to win round the senators who had doubted the wisdom of the conquest of Britannia, any withdrawal from the island would destroy his reputation and influence at the imperial court. It would also damage Prince Britannicus who had been named for the conquest of the island. Who would support the cause of an emperor named after an island that had effectively defied the will of Rome?