Free Gallicenae by Poul Anderson Page A

Gratillonius away.
    4
    In the early morning he was brought from the cell where he had spent a sleepless night. On the way down the gloom of a corridor, he met a procession under heavy guard. At its front walked a gray-haired man, skeletal, eyes fixed luminous upon another world. Four men came after, and a middle-aged woman and a younger who held hands. All were in coarse and dirty garb. They moved stumblingly, because they had not only been half starved but severely tortured. They stank. Lanterns burned smoky in the dank air around them. Hoarsely, they tried to sing a hymn.
    “The heresiarch and those followers of his who’ve been condemned,” said one of Gratillonius’s guards to him. “They’re off to the chopping block. Have a care, fellow, or you’ll be next.”
    —Light was dim also in the interrogation chamber. Gratillonius could just identify scenes of the Christian hell painted on its plaster. How neatly the instruments and tools sat arranged. This could have been an artisan’s workshop. Nothing felt quite real, except the chill. Two men waited, the first skinny and wearing a robe, the second muscular and in a brief tunic, ready for action. They studied the prisoner impersonally. He heard through a buzzing in his head:
    “—by command of the Augustus. Cooperate, and this may be the only session we’ll need. Otherwise we will be forced to take strict measures. Do you understand? We’re coping with none less than Satan—
”
    Surprised at his meekness (but resistance would have been of no avail, when he was so alone), Gratillonius undressed. His nudity made him feel twice helpless. The torturer secured him in a frame so that he stood spread-eagled and took a lead ball off a shelf. It dangled at the end of a thong. Meanwhile the questioner continued talking, in an amicable voice. “—your duty to help lay bare the work of Satan. We do not wish to harm you. Simply as a warning—”
    Snapped by an expert hand, the ball smote Gratillonius’s elbow. Agony went jagged up that arm. He strangled a scream. He
would
not scream.
    “—now tell me, in your own words—”
    Whenever he resisted or equivocated, not that he meant to play games but often he wasn’t sure how to respond, the blow landed, on joints, belly, the small of the back, until he was a single slab of pain; and worst was that the next attack might come from between his sprangled thighs. Weirdest was that, from time to time, the proceedings would stop, they would bring him water, the torturer would sponge the sweat off him while the questioner chatted about everyday things.
    Mithras, Who hates a liar, give me to cling to the truth! “—I did n-n-no such deed, ever. Others may have, I don’t know about that, I’m just a soldier, but it was for Rome, everything I did was for Rome.”
    “He might want a taste of the hook,” said the torturer thoughtfully.
    The questioner considered. “Once.”
    When the barbs went into his thigh and out again, Gratillonius knew what it was like to be raped.
    “But I cannot tell you more!”
    “You’ve said a good deal already, boy.”
    “All I could. All.” And never screamed, Gratillonius thought blurrily. Never screamed. That much pride is left me. But I don’t know if I can keep it after my arms and legs crack out of their sockets on yonder rack, or when he starts hitting me in my manhood.
    “Well,” said the questioner with a smile, “that will do for today. Please remember how much the state needs your cooperation, you, a soldier; and think what it means to your salvation.” The torturer fetched salves and bandages and set about dressing open wounds. “You haven’t suffered any permanent damage, you realize. I pray God you don’t, dear soul.” The questioner stroked the prisoner’s wet hair. “But that depends on you.”
    He called the guards to bring Gratillonius back to his cell.
    5
    After two days and nights, wherein nothing happened except diminishing soreness and horrible