26 - Interrogation

On Saturday, the last day of the Ketirí week, a relentless sun rose over Tauride. Lakua and Kamar were still staying in the big house, enjoying Jorge's hospitality. They had breakfast, lunch, and dinner together, conversing naturally about politics, strategy, and various anecdotes. But the rest of the time, each one delved into their own affairs, immersed in a delicate balance between calm and latent tension.

Following Jorge's direct orders, the patrols relentlessly scoured every inch of his estate, a vast territory of over six hundred square kilometers. It was an immense expanse, a labyrinth of hills, bushes, and dry river beds where a man could easily disappear. Every two hours, detailed reports arrived at the big house, charting the slow but inexorable progress of the search, which did not stop even with the setting sun or the cold of dawn.

The soldiers of Tharakos, disciplined and silent, wore camouflage uniforms designed to blend in with the dusty earth and sparse vegetation. Their equipment was that of an elite force: night vision goggles, thermal sensors, precision rifles... Everything had been carefully adapted to function under the electromagnetic interference that protected Ketiris from the outside world.

One of these men burst into the big house with the urgency of someone carrying a life-or-death message. He firmly asked for the lord of the estate. Jorge, who was at that moment with Eukario, ordered that the soldier be brought to him immediately. He sensed at once that the soldier had something more than a routine report.

The meeting took place in one of the interior salons, a cool and spacious area where the marble columns cast elongated shadows over the polished stone floor. The soldier stood rigidly before speaking.

—Sir, I bring news.

His breathing was quick, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the controlled temperature of the room.

—What is it about? —Jorge asked, fixing his gaze on the man's face.

—We have found the infiltrators.

Jorge felt a shiver in the pit of his stomach.

—Where?

The soldier swallowed hard.

—Inside the premises of the big house, sir.

The silence that followed was unbearable. Jorge felt the security of his estate crumbling around him. The intruders were not hiding in the ravines or the distant hills: they had been there, within his walls, breathing the same air, lurking in the shadows.

—Are they alive? Have you interrogated them? —he asked, striving to maintain his calm.

—We captured them alive, but they resisted —the soldier reported in a tense tone—. They are under custody in a nearby facility. The commander is preparing the interrogation, sir.

Jorge exchanged a glance with Eukario. His first reaction was to summon Yusuf. The security of the estate was his responsibility, and someone had to answer for the fact that the intruders had made it to the very big house.

But he wouldn't wait for Yusuf to arrive; first, he needed to see the prisoners.

—Take me to them —he ordered.

The soldier nodded and led them quickly. They stepped outside, where the merciless morning sun beat down on the dirt paths. A dry wind, laden with dust and the scent of hot grass, blew in from the distant hills. It was curious; despite being so close to the sea, the winds were usually filled with aromas from the interior of the island. In the distance, in the fields, the to and fro of the slaves could be seen, oblivious to what was happening at the heart of the estate.

They soon arrived at a solid stone building, with no visible windows, and a single thick wooden door reinforced with iron. In front of the entrance, a complete squad stood guard, their faces tense and weapons ready. As Jorge approached, the soldiers snapped to attention in silence, parting to allow their lord through.

Inside, the air was thick and smelled of earth and sweat. Light filtered through gaps in the walls that served as skylights, projecting golden lines on the uneven stone floor. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation.

Jorge took a deep breath and moved forward. With each step, he felt he was getting closer to the truth that was about to be revealed.

The three enemy soldiers hung motionless, suspended by their wrists from a heavy central beam. The light from the hangar, entering obliquely through the upper openings, highlighted the tense pallor of their bodies and the involuntary trembling of their exhausted muscles. They wore only their undergarments, and despite being in good physical condition, none had the imposing bulk of the strong slaves, nor the sculpted harmony of the personnel. They were soldiers trained for war, yes, but not for submission.

Two of them, the older ones, kept their heads lowered, their lips pressed tight, as if they had already accepted the inevitable. But the third, the youngest, still resisted. His body was more athletic than his companions, and his eyes, filled with anger and defiance, pierced into Jorge with a hint of almost childlike arrogance.

Jorge watched him with interest. Perhaps he still did not understand the position he was truly in.

The commander of the patrol stepped forward with a firm gait and stood at attention before him. Despite his military rank, he bowed respectfully, as was fitting for the owner of the estate.

—These are the three we were looking for, sir —he announced—. A small rapid response team. A sergeant in command and two soldiers.

Jorge felt a cold wave of satisfaction run down his spine. Finally. Now he could silence all of Kamar's and Lakua's doubts. Now the Council would have solid proof.

But the commander still seemed on guard.

—There is a possibility that they are informing someone —he added—. They were carrying short-range radio communicators.

Jorge was taken aback.

—Do they work even under our interference?

—Yes, sir. They are analog technology devices. They cannot be used for complex tasks, like guiding a missile or lifting maps, but yes for direct radio communications.

Jorge crossed his arms.

—Then there may be someone else.

The commander nodded gravely.

—they cannot be communicating with a ship at sea or in the air. The range isn’t enough.

—How much do they cover?

—We don’t know for sure. Maybe two kilometers. Five, at best.

Jorge tilted his head, processing the information.

—So it is quite possible that there is another team nearby.

—It is a possibility, sir. Our soldiers continue the search just in case.

Silence grew heavy, charged with dangerous conjectures. Jorge looked again at the prisoners. Would one of them be reckless enough to talk?

—And naturally —he continued—, our prisoners haven’t said anything.

—As expected, sir —the commander said with a slight smile—. They refuse to talk. But I have requested the presence of a vilicus specialized in interrogations. He should be here at any moment.

Jorge nodded.

At that moment, the hangar door opened with a sharp bang.

Yusuf was the first to enter, with his usual impassive and calculating demeanor. But he was not alone; beside him, a dark figure emerged from the shadows. A vilicus. A discipline slave. He was practically naked, except for a brief leather loincloth and high boots.

His presence instantly changed the atmosphere. The soldiers, who had been stoic until now, tensed instinctively; even the youngest, who had just moments ago been defiant, lowered his eyes with a slight hesitation.

Yusuf appeared in the doorway, with the carefully neutral expression that characterized him, but with a slight shadow of unease in his eyes. Beside him, a discipline slave kept his head bowed, in a servile attitude, as if his mere presence was enough to demonstrate obedience.

—Elí, good morning. I was told you were looking for me. This slave was also on his way to the obedience school —Yusuf greeted with his usual tone, firm but cautious.

Jorge did not know of the existence of that place.

—Obedience school?

—Yes, elí. We are right in it. This is where the livestock is disciplined —Yusuf explained naturally, but there was something in his voice… a slight hesitation, as if he knew that something had gone wrong.

Jorge did not wait.

—I need to talk to you about how you are organizing security —he said, his voice tense like a string on the verge of breaking—. Those you see here —he pointed with a brief but meaningful motion at the chained prisoners— are the three men we were looking for.

Yusuf turned slowly, observing the captives for the first time. The color drained from his face instantly.

—The infiltrating Israeli squad —Jorge continued, savoring for a second the impact his words caused—. The same ones who destroyed the interference node.

There was a moment of frozen silence.

—That —he continued, taking his time— is not your fault.

Yusuf breathed a sigh of relief, but the air caught in his throat when Jorge added, with cold intent:

—But having them caught inside the walls of my house, as if they were just taking a stroll… that is indeed your fault.

Yusuf paled even more. For the first time, his composure cracked. His mane, always floating with arrogant carelessness, seemed to suddenly lose its defiant sheen. He swallowed hard and looked down, rendered speechless.

Jorge left him in that state for a few seconds. To feel the pressure. To understand his place; but at that moment there was something more urgent to discuss.

—we’ll talk about all that when it’s more opportune —he announced calmly, relishing his authority—. For now, the priority is to know with whom these saboteurs were in communication.

The commander, who had until then remained respectfully silent, took a step forward and addressed Jorge with the due deference.

—Sir, I request permission to interrogate the prisoners. And to use torture methods if necessary.

The phrase hung in the air, filling it with a suffocating density.

Jorge did not respond immediately. He looked at the soldiers. He saw their glistening skin from sweat, their jaws tense, the red marks the shackles left on their wrists. The youngest still held his gaze, but now his insolence seemed more forced. The other two did not even lift their heads. They were already broken. They did not yet know it, but they were.

Finally, Jorge spoke.

—Permission granted —he said quietly, but clearly enough for everyone to have no doubt about his decision.

The commander nodded in approval.

—Excellent, sir. First, I will order your vilicus to inflict intense pain, but without preventing them from speaking.

Jorge nodded.

—I would like to know in detail what each step of the interrogation will consist of —he added, not taking his eyes off the prisoners.

The commander barely smiled.

—Of course, sir. It will be an honor to explain it to you.

And behind Jorge, Yusuf still dared not lift his head.

The commander turned to the vilicus with a slight nod. Without a word, the slave moved to the stone shelf on the nearby wall and took three short steel chains, of a particular design.

A metallic clinking filled the air as he dropped two of them and held only one in his hand. He then positioned himself in front of the first prisoner. The sergeant, a middle-aged man, kept his head lowered, his jaw clenched, as if he had already decided not to break. But his body, tense as a bow, betrayed him.

The vilicus did not hesitate. He hooked the first clamp to a bare nipple. The crunch of the metallic teeth sinking into flesh was barely a whisper, but the soldier's scream echoed against the stone walls. He then adjusted the second clamp to the other nipple and dropped the chain, which hung with an unexpectedly cruel weight.

The sergeant gasped, the muscles of his torso tensing. His wrists, chained above his head, trembled with a slight rattling. But he said nothing.

The procedure was repeated with the second prisoner, the oldest of the three. He did not scream. He simply exhaled through his nose in a trembling hiss, his lips pressed tightly with fierce determination. But his skin, which tightened around the clamps as if trying to expel them, betrayed his suffering.

The third, the youngest, watched everything with clenched teeth, breathing deeply, anticipating his turn. He did not avert his gaze when the vilicus stood before him. First clamp. The young man convulsed violently, but did not scream. Second clamp. The tendons of his neck stood out like tight strings. The chain hung loosely between his nipples and the impact of its fall seemed to pierce his chest. His breathing grew erratic; but he remained silent.

Jorge watched them with almost scientific curiosity.

—Does that really hurt that much? —he asked, not taking his eyes off the slow rise and fall of the tormented torsos.

The commander smiled.

—More than it seems, sir. The initial pain is just the beginning. The weight becomes an invisible claw that never stops tightening. But above all, the real torment comes with this.

He pulled out a small black device and placed it in Jorge's hands.

—Use it if you want to check for yourself.

Jorge examined the device. A dial with a scale from zero to five. For the moment, the indicator marked zero. He smiled and turned the dial; the effects were immediate. Barely the needle left the zero, the first spasm coursed through the chained bodies, like an electric shock in slow motion.

When Jorge abruptly turned the dial to one, the chains came alive, rattling as if they were metal snakes.

The three soldiers arched simultaneously, an involuntary choreography of tense torsos. The muscles of their abdomens tightened like strings of a detuned instrument, and the young one, the most defiant so far, let out a stifled grunt, swallowing the scream that threatened to burst from his throat.

The other two closed their eyes tightly, refusing to give in to the shame of pain; but the tremor of their bodies betrayed them. The soldiers panted.

Jorge held the dial position for a full minute, observing every muscle contraction, every new involuntary tremor. Sweat began to bead on their foreheads.

—Interesting —Jorge whispered, not taking his eyes off the scene. But still not enough.

He turned the dial to two. The effect was instant.

The sergeant broke his silence with a grunt, like a wounded dog. The older one let out a soft moan, almost a lament. And the young one…

The young one finally screamed. It was an angry, fierce sound; but it was a scream.

Jorge left the dial at two for another thirty seconds, savoring the absolute power he held in his hands, before turning it back to zero. The silence that followed was even more eloquent than the screams; the commander smiled in approval.

—It’s fantastic! How does it work? —Jorge asked, with the curiosity of a child who has just discovered a fascinating mechanism.

The commander smiled, pleased with his enthusiasm.

—It uses the same principle of induction that allows batteries to be charged wirelessly —he explained, turning the small device in his hand—, but each link in the chain has a multiplying effect. And the best part… —he leaned slightly towards Jorge, as if sharing a secret— is that this dial only inhibits the discharge. If we were to destroy it or it malfunctioned, the current would reach its maximum level. And there is no human who can withstand that.

Jorge surveyed the three hanging bodies, tense as bows.

The youngest was biting his lip until it bled, refusing to yield. The sergeant, on the other hand, was beginning to tremble, sweat sliding down his torso, breathing erratically. The oldest had his eyes closed, a grimace of concentration on his face, as if trying to mentally distance himself from the torment.

Jorge enjoyed watching how each faced pain in their own way.

The commander turned sharply toward the prisoners.

—Does anyone want to talk before we make them dance for us again?

Silence. The soldiers did not even lift their heads. The young one, the most arrogant, spat on the ground in disdain; Jorge raised an eyebrow, amused.

—Do you think they will talk, commander?

—Oh, they will undoubtedly do so, sir —he assured, with the confidence of one who has done this hundreds of times—. Now we will keep them permanently at level one. That is… unbearable over time.

Jorge slowly turned the dial to the mark. The three immediately arched. The sergeant gasped violently, trying to hold back a scream; the older one clenched his teeth until his jaw cracked. And the young one…

The young one released a dry, defiant laugh. Jorge smiled wryly.

—He still has humor.

—Not for much longer —the commander said, with a slight sadistic gleam in his eyes—. We are going to whip them. And then… the possibilities are extensive.

The vilicus was already preparing. He moved his hands with meticulous precision, undoing the remnants of cloth that still covered the prisoners. Soon the three were completely naked, exposed in all their vulnerability.

Jorge tilted his head, observing them closely. He could not deny that the scene awakened something in his gut, a morbid fascination, a subtle excitement that he could not control. The suspended bodies, twisted by pain, the tension of the muscles resisting… It was impossible not to feel something primal in the face of such a display of absolute domination.

The vilicus took a long whip, its leather tails ending in small metal balls, designed to tear the skin with each impact; he positioned himself behind the sergeant.

The first lash struck with a brutal crack. The sergeant shook in the air, a violent spasm coursing through his body, but he emitted no sound. Only his labored breathing betrayed what he felt. The second strike tore the skin. The third left a red and open line on his back. By the fifth, he collapsed. A pitiful groan escaped his throat.

The vilicus moved to the older prisoner. The whip fell mercilessly, and his tanned skin yielded immediately. Jorge shuddered. It was spectacular.

When the turn came to the young one, he clenched his fists and held his head high.

—They’re not going to break you, are they? —Jorge whispered, where no one could hear.

The whip fell with fury. The young man's muscles tensed, hard as stone. Second hit; his breathing became erratic. Third hit; the first roar of pain erupted from his throat.

Jorge understood that the soldiers' resistance would give way at some point; the body has its limits. So does pride.

But that struggle… that process of slow surrender…

It was… beautiful.

He turned to the commander.

—So, commander, can I trust you? Will we have results today? The greater interest of Ketiris comes first.

—I will do everything possible, sir. I will go to the big house myself to inform you.

Jorge cast one last look at the three bodies.

The vilicus was still at work, meticulous, tireless. The backs of the prisoners were now a canvas of red marks.

Jorge took a deep breath. The air had a strange scent. It was not just the smell of sweat and blood… It was the smell of power.

—I leave you to your work, commander.

—At your service, sir.

And without looking back, Jorge exited the room, a barely perceptible smile on his lips; Yusuf and Eukario accompanied him back. Then an idea appeared in his head. Yes, it was strange that no one had realized.

—Yusuf, can't we use soma to force them to confess what we need? —he asked, with the impatience of one who believes he has found an obvious solution—. Let’s make them slaves!

Yusuf, without changing his stride, barely turned his head. The midday breeze ruffled his saffron-colored tunic.

—is that what you think, elí? —he replied, with a calm that irritated Jorge—. Soma doesn’t work that way.

For a moment, the landowner believed he had misheard.

—What do you mean it doesn’t? —he halted for a moment and turned toward the employee—. I have seen how Alex became my slave due to this drug! And I know they are given to the slaves at every meal, in every sip of water, to maintain their submission. Or are you going to deny that?

A long silence stretched between them. Yusuf sighed, and with that sigh, he seemed to measure his master's ignorance.

—Soma does not create submission —he finally explained, his voice barely a whisper—. It only roots it. It amplifies it, it fixes it. But it does not induce it.

Jorge frowned.

—That doesn’t make sense.

—On the contrary —Yusuf retorted—. It’s like hypnosis. In fantastic stories, it’s believed someone can be hypnotized to commit a crime, to become someone they are not… but any psychologist knows that is absurd. Hypnosis does not implant desires; it only extracts them from where they were already hidden. It cannot force anyone to do what they do not want to do.

Jorge listened to him, but his instinct told him there was something wrong with that theory.

—And my slave? And all the slaves? Are you insinuating that they wish to be? That they love the whip and humiliation?

Yusuf let out a barely perceptible smile.

—in a way, yes. But only in a way. I think it's time for you to fully understand how we procure slaves in Ketiris, elí.

Many times Jorge had speculated about the exact function of that strange society of which he was a part, with people who seemed born from nothing, given that heterosexuality was considered something nefarious, almost forbidden, and where slaves were the effective base of society. But where did the slaves come from? Even more, where did the free men and women of Ketiris come from? He recalled what Lakua had told him when he met her just days ago: “I thought Kamar would have told you where the children come from… Yusuf must have mentioned it to you.” It seemed that this was the moment to talk about it.