The Decimus Trilogy ***Volumes 1-3***

By Sheritta Bitikofer

Loyalty, redemption, and the power of love form the heart of Sheritta Bitikofer’s The Decimus Trilogy. Separated by more than a thousand years, two men connected by blood and an ancient gift—or curse—must come to terms with their pasts, their futures, and the wolf within them.
 
~The Beast of Verona~
Destined to take his father’s place as leader of their werewolf pack in Wyoming, Howard Lupus accepts his father’s demand that he go on a rite of passage to learn more about his heritage. Combing through dusty museum archives and old Roman ruins in Verona, Italy, is not his idea of a fun summer. Fortunately, he has the help of Marina D'Antuono, a cute but clumsy museum attendant with a passion for history. Together, they begin to uncover the story of his elusive gladiator ancestor.
 
In the year 69 AD, Decimus Rocius Lupus has no way of understanding the hideous truth about himself. A man cursed to share his body with the spirit of a beast, Decimus is impressed into the Roman army, captured as a traitor to the empire, then forced to perform in the Verona amphitheater. As a gladiator, he has no choice. He must kill or be killed. The beast within him wins the battles, but eats away at his soul.
 
As Howard and Marina trace his ancestor’s past, Howard fears losing control, just like Decimus. Can a woman like Marina ever come to accept the beast of Verona?

~Amber Ashes~

Following the trail of his werewolf ancestor, Howard Lupus heads to the ancient ruins of Pompeii. Candace Perry, the head of the excavations, shows him a villa with a mural of a man running with wolves and an engraved carnelian stone of a wolf. Could these be clues to finding Decimus?
 
Decimus has made a comfortable profit on his vineyard in Pompeii. While at the slave market, Decimus spots a foreign, dark haired woman with a fiery spirit. Aria is wary, but Decimus soon proves that in spite of his violent past, his heart is full of compassion. Then the volcano Vesuvius begins its ominous rumblings. Can Decimus save those he’s come to care for, or will the amber ashes of the volcano destroy them all?
 
As Howard uncovers more of his past, museum attendant Marina D'Antuono finds a letter describing a myth, a monster with golden eyes. Did Decimus survive the destruction of Pompeii? Complicating matters, Howard’s brother Eddie joins him, quickly falling for Candace. Will Marina forgive Howard for leaving her so suddenly in Verona? All he knows is that he must continue his quest to discover his past if he’s to help shape his pack’s future.
 
~Saving the Beast~
In pursuit of his mysterious ancestor, werewolf Howard Lupus travels to Ancona, Italy. Museum attendant Marina D'Antuono insists on going with him. They’re soon joined by Howard’s brother Eddie and his new love, Candace. Though Marina has learned the truth about Howard, and he’s falling hard for her, he tries to keep his distance. After all, what can a descendant of Decimus, a beast, offer a woman like her?
 
For the past two hundred years, Decimus has lived as a fisherman hermit outside the port town of Ancona. All he seeks is peace and solitude after causing so much pain and suffering in the lives of those around him. But one woman is determined to change that. Torn between loving her and keeping his peace, Decimus plans to run away again. But when pirates and barbarians threaten those he loves, the beast within is awakened once again. Will he let his past destroy his future?
 
Though Howard can’t deny that they share something special, he won’t let Marina throw away her life in Italy for him. Love may have changed Decimus’ life in the past. Will it do the same for Howard in the present?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moonstruck Writing
• Release date: Apr 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781946821102

Sheritta Bitikofer

Sheritta Bitikofer is a paranormal romance author of eclectic tastes with a passion for storytelling. Her goal with each book is to rebel against shallow intimacy and inspire courage through the power of love and soulful passion. Her biggest thrill comes when she presents love in a genuine light, where the protagonists not only feel a physical attraction to one another, but a deep emotional (and dare we say spiritual?) connection that fuels their relationship forward into something that will endure much longer than the last pages of their novel. A devoted wife and fur-mama to two shelter rescue dogs, Sheritta’s life is never dull. When she’s not writing her next novel, she can be found binge-watching her favorite shows on Netflix, doing Zumba with her friends, or painting at a medieval reenactment event.

Book preview

The Decimus Trilogy

The Decimus Trilogy

Sheritta Bitikofer

Moonstruck Writing

Copyright © 2016 Sheritta Bitikofer

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews – without written permission from its author.

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ISBN-13: 978-1-946821-

10

-

2

Print ISBN-13: 978-1-946821-

02

-

7

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Published by: Moonstruck Writing

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Cover art by Angela Quincoces Rivera at http://www.dream-designz.com

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Photography by Portia Shao at http://www.positivevista.com

Model Jason Aaron Baca at http://jasonaaronbaca.deviantart.com

Created with Vellum Created with Vellum

Big thanks to my loving and understanding husband who patiently waited up for me on those late nights while I was researching for this Decimus Series. Hours of watching documentaries and Googling the snot out of everything has led me to a better understanding not only of the early Roman Empire, but also of how patient love

really

is

.

Contents

Terms to Know

The Beast of Verona

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Amber Ashes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Saving the Beast

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Afterword

About the Author

Also by Sheritta Bitikofer

Terms

to

Know

Ludus Gladitorium – Gladiatorial training facility.

---

Lanista – Gladiator manager or trainer who arranges the fights. He also pays when an opposing gladiator is killed in the arena and monitors the health of his gladiators. He receives a cut of the proceeds from each fight.

---

Munerarius – The editor or sponsor for the fight.

---

Murmillo – Sword, big rectangular shield, helmet with visor. Known as the fish fighter and counter to the Retiarius. Helmet is often in the shape of a

fish

head

.

---

Retiarius – Supposed to resemble a fisherman with a net weapon. Went up against heavily armored gladiators. Lightly armored for maneuverability. No helmet. Often went up against the Murmillo (fish fighter). Fought with net, trident, and dagger called pugio. Armored with Galerus, a shoulder shield. Wore tunics and sometimes barefoot. Net had weights to make it spread when thrown and cinch closure to entrap enemy.

---

Scutum Sheild – Rectangular shield, commonly associated with Roman infantry.

---

Missio – The signal that a gladiator gives in order to forfeit a fight.

---

Sine Missione – A battle without missio, meaning a battle to the death and without chance for reprieve from the sponsor or crowd.

---

Tiro Gladiator – A gladiator fighting in his first public combat.

---

Palus – A pole, often the trunk of a tree, which was provided for gladiators to

practice

on

.

---

Tablinum – A room generally situated on one side of the atrium and opposite to the entrance; it opened in the rear on to the peristyle, with either a large window or only an anteroom or curtain.

---

Batavi Tribe – A Germanic tribe that was conquered by the Roman Empire in the second hald of the first century BC. Named for the region’s fertility, they resided around in the Dutch Rhine delta area. They never paid tribute in monetary values, but provided the Roman army with soldiers, who were prized for their swimming and boat-building skills.

---

Year of Four Emperors – A turmultuous time in Roman history where the thrown switched between four warring emperors in a single year. In order, Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and finally Vespasian took turns on the thrown in Rome. Vespacian finally ruled until

79

A.D

.

---

Gaius Julius Civilis – Seeking revenge for his kinsman’s execution, this general led a rebellion of Batavi soldiers against the Roman Empire with surprising efficiency. Soldiers of the Batavi tribe switched sides during battles and fought against Romans in their own regiment under his leadership.

---

Battle at Castra Vetera – One of the more infamous battles of Gaius Julius Civilis where half of the Roman army against him was wiped out and the other half, being Batavi, rebelled.

---

Rudis – A wooden replica of a gladius, awarded to those gladiators who won their freedom or retired.

---

Flavian Amphitheater – Modernly known as the Roman Coliseum

---

Dimachaerus – Two swords (one siccae, one gladius), leather leg and arm wraps, tight fitting helmet with a visor.

---

Thracian – Named after the people group. Fought with curved sword called a siccae, helmet with a crest, face plate and feathers, a parmula (circular shield), wrapped arm armor, heavy leg protection up to his thigh.

---

Siccae – or Sica, a curved schimitar sword used in combat.

---

Scissores – Fought with a curved shear weapon and dagger, close fitting helmet with small eye holes, wore wrapped linen around both arms and a metal grieve on one leg. No shield.

---

Gallus - Sword, big rectangular shield, very similar to the Murmillo

---

Fibula – A pendant worn to keep two pieces of clothing together, often imbedded with a carved or smooth carnelian stone.

---

Atrium – Open-air courtyard.

---

Roman Villa DiagramMap of Pompeii

The Beast of Verona

1

Somewhere over

Italy

,

2015

---

Howard's teeth rattled inside his mouth as the airplane bobbled through the spell of turbulence they were passing through. He was soon discovering that even his iron stomach had its own limit .

He felt like the toy inside of a Christmas present for the toddler who was becoming a little too anxious to find out what was inside. If the air didn't clear soon, the chubby businessman sitting next to Howard would see exactly what was inside

of

him

.

Howard reached up and twisted the head of the stiff nozzle for the air conditioner above his seat. Leaning back, he let the cool air flow over his forehead. Even though he showed no discomfort in his expression, anyone could tell he wasn't feeling well by the glistening sheen of sweat on

his

face

.

He never wanted to fly to Italy, but his father insisted that it would be faster than taking a cruise across the Atlantic. Howard was not naturally a nervous person, but he strongly believed that if God had intended for men to fly, they would have been born with wings or had the ability to change into

a

bird

.

At the image of a burly man like his father turning into a tiny canary, Howard let out an amused chuckle. It was a pleasant sound that rumbled in his throat.

The businessman turned to him with the least affable countenance and sneered. What's so funny? he grumbled.

Despite his squinty eyes and puckered lips as if he had smelt something rank, Howard could sense his anxiety. The man probably didn't like flying either.

Nothing, Howard replied in his husky baritone voice.

Well, the man snapped, keep your nothingness to yourself.

That suited Howard

just

fine

.

He turned his green eyes toward the open window next to him and watched the clusters of clouds shoot past as the cabin of the plane rocked a little harder. The dense clouds that passed over the wings obscured the view, but Howard didn't need to see. He didn't care. He wasn't in Italy to sightsee anyway. The only camera he brought with him was the one on his phone and he had no intention of

using

it

.

Why did he have to go to Italy anyway? What, if anything, did learning his family history have to do with being a leader today? What was he supposed to prove by learning a few facts and visiting a few museums? All he was given was a name, a place and what his ancestor was. Howard was supposed to fill in the blanks and report back to his father in Wyoming.

The intercom chimed through the cabin before the fluid voice of the head stewardess announced that they would be landing in the Verona Villafranca Airport soon. She repeated it in both English and Italian. Howard understood both. He had been preparing for this trip for a while now and could speak the language well enough to carry on a smooth conversation. He hoped that he wouldn't have to use it

too

much

.

---

Arena di Verona,

69

AD

---

Still clothed in the tattered garments of his enslavement, Decimus sat in the cell the Romans had confined him in. He could hear the roar of the crowds above his head, shouting for carnage and death. And they thought that he was the barbarian .

Despite the murky darkness that surrounded him, his hazel eyes could see everything as clear as day. He could distinguish the edges on the smooth stones of the walls and the iron bars that imprisoned him. He could easily tear them down, but then where would he be? Guards were posted along the halls and outside of the arena. There was no easy escape for him. Not one without bloodshed anyway.

The jingle of keys snagged his attention and he listened as they drew closer down the corridor. The keys were accompanied by the clanging of armor and weapons bashing together with every

marching

step

.

Soon, half a dozen guards were at the door to his cell. It was unlocked and the strong arms of trained soldiers seized him. Decimus was dragged out of the cell until he could gain his own footing. He had no desire to resist them. He had spent too much of his life fighting the Romans and he was exhausted. Perhaps not physically, but in his own soul he was tired of the bitterness that had been instilled in him from a young age. It was such hatred that had led to his imprisonment. Hatred and a lust for the flesh of his enemies that he was not able to control.

The guards led him down the twisting corridors until they came to a set of steps that ascended to a portico. Beyond the gate, he could see the sand of the arena floor and the wall opposite. Just above the edge of the stone barricade, he could see a few rows of spectators shouting and waving their arms widely in a frenzy that both puzzled and

fascinated

him

.

The guards unshackled his ankles and wrists, left him at the foot of the stairs and went to guard his only other way out. The cries of the spectators roared to a climactic high as the portico was raised, admitting Decimus into the arena.

Decimus glanced back to the guards and the swords they carried on their belts. He could risk an escape now, but at what cost? He turned back to the arena and made his way heavily up the steps, emerging into the bright sunlight of the amphitheater.

The hot sun beat down upon his broad shoulders and brow as he squinted to take in the view of the crowd. Men, women, children, politicians and slaves alike had gathered to see his execution. Did any of them know his name or where he was from? Or did the munerarius build them up to believe he was just another barbarian from the north, unworthy of recognition or respect for the little service he had done for the Roman Empire?

No, none of them cared. They wanted to see his blood cake the sand beneath his feet. He would have to

disappoint

them

.

Decimus ran a dusty hand through his thick ebony hair as he turned to take in the sight of the towering arena. The blue Verona sky above him offered no cloud to reprieve him in the heat of the summer season. Not even a gentle breeze could make its way over the high walls of the amphitheater to cool his temples.

The munerarius of the event was seated in a place of honor on the front row, surrounded by his entourage of politicians and wealthy citizens. Decimus didn't know his name or how he came to sponsor the event, but his life rested with the man that scowled down upon Decimus over his long,

pointed

nose

.

The munerarius, clad in rich garments, waved his hand as a cue to someone within the arena. Decimus spun around to see another portico on the other side of the arena rise to open the way for his executioner.

If it were even possible, the crowd grew louder as the golden pelt and tawny mane of the lion seemed to glow in the sunlight. Decimus's lips curled up into a snarl as the lion prowled toward him. Hunger gleamed in the dark eyes of the beast as its own whiskered mouth pulled back into a

threatening

roar

.

Decimus braced himself for the attack that he could feel was eminent. His muscles rippled and tightened under his tanned skin, his feet shifted into the dirt to affirm his stance, hands curled and ready to counter the beast.

The lion stalked around Decimus, knowing full well that the prisoner was a real threat. He wasn't like the others the Romans had thrown in the arena. Decimus was strong, confident and unafraid. Decimus was a predator, just as the lion was.

Perhaps

more

.

In a single tense moment, the lion charged. Fangs and sharp claws flashed at Decimus, but he was ready. Decimus's strong arms captured the lion around its neck, dodging past the lion's massive paws, and wrestled him into

the

dirt

.

The lion's hind feet kicked wildly at Decimus, slashing at his tunic and ripping it apart. Decimus extended his own claws and dug them into the lion's thick skin, drawing the first blood of the match as he pounded the beast into the ground.

Ducking his head close to the lion's mane, the raging jaws were unable to find purchase into Decimus's neck. When the frenzied jabbing of the lion's hind legs into his gut became too much, Decimus lifted the beast off the ground and threw him several feet to

the

side

.

The crowd was deafening. Decimus could distinguish cheers for both himself and for the lion. The tide was slowly turning in his favor.

The lion scrambled to its feet as slivers of red blood streaked down its back where Decimus's nails had sunk in. Glancing down at his own hands, he saw his fingers drenched in the sticky, crimson blood of his opponent. The liquid dripped from his long, razor sharp claws, plopping into the sand. A surge of satisfaction coursed

through

him

.

The lion, now angry and confused, circled Decimus once more. He was searching for a weakness and Decimus could see the thoughtful cunning in the lion's eyes as it tried to formulate a new plan of attack. He wouldn't give him the chance.

Decimus leapt at the lion with blinding speed. Claws slashed into his shoulder, but Decimus ignored the searing pain as he swung around to grapple the lion from behind. His legs straddled across the lion's back and Decimus trapped the beast's neck between his arms once more. The lion roared and reared up in an attempt to loosen Decimus's grip, but the traitor was too determined to live and wouldn't

let

go

.

Decimus's nails cut into the lion's neck, tangling in the coarse hair of the mane. He could feel his fingertips slide past the flesh and pulsing tendons as they dug deeper into the thrashing lion. Blood poured over his palms, down his arms and over the lion's torso, soaking

them

both

.

Soon, the lion became weaker and crumbled to the ground, sending out a plum of sand upon impact. Decimus followed him down, his arms squeezing out more lifeblood as the lion's legs convulsed with spasms. He could feel the euphoria of victory throb through his body, his limbs tingling with the rush of pleasure from

the

kill

.

When the lion breathed its last ragged breath, both of them lay in a pool of blood that became muddy as it mixed with the sand of the arena. Decimus could feel it coated thick upon his skin, but he

didn't

care

.

He dislodged his hands from the flesh of the lion and pushed himself up, standing strong and tall. The gash in his shoulder was no longer there, but the traces of his own blood were, mingling with that of the lion's.

The crowd was no longer cheering for the lion, but for Decimus. He turned to glare at the munerarius, whose eyes were wide in disbelief at the spectacle he’d just witnessed. Decimus was

not

done

.

He stepped over the lion and leaned down to grab the jowls of the beast he had vanquished. In one swift motion, Decimus ripped the jaws apart. Even more blood splattered around his torso as he took the lower jaw and tossed it like a disc across the arena. He could hear the shrill screams of horror from the women and the riotous shouts from the men in the crowd.

Turning to the munerarius again, he waited. He proved his worth. He defied his own execution in the style he had heard they all hungered for. Word of this blood sport had reached him all the way through to his homeland. Even then he didn't want to believe that the society that ruled the world as they knew it could find amusement in such carnage, in death, in suffering. In one dreadful morning he found it to

be

true

.

The munerarius rose from his seat and paused to listen to the will of the crowd.

They demanded life for the man who brought them such remarkable entertainment. How the mob could be turned in a matter of moments was incredible. The munerarius's chest rose and fell with the decision he had to make. According to the will of the people, the munerarius raised his hands to dismiss the criminal, granting him his life. Not necessarily his freedom.

Guards flooded onto the field with their spears trained upon Decimus. He slowly looked at the men who would dare to capture him and he could not only sense, but also see the fear so visible in their faces. He could see the horror in their eyes that roamed over his body, so soaked and caked with blood that hardly any clear skin could be seen on him. Decimus must have looked like the god of war himself in all his victorious splendor.

He did not have to be ordered back the way he came. He went freely. Swaggering toward the open gateway that led to the corridor he had been ushered through just a little while ago, he took in the sight of the arena one last time. At least, he hoped it would be

his

last

.

2

Verona

Italy

,

2015

---

Howard had seen the pictures on the Internet of the arena in Verona, but they did not do the ancient structure justice. Perhaps it was not as impressive as the colosseum, but it was far more special

to

him

.

It was a warm day in Verona and the sky above was clear, a picturesque view worthy of a postcard cover. Pedestrians hustled along the streets and he could hear the dull rumble of cars zooming through traffic, punctuated by the occasional honking of horns.

Knowing that he was standing where Decimus once stood nearly two thousand years ago was chilling. Howard was just beginning to understand the significance of his ancestry and this was only scratching the surface. He needed to go inside.

Walking up to the entrance, he saw it was closed. The sign was clearly printed in Italian, stating that the arena was closed to the public in preparation for a show that evening. A play of Romeo and Juliet. Banners advertising the event fluttered in the summer wind all around the arena. Tickets were on sale, but Howard had no interest in sitting through a play about tragic lovers. He had enough of that back in the states. He simply wanted to see the arena, stand in the center where Decimus must have fought and killed his opponents. But how to

get

in

?

Howard slipped away from the main gate and began to survey the outer wall. The building was taller than he had expected, rising more than a few stories high. Even though much of the structure had been destroyed by time and natural disasters, the amphitheater remained in amazing condition for something that was built in the first century.

He found a section of the wall that was unguarded, facing a low-traffic spot, and began to look for footholds. Howard's fingers gingerly dug into a crack between two stones and began his climb. Just a peek, that's all he needed to get the impact his father wanted. Howard was thankful he wore a comfortable pair of jeans

that

day

.

It didn't take him long to reach one of the open archways where he crept through, slinking in the shadows to avoid detection. The ancient rock crackled beneath his shoes as he made his way up the stone steps to the stadium seats and squatted there.

The earthy scent of the stone, weeds and sand in the arena overpowered the stench of the city that caged in the ancient monument on all sides. He watched as staff and stagehands were preparing the arena for the play that night. Many of them were simply lining up the folding chairs for the audience. Others were rigging up the lights that would illuminate the actors as they recited their poetical lines later. It was hard to believe that this place was the site of countless executions and deaths for hundreds of years in the height of the Roman Empire.

He was still for the longest time, unnoticed in the shadows of the tiny alcove he was crouched in. His keen eyes absorbed the setting, his senses taking in every detail and memorizing it. Howard could almost hear the roar of the mob and see the stadium filled with Roman citizens cheering like football fans would today.

It wasn't enough. He needed to know more about this place, about the people of the era and, more importantly, about Decimus. Simply coming to Verona from half way around the world to hide, and be where he had been would not satisfy his father. Howard wondered if anything would.

---

Arena di Verona,

69

AD

---

Decimus leaned his head back against the cool stone of his cell wall, arms propped on his bent knees. The darkness was suffocating, consuming. The damp air of the underground prison chilled his skin. He was alone with the exception of the guards that were always on duty. He'd learned their routines and duty shifts over the last few

agonizing

days

.

When he had been brought back to his cell after his victory in the arena, he was given a bucket of murky water and a rag to wash himself down with. It didn't take long for the water to become completely red and the cloth irrevocably stained by the blood that covered Decimus.

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

.

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. In 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. 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. 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. 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, an intimidating rumble that poured out of his throat. It was as if both he 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 toward 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 toward 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 and 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 toward 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 braced 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 landing 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 matched 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. 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 toward 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.

Thank God, the stranger exclaimed a little enthusiastically. She was surprised to find he carried no accent at all. He must have been from America. I just started learning Italian, but this is more comfortable.

Just started to learn? she questioned. "You fooled me. I thought you were Italian. You speak the language

so

well

."

The stranger shrugged. "I'm a fast learner. I'm Howard, by

the

way

."

She smiled and nodded in his direction, her glasses slipping again. Marina D'Antuono. If she had her hands free, she would have offered it

to

him

.

As they came to the front doors, Howard balanced the stack of books in one arm