Chapter 7
Disclaimer: This chapter contains scenes of torture, as well as (implied) sexual assault where both the attacker and the victim are male. I don't get too graphic, but if the notion offends you in any way, then I would strongly suggest that you skip the second section of the chapter (as denoted by the long page break lines—short ones denote flashbacks) and just read the first, third, and fourth. Thank you.
"What's going on here, Captain?" Mazarin demanded. Duval, who'd been 'escorting' the cardinal to the throne room, simply shrugged.
"Sorry, Your Eminence, but you're going to have to take that up with the King. I'm just the messenger."
"Sure you are." Mazarin would've said more, but by that time they had reached the door to the throne room. Duval pushed past him and opened it.
"After you." He gestured for the cardinal to enter, and Mazarin brushed by without sparing the musketeer captain a second glance. But as soon as he entered the main chamber, he stopped dead in his tracks, mouth hanging open in a rather undignified gesture of shock. Duval, only two paces behind him, stopped as well, grinning. Louis was on his throne, as expected. However, instead of sitting ramrod straight like his mother and tutors always insisted on, he was lounging, one leg hooked over the arm while the other dangled off the seat, his right arm resting on his knee, and his left draped over the chair's other arm. And his clothes…he'd obviously dressed himself for the occasion rather than let someone do it for him, opting for a pair of simple black breeches, a loose-fitting white shirt, and his favorite blue vest, which had been left unbuttoned. The most striking change of all, though, was the fact that he'd dispensed with the powdered wig, allowing the sunlight to bathe his natural brown locks. In Duval's opinion, the young monarch exuded far more power and confidence like this than he ever had as the preening fop everyone kept trying to turn him into. And Mazarin obviously agreed, as he kept opening and closing his mouth, seemingly unable to form a coherent sentence. Catching Duval's eyes, Louis nodded. The captain returned the nod and backed into the hallway, leaving the King alone with his prime minister. As soon as the elder musketeer was gone, Louis slid gracefully from the throne and stalked over to the gaping cardinal.
"Oh, do close your mouth, Mazarin. It's not a good look for you."
"I-I'm sorry sir. It's just…your greatness is…especially radiant today."
"And enough with the flattery."
"My apologies, your Grace." Hands clasped behind his back, Louis walked a full circle around the cardinal, sizing him up. Mazarin sighed. "Pardon, Sire, but why exactly did you ask me here?"
Coming to a halt, the King stared directly into Mazarin's eyes. "It has come to my attention that a couple of arrests were made this morning by your men."
"A couple of ruffians, Sire. Nothing you need to be concerned about."
"In case you've forgotten, Mazarin, the people are my concern. As are the musketeers. According to my sources, those so-called ruffians were two of Captain Duval's men. Privates LePonte and Siroc, to be precise."
"Should we excuse their crimes simply because they wear your uniform?"
"And what crimes would those be?"
"High treason."
"Can you be a little more specific?"
"I have the matter well in hand, your Majesty. As I said, it's nothing you need to concern yourself with."
Louis crossed his arms, glaring. "I'll make that decision, Mazarin, not you. Unless you can give me definitive proof that LePonte and Siroc are traitors, I demand that they be released immediately."
"I'm sorry, Sire," the cardinal said, averting his eyes. "I'm afraid that their executions are already set for tomorrow morning."
"Without my approval?"
"Again, I apologize. I just didn't think it was--"
"Any of my concern? I am a young king, Mazarin, but I am King. You would do well to remember that."
"No offense, Sire, but you won't really be King for another week."
"A few days, Cardinal? You would dare defy me over such trivialities?"
"Of course not, Sire. I didn't mean--"
"Don't lie to me," Louis snapped, eyes blazing in fury. "Now go. And if you don't find some way to get my musketeers out of the Bastille, then they'll hardly be the only ones losing their heads tomorrow. Understand?" Mazarin nodded, and Louis could've sworn he saw actual fear in his eyes. "Good. Oh, and Mazarin? I suggest you start praying, if it is indeed God whom you serve, because if you can't come up with a truly excellent reason to justify your continued presence in this court after my coronation…providing, of course, that you live that long…you'll be on the first ship back to Sicily. Dismissed!" With a slight bow, the cardinal turned on his heel and fled the throne room. A moment later, Duval walked back in. "Did you hear all of that, Captain?"
"Every word, your Majesty."
"And what do you think?"
"Frankly, I'm impressed. You handled yourself magnificently. Your father would be proud."
"Really?"
"Absolutely."
"Thank you. But what about Mazarin? Think he's really going to release your men?"
Duval shook his head. "Not a chance, Sire. He's up to something, I know it."
"I agree. So what would you suggest as our next move?"
"Well, I know that Privates D'Artagnan and De La Cruz are more than willing to help. However, I also fear that they may be too close to the situation."
"Perhaps. But if we're going to take on the cardinal and his guards, we'd be fools to turn away any such volunteers."
"Of course. I just don't want them getting hurt because they're not thinking clearly."
"Hmm…well, those dungeons could always use a good cleaning…."
"I like the way you think, Sire. I'll get right on that."
"Good. Report back to me when it's done."
"Yes Sir." Duval saluted, then left to go carry out his orders. Smiling at his own brilliance, Louis grabbed an apple from one of the trays that had been left out and resumed lounging on his throne. He was glad his mother was still on holiday. She'd probably throw a fit, saying that this was not the way a king should behave. 'Why should my behavior matter, anyway?' he thought. 'There's so many more important things to worry about, and as long as they get done, who cares how 'properly' I behave? And who decides what's 'proper,' anyway? Oh, that's right…I do. After all, I am King.' He finished his apple and, tossing the core aside, left the throne room to find Marjorie.
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A searing pain lanced through Siroc's torso, jolting him back to consciousness. He was hanging by his arms once more, hands now bound to the chain by a wet leather thong. Another jolt of pain wracked his frame, accompanied by the voice of his worst nightmares.
"Quisnam est vestri dominus? (who is your master?)"
"EGO servio haud vir. (I serve no man.)" Still hiding in the shadows, his tormenter cracked the whip against his bare flesh yet again and repeated his question. "Peto abyssus! (go to hell!)" Something hard slammed into Siroc's jaw, cracking it. Before it had a chance to fully heal, Bernard's hand wrapped around his throat, cold eyes boring straight into his soul.
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Britannia, c. 51 A.D.
Siroc cowered in the corner of his master's tent, his five-year-old body trembling with terror as the centurion drew ever closer. He knew he was in trouble, but, for the life of him, couldn't figure out why. All he had done was tell that other slave his name. Beltranus latched onto his tiny arm, yanked him to his feet, and dragged him to the pole at the center of the tent. His hands were tied to it so far above his head that his toes were barely scraping dirt, and his tunic was unceremoniously ripped away. The next thing Siroc knew, his whole body felt like it was on fire as the master's flagrum tore into his tender flesh. Tears sprang to his eyes as a second blow was delivered, and he silently prayed to Gobannus for protection.
"Quis est vestri nomen , puer? (what is your name, boy?)" Beltranus demanded, staying his hand for the moment.
"S-Siroc." The flagrum descended again, eliciting an agonized scream. His master repeated the question, and he answered the same way, resulting in yet another blow. This happened several more times, creating rivers of warm, sticky blood across the boy's back. Darkness tugged at his consciousness and, just before passing out, Siroc gave the centurion the answer he was seeking. "EGO sum nemo. (I am no one.)"
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Present
The all-too-familiar burning sensation along his back jolted Siroc from his mental wanderings. Several more blows followed in quick succession before Bernard stepped in front of him once more.
"Quisnam est vestri dominus?" Siroc reared back and spat in the face of his former master. With an enraged roar, Bernard punched him in the stomach hard enough to double him over were he not hanging by his arms. Wiping the spittle away, he pulled a filthy rag from his pocket, knotted the center, then shoved said knot into Siroc's mouth and tied the ends behind his head.
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Britannia, c. 53 AD
Siroc stood tied spread-eagled between two poles, the acrid smoke from the large bonfire filling his lungs and making his eyes water. A filthy rag had been shoved into his mouth, so he couldn't even speak in his own defense. Rather, he could only watch helplessly as Beltranus paced in front of him, clutching the small carving of Gobannus that had been discovered among the few things that could actually be called 'his.' Siroc hung his head, knowing full well what was in store. In Beltranus' camp it was forbidden for anyone, soldier or slave, to pay homage to any god other than Mars. Fortunately for him, though, the punishment he faced for worshipping the Celtic smithing god wouldn't be nearly as severe as what would await him had he been one of those who followed that new religion—Christians, if memory served. When Beltranus found one of them, they would be beaten, disemboweled, and left in the woods for the wild beasts--sometimes even while they still lived.
A sharp slap brought the boy from his musings, and he looked up to see the carving being waved in front of his face.
"Aditus! (ingrate!) Quam praesumo vos! (how dare you!)" Slapping him once more, the centurion pulled the carving back and turned to the others who'd gathered to watch the spectacle. "Intueor eventus illorum quidnam ausus barbarus dei. (observe the fate of those who dare worship barbarian gods.)" He threw the carving into the flames, then nodded to his lieutenant. The back of Siroc's tunic was ripped open and the flagrum descended on his bare flesh, Beltranus counting aloud with each stroke. Siroc held on as long as he could, but soon found himself screaming into the gag as the pain became unbearable. By the fifteenth stroke, he mercifully fell into unconsciousness.
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Present
As Siroc returned from his latest detour down memory lane, he felt his captor's warm breath on his right ear.
"Why must you keep fighting me?" Bernard asked, speaking French once more. "You know what I really want." He ran his hand down Siroc's bare stomach, laughing as he flinched.
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Britannia, c. 54 AD
Siroc cautiously entered the master's tent, unsure of what to expect. He'd heard rumors from the other slaves, and as he walked in he prayed to every god he could think of that they were just that--rumors. That hope was dashed when he saw Beltranus lying on his cot, clad in a red silk robe instead of his usual armor.
"Adveho hic , puer. (come here, boy.)"
"Haud. (no.)" He shook his head, slowly backing towards the tent flap. Beltranus shot to his feet.
"Inquam adveho hic! (I said come here!)
"Haud!" Siroc bolted for the exit, but the centurion was faster. He grabbed the boy's ankle, sending him to the ground. Rolling him over, Beltranus straddled his waist and bound his wrists with a leather thong. Siroc tried to resist, but his master was stronger. Hands bound, he found himself being hauled to his feet, dragged over to Beltranus' cot and thrown onto it face down, trapping his arms underneath. The master put one hand on the back of his neck, pinning him in place, while the other pushed his tunic just above his waist….
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Present
Shaking off that last recollection, Siroc kicked out at Bernard, trying to drive him back. Unfortunately, the elder immortal dodged it effortlessly before reaching out and seizing his chin.
"That's enough out of you, boy. Either you give me what I want, or I'll be taking it from your young friend--over and over again. Is that clear?" The inventor stared into the captain's eyes, trying to read him. It could've been a bluff…then again, in all the time he'd known him Bernard had never said anything he didn't mean. After a moment, he hung his head, resigned to whatever fate his former master had in store if it meant sparing Jacqueline from it. "Now, that's more like it…" Grinning like the madman he was, Bernard slipped behind his captive, tracing a line from Siroc's navel to the small of his back in a perversion of a lover's caress. The next thing the musketeer knew, his trousers were around his ankles. Tears sprang to his eyes as the memories of a thousand such violations surged forth, flooding his senses. He bit down on the gag to keep from crying out at the latest intrusion, but it did nothing to impede the living nightmare overtaking his thoughts. An eternity passed before the small part of him still conscious of the present felt the gag being removed. Warm breath passed his ear once more. "Quisnam est vestri dominus?" Bernard asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Vos es. (you are.)" he replied, just as the past completed its conquest of his mind.
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D'Artagnan anxiously paced the length of the common room, occasionally pausing to stare out the window or examine his reflection in the small shaving mirror mounted on the wall. Dark bruises were starting to form around his eyes, a visible reminder of that morning's round of fisticuffs. He was lucky no one seemed to have taken notice, or else he'd really be in trouble. Around his tenth pass, an otherwise untouched chicken leg collided with his skull. Rubbing the spot where the bone had made contact, he turned and glared at Ramon. The Spaniard was sitting at the table, still with a full plate in front of him. "What was that for?"
"No offense, amigo, but your pacing is starting to get annoying."
"Too bad," he snapped. "What the hell else am I supposed to do? Jacqueline is locked in the dungeon, having God knows what done to her, and Captain Duval has us confined to the damned barracks!" D'Artagnan punctuated his tirade by punching the wall, only he wound up causing more damage to his knuckles than the stone. He reached back to do it again, as if hoping for a different result, but Ramon got up and grabbed his arm.
"That won't help, you know. I'm worried too, but right now, I think the best thing to do is just wait and see what Capitan Duval has planned. After all, he's never let us down before."
Glaring, D'Artagnan yanked his arm from Ramon's grasp and stalked over to the door.
"Maybe you're content to just sit around and do nothing, but I'm not. You can stay here and eat your damned chicken for all I care, but I'm breaking into the Bastille tonight to get her out, with or without help." He opened the door to leave and found Duval standing on the other side.
"Going somewhere, Private?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," he replied, staring defiantly at the captain. "Excuse me." D'Artagnan tried to push past Duval, only to have the captain push back.
"Not without this you're not." He thrust a piece of parchment into the Gascon's hands. A dungeon pass.
"What's this for?"
"You two are on cleaning detail, starting immediately."
"Wait a second," Ramon interjected, joining his comrade in the doorway. "What did I do?"
Eyes narrowing, Duval swiftly grabbed both of their collars and pulled them in close. "I need the two of you to search every inch of those dungeons and find your comrades. And I mean just find them. No--I repeat--NO heroics. Figure out where they're being held, then get out. Is that clear?" They nodded, and he released his grip. Not wanting to waste another second, D'Artagnan brushed right past the captain and headed towards the dungeons, stopping only to grab the expected cleaning supplies. Ramon was right on his heels. "And don't come back until it's done," Duval yelled down the corridor, in case anyone was listening in. As soon as they were gone, he made his way back to the palace to inform the King that everything was going according to plan.
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Jacqueline stared up at the cell's tiny window, watching as the sun's rays slowly disappeared. Soon it was gone completely, leaving her very much in the dark. With a sigh, she sagged back against the wall, letting the chains hold her up as she gazed at shadows. Moments later, the lock on the door started to turn and she quickly pulled herself back to her feet, watching as it opened to reveal more red-coated guards. One, carrying a torch, walked in first and used it to light another mounted high on the wall, giving her at least some light.
A moment later, she found herself wishing he hadn't as a bound and bloodied Siroc was shoved into the cell. He stumbled to the wall opposite the door and collapsed just as Bernard was moving into the doorway. In the torchlight, Jacqueline could see blood coating the front of his white shirt, and she had a sinking feeling that it wasn't his own. Grinning at his own handiwork, Bernard turned his attention to her, signaling his men. One unlocked the shackles tethering her to the wall while the rest stood between her and their captain, their rifles trained on her chest. The bullets wouldn't kill her, but she still restrained herself for fear of what Bernard might do while she was out. Once the chains were off, she slowly moved towards Siroc while keeping her eyes focused on their captor.
"See you at dawn." Without further explanation, he turned and walked away, his men right behind. The last one to leave slammed the door shut and locked it. Alone once again, Jacqueline shuddered. Bernard's parting words were chilling, and rang eerily familiar. It took her but a moment to realize why.
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The cliffs, last year
Jacqueline, surrounded by her newfound comrades, watched helplessly as the masked men callously threw their bound and shirtless prisoner over the edge. He plunged to the bottom, screaming the whole way. A dark-robed man, obviously the leader, shrugged.
"Trial and error. Well, thankfully, we have plenty of specimens." He glanced over at Gerard.
She gasped. "I know that voice! It's Cardinal Mazarin!"
"The Prime Minister directing a secret society…" D'Artagnan mused. Ignoring him, Jacqueline started to rise, intent on protecting her brother. "Hey, wait!" He grabbed her arm, pulling her back down.
"Let me go!"
"No. You don't have a chance." Yanking her arm away, she turned back to the scene in time to see Gerard being dragged towards the cliff's edge. But just before he could share the other prisoner's fate, Mazarin held his hand up.
"No, wait. We'll keep him here tonight. Bring him to the sanctum before dawn. The text refers to the first light of the sun as being a propitious time. I want to see if it has any effect."
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"My God," she gasped, the realization slamming into her stomach like a stone. Her hand wrapped around the gold cross and, now aware of its true significance, she ripped it from her neck and threw it across the room, watching with grim satisfaction as the shadows swallowed it up. She then dropped to her knees next to her unconscious comrade, feeling along the floor for the dagger he'd dropped earlier. Finally, her hand closed on the smooth hilt and she took it up, using the blade to slice through the leather thong binding Siroc's hands together. Hiding the dagger inside her right sleeve, Jacqueline took a moment to assess the damage. Even in the dim torchlight, she could see the blood covering his back. She tore some cloth from the bottom of her shirt and wiped away as much as she could. The evidence of Bernard's recent efforts had long since healed, but his back was far from smooth. Scores of old wounds covered his flesh, hardly a spot left untouched. Jacqueline may never have been a slave, but she recognized the marks of the whip just the same. Gently, she pulled his head into her lap. His eyes were open, but showed absolutely no sign of recognition. He was staring blankly into the darkness, muttering to himself in Latin. Her own knowledge of the language was pretty basic, but she did recognize the words for 'master' and 'slave,' as well as a single name--Beltranus. "Oh, Siroc," she breathed. "What has he done to you?"