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

by M. A. Mott

  She looked down at her fingertips, which now bled, her talons trying to emerge. She was making herself angry again, and putting the change upon herself. She needed to calm herself. She needed clarity. She picked up the cup, drained the herbal concoction in it, then sat back again on her haunches, staring into the fire. The green-eyed desert girl inside her quieted and lay to rest. Instead, she felt *her* true aspect rise. She stared into the amber flames, with flashes of green, licking the pieces of wood stacked in the pit. She imagined the face of the man she had fated to die—or be her mate. She saw his eyes, and heard his voice, that smile when he looked at her, knowing he faced death. That arrogance! And, that fire. Then, she was in him. She knew his thoughts.

  Marcus the Hound was coming to take away his command? Maximus would have to outwit the man, out-maneuver his assertions that, he, Maximus, was not fit for command.

  There would be orders that if Maximus broke however slightly, The Hound would take his place. Even now, as the night fell, Maximus, too, fell. The fever would rise. Oolaht was still in charge, but where was the healer called Tabor? That worried Maximus. Always, his thoughts eventually turned to the road. The road. The hooves galloped even now. Where would they be, riding from the camp of Lucullus? Had they yet forded the river, a day’s ride away? If only he could reach them! If only there was some way to stop the man from coming! And yet, he would have to face them. It was inevitable. The fever. The fever swam in him. He felt the heat rising. He called for wine. He called for the women and for Oolaht. The curtains must be thrown open so the breeze could fly through, so Maximus could jump out and into the night and find his Goddess! He would find her! And he would take her down with fierce kisses and his love would thunder inside her—

  —The force threw Tanit back from him. She was out of his thoughts. Her last sight from his eyes were the Roman men lashing him down again with the bed linens, and Oolaht’s worried look, the acolytes standing by in their pressed linen cloaks, bearing ointments, teas, water...

  She sat back, gasping. He was so strong! He would survive the fevers, she was sure of it. But would his madness manifest itself in front of the one called Marcus? That was key. She had to act. She threw off the rough felt cloak and stretched out naked on the stone. She would embrace the change. She would call to him, and pull his thoughts into her. Tonight, they would indeed hunt again, but this time, they would hunt the men that now rode toward her fortress. They would watch, and learn. Perhaps they would dine.

  Chapter 9

  MARCUS’ LEGIONNAIRES had the tent up in no time. Now, the auxiliaries tended to the pot of porridge over the fire, and a roast haunch for their Quaestor’s entourage—among whom was the old surgeon they called Tabor.

  He sat in the field chair, goblet of Penedes wine in hand, and stared absently into the fire. He felt the dread of returning, of facing what had happened. Was it true? Had he been right? But of course, he had to be. Of all men, *he* knew about the bite sickness. He knew that the person bitten would linger, grow ever more mad, eventually refuse water or any liquid, and die foaming at the mouth, raving. Gods help anyone who touched that foam. An animal with the bite sickness would, indeed, bite, and the victim of the bite would die that way. There was no cure. There was no way anyone, even one as robust, strong and hale as had been Maximus, withstand the onslaught of that infection. It was the arrow of Apollo. It was a thunderbolt from Jupiter. There was no going back. So, he’d had to act.

  And yet, had he done the right thing? Clearly, to put an African witch in charge of treatment was proof of Maximus falling into madness, wasn’t it? He roiled inwardly at the thought of that arrogant woman. She was so dismissive so coldly calculating. She was just trying to avoid the slave block. Was he not doing the right thing by alerting the consul that his commander had fallen into that raving madness? There had been no other option. The path was opened to him, Tabor, a man of learning, to alert the proper channels that steps needed to be taken. And now those steps were taken. It had been Tabor who stood in the breech, the right man at the right time. He lifted the goblet and drank the tart, tannic wine deeply, emptying the cup. He sat the now-empty goblet on the carved table next to him. Eventually, he was aware of someone taking the seat to his right.

  “The evening grows long,” said Marcus, his voice low and sonorous.

  Tabor nodded, saying nothing. He heard Marcus order a slave to fill his cup, then refill Tabor’s. He heard the wine gurgle into his goblet. He lifted it and sipped without thinking. The tannic, thick wine tanged his palate. He drained half the cup.

  “I can imagine your thoughts, surgeon,” Marcus said. “You are thinking, ‘What if I am wrong? What if my commander is not mad?’ Yet, I say, you did well.”

  Tabor stirred, sitting up in his chair. “Thank you, Quaestor,” he said.

  The man smiled toothily. “No need for thanks. Your prowess as a surgeon is known throughout the army in this region. If Tabor is certain madness took hold, then there is no question. Even if we arrive and he can walk and talk, I know, thanks to you, that his behavior may be a disguise. If Maximus is even alive, we both know that the bite madness cannot be cured. Everyone knows this.”

  Tabor felt a rush of relief. Marcus was right. Of course. Everyone knew that the bite madness has no cure. He drained the rest of the cup.

  “And so, as we sit here, tell me of this witch who tends him,” Marcus said. “I know you’ve spoken of her, but I do not yet know enough.”

  Tabor sighed. “Typical barbarian,” he said. “She was feeding him tea made from tree bark. From Carthage.” He glanced over, smiling, expecting to find a smile returned. He did. The quaestor’s teeth and eyes gleamed in the firelight. “She said it was a tree they grew in their temple, if you can believe that.”

  Marcus nodded. “Oh, I could believe anything of them.” He motioned to the slave to refill their cups.

  “Well, I...s-say,” Tabor said, slurring his words, “...that s-she actually tied him to the bed and, making him immovable, p-poured that vile bark tea down his throat. He gagged and raved, I tell you, raved. He said he was hunting. Hunting, could you believe?” Tabor laughed.

  “You say so truly?” Marcus asked. His eyes gleamed in the fire. His eyes were quite striking, Tabor thought. They shone.

  “Y-yes. I do say it.”

  “Hunting what?”

  Tabor laughed a little. “Not sure. He was to s-slay it by j-jumping on it from a c-cliff. He was to bite it in the neck. Gods...” Tabor shuddered, staring away again into the fire. “He lapped with his t-tongue. I’ve never s-seen...seen s-s-such a thing!”

  There, beyond the fire, Tabor saw briefly two eyes gleaming in the darkness of the trees at the edge of camp. They were green. He rubbed his eyes and sat up.

  The Quaestor seemed to sense his sudden recognition. “What?” he said, almost growling. The young man cocked his head, nose up a little, as if he, too, sensed something. He looked into the trees as well.

  “I...thought...” Tabor said, his voice trailing off. The eyes had vanished. Such a fool he was. Seeing things! He looked at the half-empty goblet. “This wine is s-s-strong, would you say?”

  “I would,” The Quaestor answered, then got up. “I must tend some duties closing down camp for the night. Do have more wine.” He motioned to the slave to refill the surgeon’s goblet.

  “Remarkable. Did you see...” Tabor began, and turned—the Quaestor was gone. Just like that. The man’s goblet sat on the side-table, half-full. Where had the man gone? He turned and looked into the trees where the eyes had been. They were gone too. He looked down at his cup. He sighed. He had done the right thing. All was as good as it could be. The new commander would certainly need a surgeon with skills such as his, and it appeared that would-be commander said as much.

  Tabor took another sip from the wine goblet he held, letting the wine rest on his palate, then swallowed. He sat down the empty cup. He saw the slave in the corner of his eye refill it. He sighed. It wasn’t betrayal if his comm
ander was dying, was it?

  In the firelight, he thought he saw two green lights. Eyes? He wiped his own and stared again. They were gone. It must be a wild animal. Beasts abounded out in the hills. Damn the provinces, he thought. Why did Maximus have to sicken? They would have been soon on the trek home, back to Rome, and its comforts and vices. But the commander just had to get bitten by a rabid cat, didn’t he? Damn. And now, with a new, young commander, it would be another year, easy, before Tabor could return home. He picked up the cup, nearly dropping it, spilling a little. What did he care? At least the Spaniards had good wine.

  Chapter 10

  TANIT LIGHTLY PADDED outside the circle of firelight, watching, waiting. The pads of her paws made little noise in on the rocky ground as she skirted from shadow to shadow, the darkness cloaking her long, wavering body. Finally, she saw it through the darkness. The commander’s tent. Outside it, sitting in a chair before the fire, sat the man in the red robes. She remembered seeing that man, briefly, herself, in the mad dash that day from the fort. Now, however, she saw him with the knowledge imparted by the man soon to be her lover, the man of Healing, Tabor, the surgeon. His red robes and white beard gave him away, even in the dim light.

  She circled the camp. She listened to the soldiers at their posts. They never saw nor heard her. They talked in their street Latin. They talked of the trail, of food, of wine, of loot, of their commander, the one called the Hound. Marcus, that was his name. They respected him, cherished him. They would die for him, and for Rome, and for wine, and looting. Easy choice. She padded on past the soldiers.

  She heard a dog bark. The men on the other side of the camp had one, there to sound alarm if something unseen approached. She noted the location of the dog and avoided it. She likely could walk right past it and never be known, but she avoided it the risk. On this, she was watching, waiting. Looking for something to share with the man who would be her lover. He would know things she wouldn’t, only things a Roman would know. She circled around. About fifty men, with assorted servants, camp-followers and others there to support the soldiers, but not themselves fighters. Good. Several dogs, but none had smelled or seen her yet. She came all the way around, and back to where she could see Tabor, slumping in his chair. He was looking down, fiddling with the hem of his robe. Betrayal was hard. Perhaps he had believed his commander, Maximus, was dying. Perhaps, but such a reality didn’t make defecting to a rival commander any easier. Tanit had lived long. Despite her youthful appearance and preternatural vitality, she was very, very old. She had seen so many passages of life, and betrayal, for one not given to it, was hard. It weighed on the old surgeon, and he all but wept over it now.

  Then the one called Marcus strode into the firelight from his tent. He motioned for the older man’s wine cup to be refilled, then stalked away from the firelit circle in front of the consul’s tent. Where was he going? The thought troubled her. Something about him, she sensed, was darker than she wished. She sniffed the air.

  Hound. She smelled more than just the wardogs the Romans used. She smelled a strength she’d not felt...for decades. Could it be?

  Tanit dropped into a crouch. Her eyes scanned the darkness, looking for the heat of prey. They shone in the dark, glowing slightly. It was how all cats saw in the dark. It was indistinguishable from magic. Yet, natural. Tanit saw the Roman guards near the entrance of the hastily-thrown up palisades. The Romans were like that. Roads, walls, irrigation. The palisades were wooden slats, taller than a man, that could expand out, link together, and form a small stockade, suitable for keeping horses and herds in the camp, and for slowing down an enemy long enough to dispatch soldiers to the site of the commotion, and keep an idle thief out. The men slumped together, chatting idly.

  She was not idle; however, she was a goddess. Was it worth the trouble to kill Tabor, or had the damage been done? She glided closer to the hastily thrown-up fence. She could vault it, run almost silently into the camp, tear out Tabor’s throat, and leap away into the dark before anyone could find out something had happened. And yet...what would that accomplish? The man had done all the damage he might do. It was over. Killing him would accomplish nothing now.

  “Goddess...” growled someone behind her.

  She wheeled, instantly facing the man behind her.

  It was no man.

  Green eyes burned in the dark, meeting hers. A long-snouted face, grinning with canine lunacy, grimaced with fangs. Loosely about the body of the thing in front of her, patrician’s robes drew, tight about the shoulders, but slack in the waist. He had not quite completed his change, which was why his clothes clung to him. Of course. Marcus, the “Hound.” In a lightning-flash, she remembered him. He had been the one in Carthage! The challenger who had almost defeated her when the Romans came to destroy the city!

  “Goddess,” he repeated. “Why choose to die here?” He growled, but it was a laugh.

  She screamed in rage. This dog? Calling her to battle? She would give him one. She leaped at him, plunging into his wiry body with her full force.

  He yelped in anger—the whites of his eyes showing, his snout curled into a grimace. He clearly was surprised she was fighting back. Did he not remember her?

  She cried out and lashed with her paw in a mighty swipe, cutting into the flesh of his jaw. He yelped again, but this time, the yelp turned into a growl. She had found flesh with that one.

  Her weight and momentum bore him down. They bounced against the ground. The shock shone in his eyes, now angry with pain, but no more arrogance. She could tell he knew he had bitten the wrong flesh. Who did he think he faced?

  Swipe! Swipe! She batted her massive paws at his head, smacking firmly on his right check, cutting deep a furrow. He howled in pain and dodged the second blow. She screamed a reply. She swiped again and again at him with her paws, racking in the blows until he bellowed in pain and anger. She saw his eyes look away at the palisades. Obviously, he was ready for this to be over.

  His head jerked back, his eyes widened. He lunged forward with slavering jaws, causing her to recoil slightly. She loosened her grip and he tore from her claws. With that, he bounded away. He ran up a small embankment, then crouched, as if readying himself.

  Tanit coiled, claws digging into the turf, readying herself for a leap that would cover the distance to the creature in one movement. Then she froze.

  The creature reared back, his neck arched upward, snout in the air, and bellowed a long, mournful howl. The deep, sonorous tone reverberated through the night. He paused, glared at her, then reared back and howled again.

  From behind her, in the camp, she heard the howl answered with growls, barks, and the howls of the war dogs. The Hound of Lucullus called his own.

  Men in the camp shouted. Glancing back from the rise on which they now stood, over the palisade, she saw men thrusting torches into the campfires, lighting them. She wheeled back, snarling at the wolf-man.

  So, this creature might not beat her in battle, but could call a pack upon her. Just like he had in Carthage. She was match for any dog, but might fall beneath a pack of them, wielded by a hunter, and drawn by his magic.

  “Run, Goddess,” snarled the thing called Marcus. “I will smell you out and will chase you up a tree like a stray, where my archers can bring you down!” He laughed gutturally, an awful sound.

  She retreated into the darkness, then ran all-out over the rocky ground for the black night of the hills. She would easily make the river, ford it, and the dogs would lose her scent there. She would make the crags in little more than an hour, and into the cliffs by moon-set. She left the thing’s gagging laugh behind her.

  She leapt from boulder to boulder, bounding over the rocky ground, trying to keep as much on the hard surfaces as possible, where her scent would disappear sooner in the cool night. She now feared for her chosen mate, Maximus. His power was too fresh and his knowledge was too little. He faced a clever and dangerous opponent in the one they called the Hound. She would have to contact him with the dr
eam walk. If only she could see him. She ached for him. She longed both naturally and unnaturally for him. She feared Rome and what it would mean to the little she had left in the world. Her country had been mighty and vast, ancient and wise. Foolish and arrogant too.

  Goddesses don’t hide. And that was another reason she needed Maximus. She needed to understand the Romans before they killed her.

  Chapter 11

  MAXIMUS FELT THE COOL breeze wash over him. His vision was cloudy with fitful sleep. Someone put a pitcher to his mouth, poured, and he gulped the spicy, tannic liquid down his throat. The young acolyte women, their linen tunics shining in the moonlight, swept the cool night air from the open window with large, palm-shaped wicker fans over his sweat-covered body. His muscles ached from straining against the swatches of cloth that held him fast to the bed.

  Oolaht lifted the pitcher from his mouth. “Good,” she said. “Commander, do you hear me?”

  He nodded, gasping. “Yes,” he croaked. “What is that you gave me?”

  “Sallissa,” she said. “It is the tea that cures the fever, from our...tree.”

  His mind swam. Hadn’t he heard that? Or did he? No matter. He felt his head clearing slowly, shaking off the madness. The breeze felt so refreshing. He sighed and relaxed, feeling the ache leave his bones for a while. He looked at the priestess’ face. She looked haggard. Apparently, she had been taking care of him for...?

  “How long?” he croaked.

  “My lord, you have been sick for four days,” she answered. She closed her eyes and wiped her brow. She seemed to sway slightly, as if she had not slept. In the recesses of his exhausted brain, he realized she probably hadn’t.

  Four days? He turned his head and looked out the window. So long, and already he would be expecting a visit from Marcus, the Hound. Here, tied to a bed, he would be relieved of command in a heartbeat. His hope now lay in the possibility of rising from his bed and putting on a good show. He would shame the word of Tabor, upright, like a Roman. It was the only way.