The Beast of Verona: Book I of the Decimus Trilogy

by Sheritta Bitikofer

  The tunic had been torn so completely that one couldn’t tell it was once used to clothe a person. Discarding the shreds of linen, he was bare besides the loincloth they permitted him to wear.

  But the partial nudity didn’t bother Decimus. It was the gnawing, aching hunger in his belly that drove him to the brink of insanity. The guards fed him daily with a meager portion of bread in the morning and a watery soup in the evenings. His feeding schedule was the only way he could tell what time of the day it was.

  Not to mention the activity in the arena above his head. Mornings were filled with the beastly roars of animals being hunted for sport in the confined space of the arena. Around noon, he could hear the wailing cries of prisoners being executed. And the afternoon, Decimus listened to the harsh metallic bashing of sword versus shield as the gladiators dueled for the eager crowds.

  He could tell it had been three days since his failed execution. And not once was he given a scrap of meat. A few times he had lost his composure, ramming his shoulders against the brick walls of his cell to fight back the inner turmoil that threatened to bubble up and overwhelm him. He wouldn’t let it happen, not here in this cage.

  More than a few times he had come undone and involuntarily vomited what little food they gave him. He could feel his insides eating away at the walls he had carefully built to resist the urge to unleash himself.

  Decimus stood and paced his cell, each breath coming out ragged and guttural. Already he resembled the caged beast that he was. Perhaps not in form, but in manner. If his hunger was not satisfied soon, he knew what would happen.

  The sounds around him were deafening. Even the subtle rhythms of the guards’ heartbeats pounded in his temples. He could smell their acrid sweat, the metallic essence of their weapons, the leather of their sandals and armor straps.

  The earthy scent of the grass just outside the arena echoed the call of freedom to the animal within Decimus. It was a call that he could not hear with his ears but feel in his soul. If he wasn’t released soon, Decimus would no longer be in control and it was a terrifying thought.

  A new sound crashed through his senses and Decimus froze, standing utterly still in the darkness. A gate was opening, footsteps were drawing closer. It wasn’t time for the change of guards and the parade of this new visitor did not sound the same as those of the guards. There was no clanging metal, no weapon. But there was the clinking of coins in a leather pouch that was unmistakable to Decimus’s ears.

  Decimus lowered himself to the floor and crouched, his fingers digging into the clay floor to steady himself. Golden eyes nearly glowed in the darkness, a brighter and more beastly color than his usual hazel. Regardless of the efforts that Decimus took to hide his true nature, the eyes were one thing he had little control over at a time like this, when hunger was all he could think of.

  He ducked his head, hiding his eyes as the visitor came to his cell and stopped. Decimus didn’t need to look up to know that it was a man of moderate wealth. His clothes were clean with the exception of the stench of sweat around his arms and the dusting of dirt on the hem of his garments.

  Two armed guards that flanked him on either side accompanied him down there to the prison. They reeked of fear. The visitor did not. He could feel the haughty air emanating from the stranger. He obviously didn’t see what Decimus had done to the lion days before. If he had, he would be afraid just like the others.

  “What was he arrested for?” the stranger asked. His voice was rough and scratchy, almost breathy like he had inhaled too much smoke during his lifetime.

  “He’s a traitor to the Roman Empire,” one of the guards announced, his boisterous voice masking his fear of the criminal in the cell.

  “Why has he not been executed?”

  “We tried. He killed the lion.”

  “Why did you bother giving him a weapon to defend himself with?” There was a twinge of annoyance in the stranger’s voice.

  “We didn’t, sir,” another guard replied with a more definite quiver in his words. “He killed the lion with his bare hands.”

  The stranger took a few steps closer to the bars, his sandals scraping against the dirt floor. “Is that so?” he mused.

  Decimus’s back and shoulder muscles tensed, anticipating an attack that was unreasonably expected. But there was something in the stranger’s cadence that unsettled him. He wasn’t afraid of Decimus. He was fascinated.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, addressing Decimus directly.

  Decimus would not reply. He did not trust his own voice to speak as a human did. He would hide his nature at all costs if he could help it.

  The stranger repeated the question a little louder this time and with more aggression behind his words. Decimus didn’t even flinch.

  “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll make sure they kill you. No lion. Killed by the sword.”

  Decimus couldn’t stop the threat as it spilled out of his mouth. “They can try.”

  The guards jerked at the sound he made. The words were barely intelligible behind the growl that mingled in, a intimidating rumble that poured out of his throat. It was as if both him and the beast were speaking at once.

  The stranger paused and Decimus could hear the irregular skip in his heart. “Lift your head. Let me see your face,” the man demanded.

  Decimus didn’t move. His nostrils flared, his breathing becoming deeper and gruffer. The tension filled the cell, drowning Decimus in a violent storm that only needed the right push to release upon the men that stared at him.

  The stranger turned and motioned his hand towards one of the guards. Decimus heard the shifting of armor and the hollow echo as a shaft of wood bumped against the iron bars of his cell.

  As the staff extended towards Decimus, he gave way to the animalistic fear and rage. His hand shot out and grabbed the pole. With a quick jerk, the wood snapped in half.

  The motion was so swift that the guards didn’t have time to react before Decimus leapt from his crouched position and was at the bars. He reached through and grabbed the sleeve of the stranger. In another quick maneuver, Decimus had the stranger around the neck, wielding the piece of wood that he had broken off as a tool to choke the man.

  Decimus squeezed the man against the bars, making the stranger face away from himself and glared at the guards with his beastly golden eyes. They jumped away and drew their swords; ready to free the man Decimus had taken hostage.

  The stench of their fear was joined by the horrified expressions on their faces. There was no hiding now, no secret. They could see his eyes and the madness behind them. The beast reveled in the thrill, but Decimus was furious and ashamed of his lack of discipline. There was little he could do to swim against the wave of blind hatred that the beast brought out in him. It was as if his body was no longer his own, his actions and emotions spiraling out of control. Only his feeble thoughts for order remained, a mere whisper against the roaring of the beast.

  One brave guard began to charge at the prisoner, but the stranger held out his hand to stop him. He was unable to articulate the words as sputtering gurgles exploded from his lips. Decimus pulled him in tighter. He could feel the rapid heartbeat thrumming through the wood that he held against the man’s throat. He couldn’t see his face, but he knew it must have been twisted with fear and discomfort.

  Decimus wasn’t killing him, not yet.

  “Release me!” Decimus bellowed.

  The guards shifted their stances, unsure of whether to run for help or attempt an assault upon the demon behind the bars. The stranger didn’t move, didn’t struggle.

  As Decimus began to wonder why the man seemed so calm, it was too late. Cool metal touched his stomach, accompanied by a burning pain so terrible that his grip weakened on the wooden pole. It was a pain he knew well. Like an open flame upon his skin, charring his flesh. He roared in pain and lurched his core away from the stranger.

  The stranger had just enough of a window to wrestle free. The wood flew from Decimus’s hands a
nd fell to the floor outside the cell. The two men stumbled away from each other, the bars separating them once more.

  The guards, now sure that they were in no danger, grabbed the stranger and put him behind them as extra protection. Their swords still drawn, they were ready for another attack.

  Decimus retreated into the darkness to nurse his wound. The flesh was already beginning to heal, but the pain lingered. He breathed heavily and wrapped his arms around his belly to shield the sight from the others.

  For a few agonizing moments, Decimus’s world consisted of nothing but the intense pain. He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing but the burning. The beast, demoralized by the retaliation of his enemy, slinked back into the darkened corners of Decimus’s mind. He was kept at bay, for now. But Decimus knew it would not last long.

  When the pain began to ebb away, he knew the stranger had stepped forward past the guards and stood near the bars again. He did not make a move to attack again. Lifting his eyes, he saw the glinting of the silver ring upon the man’s finger. Did he know? Or was it a mere coincidence?

  Decimus finally looked into the man’s face. His skin was wrinkled and sagged like a man who was getting along in his years, but not ancient quite yet. A faded scar curved across his cheek and his face was weathered from prolonged exposure to the sun, topped by a head of black hair whose tips grazed his shoulders and temples touched with a hint of silver.

  His black eyes held no humor, no mercy or compassion for others. The man’s frame was strong, built as if he had labored for most of his life. He wore a beige tunic and toga, a sign that he was a Roman citizen.

  They locked eyes. Decimus’s lips curled up into a snarl at the man, hating him for the pain he had inflicted and the sinister smile that spread across his dry, thin lips. What kind of a man smiled at his assailant, grinning at the golden animal eyes that were incongruent with the body they belonged to?

  “I’ll pay you one thousand denarii for him,” the stranger offered to the guards, not tearing his stare away from Decimus for a moment.

  Decimus was startled not only by the price but also by the thought that this man wanted to buy him as a slave. What could this man possibly have in mind for a traitor to the Roman Empire?

  “But Marcus Curtius, this man is dangerous.”

  The stranger, Marcus, said nothing to contest their accusations, but slipped the money pouch from his belt and handed it to the head guard. He took the pouch with much hesitance, everyone’s gaze flitting back and forth between Marcus and Decimus.

  “What is your name?” Marcus asked his new slave.

  Decimus glared and would not respond. This man may have been his new master, but he could not buy his respect.

  After a while, Marcus shrugged. “Fine. I shall call you Lupus. Because you look like a wolf.” The irony of the name did not go unnoticed. Marcus turned to the guard. “What have you been feeding him?”

  “The usual a prisoner is given.”

  “That’s not enough. Give him some meat.”

  “But, Marcus – “

  “Don’t argue with me,” Marcus snapped. “Give the man as much meat as he wants and send him to me at the ludus when he’s more docile.”

  Decimus felt his hackles rise at the mention of the ludus, a school for those who fought and died in the arena they stood beneath. So that’s what Marcus wanted? A gladiator?

  Marcus took one last look to Decimus. Yes, he looked like a former gladiator now that he thought of it. A warrior past his prime, but ready to send countless men to their deaths in the arena for a little money. He was more than just a Roman citizen, he was a lanista, a manager of gladiators at the ludus where he taught them to fight and die for the glory of staged battles before thousands of spectators.

  The lanista turned and strode away with the company of guards, leaving Decimus to contemplate his fate. He would become a gladiator, a slave trained to kill. His blood lust would be satisfied, the beast given free reign to kill and destroy.

  Decimus didn’t like it at all. He was a man, not a beast, no matter what the guards thought or what Marcus believed.

  He may have been bought, but he would not be tamed.

  3

  Museo della Civiltà Romana, Rome Italy, 2015

  She struggled up the concrete steps, the load in her arms becoming heavier by the second. Her muscles strained to make her way towards the entrance. Today of all days to forget her keys to the back entrance when she had all these new research books and files.

  She felt beads of sweat roll down her temples and the crevice along her spine. She knew the moisture would darken her blouse and she cringed at the idea of having that kind of visible blemish on her clothes. She should have tied her thick mass of wavy black hair up before even stepping out of her car, but she didn’t think about it. It wasn’t that long of a walk, or so she thought.

  Sleep had evaded her the night before and the clock was not on her side either. Marina barely had time to dress herself that morning before having to leave her apartment. The late nights studying were screwing with her daily cycle. Go to work, come home, cook dinner, watch television, and go to bed. That’s all she needed, but no, she needed an obsessive hobby like history to keep her occupied.

  That’s why she had gotten a job at the museum in the first place so she wouldn’t have to be up all night reading about the old emperors of Rome. She couldn’t remember the last dream she had that didn’t feature a gory assassination or terrible fire that was consuming the city.

  Marina thought she knew everything about Italy’s history, especially after earning her degree in it, but there was always more to learn, more information to digest. She had earned the nickname of “Walking Encyclopedia” at work. Some days she bore it with pride. Other days when everyone came to ask her trivial questions about how the aqueducts worked, she wished she had the luxury of disappearing into thin air.

  The other day she had purchased some fiction novels from the bookstore around the corner from her apartment building, in an effort to offset the influx of nonfiction heavy reading. She wasn’t sure which genre she would like, so she bought one of each. Horror, mystery, science fiction and even romance all awaited her attention on her nightstand at home. She hadn’t picked one up yet, though. She wanted to get through this one last book about the Year of the Four Emperors when four men battled for the throne in Rome during 69 AD.

  She could feel her thick rimmed glasses begin to slip down the bridge of her nose, causing her vision to blur. She glanced down momentarily when she began to feel her balance waiver.

  Against her will, her supple body leaned backwards under the weight of the books that were pressed to her chest. She should have known her clumsiness would rear its ugly head at a time like this. One leg swung around to catch herself, but something else caught her instead.

  A strong hand received her between her shoulders while the other one grabbed at a falling folder full of reports and files. The strong aroma of cologne roiled around her.

  When she looked up, a pair of stunning green eyes met her. Even though his face was slightly blurred, she could tell immediately that a very handsome man was holding her steady.

  “Are you ok?” he asked in perfect Italian.

  Marina, hardly able to speak, nodded her head, causing her glasses to slip completely off, dislodging themselves from her ears and landed on top of the books she was carrying.

  She hoped that the stranger didn’t notice her tan cheeks redden in embarrassment. Of course she couldn’t be graceful and elegant in front of people, only when she was home alone. Everywhere else, she was a joke.

  The man chuckled and supported her back to her feet. “Let me help you with that,” he said. He took the glasses and slid them back onto her face, positioning them perfectly. Sparks skittered up her spine at the subtle brushing of his fingertips against her temples

  Dark brown eyes now had a clear view of her rescuer. Yes, he was handsome with a strong, angled jaw covered in black stubble that ma
tched his hair. His almond shaped eyes were not only green, but a dazzling emerald with flecks of gold that captured the warm glow of the sun, rimmed in an even darker green like the color of the forest in the dawning hours of the morning.

  He smiled and she thought she would stop breathing. Too charming for words.

  “Grazie,” she managed to say.

  “Would you like some help carrying all of that?” he asked, offering to take half of the stack in her arms.

  Marina wanted to display her independence by refusing him, but the sweet look in his eyes was hard to resist. “Sure,” she replied.

  The man carefully took a good portion of the load into his strong arms and Marina finally noticed how built he was, as if he spent his free time weight lifting.

  “You’re going inside?” he asked.

  “Si, are you?”

  “Si.”

  In unison, they began the rest of the trek up the steps to the museum, passing the columned porticos on either side of the walkway.

  Marina felt awkward in the silence, painfully aware of how close the man was walking next to her. She stole a couple of cautious glances his way. He was tall, at least a whole head taller than her and slightly intimidating. But it was an intimidation that was alluring, fascinating.

  When he peeked down at her, she turned her head and slid a step away from the stranger.

  “Do you work here?” he asked.

  Marina nodded. “Yes. Are you visiting?”

  She wanted to kick herself for such a silly question. Of course he was at the museum to visit. He certainly wasn’t there to grab breakfast on his way to work somewhere.

  “Yes, I am.” He angled himself towards her as they continued on. “Do you speak English?” he asked.

  “Yes, very well actually,” she replied, switching from her native tongue. Her accent was still prevalent, coloring every word she articulated.