Chapter 8

The cold air hit Athos' skin once again as Polo pushed him into the undercroft room. The men continued to grip his upper arms as they led him toward the support pillar in the center of the hollow chamber. Finely crafted arches ran along the length, each supported with its own pillar that was buried deep within the ground. Two birds flocked and fluttered their feathers in a window at the far end of the room. A collection of bird droppings had accumulated on the sill and on the floor beneath it.

Two of Polo's guards shoved Athos forward, and he raised his hands to protect his head as he landed against the pillar. Polo stepped behind him, grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked his head back. Athos inhaled sharply, but kept his jaw clenched.

"Don't ever," Polo said. And then with a slow exhale near Athos' left ear he muttered, "Humiliate me in front of my men." He nodded, and one of his men picked up the chain and tossed it over a hook high on the pillar.

Polo grabbed a fistful of Athos' blouse and pushed him harder against the pillar. It cause his blouse to shift upward, and Polo motioned toward one of his men to raise the lantern toward Athos' face.

Athos closed his eyes, felt the heat of the flames against his skin, and he breathed through his nose. He swallowed when he heard Polo chuckle and then shove the blouse upward.

"The scars of a marked man," Polo said, and pulled a knife from his belt. He tightened his hand around the grip and then pressed the point against a faint scar on Athos' back. "What did you do, Captain, that earned you those scars?" He chuckled again when Athos inhaled.

Polo looked over his shoulder toward his men, and then suddenly ran his blade along the most visible scar. He ran it across Athos' right shoulder blade, until it reached his spine, and then repeated the process two more times on two different scars. He took his time, slow, methodical movements that were meant to inflict fear, humiliation, and pain.

Athos hitched his breath, and felt his skin crawl as blood ran down his back and toward the waistband of his britches. One of the guards grabbed Athos' wrists by the shackles and forced his hands upward. The metal clanged and scraped battered flesh. The guard hooked to the chain above Athos' head and left him leaning against the pillar. Polo released his blouse, and the fabric fell and clung to his back.

"The next time I see you," Polo said, "I'll be the one to kill you." He breathed heavily against the back of Athos' neck as he wiped the edge of his blade on the arm of his doublet. He and his men backed away, chuckled, and then slowly left the room.

Athos pressed his forehead against the cold stone, felt the muscles of his back scream in protest. He could hear the hammering outside. The constant bangs echoing throughout the chamber, causing the birds to flee. There was a piece of him that regretted not taking action sooner. But he challenged himself as to when. When had Raboin been alone? When had he been on the battlefield during the fighting? When had he allowed himself to show any weakness? Athos squeezed his eyes closed and held his breath for a moment as a hot burst of pain flashed across his back.

Raboin had been careful. He had hidden himself behind walls, protected himself while surrounded by men he trusted, and he had even hired himself an assassin who remained hidden in the shadows, biding his time. The evidence Athos needed was there, the proof, and even Raboin's admission of his allegiance to Spain had not come as a surprise. The problem had been timing, the opportunity, and, Athos sighed, the strength to move forward with King Louis' request.

Killing a man in self defense was one thing, but taking a life with purpose and malice was not something Athos was not comfortable with. Despite his king's orders, he struggled with the request. It had hit him like a punch to the gut when King Louis gave the order. When the words escaped his mouth and compared Athos' mercy to Anne as something similar for Raboin. King Louis may have wanted his brother to die a hero on the battlefield, but Athos had seen a man who needed his time in court. The king needed to know the extent of Raboin's partnership with Spain. What else had been compromised because of it? Who else knew, if anyone? And were there others?

Athos understood the king's need for discretion, and as he stood against the pillar, blood falling down his back, soaking his blouse, he wanted to provide it. But now, he was uncertain if he would live to see it accomplished. Raboin may threaten the Musketeers, but they were not men easily defeated. Instead, Athos knew, Raboin would face an enemy he did not know how to fight. He shifted, winced as the wound ignited, and then he exhaled slowly.

The hours until noon would pass swiftly, and he suddenly hoped that Aramis might have the strength to fire his weapon before the noose tightened around his neck. He hated the idea of his men watching him hang. Soldiers he had grown to know, admire, and love like brothers. Like all things, they would move on. His men would lay his body to rest in a field filled with the souls of those who died before him. He didn't have a family, so there wasn't anyone back home who would miss him… not in that sense… a sense of utter loss. Minister Treville, on King Louis' order would commission a new captain, and Athos hoped it would be Porthos. He was young, strong, and wise beyond his years. He listened, learned, and understood the complexities of military strategy. Athos quirked his lips into a gentle smile. Porthos hadn't always been so well versed in military techniques, but his desire for duty, honor, and his love of France and her king was all he needed to become unstoppable.

Athos leaned forward, gripped the chain and tried to keep the pressure of the cuffs off his wrists. He felt the tension in his body, muscles that quivered and shook uncontrollably as the hours crept by. The pillar was cold against his chest, and the winds continued to nip at his skin. He could feel the bleeding slow at his back. The damp blood grew cold, and he shivered as it moved against his skin. He closed his eyes, tried to focus on something; one thing that would take his mind off of what was about to come, but he saw his friends, his brothers — the only family he had left — and the only family he was sure to ever have.

Athos listened to the hammering continue, the shouts of orders, and the shifting of something large outside. He watched the birds return and then watched the sun's rays once again be hidden by winter's clouds.

It was going to rain again. This time, Athos hoped, perhaps it would rain enough to flood the battlefield. Wash away the dried blood, the tears of those who had cried for their mothers, wives, and lovers.

Perhaps spring would provide flowers where the men had died.