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

by M. A. Mott

  Maximus heard something thud, even as the man started. He stiffened, and blood filled his mouth. His eyes flew wide and he looked down to see a spear-head protruding from his chest. He tried to say something, then fell away from the doorway. More shouts, and horses galloping. The sounds of battle died away.

  Now, calmer voices chattered. He heard the wagonmaster talking excitedly. And another voice, deeper, answering.

  “Looks like we came just in time,” said the man calmly. “A moment more and they’d have had you.” He heard a figure walking to the back of the wagon. A face—blond, blue-eyed, peering past the visor of a centurion helmet. He saw the toothy grin. “Well, what have we here? This is your treasure?”

  Maximus knew this man. It was Marcus. The Hound of Lucullus.

  “It’s...I have orders to deliver this cat to the arena in Nova Cartego,” stammered the wagonmaster.

  “Looks like you’ve got a fine beast here. Yes, a true Beast of Rome,” Marcus said, chuckling.

  Maximus could see into his features. See the dog licking its chops. Waiting for its chance to tear into his carcass.

  “Glad we could help out,” said the Quaestor, turning back to the shaking wagonmaster. “Best get going. We’ll escort your wagon to the frontier. Why, I might even want to tag along to Nova Cartego for the show.”

  Maximus roared. The wagonmaster jumped almost out of his tunic. But Marcus clapped the man on his shoulder and laughed.

  “Big fuss from a caged animal,” he said. “Let him roar. It will be good practice for his entry into the arena.”

  In time, the wagon bumped along again on the road. Maximus felt his freedom slip away with each jostle.

  Chapter 22

  THE DYING MAN CLUTCHED the gaping wound in his stomach. He shivered. His teeth chattered, even though to Tanit, the air was warm.

  “It was the...hound,” he stammered. “I am so sorry...Goddess.”

  Tanit stared at the wound in his stomach. There was no hope, she thought, no hope for this man to live. The Lusitani man had been the only survivor of the assault on the small wagon caravan. The wagon train had pulled away less than two hours before they arrived. The man and his fellow tribesman, following the word passed down the trails, had sought to attack the train. They had originally outnumbered the small wagon’s entourage, but a Roman contingent of Auxiliaries had arrived just in the nick of time, led by none other than the Hound himself.

  The warrior erupted in a coughing fit, shuddering violently. He was dying very painfully. She put a calming hand on him, turned to Oohlat, and nodded. The priestess stepped forward with a dark tea in a pewter saucer. It would calm him as he died. She took the saucer and touched it to the man’s lips.

  “Drink this. It will help you rest,” she said.

  The man, his eyes wide, looked into hers as he drank it. Did he know? She suspected he did, and yet, she saw gratitude in the man’s eyes. He drank nearly all of the liquid, then, with relief in his expression, laid back on the pallet they’d prepared for him on the ground. His breathing slowed, deepened.... then with one final breath, left him.

  Tanit wiped the tears from her eyes and turned back to face Thal, who stood with a stony expression. She took off a wristlet, gold, she’d kept at the cave. It was worth a ransom.

  “Please, give this to his tribe,” she said. “Tell them this goddess is in their debt for his bravery.”

  Thal nodded and took the band, handing it to one of the men standing behind him. He turned back.

  “That was our best chance,” he said. “They now have gone into the Cartego province, and our people are much more scarce, and now, either friendlier or more fearful of Rome. We might try to catch them, but...”

  Tanit shook her head, her dark hair trailing like a mane.

  “No,” she said. “That moment has passed. We must, instead, move in another direction. We must face them even as he does.”

  Oohlat and Thal looked at her, puzzled.

  “My goddess, what do you mean?” Oohlat asked.

  “I must go to Nova Cartego and save him. Perhaps, even, to the arena itself.”

  “No, no, my Goddess!” Oolaht fell to her knees, and clutched Tanit’s cloak. “My Goddess, I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to lose you!”

  Tanit took her friend’s beautiful face in her hands, looking into her dark, fearful, tear-filled eyes.

  “My faithful friend, my lovely friend. I cannot die. I will not die. Nor will I allow my lover to die. If he dies, I might as well not live anyway. So, I release you from coming with me, if you cannot bear to see me go.”

  The priestess buried her face in the woman’s cloak, weeping. Tanit cradled her head for that long time, until the weeping subsided. Then Oohlat raised her head back up, looking with love in her Goddess’ eyes.

  “I will follow you to Hell, my Goddess. If you but point the way.”

  Tanit smiled down. “Then let us go to Hell in good style,” she said. “I have an idea.” She turned to Thal.

  “I need to travel to Cita, that small town just outside of Nova Cartego,” she told him. “I have a friend of whom I must ask a favor.”

  Their journey took many days. They traveled at first as pilgrims, the women hiding their faces behind dark hoods, led by men dressed as other than Lusitani. Days passed, inns slept in, and different clothing bought. Old trails traveled, away from the normal thoroughfares. Eventually, their trail led to a large merchant’s villa. In the distance, down from the hills they now stood upon, the coastline stretched across their horizon, dotted with sails coming to port. In the middle, the smoke from its fires darkening the sky above it, loomed the port city of Nova Cartego. Tanit could see, even from that distance, the brown oval of the arena. Her destination.

  Thal rapped on the door before them, its oak planks booming with noise. Eventually, the door opened and a white-capped house slave peered out.

  “Who calls at the home of Balacar?”

  Thal turned, nodded to the two women, their faces hidden in the hoods, then back to the slave.

  “Tell the master it is she of the tree of Salissa,” he said solemnly.

  The man’s eyes flew wide with wonder, staring at the women, the back at Thal. He turned from the door, and noises of excitement, voices raised in excitement. The door drew open wide.

  Servants in white hurried to assume their places, lining the hall in rows on either side.

  Thal motioned for all to dismount and enter. All did, but stood aside as the two women, the priestess in lead, walked in. The women’s heads were hooded and bowed.

  “Who calls me in such a way? This is most unusual,” boomed a loud voice. It belonged to a large man, shuffling down the hallway, led by servants. “This is most unusual.” He stopped before them, gazing curiously at the two hooded women. “I am the Merchant Balacar.”

  Oohlat stepped forward, drawing back her hood to let it fall to her shoulders. Her eyes fell to his. She saw his eyes grow wide.

  “You are the priestess of the Goddess?” He stammered. “I...heard...”

  “Greetings, Balacar the faithful,” she said. “We know of your fame and generosity, and of your piety. We remember Balacar of Cartego. And do you remember us?”

  Tanit stepped forward in the same manner, throwing the hood back from her face.

  The man’s eyes flew wide with awe. A murmur fluttered through the throng of servants and soon all began to kneel.

  Balancar, tears running from his eyes, hid his eyes from hers and bowed his head. He stumbled to one knee, then the other, then on his hands.

  “My...Goddess. They s...s... said you had perished.” He wept.

  Tanit stooped down and touched his shoulder lightly. He looked up and again met her gaze.

  “My faithful Balancar. We have lost so much. And even in your loss, you called to me. I heard it.”

  He wept and buried his face in her hand. She felt the warmth of his tears run through her fingers.

  “I know of your beloved Livi. I remem
ber her. I remember her, the young woman you fell for, and then against both your houses, married her. And she bore your children. Your sons now ply the seas in trade, and your daughter has married and cleaved your house to her love’s house. And you flourish. And yet, the sickness took her. And you cried out to me. I heard your cry.”

  He sobbed loudly in anguish. In the hall of his great home, his servants sobbed as he did.

  “You begged for her to be given back to you. You sacrificed in my name at the All-Temple. And so, I come with news. I cannot bring her from the land of Elysium. Instead, I ask you, please, let me become her.”

  He quieted his sobs, and looked at her curiously.

  “Become her? But...how?”

  “I need her,” Tanit told him. “I need her in me. I need her to cover me. I need to walk with her grace, and wear her finery. Do you still have her clothing?”

  “Yes...yes. I couldn’t bear parting with it.” He looked at her in wonder.

  She reached down and pulled on his hand, beckoning him to stand. Servants rushed forward to help him from his knees.

  “Come, then,” she said. “I ask of you, Balancar, to allow me to be her, with you. Show me your love’s things. I am called to be her for a while.”

  Chapter 23

  WELL, ISN’T THIS DELIGHTFUL, thought Otho. Sent to the arena for disobeying the new commander, that asshole Marcus.

  Otho paced his cell. If he did well on this first outing, he’d get better quarters and better rations. Great. That would give him a little more time to find a way out of this mess.

  A sharp clanging on the bars brought him about.

  “Here! You! Come forth! You have a visitor!”

  Otho strode the short distance to the bars. He stopped short when he saw the blond, grinning visage of Marcus peering in at him. The man was dressed in his formal tunic. Near him stood an attendant carrying weapons and armor. Otho stood, arms crossed.

  “Sergeant, you look well!” Marcus said cheerfully. It sounded as if he meant it.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Otho answered curtly.

  Marcus shook his head. “Now, now. I can see you’re upset still. I understand. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “That’s one way of putting it, sir.”

  “I know I made a hard decision about you. I had to make a clean break with your men. You and Maximus had to be repudiated, swiftly.”

  “Seems that you’ve done quite the job of it,” Otho said.

  “Oh, not so much,” Marcus answered. “For instance, I haven’t had you crucified.”

  Otho nodded. “That would have been going too far, wouldn’t it?” he said.

  “For the moment, yes. But that’s another thing. I like you, Otho. You’re a good Roman.”

  “I’m flattered, sir.”

  Marcus grinned and shook his head. “Right. So, to show you I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, I’ve arranged this little spectacle. I’m going to give you an easy chance to get out of this mess. One battle, one for your honor. Win it, and you’re a free man.”

  Otho cocked his head, interested. He trusted the Hound as he might have trusted an actual hound to guard a joint of mutton. Still, a dungeon helps one weigh one’s options.

  “What’s that? Who am I to battle?”

  “Tanit. The Goddess.” He watched Otho’ face.

  Otho dropped his mouth open, then closed it. “You...caught her?”

  Marcus laughed. “Oh, no, no. She’s lit out for the wilds. We’ll probably never catch her now. Damned cat. No, we’re going to present just a normal leopard. You will fight it head-to-head as a Bestiarii. You will be introduced to the crowd as a hero of the battle at Tanit’s fortress, and then, simply, you slay the cat with a spear. Should be easy.”

  Otho considered it. Well, he had nothing better to do. “Of course, sir. For the Senate and the People of Rome.”

  Marcus grinned again. “Agreed. For the Senate and the people of Rome.” He motioned the guard over. “Try on your uniform. Get a feel for these practice weapons. I tried to find the best for you. You’ll get the real things the day of the match.”

  The guard pushed the equipment through the bars. Otho looked at them. They were his own uniform’s original rank and insignia, but freshly made, stitch-new. Of course, he thought. He took them.

  THE CROWDS POURED INTO the amphitheater in Nova Cartego. While obviously not the size of the Circus Maximus in Rome, it was still massive and inspiring. If such things weren’t boring to Tanit. Well, bored was a strange word to a Goddess. The games just didn’t capture her attention the way they might a human. She was immortal. All their shouting, pomp, pageantry...was ridiculous to the real drama. However, one thing had her undivided attention; the prime box next to the divine seat of Lucullus, the Governor. As a noblewoman, the consort to the high-ranking merchant Balancar, she would have among the best seats in the house.

  If things went as planned, she would provide a much greater spectacle than any game.

  Servants carried her litter up the low, broad stairs, to the box which held the noble’s seats. Balancar, himself riding in a grand litter, stepped out, and offered her his hand. She stepped forth, holding his. She walked with a lilting step to her seat in the box. It was to the right of Lucullus’ ornate seat. He had already been seated, and was dining on a platter of niceties with his own entourage; noblemen, some alone, some with wives, some with courtesans, and a couple of cronies. A few guards stood at the edges of the balcony.

  Balancar offered Tanit to sit, which she did.

  “Balancar! How nice to see you here again!” Lucullus shouted with a magnanimous-sounding glee.

  Balancar, with dignity, bowed low. “My dear Lucullus, I felt the gloom should not hold me longer. Behold, I introduce my new love, Cilly,” He gestured to Tanit.

  Tanit bowed her veiled head gracefully, but remained seated.

  “Such a lovely creature!” Lucullus said. “May your joy be manifest in even greater riches than you now bear, my dear Balancar.” And with that, he turned back to his conversations with the cronies.

  She looked around. The fine silken veil covering her face obscured little, but gave all she viewed a slight sheen. It was a nice effect. The “servants” carrying her litter, wearing such servant clothing as the finest slaves might have worn when accompanying their master, concealed well enough the lean, muscled features of the Lusitani fighters. The Lusitani had instructions to vanish into the crowds, leaving their finery on the ground, if things went badly. If all went well, she might cut off the very head of the Roman governorship for the province, and escape with her lover. Or, they might all die. Either way, Tanit could only see her plan as a gain.

  Chapter 24

  THE CROWDS ROARED ABOVE. Otho could hear them, like the roar of the ocean. It was unnerving. It sounded like the war chants of the many tribes they’d fought in the Spanish highlands. Bloodthirsty. Uncontrollable. Hateful.

  Otho stood among the rank of gladiators, all dressed wildly, some with nets and tridents, others with helmets that had fish on them, others still with fake black beards and long, curved Scythian blades. He was the only one in a Roman army uniform.

  He reached up and adjusted his helmet. The thing was a lovely, wrought copy of the one he’d worn, but it wasn’t his. It wasn’t worn in, adjusted his way. The liner? It felt like silk or something. That’s lovely, but he preferred his oiled, broken-in leather liner. This one felt hot. Great. Sweat in his eyes. He hefted the shield—lovely. He could smell the paint on it, with the unit’s symbol. Just painted, all new. He shrugged, adjusting the way the armor lay on his shoulders. It would do. He hefted the gladius in his hand. Yeah, a very good specimen. That they’d certainly gotten right. Nice balance. He’d be glad to carry that on the battlefield. Apparently, they really did want him to win against this cat.

  “Here now, you!” bellowed the gladiator captain. “You, the pretty boy from the Tenth. You’re up!”

  Two attendants came to Otho, and on eithe
r side, placed their hands on his upper arms. Together, they all walked to a lift, with a wheel worked by slaves. Otho stepped onto the boards of the lift and turned to face his fellow gladiators. With a lurch, the boards beneath him shifted, and he started up. He felt strange, like it was a dream. In a quick moment, it came to him. He crossed his sword over his chest, saluting them. They seemed unable to know what to do. They must have heard. He was the special one. Why did he salute them? And then, almost as quickly, they saluted him back, some with fists on their chests, some slapping their swords or spears against shields or butt against the ground, and they cheered.

  Amazing, thought Otho. Perhaps this job wasn’t so bad after all. A door opened above him and the roar of the crowd mingled with the shouts below.

  MAXIMUS SEPTIMUS PANTERA screamed at the men poking the long sticks into his cage. Damn them! The sticks had barbs on them. They were driving him into a new cage that had opened in the one he’d been kept in. He lashed a paw out at one of the sticks, knocking it from the man’s grasp. Immediately, when the man dropped it, Maximus lunged at him through the bars. The man jerked his had away from the stick.

  But the other bore down on him, stabbing his side. The wound stung, only skin deep. But the stinging lingered. They’d put something on the barb to make it hurt more.

  Eventually, the other man regained his hold on the stick he’d dropped, and poking and prodding, pushed Maximus into the new cage behind him.

  “Well, that’s done with him, then,” said one of the attendants.

  “Ya think he’ll come back?”

  “Not this one,” the first one said. “He’s fighting a real war hero. They say he helped save a Commander.”

  “Well, why’d he end up here then?”

  “Promotion. Make him look good. It’s just one cat.”

  Maximus growled. A war hero, huh? He’d have his throat.

  With a sudden lurch that made him start, the floor, cage and all, rose upward. The cheering outside grew louder.