by M. A. Mott
This had to be the way, he thought. Her scent was so strong now, there was little doubt this trail, and her, matched somewhere ahead. He padded through the trees and soon loped up the path, gliding in and out of the boughs, pausing before the open stretches to look for signs, then on, and on, pressing forward into his destiny. He rounded a cliff that stretched over the trail, then saw it—a dark cave atop a jutting crag, nestled into the rocks like a shadow. This was the sacred place she’d spoken of. He now noticed at first small things which grew larger and more frequent; the wear on the path from centuries of footfalls, carvings now and again peeking from the rocks, pigments on some of the carvings, sections where the path had washed away to be repaired by...someone. Worshippers? Who tended this place?
“My people,” came the voice. It was her.
He bounded the last 20 feet onto a flat stone jutting out from the opening of the cave. Where was she? He crouched down, ready to spring. He felt disoriented, yet, focused completely on her. The smell was overpowering. He was drunken, yet sharp as a sword-point.
“Kneel before me, man of Rome.”
He wheeled about. Where was she? He snarled, but he felt heavy. He wanted to...lay down.
“Kneel,” came the voice again.
Now he slunk. The heaviness of his limbs bewildered him. He crawled across the mossy stone floor before the cave. In the darkness, he saw her green eyes, like jewels. She walked out of the darkened cave entrance. She strutted, mocking his paralysis.
“So, leader of Romans. Feel tired?” Her voice, still inside him, was mocking, and playful.
What is this? He watched her strut back and forth before him, her tail whipping back and forth. He felt intoxicated.
“I am a Goddess, my love,” she said, and she swished past him, brushing her tail against his face.
Now stunned, this was the drug that held him fast. He faltered, and felt his loins grow with flame. Again, she brushed past him, and again, each time lingering longer. Now, she slid next to him, past him, and sat in front of him, facing away. He felt strength flood his limbs and he rose up, mounted her, and entered her. His senses glowed. He gave away completely to the animal he had become, and to her. He thrust with his loins, and felt the explosion of his creature lust. She writhed beneath him, and he held her there, biting lightly the nape of her neck, like a cat carrying a kitten. Then he released her, spent. She lightly lifted her body to her feet, walked a few steps, and he was overcome again. Again, they coupled, again he exploded in her. And again. And again. He lost count of how many times; writhing together, growls, bites, tender caresses with claws, lean bodies heaving in the throes of love. Into the night this went on, until they fell into stupor in one another’s embrace.
Then they slept like stones.
In the morning, he felt her body next to him. Somehow in the night, she had pulled a heavy felt cloak over their naked bodies to fend off the dewy cold. He reached out and...touched her skin. Her skin! It was smooth, brown, and warm. He looked at his hand. The claws were gone. He was a man. Then he saw her face. Her bright green eyes opened beneath a tousled head of black hair. Red lips smiled. Her voice still growled.
“So, man of Rome. How does it feel to be a god?”
This time, he rolled over to her, held her tight to him, and kissed her deeply. Their tastes mingled for that long moment. Then they loved as humans. Maximus savored the difference...but also missed the beast.
Chapter 14
HIS PARTIAL TRANSITION disheveled Marcus’ clothing. His cuirass had snapped off somewhere, fallen away in the dark, but his tunic was least still attached to him. He strode toward camp, barefoot, dirty, scratched, some blood seeping from light cuts and gouges. He had to think fast. He knew the soldiers in the room with them might have seen something...but it could possibly be explained away. How could he account, however, for Maximus’ absence? The commander’s soldiers would not heed a ranting, heavy-handed upstart taking over their company, even if it that upstart had orders from the Consul. Yet, this was the moment. He had to seize control and had to be quick about it. He had a plan, but it would take finesse.
He limped toward the gate. In the distance, he heard the hounds he’d set on Maximus baying in pursuit. Good. It would provide impetus to the party he was about to call forth. Ahead, he saw two sentries posted at the gate. Two more, bowmen, peered over the wall.
“Pax consul!” he shouted. “Pax Lucullus!”
“Who calls Pax for Lucullus?” returned the guard.
Marcus limped into the circle of lamplight before the battered gate. He clutched his side where it was slightly damp and red with his blood from the gash Maximus had given him during the fight. He was healing quickly with the vigor of his kind, but...he decided playing up the drama wouldn’t hurt.
He leaned against the out edge of the archway for support, leaning heavily. “I am the Quaestor Marcus Lupinus,” he said, grunting a little. “Your commander is in pursuit of the creature who attacked us. We must...ugh... mount a party to aid him.” He staggered down to one knee.
One of the guards rushed forward to steady him. The other turned and shouted alarm. Soon, a squad of men surrounded him, weapons drawn, warily looking behind Marcus, peering into the dark.
They lifted him into a chair and carried him into the courtyard. Torches blazed brightly inside, casting fantastic shadows of the men as they ran about, preparing their units for battle. Good. Someone, probably that sergeant—what was his name? Otho? —had set things in motion. He grunted as the soldiers sat him down, then leaned over, spat a little blood from where Maximus had pasted him good, then sat back up, coughing a little. He glanced over to Otho.
“Report,” he grunted.
He saw Otho hesitate slightly, measuring the situation. A moment more and Maximus might have demanded he be flogged. Then the sergeant stood erect and saluted.
“Greetings Quaestor. Just getting our bearings here,” he said. “I’ve a patrol preparing to give pursuit. Our hounds seem to have been drawn out already, so it will make trailing difficult.”
Marcus nodded. “Yes. They pursue the beast, along with Maximus.” He eyed the sergeant coolly as he told the lie. “He seems like a man possessed. I could hardly keep up with him. But then, the fight...” he coughed again for effect... “brought me down. When I regained my senses, they were far afield. I’d better get astride a horse.” He stood, grunted, and swayed heroically, and took a staggering step. The soldiers quickly stepped up and steadied him, easing him back into the chair.
“Quaestor, may I suggest letting us try to track them down? Perhaps you could rest,” suggested Otho.
The Hound of Lucullus smiled slightly. “Perhaps a moment,” he said.
A noise in the darkness outside the walls caught their attention. Two red-tunic auxiliaries ran toward them, carrying a bundle of clothing.
“Quaestor. We found this in the field!” explained the breathless auxiliary—he was a slinger, Marcus deduced, as the thongs and bag of stones hung from his belt. Marcus leaned forward and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. The youth threw back the purple-bordered cloak he carried, bloody and torn, to reveal a scratched and torn cuirass Marcus noted it was his own.
“Now, there’s a good man,” he said. “You found my kit. You have my gratitude.” He swayed a little, unsteady. “What say we bring you two formally into the legion? Rome marches with the feet of good men.” He coughed. Looking up at Otho, he said, “Give these two double rations of your best wine, and have them measured for some armor. These boys are the kind we’re looking for.”
The two youths dropped to their knees and began kissing the feet of the Quaestor. Good, thought Marcus. Their heroic reward was also his. That was the key to magnanimous gestures. All in Maximus’ command would redouble their loyalty to him, Marcus, in the search for their soon-to-be former commander. How crushed they would be by his betrayal! How horrified they would be of his beastliness! Good. Now, for the next step.
He rose, shakily.
“I need these wounds bound up. Your surgeon said there was a woman of some kind who could bind wounds? Bring her to me.”
He saw Otho look aside at his men. They looked back. Otho quickly spoke.
“It seems, Quaestor, that she has escaped,” he said, bluntly.
Marcus raised his eyebrows, actually, a little surprised. She was a smart one. Had been watching the whole thing, probably. “How is that?” he said, letting his voice seep into incredulity.
“We don’t know, Quaestor. No signs of her leaving. All the young women with her too. We think two of our men are in pursuit.”
“So, two of your men are missing as well?”
“I’m sure they are on the trail, sir. Good men.”
He eyed the sergeant coldly. “Good. We must make haste.”
It was as if a cloud passed. Now Marcus was steady. Now he stood without swaying. Now was the time, he thought, to show resolve with decisive action. “Bring me a horse.” He pointed to the auxiliaries knelt before him. “You two. Good work. Rise. Please, assist me in donning my armor.”
The two auxiliaries looked up, their youthful brown eyes showing surprise. Immediately, they stood up, picked up the cuirass, and started trying to strap it on him. The straps were burst. Several soldiers darted away, then returned with a line soldier’s banded armor, then began removing straps and attaching them to his battered breastplate.
“Quaestor, your wounds,” said Otho quietly.
Marcus swept his hand dismissively. Now was the time to miraculously show strength, to show that his wounds could not hold him back from higher duty. They were already healed, anyway.
“My wounds will have to heal themselves,” he said. “We have work to do. Rome calls for us in her time of need. We must ride forth, wounds be damned.” He stood and stretched out his arms as the auxiliaries clumsily attempted to attach the cuirass. The youths were unused to helping an officer of high standing. As they cinched down the straps, another solider came forward with his helmet, fetched from the wreckage in the dining hall. Eventually, the stablemaster and his slave boy brought up the horse on which Marcus had ridden in, a good roan traded from the upper Westphalia on campaign. He stood before the horse, checking the harness, and noticed the intense gaze of Otho. The man watched him warily. Time to take this Minotaur by his scruff.
“Sergeant,” he said. “We go forth to save Maximus Quintus Pantera. We ride in the name of the Senate and the People of Rome. I’d appreciate your guidance on this expedition.”
Otho stood taught and saluted, his expression stony with obedience. “In the name of the Senate and the People of Rome,” he said. He shouted for a mount, even as the rest of the Equities had begun mounting their steeds.
Good, thought Marcus. The most competent, strongest leader among the centurions in the fort was leaving with him. This would solve two problems; one, without Maximus’ good man in the fort, there would be little worry of a mutiny awaiting his return. Second, he could keep close watch on the man lest he attempt to aid Maximus. Finally, he could just kill him if the need arose, away from any soldiers who might try to help out of loyalty.
The Equities mounted, formed into their cavalry lines, awaited orders to move out. With Otho on his right, and the Roman houndsman on his left, Marcus mounted the roan. He stared at the false dawn creeping over the starry horizon. He leaned over to the houndsman.
“What think you about the directions your hounds pursued the cat?” he asked.
The houndsman pointed at a line of hills in the distance, a line of low peaks in the darkness. “Near as I can tell, that’s their direction,” he said.
Marcus pulled on his helmet. “Let us ride, then.” He took the reins and spurred his horse into the night, followed by the war party.
Chapter 15
SMOKE FROM THE ANTELOPE haunch roasting over the fire drifted up from the mouth of the cave, over the trees, dissipating in the breeze over the craggy ravine above which they lay. Tanit lay lazily, resting her head on Maximus’ broad chest. In their animal forms, they had loved, slept, and when hungry, had hunted together and brought down the antelope when it came to drink from the spring nearby. Together, they’d dragged the body back to their lair, feasted on it raw, loved more, and then slept. Upon awaking in their human forms, Maximus thought it better, now, to roast the haunch and build a fire in the ancient pit. Now, he slept, and she thought. She had tried to see Oolaht and their retinue in those thoughts. She knew they were safe for now, but running, traveling toward the mountain. Tanit remembered back to the time she had shown her priestess the tunnel underneath the fort, the cave that opened out into the rocky outcropping in the valley. She sensed her priestess had come that way after Tanit used her power to speak through her statue. She knew the dogs had tracked Maximus across the plain, pulling them away from being used to track Oohlat, which had bought time. Nevertheless, she knew her acolytes would have slow going. She felt a sense of dread. She smelled death in the vision. She could not dismiss the darkness she felt. She clutched lightly to her lover, and allowed herself to feel the warm comfort of his presence. So long. She had almost given up on finding a lover who could bear her in his arms. She would take her solace in him, for now, before they had to fight again. She turned her face into his chest, feeling the warmth of his bare skin against her cheek. She smelled the musk of his scent, which had the sweetness of man-flesh, but still, deeper, held the aroma of the beast he carried in him.
He grunted, stirred in his sleep, and turned toward her. He was again, stiff with lust for her. She parted her thighs and guided his swollen member into her. He slowly pushed in, filling her. She felt herself swell around him in response, and pulled him deeper into her, pushing her hips against him. Soon they were in the throes of loving, each wet thrust bringing her mounting closer and closer to the summit of ecstasy. He pounded his hips against her, until her loins exploded in climax. She moaned, clutching to him. He gasped, moaning quietly as he released. They held one another in the moment, the shocks of passion rippling through her, subsiding like a waning tide. Then they collapsed side-by-side, the rough felt blanket now almost too warm against their sweating skin. They lay for some time, then, she rose and walked to the entrance, retrieving the clay pitcher she’d been using to gather water from the spring. She knew that when she returned, he would finally have questions. What would they do now? What did it all mean? They are now gods, she would tell him. What does that mean, he would ask?
Death. It means death to be a god. But instead of you, it will mean death to those who oppose you, and unless you win, it will mean death to those who are for you. And for the mortals you love, death comes anyway.
No. Wait. She was falling into the despondency, the sorrow of her lost people. No, it had to be more than that.
“More than what?” His voice was behind her. His hand fell warm and gentle on her shoulder. She turned to face him, the pitch in her hands. She drank and offered it to him. He looked down at it, smiled curiously, took the pitcher of water from her, lifted it and drank deeply.
“You heard me?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. I thought I heard you say, for certain, ‘More than that.’ Did you not say it?”
She smiled. “I thought it. You must have heard my thoughts.” She took the pitcher and sat it down. “Come, I have something to show you.” Time to take him into the cave. She took an old torch of bundled, dried reeds out of the crack in the entranceway, lit it in the firepit, then walked in, leading him by the hand.
Inside, the cool air of the cave was still. Their footsteps fell soft on the dirt and thatch floor. The flickering light from the torch cast curious shadows on the walls. Jutting points of rock, on both the ceiling and the floor, appeared to move as the shadows cast around them moved. They walked deep into the cave, and eventually the path sloped downward, into the dark depths. The silence took on a life of its own, as if it were its own presence. The wind, birds, and the running water of the brook ceased. Eventually, the torchlight revealed a larg
e opening ahead, and they walked together into a vast hall. On the walls, surrounding them, moved curious pictures. Figures, with reds, greens, browns and even blue pigments, hunted, fished and chased animals with spears and bows and arrows. As they walked, the figures undulated in the firelight, brought to life.
“What is this?” asked Maximus.
“My people...our people,” she said.
Maximus gazed upward, staring at the black figures, which seemed to dance in the light from the torch. Animals too, seemed to gallop or leap about them among the people figures.
“What makes them...our people?” he asked warily, his eyes narrowing in the wavering of the torchlight.
She smiled slightly at him. “This way. I will show you.” She took his hand.
They walked further into the gallery, the gloom giving way to the golden glow of the torch. Ahead, the floor of the cave heaved up, layer upon layer of stone, into a promontory, where she walked ahead, holding the torch high. They stopped at the top of the jutting stone.
There, he saw the figures had grown large. Huge. In the center rose a massive horned being. It stood sideways to them, but was turned, staring at them, with a bearded face and the enormous antlers of a stag. It seemed to be crouching, with a large male member slung low between its legs. Beside it reared others on either side—a hulking bear figure, but with human torso, and claw-like human feet; a wolf-figure, its open snout bristling with fangs; a horse creature, whose hair seemed to flow into the rock; and a huge cat creature...dark, but with wide eyes, its body long and slender, appearing to leap upward to the ceiling. It had aquiline features that were more human than the catlike body, claws and tail suggested.
“What...is this?” he murmured low.