by M. A. Mott
He shifted his haunches, gripping the rock now with his iron-like talons. He silently breathed in the dank musk of the auroch, drinking it from the air...waiting...waiting. It stepped closer, grazing methodically, all its attention rapt in the feeding.
Maximus lunged.
He sailed from the crag, falling through the air silently, his joy fierce in achieving total surprise. Down, down he went, falling just a little to the left. He swiped with his right paw, feeling the razor tips of his claws hook deeply into the hide of the beast. He roared as he hit the beast’s back, the shock of his fall shuddering through the hapless, surprised creature. Yet, his aim was off, and his claw tore through the creature’s back as he plummeted to one side.
Instinctively, the auroch bounded away, not even sure what was befalling it, bellowing in fear and pain. Maximus tumbled across the rocks and grass, the fall somewhat knocking the wind out of him, still gripping a paw-full of hairy hide torn from the creature’s flesh. He wrenched himself up on all fours, springing at the haunches of the auroch, causing it to stumble as it tried to leap over a boulder. He swiped at its haunch with a bruising blow. The animal’s back leg struck against the boulder and it fell to one side.
And he was on it. He dug his forward claws into the terrified beast, clutching it in a death-grip. His back claws tearing its side open. The auroch screamed in pain and fear. Maximus’ teeth found its neck. He felt the vertebrae crunch underneath the thick hide and the beast’s cry cut off with a pained gargle. Its body shuddered and convulsed, dying. He gripped it hard, feeling its life leave it, a final breath escaping its crushed neck. Its blood gushed from its neck in one final spasm, then its heart stopped.
Maximus fed, lapping up the blood of auroch, tearing out the soft flesh of its throat, and then tearing at the rest of the creature, swallowing great gouts of dripping flesh, feasting.
After a while he felt sated. He sat back a while, licked his chops, then walked over to a level place where he could keep an eye on the kill, laid down, and dozed, digesting his meal.
“A good kill, Pantera of Rome,” said the voice in his head. “Now you know your true self.”
Chapter 6
TABOR SHIFTED UNEASILY in the wooden field chair as he sat in the tent of Lucius Lucullus, Consul of Rome, his head bowed, staring at his hands.
What am I to do? Where else can I go? And yet, he knew the risk. This was betrayal, pure and simple. When the fever set in on Maximus, he knew what was needed; bloodletting. Yet that witch, Oolaht, to whom his commander had given over all medical matters, shunned and despised Tabor’s experience. Powders, elixirs, her boiling of water to bathe the wounds—none of this was accepted practice. Tree bark! The only tree bark worth mentioning was willow, and that was for joint pains. That, sleep, and bloodletting was what Maximus needed.
The curtains of the tent parted and in walked Lucullus, his shaped cuirass glistening with oil, the gods and heroes embossed on it shining with silver. His clean-shaven face, framed with auburn locks smiled...officially...at Tabor, but the Consul’s dark eyes bore into his and the surgeon felt his fortitude wither.
“Salute, surgeon,” said Lucullus. “And how go the fortunes of Rome’s best surgeon?”
Tabor flushed at the compliment—and felt ashamed.
“I am well consul, but...but....”
“Go on, Physician. My guard captain summarized your report, but I wish to hear the details from you. How fares our Maximus?”
Tabor looked down at his hands again. He absently fingered the hem of his robe. He took a deep breath. Oh, well. Out with it. He looked back up into the consul’s eyes.
“The commander has been mad with fever,” he blurted out. “He is...raving. A Phoenician witch tends him, but I fear she is poisoning him. He...” he paused, and looked down. “He has dismissed me, taking her and her maidens as nurses.”
The consul stood, arms crossed, silent for a moment, as the words fell into the empty air. The consideration hanging there was deafening to Tabor. Finally, Lucullus walked to the large table, covered with parchments, and pulled on up.
“Let me see...his orders were to take a fort along the Ulterior with the Lusitanians, a mountain temple? Am I correct?”
Tabor nodded, relieved that he could give some good news.
“Yes, consul, and that he has.”
“This fever. Was he injured in some way?”
“Yes,” Tabor said. He recounted the battle for the fort, and of its fall, and of the large cat that attacked Maximus in the heat of battle. “I fear he is not long for this world,” he concluded.
The Consul shook his head. “Maximus Pantera, the Beast of Rome, brought down by a beast,” he said, looking into the distance. “He was one of my good commanders. Well, you say this is the bite of madness?”
“I conclude it so,” Tabor said heavily. “The madness takes...weeks sometimes, but the witch may hasten the process with her potions.”
“And she is tending him by his own orders?
“That is so,” Tabor said. He sighed. “Perhaps I could have stopped it, but by the second day, it was plain to me the fever was rampant. He is finished, Consul, or will be.”
The consul pulled up another chair and sat down to his desk. He pulled open a roll of fresh parchment and scrawled out orders on it. He called to a legionnaire posted outside the tent to fetch someone, a Quaestor of whom Tabor had no knowledge. Eventually, a man in a crisp tunic walked in, followed by a slave carrying his helmet and cuirass. The man saluted Lucullus.
“Quaestor Marcus,” Lucullus said, “You are to gather your men and accompany this man, Surgeon Tabor, to the last known post of Maximus Pantera and assess the situation. If Maximus is unable to command, you are to assume command immediately. All non-Romans in the fort are to be put to death immediately, in any case.” He stood, handed him the rolled orders, then saluted. “In the name of the Senate and the People of Rome.”
Marcus returned the salute, then left the tent.
Tabor did not look up. The consul crossed over to him, putting his hand on the surgeon’s shoulder.
“This sounds difficult for you, Tabor. How many campaigns have you joined with Maximus? Come, let us sup together.”
Chapter 7
MAXIMUS AWOKE, STARING at the picture of the woman on the ceiling. Had she been speaking again? Was it the fever they spoke of?
He tried to move his arms, only to find them pinned beneath tightly drawn linen. He raised his head to find that his whole body was pinned beneath linen sheets, drawn tight over his body and fastened down somewhere below the bedstead. The sheets were wet. He felt...clammy, yet, oddly comforted.
He laid back down, staring again at the woman on the ceiling. She was not talking now. Hers was a picture on the ceiling, morning light playing across the mosaic scene as the drapes blew in the breeze.
“So, Commander, you awake.”
Maximus turned to see the priestess—Oolaht—standing next to him. She had a stern, observing gaze.
“What is this?” he demanded. “Why am I bound this way?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Commander, you have lain like this for two days, striving against the fever that took you. Do you remember anything?”
He stared in the distance at the picture of the woman. “Dreams. I remember...dreams.”
“What kind of dreams my lord?”
He paused, remembering. “Hunting,” he said finally. “I dreamed of hunting.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “That is good, my lord.”
He grunted. “How so?”
“It means you are...growing well.”
He glanced down at the linens. “Remove these,” he ordered.
She appraised him with a strong gaze, putting a hand to his head. It felt cool to him, but not cold.
“I think your fever is quieted for now.” She turned and nodded to her head. Two legionaries stepped into Maximus’ vision. She pointed beneath the bed on which Maximus lay. “Remove the rings.” She turned bac
k to Maximus. “My lord, please sit up carefully”
Maximus heard the clanking of iron, the linens loosened, and then were pulled away by the two men. The cloths stank with sweat. Oohlat helped Maximus to a sitting position. She motioned to her acolytes, which brought a platter of olives, a bowl of aromatic tea, some cheese and a cup of wine. She bade them sit it on a small table next to the bed. Then she took a robe from another and drew it across Maximus’ broad shoulders.
“Eat slowly, my lord. You are well for now, but...you mustn’t tax yourself greatly.”
Maximus looked around the room. There were the two Legionaries, Oolaht and three of her acolytes...and...
“Where is Tabor, my surgeon?” he asked.
Oolaht sighed, shaking her head. “He has left.”
“Left? Gone? Where would he go?”
“That we do not know, my lord. He left more than a day ago—took one of the horses, told the guard he was going to find some nettle for a poultice, but then never returned.”
Maximus shook his head. My surgeon? Leaving my side during my worst moment? How could he? A terrible thing must have befallen him.
“A search party...” he began, then trailing off. He felt confused.
“Otho sent one out for him,” Oolaht said. “We will fetch him for a report.” She turned to one of the men, nodding. He left swiftly. Then she turned back to Maximus. “You should eat. You need your strength. But first drink this tea.” She held the small bowl out to him.
He took it and smelled it. It smelled like...like the grass on that plain below the cliff where he took down the Auroch. Like cedars bordering the meadow there. Like the lichens upon the sunny rock where he’d lain in wait. The copper smelled like the blood gushing from the dying creature’s neck...he stared, lost in thought.
“Drink, my lord,” she said quietly, encouraging him.
He glanced at her suddenly, peering into her dark eyes. Did she know? He downed the liquid in one draft. It had been sweetened with honey but, all those tastes were still in it.
“Did you give me this when I was ill?” he asked.
“It helps the fever pass quickly without harming the senses,” she said.
He nodded, draining the drops left in the bowl, then handed it back to her. “I remember it.” He took a bit of the cheese and crumbled it on some of the flatbread and chewed it, washing it down with some of the wine. Then he fell upon the rest of the meal with gusto, slaking his thirst with the wine as he did. He felt sustenance seep into his limbs, strengthening him. He remembered the kill from the dream, and how it had sated him, for, what? Days. Now awake, his hunger seemed to know no bounds.
Oolaht stood with him, refilling the wine cup once. Then Otho strode into the room from the doorway. Oolaht stood to one side.
“Well, I see you are up. Are you sensible?” Otho asked.
“That’s probably a matter of opinion,” Maximus said.
Otho nodded. “Good. You’re going to need it.” He turned to Oohlat. “Priestess, I need to talk with my commander privately.” He pulled a small scroll from his cloak.
Oohlat nodded. “As you wish.” She turned to the acolytes and clapped her hands. “Come. We must brew a fresh batch of Salissa.” They left the room.
Otho turned to watch her go. When she had left, he turned back to Maximus.
“I’ll say this. It appears the witch has some power to heal,” he said. He looked at Maximus’ cheek. “Although that’s going to leave a scar.”
Maximus nodded, rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes. I’ll add it to my collection.” He pointed to the small scroll his friend held. “What have you there?”
Otho shrugged. “Troubling news, my commander.” He handed it to him. Maximus noted that the seal was that of the consul Lucullus, whose camp had been more than three days’ ride. He unrolled it and read it. It was an order to prepare for a visit from a questor for a report.
“A report?” Maximus looked at Otho, questioning.
Otho nodded grimly. “Yes. In fact, it’s going to be a field hearing on your competence. Someone spoke of your...illness to Lucullus.”
Maximus’ eyes narrowed. “Who?” But then, he knew. The look in Otho’s face darkened. Of course.
Otho nodded, seeing the conclusion in Maximus’ eyes. “Yes. Our squad posted at the village gate saw him ride through. Then scouts from down in the valley, out to the frontier, and the emissary who brought this told of a white-bearded man in red robes meeting with Lucullus two days ago.”
“Why?”
Otho glanced over his shoulder at the door. The women were not in sight. He turned back to Maximus.
“She refused his suggestions on treating you, Commander. He wanted to bleed you, and she would have none of it. Said it would weaken you. Since you left orders for her to oversee treating you, we obeyed *her*.” Otho shook his head. “The old fool rode off in a fit of pique.”
Maximus looked around the room. He wanted to smash something. Tabor? His old friend? Maximus looked down on the scroll once more. He could read well enough between the lines. They were sending Marcus Lupinus. Tabor had sicced the hound of Lucullus on him? Luculllus’ hatchetman? Dammit! With a curse, he flung the scroll into the burning brazier.
Otho retrieved it before it was badly scorched. “Commander, if you don’t mind, I’ve signed for this.”
Maximus waved his hand dismissively. “Lucullus,” he said, growling. “He’s striving to finish this province so he can return for his long-awaited triumph. And my head is to be on a spit!”
“Well, commander, it’s a competence hearing.” Otho seemed to consider him for a moment. “Your head is not yet on a spit. You look well enough. I’m sure you can dispense with this quickly.”
“And then, I’ll be acquiring a new surgeon, I suppose.”
Otho glanced back again in the direction of the door out which walked Oolaht. “I think you have a pretty good one for now. At least for this malady.”
Maximus nodded, and felt weary. The food had sated him, but he now grew tired of conversation. “I have your report,” he told Otho. “Now I wish to rest. I’ll need my strength for this...competency hearing.”
Otho nodded. He saluted and left the bedside.
OUTSIDE THE ARCHED doorway of the room, Otho halted before Oolaht and the other women.
“What say you of his state of mind?” he asked in a low voice.
She pursed her lips. “He is not yet out of it. Nor does he yet have full control over his aspect.”
“Aspect? What do you mean?”
Her eyes burned fiercely. “The Goddess is in him. At any time, if angered, he may change. He may become violent, or worse.”
“Woman, listen to me,” Othosaid. “He must stand for report tomorrow before the Quaestor sent by Lucullus. If he falters, he may lose command. It would mean for me, a new commander, the one they call the Hound of Lucullus.”
“And this, Hound? He will punish you?”
“Not so much me, priestess—but if I am right about how Tabor has played out this matter, you will not fare well. He made no secret of despising you and complaining that you were poisoning the commander.”
“Poisoning? But I—“
Otho held his hand up, silencing her. “I do not think this. I can see the commander is better. I’ve seen men die raving from bite fever. One centurion who was bitten by a dog, then came down with the fever, begged for death. My men gave it to him at sword-point, then threw away the sword and burned his body. I know. But that doesn’t matter to Tabor, and it won’t matter to Marcus. He senses weakness, and wants command of this cohort. He doesn’t care how.”
Oolaht frowned. “Bah. Conniving Romans. Your swords slay to the front, but your knives slay to the back.”
Otho leaned into her. “The man you have been healing is Roman. The man who plucked you from the slaver’s pen is Roman. And I, who stand before you in the name of that man, am Roman. Do not besmirch our mercy on you.”
“Mercy!” she snarled. “M
ercy? For our men who died before you only two days ago? For my living goddess of whom you scoff and would put to the sword? For our Carthage, burned away and salt sown in the furrows of its fields? I’ve seen plenty of Roman mercy.”
Otho took a deep breath. “Very well. Perhaps you may understand it better this way. If Maximus cannot stand before the Quaestor and answer plainly for his health, you will most likely be put back on the slave train and sold on the block. That is, if Tabor hasn’t convinced them to crucify you.”
Oolaht’s piercing gaze faltered. She put her shaking hand over her face. “Oh, my goddess,” she whispered.
“Feed him up,” Otho said, and walked away.
Chapter 8
TANIT CROUCHED ON THE flat entrance to the sacred cave, staring into the fire. When night fell, she could again close her eyes and go into the man’s thoughts. He was not yet ready. He was strong, but that strength which kept his heart beating in the throes over the fever was also fighting his change. His mind struggled to stay human, failing as it was. And Tanit knew they were running out of time. Even now, through his sleeping visions, she knew of the soldiers in purple riding along the old Gallic road through the mountains, and of the man that led them. She closed her eyes and pictured him. Behind his fierce blue eyes, his close-cropped brown hair, lay his true aspect. His hidden face was like a dog. The “Hound,” they called him? Yes. He was like the war-dogs the Romans unleashed on her light footsoldiers outside the gates, the skirmishers. Those war dogs could tear a man’s throat out. Five men would fall before any one of these dogs. This man, then, sought to bring down her new mate, even before he could join with her.
Romans! How they bickered and fought one another. It was as though there were not enough world for them to trample, they must trample themselves for domination. What good was a Roman who was not dominating someone, somewhere? Their women crouched in the homes, quavering before their “pater families’” who could direct them as he pleased, or sell them as slaves or even kill them. They traded their daughters like prizes, and drove their wives like beasts.
