Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate

by S. J. A. Turney

  The physician smiled indulgently.

  "Palmatus: take the good medicus here down to the emporium - he seems to know about the journey. Don't come back until you find a ship's master with a fast vessel who'll take us to Puteoli without cargo. Passage for seven people and seven horses plus personal belongings. Pay whatever you need to but try not to let him know that's the case! At least make an effort to look choosy."

  The former legionary nodded and crossed to the Jewish physician.

  "Galronus and Masgava? Start packing up everything we'll want to take with us. We don't need anything we can't fit on horseback. I want both my swords, though."

  The two men, without bothering to acknowledge the order, moved across the garden towards the armoury.

  "Balbus: I suggest you get yourself and Balbina ready for the journey. I'll deal with the beasts. Bucephalus is in Puteoli and we've only got a couple of nags in the stable here, so I'm going to go and see a man about a horse. Six horses, in fact."

  * * * * *

  "We go for Fronto. Break house. Kill men."

  Berengarus' piercing green eyes almost boiled with the desire to cause harm as he glared at the man standing before him, the other's wisps of wild, white hair only reaching up to the big German's chest.

  "You are impatient, my gargantuan friend. I understand, but impetuousness carries dangers. We cannot afford to be so impulsive that we leap into the pit without checking for wolves first. All things in good time. When I took your coin you agreed that I would do the thinking."

  "Think faster."

  The grey, flickering tongue licked the lips in the parchment-skinned face as Tulchulchur, the monster of Vipsul, smiled. "Vengeance is best appreciated slowly and laboriously, else it is over too fast my friend. And vengeance completed is a hollow victory. When Fronto lies skinned and broken before you, you will have no idea what to do next. Achieving such a goal robs a man of his ongoing purpose."

  "What you know?"

  Tulchulchur laughed - a sound like a hundred tomb gates creaking. "The first man I ever killed was my own father, for what he did to me. It took him nine days to die and he screamed for merciful death every moment of every hour of every day. I was quite distraught when he finally passed. I had such plans for each day of two weeks and missed out on the opportunity to test some theories as to the body's limits. Fortunately, though robbed of my young life's goal, I found my purpose in those nine days. I discovered the one thing that made me whole - the one thing at which I truly excelled. Those remaining dozen tests were carried out again and again as I found new meat worthy of my knives, and the astounding thing was that I discovered there is no limit to possibilities. Every month until I was incarcerated I discovered a new way to cause agony."

  He grinned. "Fronto will die, but I fear that so will you when you no longer have him to focus upon."

  "Hurry" was all the enormous German said, turning and stamping away into the next room.

  The monster of Vispul watched his 'employer' leave the room and shrugged nonchalantly. Berengarus was still young. He would learn.

  Tulchulchur - a Demonic appellation he had given himself upon abandoning his birth name - had heard some fantastic estimates of how many men he had killed during his decades-long spree up and down the lands of Etruria and Latium. Some said two thousand, even.

  He knew better.

  Though he had long ago lost count, he could still attempt a good estimate. Never more than one person a month - until now, but then he had some time to catch up on - and never within fifty miles of the previous victim. One a month was enough; sometimes he could make them last three weeks and more, anyway. To some extent it irked him that he had become infamous for sheer volume. It was the quality of the work that mattered, not the quantity, and he was a master. Quantity would always come if you had the time.

  He turned back to the poor, broken thing on the table. He was rushing this, and that rankled as much as anything else. Berengarus' impatience was causing him to hurry when he should be savouring. But then this victim hardly fitted his usual profile. It felt strange to be carrying out his art on such a man, but then this was business - not pleasure.

  The slave gave a whimper as his remaining eye noted the tormentor turn towards him again. The only other figure in the room stepped forward into the lamp light: a youngish man, scarred and worn. An ex-soldier, clearly, but with a leer and hungry eyes that send a shudder up the spine of all that beheld him, the young man gestured at the slave.

  "You really believe he knows anything else? He would have sold out his mother and his children by now."

  Tulchulchur tutted and waved his hook-pointed knife back and forth in an admonishing fashion. "He knows more yet. I can see it in his eye - that's why I left one. And when he has divulged his last secret, even that is not necessarily a reason to stop. Any skill requires regular practice or one becomes rusty. I have languished in captivity for some time. I have already made nine mistakes."

  "Mistakes?"

  "You are young; a novice - you do not recognise mistakes. I nicked a major blood vessel in one of my early cuts. I tied it together with the skill of a surgeon, you know? But something is not quite right with the repair. He will bleed to death into his own belly in less than half a day. Had I kept in practice that would never have happened. I missed my knives in the carcer. Had I still had them, Berengarus would have fewer recruits, but I would be in better practice."

  He gave a chuckle like a cold wind blowing through a catacomb.

  "Would you like to help, legionary Modestus?"

  "Don't call me that."

  Five feet away, strapped to the table at wrists, ankles and neck, Nestor - Balbus' Greek body slave and a close and respected member of his household for more than two decades - tried to speak. He wanted to say 'no'. He wanted to say 'please, for the love of mercy, let me die'. Unfortunately it had not taken long for the evil wraith to discover that he could write in four languages and that had been when his tongue had gone, and then his teeth one by one. Even that had been individual agonies - not the whole extraction he had once had for a rotten tooth, but each one broken carefully off at the gum line.

  He had wanted to die now for two hours, but the wraith would not let him.

  "Your eye tells me you know more. Let us recap and then we will discuss what else we should hear."

  Nestor felt his mind reel with the possibilities of what might come next. He had tried to free his arms from the stone table in the kitchens of Balbus' town house, but the bastards had secured him so tightly he could hardly breathe, let alone move.

  "Your master and Fronto, along with their pet Gaul and some others about whom you are realistically vague - including what appears to be a black-skinned gladiator - have left the city by ship and are bound for villas above Massilia - the ones I see the construction plans of in the office - with all the supplies they need to wait us out. Their remaining family members are there."

  The creature wafted close, bringing with it the smell of stale sweat, halitosis and decay, and peered with pale, rheumy eyes down at the terrified slave's face.

  "No, no, no, no, no. No, my Greek friend. I do wish you would cooperate."

  The wraith sighed as the hook point of the knife caressed the cheek and hooded lid below Nestor's remaining eye.

  "I don't kill Greeks! I am, despite my reputation, very particular, you know? I only ever killed Romans, the way any good Etruscan would if he be true to his heritage. You should, by rights, be standing as I, over the body of a putrefying Roman, exploring his innards and making him wail and shriek for every hour your land has been under his boot."

  Tulchulchur heard the legionary behind him cough meaningfully and realised he had drifted into reverie.

  "Oh, don't get me wrong. I do what I do for the love of doing it. If I had slit the last Roman from balls to brain, I would find a new culture upon which to prey, but I do like to add levels of meaning to my work. It gives it a sense of completeness."

  Nestor scribbl
ed something desperately on the slate by his left hand with the piece of chalk. The monster of Vipsul peered at the writing, somewhat messy due to the level of constriction of the hand.

  "I don't think so. You see, you know your master as well as any man, and your lies might fool me, were I hunting Balbus. However, you do not know Fronto, and you have no idea how to lie convincingly about him. You'll have to do better than that. For that, I think I will have your nose."

  Nestor tried to scream, but the blood-soaked rag thrust into his mouth muffled the sound. Not that it mattered. Berengarus and the other seven former prisoners had dealt with every other living soul in the house and no sound would be audible from the street.

  Reaching down to the small table he had set next to the stone slab, Tulchulchur picked up a set of shears - slightly rusted iron things; heavy and solid. Leaning over Nestor, he went to work, placing them around the slave's nose. With a smile, the tip of his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, the monster of Vipsul snipped half the Greek's nose from his face, the protrusion flicking into the air and disappearing into the shadows of the kitchen floor somewhere.

  Modestus dropped to the floor to collect the grisly souvenir and, rising again, pushed a hole through the nose with a needle, threading it onto the body-part necklace he was making.

  Tulchulchur waited a few moments for the fresh screaming to die down.

  "Before we get to anything new, something you said already is not right. I wish you to write it all down for me again."

  Leaning over, Tulchulchur wiped the slate with a damp rag and replaced it beside Nestor's hand. The fingers twitched but did not move.

  "I am certain you do not wish me to start removing your lips, though I am very good at it. Write."

  Tears streaming from his remaining eye, blood and ooze from the socket of the other, Nestor reiterated everything he had told them in sharp scribbles.

  As the chalk fell away from the tablet, the wraith swept it up and peered at it closely, his clouded eyes running back and forth along the lines of messy, agonised text.

  "This. This is where you lie: Massilia. You see, along with my years of experience in causing exquisite pain, I have become - through collateral means - a true expert on several other things: thievery, espionage, scouting… acrobatics, even. Mostly, though: truth-seeking and medicine. In the same way a man has 'tells' when he lies - one can check by watching his reactions and his eyes - writing can hold the same warnings. The very stress you feel when you deliberately mislead is visible in the strokes of chalk. And here - where you have written Massilia - is where your writing shows unusual stresses. This is where you lie."

  He smiled and reached for the sharp, short knife with the serrated section of blade.

  "And I see that despite everything, you still do not take me seriously. So before I issue any further threat, I shall take your lips to show you just how serious I am."

  The following fifty heartbeats of sawing, slicing and screaming drew the hungry young Modestus to where he could see more clearly. The now almost skeletal face of the Greek shuddered at the agony, the exposed teeth stubs gnawing helplessly at the crimson rag between them.

  "Now without pushing me to make any further gestures of my sincerity, I would like you to replace 'Massilia' with the truth."

  Smartly, he used his rag to wipe the place-name from the slate.

  Nestor cried genuine hopeless tears as he wrote the name of Fronto's home town on the slate. He had done all he could… no one could expect any more.

  "And now you will tell us what else you are holding back."

  Nestor's eye widened. There were other things, of course. Fronto's knee history that might be exploited. Balbus' heart condition that could easily be made to work for them. The directions to the villa he had been given and the name of a local merchant in Puteoli he could contact to move goods to them if needed. All sorts. Nothing critical anymore, but every tiny fragment he gave them would make it worse for the master and his companions. And if he did not, this monster would go on hurting him for many more hours.

  He was choking!

  The blood from his ruined nose was running down into his throat and, given the constriction of the bindings, he could do nothing about it. He finally smiled a broken smile. He was going to die. Blessed Aphrodite, he was going to die and be saved further agony.

  "Tut tut tut."

  Awareness flooded back into him and he realised with horror that his tormentor had loosened the neck restraint and raised his head to clear his throat. He was going to live. He could feel life-giving oxygen returning. No! Nooooo!

  "I am no amateur, my Greek friend." Turning, Tulchulchur nodded at Modestus, who put his grisly necklace down on the small table and wandered over.

  "Hold his head up so that he can breathe while I clean my instruments. Then we will uncover the rest of his secrets."

  Nestor felt the former legionary take the killer's place holding his head up while the wraith went back to his knives.

  The man's fingers probed the back of his hair, feeling the sticky blood matted into it. The sick ex-soldier was caressing his blood-soaked hair! And that was when Nestor had his idea.

  Modestus was busy fondling the hair, rather than holding the head, when the Greek slave slammed his head back against the stone table with the audible crack of a skull breaking. Modestus stared down in surprise at his blood-slicked hands as Tulchulchur turned, his face a mask of abject fury. Before the former legionary could stop him, Nestor lifted his head again, leaving a pool of blood and hair on the surface and brought it down once more with another crack.

  Modestus leapt in to stop the man's suicide, but he was too late. When the Greek's head came up again, brains were on the slab. The third thud was final, and the light passed from his remaining eye in moments, a rattle in his throat.

  The legionary stood, stunned, staring at the body.

  "I… I'm sorry."

  Tulchulchur drifted, ghost-like across the stone-flagged floor. "You fool. Can you not perform even the simplest of tasks?"

  * * * * *

  Berengarus turned as the monster of Vipsul entered the triclinium, wiping the last of the blood from his forearms.

  "Well?"

  "Fronto, Balbus and four others including a Gladiator and a physician took ship this morning for Puteoli, which is a town in Campania over a hundred miles down the coast. Their womenfolk are there and Fronto knows the place intimately. I would have had a great deal more information, but the idiotic soldier boy let him die too soon."

  "Modestus?"

  "He will not be joining us. He has been contributing to his own necklace. I would apologise for the depletion of your force, but I fear he is no great loss. Come… let us uncover what we can of Puteoli."

  "We go book ship."

  "No. We are not prepared. I wish to know everything about the place before we leave. Fronto knows the ground, and so he has the advantage. We would be foolish to move without nullifying that advantage first. Modestus was a soldier. He would have told you all about tactics were he not so rash and foolish. You are an expert killer, my German friend, but sometimes it is worth learning from the military, especially if you are meaning to face them, and at least two of our quarry are experienced officers."

  Berengarus' lip twitched angrily.

  "Do not worry, my friend." Tulchulchur grinned as he handed him a hook-pointed knife. "We will soon flay their hides from their bones."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Titus 'Felix' Mittius - camp prefect and former primus pilus of the Eleventh stared down at the enemy. A veritable sea of Gauls and Belgae spread out across the wide valley to every side of the winter quarters, their armour and weapons glinting in the early morning sunlight as they prepared themselves for the next stage of the assault just out of ballista range. Six days now. Every morning the same sight. For six days.

  Felix turned, cursing once again his ill luck in having been promoted to the position of Camp Prefect with full responsibility
for the winter quarters' defences and construction just in time to have them tested to the limit by an unexpected army. He also kicked himself for not paying more attention to the grumbling of Priscus months ago about some great Gallic rebellion. He had - at the time - chided Priscus for jumping at ghosts and spreading panic about some mythical revolt.

  It looked considerably less mythical from this angle.

  Behind him, a party of the wounded from yesterday's brutal assault were busy tying sudis stakes together to form jagged barricades to bolster the wooden palisades where they were weakest. No one was being given rest - not even the crippled. Cicero had had a go at him for that, and even Pullo and Vorenus had expressed their displeasure at the badly wounded not being given adequate downtime. But Felix was determined to take his role seriously and he knew the legion better than anyone. The camp had to hold - forever if necessary - and the Eleventh were up to the task.

  Cicero himself stood on the rampart at the west gate some thirty paces away, leaning on the crutch the medicus had given him. He did not look well - each day ravaged him a little more in fact - but still nothing stopped him from taking his place on the walls.

  The Eleventh legion had settled into the pleasant wide valley two weeks ago now and spent the first of those weeks on supplies and construction. The camp was a work of art, even for a legionary fortress. Felix had leapt on the chance to prove his worth in his role and, despite the fact that no trouble was expected, had set the rampart at almost twice the standard height, gates with fighting platforms, a triple ditch with 'Punic' style slopes on the outermost - a steep drop from the exterior and a gentle inner slope, allowing for easier missile attack of the foundering enemy within it - and standard 'V' ditches for the other two. The interior buildings were of good solid timber and the central, most important ones had roofs of tiles formed from the mud of the nearby river and baked solid. Others were thatched in the native style for ease until more tiles could be manufactured.