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

by M. A. Mott

  OTHO WAITED PATIENTLY while the jugglers, dancers and musicians finished their show. He apparently was the first act following the music, without even a warm-up. He’d thought he would be the main course or something, but this was just as well. Get it over with and see what else they threw at him. Maybe it would be a quick thing, and he’d be on his way to whatever new assignment the Hound threw at him. He wanted to fidget, but stood proudly at attention, sword in Parade position. His sword was sheathed, but he would draw it out at the appointed time, strike it across his chest, the point to the governor Lucullus and declare his allegiance to the Republic. Typical salute, no big deal. Then he’d have to slaughter a big cat. It was just a normal one, they’d told him. He hadn’t had a chance to see it yet, but there would be time enough. The thought occurred to him...what if it really was the Goddess? He’d be in for it. She’d take him down and make dinner of him. He’d seen that much. Besides, he’d hesitate, he knew it. He had no fight with her. Yet, push came to push, he’d take a swing or two. If it was a normal cat, sure. He could handle, probably. Never fought a cat before, but there was that one wolf that time, when he’d been a young auxiliary in the highlands of Cimmeria, and a wolf pack had circled the camp. One wolf took a try at him and he laid it out with a split skull. Easy.

  The music ended. The musicians left the field. Only him and the older man in the toga, the announcer, were left in the arena. The announcer lifted a large, copper megaphone to his mouth.

  “Noble men and women of Rome! By all our Gods, and, in the Name of the Senate and the People of Rome, Governor Lucullus bids you all welcome!”

  The crowd cheered. The man waited for several minutes for the cheers to die down. Two attendants with trumpets stepped forward and blew a long note. Then another. The crowd took the signal and quieted.

  “What a fortuitous night! Our Governor and his legions have quelled the barbarian Lusitani, and more, defeated the last stronghold of the most evil people of Hannibal!”

  Cheers from the crowd again. Was this going to take all night?

  Once more the trumpets blared, and once more the crowd quieted.

  “Their Gods are vanquished! Their Cat Goddess was last seen running into the hills to take a crap!”

  The crowd roared with laughter. Otho smiled. Well, it was funny.

  “Their soldiers have fallen. Those who lived to tell about it will soon be brought to you in chains. They are the last of the Carthaginian line. Their fields are sown with salt! Their boats sunk! Their people are enslaved. Long live the glory of Rome!”

  Cheers again. This was going to take all night, thought Otho. More blaring trumpets. More quieting of the crowd. Now, the man paused, and looked back at Otho, nodding. Otho stepped forward.

  “Tonight, we bring you none other than a hero of that battle! The glory of the Legion is presented to us tonight with the hero, Otho! Fresh from the battle, where he slayed the enemy in glorious combat.” He nodded again back to Otho.

  Otho stepped forward and hit his sword against his shield, banging it, then thrust it upward. The crowd rushed to their feet and cheered loudly. This time, he felt it—the glory. He was a hero of the battle. He had fought in the battle for the stronghold. He, for Rome, won. And now, no matter what was taking place, he was being honored for it. Wasn’t this what he’d wanted his whole life? And yet, he felt something far deeper. He scanned the crowd, the merchants, the tradesmen, the laborers in the seats farther away, their cheers...he knew they really didn’t understand. They hadn’t stood with Maximus and the Tenth, his unit, at all the other battles they had fought. His eyes sought the center balcony over which Lucullus sat. There he was. Clapping and waving magnanimously. He was the Governor’s man after all. He saw the announcer look back at him once more, nodding. Otho held the pose just a moment more, just to let the man know he was no marionette. Then, he drew his sword back down across his shield, then sheathed it while the crowd still roared, and stepped back to his original position.

  A man in leather leggings—the animal handler, he remembered, crossed over to him, flanked by two attendants.

  “Even now, the Hero receives his final orders before he gives you his most important battle yet,” the announcer opined. The crowd roared again.

  The attendants stood on either side of him and the man walked up to Otho. He pulled out a small, leather-covered package, about the size of his hand. He spoke quietly, such that the two attendants couldn’t hear.

  “A friend told me to give you this. Keep it hidden until the right moment. Use it instead of your sword, he said.”

  Otho looked at the man, puzzled. The man shrugged, handing him the package surreptitiously. Otho slipped it behind his shield.

  “One more thing. The friend said to say, ‘Remember, it’s Maximus.’”

  “What?”

  The man shrugged, shook his head, and turned and walked away.

  Otho carefully unwrapped the package, glancing down at it from underneath the bill of his helmet, but holding his head so he didn’t move it. Wrapped in the oiled leather was a long, silver needle with a wooden handle, coated in a sticky substance. What the Gods was that? A last-minute poison? Had Maximus sent it, really? Then he smiled. Of course not. His former commander was hiding in the hills. Well, apparently Marcus had thought of everything. They really wanted him to live. A little stitch in time to save his spine. Good. He tucked the package into his sash beneath his armor.

  The attendants exited the field. Everyone now, but the announcer and him.

  “And...now, the hero of Rome faces his greatest battle. In person, the half-lion Goddess herself!”

  Otho heard something creaking. He turned toward the sound. A door opened in the red sandy floor of the arena, about 50 feet away. Sand cascaded from the door, and a cage popped up from the sand. In it stood a large, angry leopard. It roared.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled up. Otho felt a rush of adrenalin. Okay, so, this wasn’t going to be the easiest thing he’d ever done, after all. That cat was big. He patted his sash where the package was tucked. Just might have to use it after all.

  “Lay on!” the announcer yelled through his megaphone, lowered it, tucked it under his arm, and walked from the floor to a doorway in the wall where attendants beckoned him. He did not look back.

  The introduction was over. Now came the real show.

  The cage opened with a loud “clang!” The cat rushed from the cage, running toward Otho. Then it skidded to a stop about 12 feet from him.

  What now? Slowly, it dawned on Otho that he recognized the cat. He remembered the words of the handler.

  “Remember, it’s...”

  Oh, Gods be damned. The cat was Maximus.

  The creature paused for a moment, then began stalking sideways, glancing sidelong at him. What the hell to do?

  “Commander!” he said under his breath. “Commander! It’s me, Otho. Dammit, man, we’ve got to do something!”

  The cat paused, seeming to consider him for a moment, then suddenly rushed toward him. The crowd roared. Otho brought his shield to bear, The body of the cat collided with him. It was like stopping one of the Gauls in a headlong charge. Boom! He knocked the cat aside. The animal sprawled out to his left, then clambered up and ran a few feet away. Again it began a long, slow circle. The thing was testing him!

  “Dammit man! I’m Otho. Your first sergeant! You fucking idiot. Please, snap out of it, or whatever it is you do. We can’t keep this up.”

  The cat growled at him, then let out a high-pitch yowl. The sound made his hair stand up. It roared again. Then, for just a moment, the cat stopped and looked up at the stands, as if trying to see something, or someone.

  Damn me, Otho thought. I’ve got to do something. Then, he remembered the package with the needle in it. He drew out the package and pulled the needle out. He held that in the palm of his shield-hand, even as he also held the shield. He wouldn’t use it that way for long. One good hit from the thing and the shield would tumble f
rom his weakened grasp—not to mention the cat who was the current form of his commander would get through the guard and take a bite of him. Not good.

  In his other hand, he drew the sword. The crowd erupted in cheers.

  “Okay,” Otho told the cat. “We’ll do it your way.”

  FROM HER PERCH IN THE expensive seats, Tanit watched the match through the silken veil, feeling her heart leap when Maximus stalked from his cage onto the floor of the arena. It all now depended on Otho. Would he actually try to slay Maximus? Or would he understand the plan and use the needle? The substance on it would stop the change. Maximus would change back. Of course, then they’d still need to escape, and that’s when would come her part.

  Tanit closed her eyes and saw in her mind Maximus face. She called to him. “My love, you must run while you can. Otho will aid you, but you must run! Meet us in the sacred grove outside of town. The town auxiliary doesn’t know of it. There will be helpers there who know you. Oohlat will be with them. But you must live, my love! You cannot die! Or I will not live!”

  Then, she released her thoughts to him. She reached across, patted the hand of Balancar. It was the signal.

  He took her hand, patted it, and said very quietly, “My Goddess, I obey.” He got up, stretched his large frame, and said loudly, “Damn my old body. I need to find the piss-pot!” An attendant came to him, to lead him. Then he lumbered off.

  Tanit sat quietly, then let it go. She felt the animal well up within her. Around her, her fellow noble spectators had all their eyes on the drama in the arena. Underneath her robes, she began changing.

  FOR A LONG MOMENT, the cat gazed up into the stands. It seemed to be staring in the direction of the Governor.

  What in blazes? thought Otho. He lunged forward, slashing out with his sword, but deliberately missing. The crowd once again roared in the moment.

  At the same time, he slashed with his sword, he swung his shield as a counterweight, butting it hard against the cat, sending the animal sprawling again.

  The cat recovered quickly, but...was that just a hint of surprise? Annoyance.

  “How do you like that, sir?” Otho taunted.

  The cat roared, charged, and leapt full onto him. Just as the cat hit him, he braced the shield with his left hand, letting his sword clatter to the floor of the arena. His knees buckled beneath him, forcing him to the ground. At the same time, he shoved the cat away. The cat sprung off to his left, but swiped around the shield, raking the side of his armor. Gods! Of course, his commander knew how the shield worked, even if he had turned into a cat.

  Dammit. No fair.

  Otho struggled to his feet. The cat was turning for him again, about to lunge. Otho dived for the sword—and slipped the needle in his shield hand to his right hand. He knew he wouldn’t make it to the sword, but he wanted it to look like he tried.

  This better work.

  The cat leapt. This time, it him full force. The weight of the creature knocked Otho backward, like he was being ridden down under a horse. The animal screamed at him. Its claws scraped over the top edge of his shield, slashing at his face within inches. As Otho fell back, he struck around the side with the needle like were a dagger, jamming it into the muscle of the creature’s shoulder. The leopard howled in fury and pushed away from his shield, but the force of the cat’s back claws tore the shield from Otho’s hands. The shield went spinning across the arena floor. The musicians kicked up a song, with the pipers piping a flurry of notes like madness.

  So that’s what they do when they think you are dying, thought Otho. He wondered how many doomed heard those last notes before the end.

  Well, not him. He rolled, finally in reach of his sword. If that needle trick didn’t work, Maximus was just as dead as he, so, Otho might as well take his noble commander out himself. Maximus would want it that way anyway. He rolled to his feet in the same motion as which he grabbed the sword, and staggering into a fighting stance. The musicians cut the sounds suddenly.

  He stood, sword pointed at the animal. The cat stalked warily, now cognizant the creature it faced could sting.

  “That’s right, Commander,” Otho said. “They told me it’s for your own good and all that. So, you’d better come out of this, and quick.” He backed across the floor toward his shield. If he didn’t want to skewer the man he was trying to save, then he’d better get a grip on his shield.

  The crowd started getting restive. They hooted and jeered.

  “Hey, he’s a hero? No wonder the Gauls are kicking our asses...”

  “That cat looks funny. Did he poison it?”

  “The thing’s waiting to give the death blow. This guy’s going down...”

  A few boos started up. Otho reached his shield, then grabbed for it. As he lifted it up, the cat loped toward him...but the fire seemed out in its eyes. It roared once, getting a few cheers from the crowd, but then...opened its mouth and yawned. Oh, this is no good. Otho jumped toward it, meeting it in a forward lunge with his shield. The cat bowled over backward, scrambling, but unable to stand. Otho made as if stabbing the cat, but jabbed the blade in the dirt between him and the cat, such that to the crowd it appeared that he’d run a sword into the animal (he hoped). He shoved the cat with the shield again. It scrambled on its back, unable to get up with its paws...and then...its front legs became longer, gangly and misshapen. Its paws elongated. The creature cried out in a scream more human than animal.

  Otho had to work fast. He jumped on top of the half-animal, half man, pushing on it with his shield, striking the dirt next to it with his sword. The crowd roared and the pipers struck up a tune once more. He beat the sword dull against the arena floor, laying on top of his friend.

  “Dammit, man. Work with me!” he snarled.

  The thing, now looking more like Maximus, let out an anguished cry.

  “Shut up, sir! You’re going to get us caught!”

  That’s when he heard the screams from the stands.

  INTENT ON THE GAME before them, the nobles with whom Tanit sat paid little attention to the changing shape dressed in the veiled finery. That is, until she sprang from it as the Goddess in her full animal form.

  The attendants surrounding the rotund governor screamed and dropped their fans, diving to get out of the way. She saw two bodyguards reach for their swords belted on their hips, but stopping, mouths agape, eyes wide.

  With a roar of fury, Tanit bounded over seats and people alike. Most screamed and clambered to get out of the way. In seconds she closed the short distance to the ornate platform on which sat Lucullus. He had been about to bite a haunch of seasoned mutton, but dropped it, his mouth open in shock.

  “Get it!” he bellowed, but his order turned into a scream. Tanit slashed the side of his face with one paw, tearing the flesh from it. Blood splattered across the finery draping the platform. Lucullus hit the cedar floor with a loud boom that echoed across the stadium. She seized him and sunk her teeth in the back of his neck, biting down with a fury that crushed the vertebrae. The man’s body flailed with death, then went limp.

  Kill my people. Destroy my temple. Face my wrath.

  The two bodyguards, over their surprise, showed a sudden resolve. They drew their swords and rushed her. She lashed at one in a feint, stopping short while they both over-committed in a lunge. Before they could draw back into a guard position, Tanit leaped on the nearest one, bowling him into the other, and sent all of them sprawling. She tore the meat off the first one’s shoulder. Blood sprayed across the benches. While he lay screaming, she slashed the sword arm of the second. That one rolled away moaning, writhing in agony, clutching the ruin of his right arm.

  There were no other armed men near her. She bounded up the stone bench seats to the small servant’s entrance, as had been arranged. The door opened, and Balancar looked out, eyes wide, fearing. Yet, he held fast. She admired his faith in her. She ran through, and he pulled it shut behind her.

  “GET OFF ME!” BELLOWED Maximus. He shoved his friend away, to one
side.

  Otho collapsed on the ground next to him, winded.

  “Took...you...long...enough,” the sergeant said.

  They both lay on the arena floor, gasping.

  “How...long...have I...”

  Otho sprang up. Pandemonium now ruled the stadium. Gladiators took to the arena, but gathered in an area underneath the stands. Otho saw a commotion there. Nobles were running in all directions. Panic spread to the whole stadium, where Plebes and Patricians alike ran for the exits, trampling one another in fearful haste.

  “Here!” he heard someone yell. Otho turned to see the handler, next to the cage, now opened out of the ground. He beckoned them to it.

  “No time, Commander,” Otho stooped down and clapped his arm on Maximus’ shoulder, hauling the exhausted, naked man to his feet. Together, they staggered to the open cage and fell into it. The handler joined them, and then the cage shuddered, and lowered into the floor.

  Otho turned to his commander, naked, sweat pouring from him.

  “That’s a good look for you,” he said. “The whole town will be talking about it.”

  TANIT COULD FEEL THE large man next to her quaking with fear. He sweated and shook. And yet, he stood, holding a cloak for her as she left her animal body behind. She would have to repay his ultimate kindness in some way. Now, however, her thoughts went to Maximus. She hoped she had saved her lover. As her body changed slowly back into human, she searched her heart for his feeling, his beat. Yes...he was alive! And his thoughts came to her in a rush.

  “I am naked!”

  “Yes, my love. I am too.”

  “I am alive!”

  “Yes, my love, I am too.”

  “I want you!”

  “Yes, my love. Soon. First we must escape.”

  “There is a man helping us. He is...one of them?”

  “He is faithful. He will take you to our allies in the city. There we will reunite.”