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

by M. A. Mott

  Someone banged on the door. She started from her dreamlike communication. Then she heard it. Sniffing. Something was sniffing at the door. She struggled to her feet. She saw the startled expression of Balancar at her nakedness. She smiled.

  “Faithful Balancar, I thank you.” She embraced him and kissed him. “Now, if you don’t mind, I will don these robes.” She took some very different, brightly colored robes from his trembling hand, as they had planned, and shook them down over her body. She drew in a drawstring at her waist, and then slipped her feet into some sandals. She threw the hood of a light cloak he’d given her over her head.

  The banging on the door started again. She nodded to Balancar, who opened it.

  Marcus stood before them, in a toga this time rather than armor. She knew she would take him were he to attack. Instead, he looked at them, bewildered.

  “The people outside,” he said, “say a large beast—a half-lion—came in this door.”

  There was silence a moment, and then Tanit began tittering lightly. Then laughing. He had no idea who she was! Of course, she’d only seen him in her beast form. Soon, the merchant, his large belly quaking, also laughed. The Questor’s face before them turned a bright blush. She could tell what he was thinking.

  A whore and her customer hiding in here? I’m a fool!

  “Well, dammit. Was there a cat or no?” stammered Marcus.

  Stifling his guffaw, Balancar said, “Well...no!”

  Tanit’s laugh echoed in the small hallway. Outside, she could hear the screams of the panicked crowd.

  “Fine,” he said. He glanced around, and eyed her suspiciously, then turned away. Leaving the door open.

  The two walked to the entrance and looked around. The crowds had thinned, but the screams still sounded. Tanit remembered the mobs running as the gates fell in Carthage, the massacre. “Cartego delenda Est.” Carthage must die. And they had died horribly. She was not there to see it, but her mental links with many who had stayed behind gave her vivid moments she would never forget. And now, here she was, in a lonely outpost, among the enemy, pretending to be a courtesan to a merchant, and in love with a Roman.

  “Goddess, should we be going?”

  No longer laughing, she nodded solemnly. They shut the door, and made their way down the long hallway. She would soon see her love.

  Chapter 25

  AT THE EDGE OF TOWN, they waited; Otho, Daar the animal handler, and Maximus. They wore travel clothing—hooded cloaks, light linen tunics, sandals. With them stood a roan horse with an empty saddle.

  Maximus felt pensive. He wanted to rush, to change and run to his mate. He rubbed his shoulder absent-mindedly, feeling the tender spot where the heavy needle pierced his flesh. It was so...dreamlike to be human again. He looked at his hand. Hands were so magical. So unlikely.

  “You’re not going to change again, are you?” Otho asked.

  Maximus signed, gritting his teeth. Otho had asked that about ten times in the night since they’d escaped the arena.

  “No, but if you don’t shut up I will, and I’ll take a piss on your head,” he returned.

  The sergeant snorted and fell silent. They waited for their meeting.

  Word on the street was that a magician of Carthage had transported the cat into the stands to kill Governor Lucullus, exchanging it for a slave who was last seen running with the crowds in the arena. It was as if Maximus hadn’t even been there. But the Hound was supposedly on the hunt to avenge his master. So, this meeting was all but unwary. That said, there seemed little pressure.

  Eventually, they heard the stamp of feet on the cobbled Roman road. Voices. In the distant gloom of the evening, Maximus could make out a litter being borne by about ten slaves. Must be two in there, he thought. He dismounted, and stood to wait the litter’s arrival. Eventually, the bearers stopped before them, and sat the sedan down. Inside shone the glow of a single candle. A slender, tan hand drew aside the lace curtain, and a lanky, brown woman stepped out, her body lean and lithe in her beige linen cloak, her feet shod in golden sandals. Her green eyes met his. She smiled.

  He took her in his arms and kissed Tanit, and she warmly returned it. They held one another for what seemed like a long time. The moment broke when a man cleared his throat.

  “Commander, should we be going?”

  Maximus smiled and nodded at his friend. “I suppose we should. What say you, my Goddess?”

  She had a faraway look in her eyes, seeing something no one else quite could.

  They would run. They would escape. They would even save many from her temple before they were sold as slaves. They would raise an army in the forests of the North. But the road they would travel would go much farther. That road led to the whole world, and all time.

  She turned to him and kissed him. “We have a world that calls to us,” she said. “We must save it.”

  Maximus looked at Otho, who shrugged. The world? Maximus nodded. Might as well, he thought. Being as he was a God now.

  Thanks for reading! If you liked this, be sure to catch Book 2, “Witch of the Beast,” of the Shapeshifters of Rome Series, coming soon. For news about the series and a free book, “Dawn of the Beast,” Tanit’s origin story, sign up for M.A. Mott’s newsletter here: BookHip.com/HHPPZK

  Read on to the end of the book for a sneak peek!

  Epilogue: The Hound Follows the Scent

  THE PURSUIT WASN’T going well. Marcus was getting more frustrated as they rode. It had been hours, and they still had not caught them. The trail—if it could be called that—had led them thus far to an empty farmhouse. Chickens clucked in the yard, scurrying as soldiers ransacked the hut. Dawn broke on the horizon.

  Marcus smelled the air. Cantus, the company huntsman, sitting on a horse beside him, stared at him coldly.

  This was going badly. He had a dead governor, an escaped Goddess, a deserter commander, and barbarians fomenting rebellion in the hills. He had to catch Tanit and Maximus, or he might as well fall on his own sword. How much better he could have done in his hound form, thought Marcus. How closer he would be! He smelled them. The faint edge of the dark woman’s perfume, the patchouli of the acolytes who accompanied her. The leather harness, oiled with pig’s grease, of the two soldiers accompanying them. Before them, on the ground, two ruts from a cart led up the road. He got off the horse and strode across the farmyard. Small footprints of the girls, mingled with the treads of two sets of Roman sandals. The others had not yet searched there, so they had to be the two men “pursuing” the dark woman and her entourage. Pursuing! Bah! They were accomplices. But no others followed the cart up the road. This meant...”

  “No one here, sir,” shouted a centurion from the farmhouse.

  Marcus strode across the road to the back of the thatched-roofed hut. Here, the scents changed to the pungent one of workers of the earth. The farmer and his family had gone this way, away from the house and from the woman and her followers. They apparently had wanted nothing of it. Perhaps the group had taken the cart, causing the family to flee? No matter. They were not the ones he sought. He had to do something. They needed the hounds to hunt these people! If he could only...

  “Sir,” said a voice behind him. “The soldiers have found nothing.”

  He turned to see Cantus standing before him, expectantly.

  “Ride forth,” he told him. “I am going to return to the fort to see if the huntsman’s hounds have returned.”

  Cantus, a slightly surprised look on his face, seemed to hesitate a moment, then saluted.

  “As you say, Commander,” he answered. Then he turned and left, barking orders to the soldiers to follow the ruts of the cart. Marcus turned, walked to his horse, jumped on it and rode back toward the fort. After he’d gotten out of sight of the main party, he left the road and struck out across the boulder-strewn plain, cutting an arc toward where he suspected the renegades to have gone. He had to stop them—had to. He knew he faced a dangerous, deadly rival in Maximus. He had seen the transformat
ion himself. He knew, eventually, it would be him or The Beast. Marcus had lived far too long, too many centuries, to let a would-be upstart, only just changed, best him in the battle for power. If Maximus were allowed to control his change, to grow stronger and wiser, he, not Marcus, would rule Rome on its road to empire. Not only that, but Marcus might have to flee back into the wilds and wait longer, much longer, for another chance.

  He glanced down at his forearms. They were growing hairy. He felt himself changing, and welcomed it. He felt his senses grow acute; every sound was distinct, and he smelled the scents on the breeze. There was his company, his men striding off in search of the party, and their horses, and the stink of leather and well-oiled equipment. And there, beyond that, he smelled the woman, her hair, the perfume of her robes, with similar smells of her followers. Yes...he turned his head in the direction. He stifled a need to howl.

  He dismounted. He doffed his gear and tied it to his horse’s harness. With a slap on its haunches he sent the horse away to the fort, alone. He’d stow his tunic, cuirass, sandals, and weapons in a crag in the rocks, and come back for them later. By now, his senses alive, he felt the change come upon him, shafts of light seeming to fall where he cast his gaze. His sense of smell filled him with the odors of what felt like everything in the world; the strong smell of the horse galloping away now, but yes, the smell of the oiled leather hauberk tied to its saddle, the damp turf kicked up by the animal’s hooves, the plants bruised by the beating of the horse’s tread. It all washed over him in waves, the sounds louder, the smells deeper and more detailed, his vision sizzling with heightened contrast. He felt amazing. He loved when he became his true self, his immortal self—the Hound. Soon he was down, running, running toward the smells he’d captured at the farmstead. He could smell the linen robes of the acolytes, the explosion of scents that had to be the teak chest they carried from the Goddess’ own antechamber. That had to be key. And something else—as he grew closer, he smelled something sweet, something incredible. It drew him faster forward.

  Soon he galloped across the rocky, boulder-strewn plain, bearing down fast on the party he knew must be ahead. He smelled the linens much better now, and their bodies smelled of their fear and sweat from their escape. Could he take them in battle? In his form, he was a war-hound, the kinds used for battle in the legions. Perhaps he could. But he might wait. Perhaps trail them, then call his other kind—now scattered across the countryside after the abortive pursuit of Maximus. He could bay, with deep, booming cries that would lead them, and the huntsman would follow the sound with a detachment of legionnaires. It would be hard to argue that such a plan was wise, cautious. Of course, tearing them to shreds would certainly solve the problem as well. He would wait to see. First, however, he would need to find the source of that sumptuous smell, so deep and sweet. Like...a sweet, leathery, savory liquor, so tempting and amazing. What on earth was it? Could it be that they dropped something? There were other smells.... yes...yes, it had to be something in the chest. He could smell the oiled teak, and the thousand things it held, each distinct. In their flight, they’d abandoned the chest. What riches did it hold?

  He barreled down a wide, rocky gully, deftly leaping from one boulder to the next, his senses guiding him with precision. They’d obviously come a different direction, but he would intersect their path quicker this way. His clawed, padded feet gripped the rough stones as if they were hands—which two of them had only a few minutes before been. A few leaps, and he was out at the bottom of the gully, racing to the smells only moments now ahead. He ran, steadily, quickly, and quietly.

  The sweet smell now was almost maddening. He had to find it! He was careful in his mind to separate out the linens of the priestess, the oiled leathers of the Lusitani barbarians with them. They were near, but not at the site. It had to be the chest! Had to. He smelled now other scents—cinnamon, flowered herbs, tinctures, sharp tangs of poultice makings, teas and seasonings with purported magical properties. And the sweet smell.

  He burst into an opening...yes! It was here. He first smelled, then saw, tucked back under a ledge, hidden by branches, but yes, it was the teak chest. Fools! They’d abandoned it as too heavy. He would bring soldiers to this place and carry away the prize.

  He set to sniffing the area fully. That sweet smell was all over. The more he snuffed the ground, the stronger the scent. He gathered it into him, breathing it in great draughts of it. It filled him with joy, sensual delight, as great as all the stars in the night, and the sunrise to follow it. It grew and filled him, and he felt drunk with visions. Superb! Wondrous! And...

  It was too good. Too wondrous. Too fast. Too thick. The world swam and he swooned. He closed his eyes. All he could smell was the sweet odor. He lay with his eyes closed for what seemed like a night and a day in a visionless stupor.

  He heard voices. He opened the heavy lids of his eyes. He saw the dark woman, leaning over him, smiling. Behind her, peering past either side of her, were two legionnaires. He saw their uniforms marking them as Maximus’ men. They had surprised looks upon their faces.

  “Well, take me for a Thracian!” said the larger one. “Sure as you told us. It’s him!”

  The woman smiled. “As I suspected.”

  “How did you know?” The smaller soldier asked.

  “I’ve known so many men like him. Men who connive and wager lives against one another. Ambitious, wanting only more and more, and ruthless. I knew such a man who is nothing but a dog on the inside would not be able to resist being one on the outside if he could will it. I knew the Hound of Lucullus was such a man.”

  “So...” the larger man snickered. “Why is he naked?

  “You see,” she said, stifling her laugh, “the powder made his true form emerge.”

  They laughed at him. Laughed! He struggled to sit up. He felt the cold ground beneath his hands, back, and buttocks. He swooned again and lay back down. He looked at his hand. That’s what it was—his hand. Not a paw. He had changed back. He lay naked in front of these people who mocked him.

  “Bind him,” she said.

  Marcus slurred out an unintelligible, spitting response. The two men grabbed him, roughly bound him, hand and foot, then ran a pole through the bindings. They hefted him like a bag. The ropes burned his wrists and ankles. They walked, with him swaying between them with their steps, hanging from the pole.

  The priestess was still laughing. “He will be a lively present for Tanit.”

  The End