by M. A. Mott
“Bring Otho,” he said. “Haste. And release my bonds.”
The woman seemed to shake off her fatigue. She leaned forward and looked into his eyes, hers piercing into his.
“The clouds are gone from your eyes. You seem clear to me.” She turned and beckoned to two soldiers who stood nearby. Maximus knew them—men from his favorite guard unit. They stepped forward from the shadows on each side of the bed and undid the linens holding him fast. He heard the iron rings clatter as they loosed the cloths. Soon, he could move freely. He swept his legs to the side and sat up.
He looked around, dazed. Someone lit a fire in the braziers, casting an orange glow about the room. He saw the entourage that gathered. He beckoned at them.
“Have the servants bathe me,” he said.
Oohlat turned to her attendants and they left, returning with a bowl of water.
“What hour is it?” he asked.
“Just before cockcrow,” Oolaht answered.
“You—you there,” he said, pointing to one of the soldiers. “Our guests will be arriving soon. Fetch me my armor.”
Otho walked into the room, evidently waiting just outside, a sardonic look on his face.
“Expecting a fight?”
Maximus smiled grimly. “If need be,” he said. “Yes.”
The other snickered slightly. “As if you ever aren’t.”
Maximus nodded. “I hear word came from Tabor. What is the sum of it?”
“That you are on death’s door, the bite-fever, and they’ve planned to arrive at the very worst time,” Otho said. “That’s my take, anyway. Weather and hard-going have only put their arrival for today. Which, if you believe your illness is bite-fever, that you will be raving with foam when they arrive.”
Maximus smiled. He glanced at Oolaht, then back at Otho. “It appears I’ve already gotten that out of the way. I thought it would be best to meet them while wearing my cuirass.”
Otho nodded. “A good call, my commander. It’s probably the best thing to wear while raving.”
“Agreed.” He chuckled to himself, even as the soldier returned bearing his armor, sword and helm. “So, word on arrival?”
“About two hours.”
By this time the acolytes returned with the bowl of water. Red, undulate blossoms floated in it. They pulled out cloths and began wiping him down.
“Good,” he said. “Good. I want this.”
In three hours, he stood in the courtyard of fortified temple as the entourage arrived. Already, he’d met with the advance party, having arranged appropriate bedspace for the Questor’s following. He held his helmet under his left arm. When he saw Marcus riding in, he faced him deliberately, with perfection foremost in his mind, snapping the chest-drawn salute of all Roman officers.
Marcus stopped on his mount, and leaned his head downward in a gentle return.
“Commander,” Marcus said genially. “It is good to see you. We’d feared the worst.” He dismounted.
“A misdiagnosis, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling. He meant the smile. He knew enough of Marcus to like him, at least a little. “My poor surgeon was all in a fuss. Sorry to disappoint.”
Marcus smiled back toothily. “Disappointment? Never. I rejoice that Rome still has the Beast.” He embraced Maximus, his hands on his shoulders. Then his eyes squinted. He reached out, gently, and touched the scar on Maximus’ cheek. “What is this? You’re too handsome for a mark like that.”
Maximus shrugged, smiling. “Apparently not. But thank you for the compliment.”
The other still eyed the scar narrowly. “This scar...it has hair in it,” he said, smiling curiously. “What make you of that?”
Maximus glanced sidelong at Otho, who shrugged. He turned back to Marcus. “A curse, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling. Maximus’ eyebrows went up in question. “Oh?”
“Yes. It’s the Etruscan in my blood. Can’t cut the hair out with a knife. Travesty.”
The two men laughed together. Marcus clapped him on the shoulder, motioned to his guards to accompany them, and together they strode into the temple.
Inside, the sanctuary, where once stood worshippers, was cleared of incense burners, but retained its braziers for light, Maximus had brought the rough-hewn table from the dining hall. The Goddess Tanit, whose statue stood in a peaked antechamber, gazed out with her catlike head atop the woman’s body. It was disquieting for Maximus to look upon it, despite its rough-hewn quality not quite representative to the woman who haunted his dreams of late. Marcus gazed upon it solemnly.
“You’ll have to have that broken,” he said absently, turning away to the now-set table. Maximus looked at the stone monument, banished the thoughts in his head, then turned after the Questor and followed.
Once in, Maximus handed his plumed helmet to one of the acolytes, who took it, bowed slightly, and spirited it away. Another two tended to Marcus, quietly taking his accouterments, his sword and helm, from him and just as quietly melting away. Marcus watched them with interest.
“Servants already?” Marcus asked, raising an eyebrow. “And you, a field commander?”
Maximus shrugged as if it were nothing. “They have skilled staff. We decided to requisition them for the time being,” he said off-handedly. He offered a seat to Marcus. “Tell me, how fares our Consul? Does this country agree with his tastes?”
“Well enough,” Marcus said with a sweep of his hand. “He’s making a short job of it.” He leaned forward as the acolyte girls brought wine. “So, as we’ve heard, this fort...” he looked up at the ceiling inscribed with mosaics of sheaves of grain... “Or temple, as it may be, was a tough bit of leather to cut. Tell me of it.”
The acolytes brought a local aged goat cheese and pitchers of wine, with olives and meats.
“What’s to tell? The boys made quick work of the troops here.” Maximus briefly summed up the battle.
Marcus’ eyes shined. “And what of the giant cat you fought? That must have been a row.”
He smiled slightly. “My first big cat, I suppose,” he said. “She got away.”
“She, you say?” Marcus’ smile grew.
“Why, yes, so I was told,” Maximus said. “A pretty thing. Had a shiny collar. Apparently, she was like...” He stared into the distance at the statue, its blank gaze staring out at nothing. “...some...kind of goddess.”
“To hear it tell, she was their goddess,” Marcus said softly.
Maximus nodded. “I suppose she is.”
Marcus sighed. “Was.”
The disagreement snapped Maximus out of the moment. “Of course. Was. Although she got away.”
Marcus nodded. “I suppose. Any luck on hunting down this cat-goddess?”
Maximus looked down. “No, no luck so far.”
Marcus nodded. “Well, when you finally get her, her hide will make a lovely coat for your trumpeter.”
At that, Marcus felt a cold shadow cross his heart. He feigned a smile and took a sip of his wine.
Marcus smiled back, and looked around at the acolytes serving them. “But what’s a goddess without worshipers? Tell me, where are the soldiers who fought you? Actual Carthaginians?”
“Appears so,” Maximus said. “The ones who lived are being sorted through. We have them in the stables. Some seem eager enough to be auxiliaries for us. I could use—“
“No.” Marcus said suddenly.
“No, as in...?”
“Put them to the sword,” Marcus said evenly. “Lucullus orders it.”
“The sword you say? The hell I will,” Maximus said. He felt his face grow hot. The scar throbbing on his cheek showed scarlet. “Those are...” His fever-slowed mind raced for justification. “Those are mine,” he said, finally grasping a concept. “That’s my gain, my profit. They’re well-fed and in good shape. The market will fetch top coin on them if I can’t have them as troops.”
Marcus smiled slightly, shaking his head. “Not unless Lucullus wills it,” he said. “What think you? That you can pos
sibly get them to the slave block in Nova Cartego without passage guaranteed by the governor of this region? Lucullus orders it and it is yours to obey.” He glanced up at the young acolyte serving him. She quietly refilled his cup from the pitcher and glided away. Marcus nodded after her. “Them too. All of them. Tonight, if possible.”
Maximus’ jaw dropped open in incredulity. The acolytes? This was...an affront. Highly unusual.
“Why?” Maximus countered.
The Questor scoffed. “Why? Because Lucullus orders it, that’s why.”
Maximus stood up. “I demand to see the written orders.”
Marcus remained seated. He turned and motioned to one of his detail. The man sprinted out the door. Marcus turned back to him. He sighed.
“Why do you do this, Commander? You’ve successfully taken this citadel. You’ve survived an attack by a beast that by all accounts should have taken your life. It was a beast raised by these people, I might add. Why put up such argument?”
“Because...because...this plunder is the right of my men. It’s also my right,” Maximus said, stammering. His head swam with anger. While he’d begun the meeting feeling fatigue, he felt a dark anger well up within, and a curious edge to his senses. He noted fine details of Marcus’ face, how it shown different than the others in the room. No sweat. No rising tension. Very matter-of-fact. He could...sense the heartbeat of the Questor. He saw the other’s hand casually reach over and touch his forearm.
“My friend,” he said coolly. “You are a good Roman—a fine one. Among the best. While it is commendable to think of your men, you know there is more to duty than profits.” He turned away and motioned to a sergeant accompanying him. “Pulious, gather up the servants and take them to those stables we saw out front. Don’t tell them why.”
“Hold!” Maximus stood, jostling the cups on the table, spilling some of the wine. “The orders, Questor.”
Marcus leaned back, as if he were relaxing. He waved his sergeant back. “Of course. If this need be by the book.”
Maximus remained standing, his hand resting on the table. He saw Otho and several of his personal guard step inside the room. Otho had a hard look about him. Maximus sensed the feelings travel between them. “We are ready,” his trusted man seemed to say. “Give us the signal.” As if he, too, sensed it, Otho briefly showed the leather sap hidden in the folds of his tunic and nodded. He lowered his gaze briefly in return, then picked up a cup of wine and sipped it.
Eventually, an armored centurion walked in, carrying a small roll of parchment. He stopped before Marcus and snapped his fist to his chest in salute. He handed over the parchment to his commander.
Marcus stood, unrolled it, and began scanning through it. “Let’s see. You are well, etc., I am to take command in case of etc., Ah, here it is. ‘All non-Romans in the fort are to be put to death immediately, in any case.’”
Maximus slowly reached for the orders. Marcus gave them to him. The men stared at one another with hard looks. Maximus saw the other’s nostrils flare—as if he were sniffing for him. He tore his gaze away and stared down at the orders.
“Why, these orders indicate that such things are in the event of my death,” he tossed the parchment onto the table. “As you can see, I am able and standing here. I hereby countermand your orders in my area of control.”
This time, Marcus stood. “The orders are plain. ‘IN ANY CASE.’ Thus, I am here to carry out the consul’s orders.” He reached for his sword.
Maximus felt his will inflame. His right hand shot out and grabbed the Questor’s throat. The man’s countenance hardly changed as Maximus’ hand closed on the man’s neck. Marcus felt his neck was...stiff, sinewy, as if it were a thing stronger than flesh and bone. Marcus’ nostrils now were even larger, and his eyes widened. A hint of a smile started at the corner of his lips.
The messenger took a step back and drew his sword. Maximus lifted Marcus and threw him against the man, knocking them both sprawling among the benches lined against the wall, the man’s sword clattering from his grasp across the floor. A lamp crashed to the floor—the flame knocked out. Now, the room was lit only by two braziers on the walls.
“Now that’s it!” yelled Otho. “Lay on!”
Suddenly a dozen or more of Maximus’ personal guard poured into the dim room. Some had their belts wrapped over their knuckles. They fell upon the two men on the ground, pounding them.
And then they were thrown back. Marcus stood, holding one in each hand, tossing them aside. He strode toward Maximus, clapping his hands upon him and lifting him off his feet.
“You fool!” he snarled. “Dare you lay hands upon a Questor of Rome?” He threw Maximus back to the other side of the room. The armor on his back thumped against the stones, and he fell heavily to the floor.
Yet, as soon as he felt the impact, Maximus leapt to his feet, crouching, his arms out and hands splayed. He felt energy ripple through his arms. His hands felt hot, almost burning. His eyes felt clear, and he could see the men easily in the darkness. Then he saw the figure of Marcus...changing. The face sticking atop of the cuirass was leaner, the jawline elongated, and his grin grew into a rictus of sharp teeth. The man sprang forward, snarling bestially, hitting him with a spring-like tension.
Maximus fell back, but not down. He felt his own sinews react with lightning quickness. He shoved the Questor back, shouting low—growling. Heat poured from his face. Maximus felt as if it were shining like the sun. He snapped toward the Questor, chopping with his hand as if it were a scythe. He saw his own nails, now longer, slash a furrow through Marcus’ cuirass, ripping one of its straps on the shoulder. The man drew back, and two others tackled Maximus from the side. He spun with the force of their strike and threw them off into the benches.
All about the room men attacked, fought, grunted and cursed. Smoke from the guttered lamp choked the room as men wrestled on the stone floor, now slippery with the lamp’s oil.
Maximus peered into the din. Where was his quarry?
“My love,” he heard.
Maximus jerked his head around. She was here? Where?
“My love. You must leave. Now.”
The voice—it was coming from inside his head. Amid the tumult, it was strong and clear, yet the tumbling, fighting, shouting men seemed not to hear it. Maximus shook his head. Where was Marcus? The man had disappeared into the tumult. Maximus strode through the chaos, looking. A man sprang at him from the left. He stopped, turned briefly, and grabbed the attacker’s throat. The man tried to scream but it was cut off to a gargle. Maximus gripped hard, felt his nails dig into the flesh, ripping at even the sinews of the legionnaire’s neck. The man passed out. Maximus let go and the man fell away.
Maximus glanced at his hand. Scraps of human flesh hung from curved talons. He stared, gripping. The leather band on his wrist popped its seams and fell off. The skin was mottled...spotted, even.
He jolted from the distraction as another man swung the leg of a table at him. He crouched. The club glanced off his shoulder, jarring him slightly, but felt far less than it should have. He grabbed the man’s wrist and snapped it, letting go after doing so. The man screamed. The club tumbled from his grasp and clattered to the floor. The man fell to his knees, clutching his arm. He looked fearfully at Maximus, terror in his eyes, then scrambled away.
Through the smoky light ahead, Maximus saw a slumped shape slip out of the doorway. The color from the back of the tunic appeared to be the purple-bordered. Marcus.
With a snarl, Maximus bounded through the crowd, bellowing and gnashing. Some attempted to confront him. Was that one of his own men he just raked with his claws? Quickly they fell back, and soon he gained the doorway.
Outside, he swept his gaze around the courtyard. Servants and workers stood watching, although the closer ones ran away, looking back afraid. Then he looked at the ground. He saw the heat of recent footsteps, hotter than others, running toward the front gate. At the gate, he saw two guards who he had earlier posted, looking
away, out of the gate, and pointing at something in the direction the footsteps glowed.
Maximus raced, shedding the clothing he still wore, but his long, languorous shape slipped out of them easily. He ran without effort, as if he were sunlight, all his limbs propelling him like he’d seen gazelles run during a hunt. Soon he gained the gate, and shot past the guards. He was gone before they could ready the spears they held.
The still faint glowing footprints led down the road, but then veered to the left toward the woods. He ran after them, hardly panting, his clawed feet tearing at the turf, letting it fly behind him.
Then he saw the eyes. They glowed in the dim starlight, atop a promontory of rock sticking out of the ground near the edge of the woods. He ran to it, stopping just short.
“So, the Godling of Tanit comes for sport,” said the crouched figure on the rock. It still wore the purple-bordered, tattered robes. “I have such sport for you.” He leaned back his head, and let out a low howl, which rose mournfully. Despite his rage, Maximus stood transfixed.
“My love,” came the voice in his head, “Do not heed his taunt. He calls the wardogs of your army to him. Run now. Come to me in the mountains. I will guide you.”
Maximus snarled, then roared. He felt the thunder in it. He roared again, his anger curling like smoke above them.
Marcus howled again, inching back on the rock, as if he were ready to run. But then, a chorus of howls around the camp echoed back in answer. It was the hounds of his legion.
“Run, my love! He calls your death upon you.”
Maximus roared again, and leapt upon the rock, gaining the top of it in a single leap.
Marcus’ form crouched low, snapping and snarling. Maximus too, lowered, inching toward his prey. Was the Hound of Lucullus afraid? This creature feared him, even as it plotted his demise? Maximus slashed with his paw at the other’s throat. His claw raked a furrow in the neck of the huge dog, and the latter howled with fury—surprised. It was as if he didn’t expect Maximus to drive home the attack. He lunged and snapped at Maximus. Maximus sidestepped the lunge and shot back with another strike, this time slashing the dog’s side with a blow that would have torn open a normal animal.
