Invader by Simon Scarrow

Author:Simon Scarrow [Scarrow, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472213679
Amazon: B015ERM0IS
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2016-01-14T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The distant roar of the crowd rumbled softly through the walls of the servants’ quarters as Centurion Vespillo stepped back from the prisoner and admired his handiwork. He wiped his scarred fist with a bloodied rag and turned to the imperial envoy.

‘That ought to have loosened his tongue a bit, sir.’

Scylla nodded slowly. A length of rope bound the prisoner’s wrists, with one end of it fastened round a ceiling timber so that the man hung from it with his arms above his head, his feet dangling a few inches above the floor. As soon as the auxiliary reinforcements had arrived at the tribal capital, Scylla had sought out Centurion Vespillo, the garrison’s specialist interrogator, to question the captured assassin. Figulus had been ordered to act as a translator during the interrogation. It was immediately obvious that Vespillo had long experience of plying his grim trade. The centurion had started beating the prisoner with a series of hard punches to the stomach, followed by several vicious lashes to the kneecap with his vine stick. Figulus had looked on as the man’s cries of pain echoed through the modest quarters.

‘Very good, Centurion,’ Scylla said as he approached the prisoner.

The envoy regarded the Briton with a withering look of contempt. His legs were visibly swollen and blood trickled out of his slack mouth. Groaning in agony, the prisoner slowly lifted his head to look directly at Scylla. One of his eyes had swollen shut and his lips were purpled with bruises. He croaked a few words in his rasping native tongue.

‘What’s he saying, Optio?’

Figulus hesitated. ‘He says you can get fucked. Something you should be used to, as a Greek.’

The Briton smirked, revealing a set of bloodstained teeth. Scylla glowered at the prisoner, his lips twitching with rage.

‘And there I was thinking that the Britons were more than just a bunch of hairy-arsed barbarians utterly lacking in sophistication.’ Clearing his throat, the envoy turned to Vespillo. ‘I think our friend here needs another lesson in Roman manners, Centurion.’

Vespillo grinned. ‘As you wish, sir.’

The centurion stepped forward, his hand balled into a fist, the knuckles shading white. He was still grinning as he slammed his fist into the prisoner’s stomach. The Briton grunted in agony, gasping as the air rushed out of his mouth. Figulus heard something crack. Vespillo slapped the Briton across the face so hard the man’s cheek shaded bright red. The Briton coughed violently and made a horrible retching noise. Then he spat at the centurion. A gobbet of phlegm landed on Vespillo’s breastplate. He looked down, then stepped forward and repeatedly punched the prisoner in the stomach. The Briton moaned, thrashing about in pain as he recoiled from each blow and the timber beam above his head began to creak under the strain.

‘That’s enough for now, Centurion,’ Scylla commanded. ‘We don’t want to kill him.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

Vespillo took a step back and wiped the spittle from his front with the bloodied rag. The prisoner hung limp from the cross-beam, moaning softly.

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