Having explained what he wanted, he left the office and went to the surgery, looking around for the tool he wanted. Finding a suitably robust bone saw he worked swiftly, cutting off the last inch of the horn’s tip to reveal a hole as wide as his middle finger.
‘Perfect.’
He pocketed the horn’s tip, and then went in search of the other centurions. He found them both in the main ward, watching as the doctor, dressed in a spare tunic and apparently recovered from her ordeal, fussed over the young man they had found unconscious in the corridor.
‘He seems to have nothing worse than a slight concussion. Poor man, I thought that animal had managed to do what the barbarian archers had failed to achieve.’
She looked up as Martos approached the small group. He nodded to her, speaking to the two centurions.
‘Brothers, I need your help with our prisoner.’
Rufius and Marcus followed the Briton to the office door, where he stopped them and spoke quickly, showing them the horn and explaining what he proposed. All three men crowded into the office, almost filling the small room with their bulk. Julius gave them an exasperated stare, while Furius, hearing the rapping of boot nails on the stone floor, renewed his harangue of his captors.
‘Just surrender to the inevitable, you fools! Release me now and I may choose to overlook this stupidity. Hold me here any longer and I’ll insist on fucking the doctor’s lovely tight arse as part of the deal!’
Julius stared down at the prone figure, clearly at the end of his patience with the man’s imprecations.
‘Whatever it is you have in mind, Martos, could we just get on with it?’
Martos nodded, showing him the truncated horn with raised eyebrows. After a second the realisation dawned on the centurion, and a slow smile spread across his face.
‘Very well, Prefect Furius, I suppose you’re right. You two, unbind his wrists.’
Marcus and Rufius unfastened the belt tying Furius’s arms, but rather than allowing him up as he expected, they each pinned an arm to the floor, spreadeagling him across the stone while Julius deftly wrapped a powerful arm around his legs, preventing him from kicking out. With his neck no longer under Julius’s boot the disgraced officer craned his head round in amazement.
‘What?! Free me now, or you’ll leave me no option but to…’
He went quiet as Martos squatted down by his head, showing him the ruined drinking horn.
‘This was my father’s, and his father’s before him. I don’t appreciate having to destroy it for the sake of a piece of shit like you, but I have. A man that will attack a woman like that, one of his own people, does not deserve either to live or to leave this life quietly. And so…’
He picked up Felicia’s undergarment from the floor where the disgraced officer had discarded it in his haste to violate the helpless woman. Wadding the linen into a ball he slapped the man’s ear again, then deftly pushed the gag into his mouth as he opened it to bellow another protest.
‘Make the most of that, it’s the last contact with a woman you’ll have in this life.’
He joined Julius, taking a strong grip of one of Furius’s legs. The two men nodded to each other, pulling the man’s legs apart and revealing the Roman’s genitals and his puckered anus. Moving quickly, the Briton pushed the tapered end of the horn into Furius’s rectum, ignoring the muffled protests the helpless captive was now making.
‘Hold this.’
Passing the leg he was gripping to Julius, who flexed his powerful shoulders to hold the limbs in place despite Furius’s increasingly desperate struggles, he picked up the remnants of the doctor’s torn tunic and wrapped it round his hand before reaching for the poker, whose blade Julius had plunged deep into the fire’s coals moments before. Regarding the red-hot metal critically, he pushed it deep into the fire again, stirring up the coals for maximum heat.
‘Well, Roman, it seems we have a moment or two to kill, so I’ll tell you a story.’
Furius goggled at him, his eyes bulging in disbelief.
‘You will probably have heard it before, it’s as old as the hills themselves, but that’s no reason not to spend a moment telling it again. There was once, my grandmother told me when I was very young, a snake whose delight was to bite and kill other creatures, even those – or perhaps especially those – it could not eat. The other beasts of the forest hated and feared the snake in equal measure, since it killed simply to enjoy the sensation. One day, at the height of summer, there was a fire in the forest, and the flames leapt from tree to tree faster than the snake could slither. The snake was afraid of being burned to death, but just when all seemed lost he saw a fox, an intelligent and wily animal, running towards him, for foxes, as I am sure you know, can run fast enough to outpace a forest fire, and for many miles too.
‘So, he called to the fox and begged it to carry him away to safety. The fox, of course, was unimpressed with the request. He knew of this particular snake’s reputation, and he feared that to carry the snake on his back would be his death sentence, but the snake had one powerful argument that he knew would sway the fox. “If I bite you,” he reasoned, “I will burn to death when I fall from your back. Why would I do such a stupid thing?” And so the fox agreed to carry the snake to a safe distance from the fire in return for the reptile’s future favour.
‘Of course, halfway across the forest, where the trees were at their thickest and the fire threatened to overtake them, the snake suddenly sank his fangs into the fox’s neck and delivered a dose of poison that was sure to kill him in seconds. As the fox was struggling in his death agonies, with his sight going dim and his ancestors calling him to join them, and as the fire started to rage around them, he raised himself up with one last mighty effort, and asked the terrified snake the obvious question: “Why have you killed me, when it means your own death?” And the snake, sliding off his back and into the flames that would burn him to death, hissed the answer with fear and shame, but with the certainty of truth. And do you know what he said?’
The Briton gave the gagged Roman a moment to respond. Furius stared at him mutely, his eyes filled with hate.
‘No? What he said was simply this: “I can’t help it. It is in my nature.”’
‘By now, of course, you will have guessed why I have taken this time to tell you this story, apart from the fact the poker needed a little more time to be hot enough for my purposes. You, although I have not known you for very long, clearly have the same lust for death and suffering as the snake in my story. You are a man who is dangerous to all around you, and you will remain so for as long as you live. Some people would be filled with curiosity as to what can lead a man to become so debased, but I am of a more practical mind. I simply want to put you out of this misery you call a life without your evil leading to any more death. And now, it seems that the means of delivering you to Hades without springing these traps of which you speak is ready.’
He hefted the white-hot poker in front of the Roman’s face, watching a bead of sweat trickle down the man’s forehead, then moved to where the horn protruded from between his legs.
‘Brace yourselves, he’s going to struggle with the strength of a bear once this starts.’
He slid the poker into the horn’s conical opening, the smell of burning filling the air as the hot metal seared its interior, then pushed the metal forcefully through its tip and into the prostrate man’s body. Without the gag Furius’s anguished screams would have woken the entire camp, and his body thrashed across the floor despite the four men fighting to hold him down as the hot metal blade tore through his internal organs. With one last massive shudder the dying man sagged lifelessly to the stone floor, his eyes suddenly glassy and empty of life. Martos withdrew the poker, filling the room with the stench of buring offal, then pushed it back into the fire to burn off the residue of Furius’s organs clinging to its surface, and tossed the ruined drinking horn on to the coals. Julius stared down at the body, shaking his head in wonder.
‘The perfect murder. No signs on the victim’s body, and no trace of the means of death. Get him dressed, brothers.’
Tribune Licinius, summoned from the bed into which he had just gratefully slumped, took one look at Furius’s corpse laid out on the operating table in his boots and tunic and called for the doctor.
‘What can you tell me about this, my dear? I’ll have to explain this to more than one very senior officer and I’d like to get my story straight before the questions begin.’
If he noticed the tense air in the room he chose to ignore it, waiting for Felicia to make her reply.
‘He had come to see his men. He was talking to me in my office when he collapsed without any warning, clutching his chest and shouting with the pain, then passed out. I couldn’t find a pulse, so I called for the officers here to help me.’
‘And all of you saw this?’
