Spell of the Beast: Book 1: Shape Shifters of Rome

by M. A. Mott

  In front of the building knelt survivors. The living were to be slaves, and needed to be able to make the long walk to the market at Nova Cartego. Any who were seriously wounded had been dispatched by a spear.

  Otho strode over to Maximus. “So, you are standing? A good sign, sir.” He said.

  Maximus shrugged. “Didn’t those spies we hired tell of a beautiful priestess, or goddess or something?”

  Otho nodded. “Yes. The fair ladies have barred the upstairs chamber, but we’re breaking through now. We’ll fetch them down momentarily.”

  As if in answer, he heard cries from the top chamber. A centurion stuck his head over the side of the balcony, shouting down to them. He gripped a young woman under his arm, who fought him, banging her small fists against his breastplate.

  “We’ve got them!” he yelled.

  Otho smiled up at him. “Good work. Truss them and bring them down.”

  The centurion ducked back from sight.

  “This should be the last of them,” Otho commented.

  Maximus nodded.

  Minutes later, legionnaires strode from the building in a rabble, shoving or dragging several female captives. One, a dark-skinned woman with a more ornate tunic, walked stiffly in front. The women’s arms were tied at the elbows to a stick running behind their backs, a common technique to emphasize if women captives were destined for scullery or pleasure trade. They were made to kneel before Maximus. He regarded them casually. He might keep them on as retinue here. And yet, was that a good idea? Would they seek vengeance for their loss?

  “Who are you?” he asked in Greek.

  They all glanced at one another, furtively. Except the dark woman. She looked at him with a strong gaze. She spoke.

  “We are the chosen of Tanit, our goddess, my lord,” she said respectfully. Very carefully.

  “Chosen?” he asked. “So, I heard there was a beautiful goddess or high priestess or something here. Is she?”

  “I am the priestess here,” she said. “We tend to Tanit directly.”

  Maximus smiled slightly. The gash on his cheek opened and started to bleed again. He touched his face and his fingertips came away bloody. The surgeon stepped in to wipe it away.

  “By any chance,” he asked, “that large predator that attacked me, that wasn’t your goddess, was it?”

  The woman opened her mouth in surprise, as she suddenly realized something. “My lord, did she...did she bite you?”

  He looked at her as if she were an idiot. “What did you think that great cat would do when you set it upon us? Of course it bit me, and it killed several of my men. I was about to kill it when it charged off into the trees.”

  She lowered her head, and...appeared to almost smile. “Oh, my Goddess, you are such a bold, wayward one,” she said under her breath. She raised her head back up. “My lord...she has chosen you.”

  Maximus flushed red. Around him, Otho, the surgeon and the surrounding soldiers laughed out loud. But Maximus felt embarrassed and angry.

  Otho clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, perhaps she did fall in love with you, Commander.”

  Maximus turned to the Legionary in charge of the squad. “Take them to the storeroom, see that they have adequate food and water. Do not harm them.” He turned to look at the captives, saw the dark woman’s gaze falter. He continued. “They will defer part of our expense on this expedition when we sell them in the market.”

  The woman sputtered, as if she didn’t quite understand what was happening to her. A soldier pulled her to her feet.

  “My lord! Please, you do not understand.”

  Maximus turned, walked stiffly away, then turned back casually to her. “Oh, I understand mistress. You are now the property of Rome. And the sooner you understand it, the better.”

  “No, wait! I mean, my lord, you are chosen! You can’t stop the change now. You are chosen!”

  “Chosen? For what?”

  “For her. For Tanit. You are to be her mate.”

  The laughter erupted again. This time, Maximus shook his head. Crazy priestess. He waved them away and the soldiers dragged them from the courtyard. Otho, still laughing, walked alongside him as he limped toward the temple.

  “Take me for a Greek,” Otho said. “A goddess for the Beast of Rome.”

  “I hate it when you call me that,” he said gruffly. Then he laughed a little himself. “You know, I told you so.”

  Tonight, he would need plenty of wine to dull the aches.

  Chapter 3

  UP, UP TANIT CLIMBED, into the brushy Spanish highlands of Catalonia. Her ribs ached where the spear grazed her. The gash stung as she moved lithely through the trees. So tired. So weary, beat down. But she knew it was the only way. She had to go to the ancient place, the place her kind knew of long ago...the cave with the pictures. There, she would find rest, water, and a place to hide when the change came back and she was again the green-eyed desert youth with tan skin.

  She clambered up the long ravine, strewn with moss-covered boulders and overgrown with the highlands’ canopy of trees. This was miles away, far from the sack of her temple, the cries of the people who she could not help. She would lie in the green sward of the hills, protected, forgotten, resting. Then she would begin her new life.

  Her attention briefly darted to movement in brush at the edge of the ravine—one of the wild goats that gamboled through the mountains of the central highlands munched contentedly on a lichen from the boulder in front of it, eyes scanning for predators—like her. It had no idea she stalked through its home.

  Her animal jaws slavered a little with the thought, but she dismissed the idea. No, she would not take game until she found the shelter of the sacred cave, and slept, and healed. More than anything, the ancient refuge would hold her in its bosom, care for her, assuage her loss, longing, and fear for her children. The pictures of the ancients would speak their magic to her, and carry her through her estrus, and heal her to face her destiny.

  Up, up into craggy wilds she climbed, pausing to drink from the sweet stream that tumbled through the boulders, then on. She did not put it past the Romans to send hunters for her, although she was sure she’d outpaced them by days and almost certainly lost any chasing her. Still, she strove, her heart heavy with the burden of her flight.

  As night drew close she saw it—the crag jutting out through the trees. The ancients had called it the “Lion’s Head,” but it was because they called all large cats lions. The crag resembled the sloped skull and smaller ears of her kind. Her kind were old, very old, even older than the lions. Her kind had hunted humans for millennia, and had even merged with them, to walk among them, and even to love them. Here in what was now Spain, this cave was their temple, those early ones, who painted with pigments and exalted her, even though they made their tools of bone, wood and stone.

  This was where they had run to when Carthage fell. Her predecessor advised Hannibal when he came for oracle—do not stir the iron men of Rome. It will be the death of Carthage, of your line, of their gods. But he would not listen, and took his armies and his elephants in their grand, angry tour of the Roman Republic, bringing the Romans almost to their knees, almost...almost defeating them. Yet, in the end, it was as she had seen. Carthage fell, in thrall of the Roman legions. The Roman senate’s greatest speaker, Cato, for more than a year had demanded at the end of every speech “Cartago delenda Est.” Carthage must die.

  And so, her people moved Tanit to southern Spain, away from the doom of the great city. In the mountains, with a band of believers to protect her, she held out in the wilds, among the craggy hills of Catalonia. She listened to the reports of the messengers who escaped, how the city fell, how the Romans sowed salt into the furrows so Carthage would never return. And now the Legions hunted every vestige of Hannibal’s people—her people—to enslave, burn or crucify. She listened to the reports, wept, and in her moons, changed into her god form and cried out for a mate.

  Her followers brought them. Mate after mate, m
an after doomed man. The acolytes bound them in the gold chamber with her there, and she watched their eyes wild with fear as they looked upon her change, and then, her bites, to give them the gift of the change, immortality, only to watch them die in mad fever within a month. Mate after would-be mate died, frothing. None could be her lover, as beast or man.

  Long ago, an ocean away, on the savannahs that stretched as far as the sky above, she had once been human, and still carried the heart of the girl who walked in her human form.

  She saw the cave now; the dark opening halfway up the crag, obscured by the towering trees. Despite her pains, she jumped easily to the ledge that led sloping up the cliff face. Softly she padded onto the huge stone that formed a plaza-like entrance before the opening. She sniffed the air. Normal animals avoided the sacred cave. Even after centuries, it held the scent of both humans and her kind. The rays of the setting sun shined through the trees, giving her glimpses of the grand chamber inside the wide opening. A soft mat of debris, pressed down from vast decades of foot traffic, formed a carpet of grasses, animal hair, and other organic material free from the exposure to rain and snow. She crossed the plaza and lay down upon the matting. She took a deep breath, then sighed heavily and was asleep.

  But her sleep swam with thoughts. She thought of the man she had marked. The change would be underway in him. He would already be feeling weak, confused and nauseous. Could she...could she...see in him yet? Her dream flowed into the sky, and her thoughts of him; his angry hazel eyes, his defiance...and the coppery taste of his blood when she bit his cheek.

  Then, in her mind’s eye, she saw...the painting on the ceiling of her bedchamber. Her bedchamber? He was sleeping in her bed? The outrage. The sight faded a little as her anger roused. Tanit let it go. She quit thinking about whether he angered her. He was, after all, strong. She should reach back into him, feel his strength, and see if she could use it while he lived. This was no frightened male acolyte brought to her as tribute, no cowering villager. This man was a great man, a man of standing, a warrior and commander of her enemies. The Romans were strong, strong enough to defeat her country. She must understand if she was to save her children. She allowed herself once again to open up, to feel the man from inside. And she saw her bedchamber again.

  This time, she turned toward the side, and saw the worried look of a red-robed, white-haired man. He seemed to be dabbing something the wound on the cheek. His voice came echoing through her mind, at first, unrecognizable. Then Tanit realized the man spoke Greek, as did many upper-class Romans. She knew Greek. This man appeared to be a caregiver. She listened intently.

  “...a fever, Commander. You must rest. I will have honeyed water brought to you, along with willow tea. That should keep the temperature down.”

  “I want wine,” her man said.

  “Commander, as you wish, but I truly think you should drink the willow tea.”

  “Confound it, Tabor, I will. I think this is all about nothing.”

  “Perhaps,” the red-robed man said. “It’s my devout wish for it be nothing. Still, the bite of such an animal can make one sick. I put salve on it as quick as possible, but it doesn’t always stop such things.”

  “I’ve never questioned your skills, my friend. Go, and bring this tea, and I will drink it.”

  The man got up and left. Tanit’s gaze now shifted back to the mosaic in the ceiling. It was, of course, her own picture. Her tan skin, her dark curls, bound by a diadem, and the emeralds that formed her eyes, staring into the man’s and into hers. She let his gaze flow into her, and felt what he felt. The heat of the rising fever, his...troubled thoughts. Had he shown enough courage with the cat (her)? He had heard such a large pet was kept by the priestesses of the temple, but truly hadn’t realized such a thing might attack him. Oh, best to go to sleep. No, wait, mustn’t. Tabor would return.

  Soon, he heard footsteps from down the hall. The gaze turned to the shattered doorway. Two Romans guarded the entrance. The red-robed man returned, bearing a tray with a pitcher and a bowl of steaming liquid. It smelled botanical.

  “Your willow tea, commander. I bid you drink it. Slowly.”

  He picked up the steaming bowl and tasted it. The liquid was hot and bitter, but he drank in great draughts. Eventually, he set the bowl back down onto the platter. There were olives, cheese, and yes, a cup of wine.

  “Gods, Tabor! That’s horrid.”

  The red-robed man shrugged and smiled. “Medicines often are, Commander. Now I think you should sleep.”

  “I agree. I will try to, but first I will wash away that crap you just foisted on me.” He took up the wine and drank it.

  Through him, Tanit could tell it was the Persian Xirath wine from her cellar. She started to get angry again, the image again fading, but then she steadied. She looked through his eyes.

  The torches had been doused and the man was alone. In that darkness, she came to him, and through their connection, her mark upon him, drew to him in her human form.

  “It is I, man of Rome. Your Goddess.”

  Chapter 4

  Maximus stared at the fresco on the ceiling. The green-eyed woman with the crown spoke again.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am your Goddess, man of Rome.” The woman in the painting moved, flowed. The greenery around her shifted, as if a slight breeze wafted through. Her handmaidens around her in the fresco looked toward her, and turned to him, then back to her, as if they awaited her edict. “You may call me Tanit. Who told you to sleep in my bed?”

  He frowned. Why was he having this conversation? He was a commander, and one day, perhaps, a consul of Rome. He answered to no one where he slept, least of all what had to be a hallucination.

  “It is mine now,” he answered evenly.

  “Is it? You think that force of arms gives you right to that which is mine?”

  “Apparently.”

  She smiled wryly. “You have much to learn from one such as me, oh, man of Rome. Your army might have defeated our walls, but not me. Even now, you feel me in you, do you not? These words I speak do not come from the picture, but from inside you. This picture is an artifact, a shadow of me. The light is from the fire inside you, wherein I speak.”

  He felt...uncomfortable. Warm. This was obviously a dream, and yet, it was unnatural. It was not the dream of a man asleep, but confused, hollow. His head was like an empty bowl, where the words clanged inside as each one fell.

  “Even now, you feel my mark,” she said. “The fever is the beginning. Since I chose you, you will either become mine or die.”

  “You...do...do you know who I am?” he said, stuttering a little in confusion. “I am Maximus Pantera.”

  She smiled coyly again. “Ah, Pantera. The panther. I like that name,” she said. “If you live, it will suit very nicely.”

  If? Maximus’ head reeled from the swoon that beset him. The room seemed to spin around the bed, although the woman’s head remained calm in the center, unmoving except for the natural facial changes from speaking.

  “Now, heed my words, man of Rome,” she said. Her tone commanded. “Go you to the storeroom in which you have imprisoned my retinue. Unchain them. You will not sell them as slaves. They are my faithful, and will serve you admirably. Talk to the one called Oolaht. Tell her the fever is upon you and that she must tend to your change.”

  “Like...hell...” he stammered.

  “Hell it will be,” she countered, “if you do not undertake my bidding in this matter. Our scores we can settle later. But if you do not release Oolaht, she cannot help you, and you will certainly die, very badly. She will ask for her powders and elixirs. Do as she says! And when you cross over and become like me, you will thank me for this advice.”

  “I will not do this,” he said. “Even this witchery will not cower me.”

  “Then you will die,” she said. “I call to you. I want your judgment. Do as I say, and I will see that you are spared.”

  Maximus grunted and tried to clamber out o
f bed. It was so hard. He was dizzy and fatigued as he staggered over to a wash basin to douse his face. Braziers burned in the corners of the chamber with a dull glow, and he could see his reflection on the water’s surface. He looked pale. He examined the dark gash along his right cheek, touching it gingerly. It...seemed like there was hair growing out of it. He wished he could shave. He reached into the water and splashed cool liquid on himself. It caused a shiver to run through him. I do have a fever, he thought.

  He glanced around the room and saw Tabor asleep on an ornately carved divan. The old surgeon apparently would not leave him be.

  And what was this malady that hit him? He’d taken falls before from his mount, a host of cuts, gashes and bruises from a fray, but this...felt different, as if he had the ague that time in northern Gaul. He turned to go back to the bed—

  —and saw a woman in it. She had wavy dark hair, some hanging down in her face. Through that ebon swath he saw her green eyes glitter at him, seductively, with a wry smile. She wore a cloth-of-gold gown. Her hand beckoned to him.

  “Man of Rome. I am your goddess.”

  Was this the fever talking?

  “Who are you?”

  “As I said. I am Tanit, your goddess. I am here to guide you through the change.”

  “Change? What change?” He felt unsteady on his feet. Waves of cold and heat surged through him.

  “You are to become immortal,” she said. “But first, you must survive.” She slowly glided from the linen bedding. Golden sandals, also set with emeralds, encased shapely feet that padded soundlessly on the stone floor. As if she had taken no time at all, she stood before him. Her tan, lean hand, with green fingernails glistened and sparkled as she touched his wounded cheek. Instead of making Maximus start, it felt soothing, calming. Her hand was cool and gentle. Maximus swooned.