He shook his head and whispered back, “Not a word since we took him six days ago.”
I nodded and waved him forward, and he walked into the clearing, heading towards the table in front of the tents. Seneca’s head came up quickly at the swishing sounds Pella’s feet made in the long grass, but he made no sound. His guard heard it, too, and straightened up slowly, nodding to me in recognition. I held my fingers to my lips, reminding him to stay silent.
In the meantime, Pella had bent down and released the tension on the rope that held the prisoner’s arms stretched downward. Seneca felt the release immediately, but before he could react to it, his arms were already being dragged above his head as Pella hauled on the other rope. A moment later, Seneca hung by his wrists, high enough that he had to bear his weight on his toes. He howled like an animal but Pella ignored him, concentrating on tightening the knot that held the tension on the rope. When he was satisfied that it would hold Seneca correctly in position, he crossed to the table and picked up something that lay there.
This was the worst part. I resisted the urge to interfere at the last moment and forced myself to stand immobile as Pella went up to the prisoner and laid the metal-tipped lashes of the scourge he held gently across Seneca’s shoulders, allowing them to slip down and off under their own weight. Seneca moaned as he recognized the feel of the lashes, and opened his mouth to scream. As he did so, Pella stuffed his mouth with a filthy rag. I closed my eyes against what was to happen next, but made myself open them again immediately. This next step was necessary, as an earnest of what was to come.
As Pella stepped back and swung the lash up and around, Seneca drew his finely muscled body into a bow shape in a vain attempt to avoid it. He was even bigger, stronger than I remembered. The scourge swished through the air and exploded into his writhing torso, and he screamed, in spite of the gag in his mouth. I turned aside and vomited into the grass, shuddering, unable to believe that I had planned this in cold blood, or that I was permitting it to happen. When I straightened up again, wiping the saliva from my chin with my sleeve, Seneca hung unconscious, blood trickling from a score of welts around his whole upper body. I swallowed hard.
“Take that thing out of his mouth and remove the blindfold.”
As Pella moved to do so, I crossed to the table and sat in the chair, so that Seneca would be looking at me when he regained consciousness. I picked up the scroll that lay on the table and unrolled it.
“Did you find his seal?”
“Aye, he had it around his neck on a gold chain. Here!” Pella tossed Seneca’s seal to me and I laid it beside the scroll and the stick of wax. There was nothing more to prepare.
“Throw some water on him.”
Seneca struggled back to consciousness, fighting against the shocking coldness of the water that hit him and the brightness of the sun that wounded his eyes after six days of tightly bound darkness. I watched him become aware of my presence and fight to gain control of himself, then saw him fight again, in vain this time, to bring his eyes to focus on me. For long moments neither of us spoke, and then I broke the silence.
“Do you know me, Seneca?”
I could see him struggling physically for words, trying to control the violent shuddering that racked his wretched body. When he finally answered me, his voice was cracked and dry-sounding and his eyes peered at me almost sightlessly as he held them shut against the brightness of the afternoon.
“No,” he whispered. “Who are you?”
I made my voice hard and toneless. “I am an old, grey-bearded man with a limp. Does that remind you of anyone?”
He shook his head sharply, as though trying to dismiss an unwelcome thought. “No. Who are you?” he asked again.
“Come, Seneca, you know me, surely? I had a friend in Verulamium. A bright-faced young woman with red hair. Her name was Phoebe. She died while she was a guest of yours. Don’t you remember? You told Antonius Cicero about it.”
He was squinting hard against the sunlight, twisting his head and trying to see my face more clearly. He rubbed the right side of his face against his right arm, trying to dry the moisture that was trickling into his eye, and this time, when he spoke, his voice was much stronger and his courage was starting to return.
“Damn you,” he cried. “What madness is this? What do you want of me? Who are you? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
I pressed on, maintaining the same hard, hectoring tone.
“You do not remember Antonius Cicero? He was Legate of the garrison at Colchester. He died because he was loyal to Theodosius when all others were rebelling with Magnus. Do you not remember, Seneca? You told him about Phoebe’s death. Surely you must recall? You told him that the man you sought, the grey-bearded cripple, had escaped you. You had found his whore. But the whore died without telling you anything, and you were vexed. You cannot have forgotten that, surely?”
Now he said nothing. His eyes had narrowed and his face grew cunning. A trickle of new blood seeped down from beneath his right armpit, where one of the lashes had bitten deep. The way he was hanging emphasized the great white “V” on his chest. I stood suddenly, feeling the chair fall back behind me, and strode around the table to confront him. His eyes widened and then clenched shut as I approached. I balled my fist and punched him on the breastbone.
“Look at me, whoreson, look at me! I’m the one who carved you and spoiled your pretty nose!”
His eyes snapped open, though I couldn’t tell whether they yet saw or not, and then he lunged at me, and as he failed to reach me he spat, swift as a serpent, in my face. Then he began to scream, stringing obscenities and curses together in a chain that would have shocked even Plautus. But through all of it there was a theme. “Who are you?”
I wiped the spit from my face and waited for him to be quiet. Finally his stream of venom dried up.
“Who are you?” he whispered again.
“Your nemesis,” I answered him. “To you I have no name, other than Death and Vengeance, hence my ‘V’ upon your chest. Do you recall my friend here?”
I indicated Pella with a nod and he stepped forward, to where Seneca could see him clearly.
Seneca glared at Pella, then shook his head. “I don’t know you.”
“No, you don’t, but you knew my son, in Aquae Sulis six years ago. He was five years old. Five. And you killed him, you demented, perverted whoreson, along with four others, and thought yourself safe. But you were seen. And now it’s time to pay. with your sick life, you festering sore!”
“Caesarius Claudius Seneca, you have a choice to make,” I interrupted, drawing Seneca’s wide-eyed gaze, now alert and fearful, back to me. Even still, he continued to glance sideways towards Pella through all I said from that time on.
“Listen, and do not interrupt. If you do, Pella will silence you again with his lash.” I picked up the scroll and began to read:
“Mine has been a life in which few could take pride. I have abused my power since I was old enough to do so. I have killed wantonly, in person and through others hired to do my will.
“I have also abused my position here in South Britain. Angered at Theodosius, and mindful of my own future prospects. I chose to aid and support the ambitions of the usurper known as Magnus Maximus, self-styled Emperor of Britain. In order to do this, I secreted funds from the revenues collected on behalf of Theodosius and used those funds to equip and provision Magnus and his armies.
“In so doing I was the direct cause of the death of the Legate Antonius Lepus Cicero. Commander of the garrison at Camulodunum. Loyal to his Emperor, he marched against Magnus and died.
“As soon as Magnus had declared himself, I withdrew into hiding, and have remained in hiding ever since that time, awaiting the outcome of Magnus’ venture, and knowing that if he failed I could emerge as a loyal officer who had taken his affairs into concealment to protect them.
“Now I am brought to judgment for a crime that I had not even considered to be worthy of remembr
ance; a faceless woman, murdered in my search for the man who mutilated me. She lived in Verulamium and her name, I know now, was Phoebe. It is in memory of Phoebe that I accuse myself and stand condemned by my own seal and hand.”
I raised my head and looked at Seneca. “There is your choice,” I said. “You may either sign this, or refuse to sign it. Either way, it will be found beside your corpse.”
His face had the pallor of death and his eyes were wild. “You are insane,” he whispered. “Do you really believe I would sign that thing?”
“Tertius Pella here is hoping you will not,” I answered him, “because if you refuse, he will flog you to death and enjoy every swing of the scourge. Thirty lashes. You will not survive them, nor would you wish to.” I saw him flinch at the thought of thirty lashes. The one he had already received had made a major impression on him. “I, on the other hand, I am prepared to offer you a fighting chance for life. Not that I hate you less than Pella does. We could quarrel, Tertius and I, over who loves you least.”
I paused, waiting for him to react to what I had said. He stretched upwards, seeking some relief from the agony of his hanging position, keeping his face expressionless.
“If you refuse to sign,” I went on, “as I have said, you will die under the lash. That is as certain as the death of Phoebe, whom you killed. If, on the other hand, you choose to sign the confession, you will have an opportunity to live. Not much of an opportunity, but more than you have allowed others. I will give you a sword and we will fight. Should you kill me, you will be free to go, that is if you can kill Pella too, for I think he might dispute your going. Victorious, you will have the document and satisfaction for your scars. If you die, however, and I intend to kill you with great pleasure, your confession, signed by your hand and bearing your seal, will be found beside your corpse as a final and unimpeachable condemnation richly deserved. I have already sent word to the garrison at Aquae Sulis. They will be here, looking for you, in a short time.”
There was a flash of something in his eyes, but I killed it.
“There is no other way out for you, Seneca. Not even if the soldiers were to arrive early and save your life. They are no longer yours to influence. Magnus is dead, months ago, and the news is known. Britain has already reverted to Theodosius.” I let him think on that for a time, then, “Well?” I asked. “Are you ready to decide?”
“What if I were to sign? You would kill me before I had finished.”
Rage surged in me, and I turned away from him to quell it. I turned back only when I had controlled myself.
“That would make me no better than you, Seneca, and I am a better man than you in every way. But what if I did kill you? It would still be better than being flogged to death by Tertius Pella. Once you are dead, your confession can no longer hurt you. For once in your rotten life, Seneca, you are going to have to trust someone to be more honourable than you are. Had I wanted simply to kill you. you would have been dead days ago. I want to kill you sword in hand, to beat you and to know you know that you are being beaten by a grey-bearded cripple.” I nodded to Pella. “Cut him down and take off those shackles.”
Pella cut the rope and Seneca fell at my feet.
“On your face.” I commanded, prodding him with the point of my sword. He rolled and lay face down as Pella undid his leg irons. “Now, roll over.” He did so, and I held the point of my sword at the base of his throat until his hands were freed. When he had finished, Pella went and fetched a length of rope and knotted it in a noose about Seneca’s neck. I nodded to him and he hauled Seneca unceremoniously to his feet.
“Choose now,” I said, fighting to keep my voice emotionless. “Sign or be flogged.”
From some deep well inside of himself, Seneca had found new resources to sustain him. The look he threw me was almost a defiant sneer, and, in spite of my hatred for him, I felt respect for his hardness stirring in my gut.
“I may sign,” he said, quietly, “but where is the sword I am to fight with?”
I looked at Pella. “Give me your sword.”
His face went black as a thunder-cloud. “No, by the Christ, I will not! If this whoreson has my sword at all it will be between his cursed ribs!”
I spoke to the guard who had been standing quietly, watching what was happening. “Randall, give me your sword.”
The guard unsheathed his sword and handed it to me. I took it and stuck it in the ground, about five paces in front of the table. Having done that, I paced out ten long steps and stuck my own sword in the ground, after which I retraced five of those steps to stand between the two swords. “There,” I said. “No advantages to either of us. Tertius Pella will tell me when you have signed fairly. After that, we fight and you die.”
This time he did sneer. “Your courage is wondrous, cripple. I have not eaten properly, or moved about in six days.”
I shrugged. “Weep if you want, Seneca. You are fortunate to have even this chance.”
He pursed his lips, seeing no mercy in my eyes. “So be it,” he said. “I will sign.” He moved forward to the table and took up the stylus I had placed there beside an open jar of ink. Pella moved with him, not allowing the rope around his neck to slacken too much. “Bring me a firebrand,” Seneca said. Pella glowered at him and then at me. I nodded to Randall, who went to the fire and picked up a burning stick and took it to where Seneca stood reading the scroll.
Seneca motioned with his head for the guard. to come closer, and when Randall had approached him, our prisoner smiled, a smile of frightening charm, considering his case. “I will hold the parchment,” he said. “You melt the wax on to it.” He watched the wax dripping to form a pool and then he imprinted the cooling puddle with his seal. “There,” he said. “And now my name.” He dipped the stylus into the ink and signed his name with a flourish. Even from a distance, I could see that his name was clearly legible. Tertius Pella examined the scroll and nodded to me.
“Good,” I said. “Now undo the rope, Tertius, and stand away.” As he started to obey me, I walked towards my sword.
As soon as the rope was clear of his head, Seneca sprang forward and snatched up the other sword. He crouched, panting, staring at me with a feral grin on his lips. “Now, cripple, you die!”
I looked at him, stark naked, his phallus dangling between his legs, and I felt invincible.
We circled each other warily for a spell, each taking the measure of the other, and then came together in the middle of the circle we had described. Our swords met with a clang as each of us slashed brutally at the other, hoping to finish the matter at one blow. There was no technique here, and no need of it; neither of us had a shield. This matter would be settled by strength, swiftness and chance. I watched his eyes, looking for the message of his next move, and he almost had me, because he moved in again to the attack as swiftly as an adder and with no warning. The point of his sword flashed within an inch of my face as I threw myself backwards and away from him with no chance of a counterstroke. He followed me, fast, his sword poised to stab, and there was nothing laughable now about his nakedness. I was aware only of his ferocity and of the fact that I had underestimated him in every way. I had looked for the weakness and cowardice of the bully, and for the effeminate inadequacy of a limp-wristed homosexual. But where I had imagined weakness, I found strength and bitter determination, and I quickly lost all feelings of invulnerability in my scramble to stay away from his sword.
He actually laughed aloud as he pursued me, and my limp felt more pronounced than it had in all the years since I had acquired it. Again his point slashed across my chest, missing, yet fanning me with its closeness. He came again, and I backed away, waiting for him to commit to his next move. He rushed; I stepped aside and swung at him and missed, and he kept moving forward. Forward, to where Randall, the guard, stood watching with his arms folded on his chest. The swipe of the treacherous blow that followed took all of us by surprise. Randall fell backwards, clutching at the gaping wound in his throat that sprayed his lif
e’s blood up and around his falling form like a cloud.
Before I could move or react, Pella flung himself into the fray with a vicious oath, drawing his sword and plunging at Seneca, who seemed still off balance after his killing blow at Randall. As Pella’s hurtling body came between us, depriving me of a clear view of Seneca, I saw Seneca twist and dodge, and then Pella was rigid, drawing himself up onto his toes, his entire body expressing outrage and violent death. I heard the grating thud of the blow that killed him and the scraping sound of Seneca’s blade plunging home through his breastbone. Like a cat, Seneca moved forward, braced one foot against Pella’s sagging body and kicked the corpse free of his sword.
Astounded by the turn things had taken, I was conscious of my mind screaming “No!” and of both of my companions still kicking and squirming, although both of them were dead.
Now Seneca faced me alone, and he was laughing, his eyes shining insanely with the joy of battle and of killing. “Two gone, Greybeard,” he said. “Now, before you die, will you tell me your name?”
I settled my feet squarely and braced myself to meet him head on. “I told you earlier,” I snarled. “For you, my name is Death — Death and Vengeance.” He sprang at me again, watching to see which way I would evade his charge, but I stood my ground, leaned forward to take his weight and stabbed hard, feeling my blade go deep in the killing thrust. His chin snapped forward onto his chest and his eyes flew wide, and for a space of heartbeats I held the whole weight of him upright on the end of my sword. I felt a savage exultation flow from my head to the muscles of my straining forearm. “Vengeance,” I whispered. “Vengeance and Death.”
[Camulod 01] - The Skystone Page 51