The guards could hear her crying for help, though no one came to her aid. At some point that night, she escaped into the courtyard and transformed into her white dragon. But Caesar was right behind her. He shifted into his own giant red dragon and bit her wing, injuring her so that she couldn’t fly. In half-skin, he chained her to the ground outside his palace under constant guard. He waited for her to transform back into the pretty young woman that she’d been. But she never has.
Now, she lives in the pit that he had dug for her. The royal sister of Caesar lived in a hole in the earth, and everyone knows that she won’t ever transform into her female human form again. Not while he lives.
Caesar believed that was his punishment for entering the Temple of Vesta. That is why he lowers himself at least once a year to come down from his palace atop the hill and sacrifice an animal to the goddess Vesta. Perhaps he believes that Vesta will somehow convince Camilla to transform back into a woman. But everyone knows she’d rather live and die a chained beast in the ground than live as a woman beneath his brutal hand.
The bellowing of a bull rose up as three men maneuvered the beast through the crowd on the other side. People parted to get out of the way as the white bull was led before the temple and to the altar.
The altar was little more than a flat platform and a well around the edges to catch the sacrificial blood. Four lanterns of incense billowed scented smoke from each corner of the altar. The bull bellowed again as his three leaders guided him onto the stone platform, then two stepped away while one held him.
The one left looked over at Caesar, who stood in a long red toga near the entrance of the temple. Behind him, on the interior of the shadowed archways, stood a row of vestal virgin priestesses. They were singing a low, solemn song.
It reminded me of the tune I heard Lela singing in Diana’s templethe night I met her. But none could compare to the haunting beauty of Lela’s voice.
Their melody carried across the now quiet square. The soothsayer—a grizzled man with a long white beard wearing a black robe, the color of his house—ambled forward, carrying a short sword balanced across both of his outstretched hands. He stopped at the altar, turning to face Caesar.
A hush fell over the murmuring throng, for everyone knew what was coming. I’d seen this display before myself, and yet I also held my breath in anticipation.
Caesar removed his toga and held it out to a slave at his right, then he tilted his face toward the sky. The cracking of bones shifting and realigning, and the familiar sizzle of magic in the air, accompanied his transformation into half-skin.
In moments, he was a gargantuan beast. Red-scaled, four horns jutting from his skull, thick tail lashing, he stood approximately sixteen feet tall in his muscular half-dragon form. I’d seen hundreds of Romans in their own half-skin on the battlefields, but there was something terrible and menacing about this creature. There was no doubt this fearsome Roman stalking across the open plaza toward the altar and the waiting sacrifice was a true killer.
Caesar didn’t need the sword that the soothsayer held out to him but he used it anyway. Gripping the hilt, he strode two more steps toward the bull, who snuffed the air nervously. The slave holding his reins stepped back while Caesar gripped the beast by a horn and sliced deep across its throat.
With a gurgling bellow, the bull’s eyes rolled to the heavens, then he fell heavily onto the altar platform. Caesar’s growl vibrated in the air, raising chills along my skin. I heard a woman whimper behind me. He was terrifying in this form.
Tail lashing, he remained still as the soothsayer hobbled forwardand removed the short sword from his hand. Mumbling some incantations we couldn’t hear, the soothsayer cut open the bull’s chest and stomach, spilling his entrails. Though he didn’t transform into half-skin, he used his dragon strength to hack through thick flesh and bone until he dropped the sword with a clang on the stone and pulled the bull’s heart from his chest.
With ceremonial steps, he circled Caesar once, twice, and on the third time, he stopped in front of him, holding out the heart. Caesar took it with both hands and bit into the organ still dripping the bull’s blood. His growl of pleasure filled the quiet.
The soothsayer took the heart from him while Caesar held his arms out. The priest dragged the heart along his arms and across his chest, still murmuring prayers. He then turned toward the altar, lifted the heart above him, and placed it back beside the beast, whose blood was filling the well around the stone slab.
Caesar closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the sky while the soothsayer continued to murmur prayers, his own eyes closed, palms out as he prayed to Vesta for blessings. It was blasphemy, to think that the goddess would forgive him for all he’d done, particularly to his own sister, one of her priestesses.
The soothsayer’s voice rose to a climactic finish, then he went suddenly quiet, dropping his chin to his chest. Even the priestesses were silent now, no longer singing. He knelt at the altar and dragged his finger through the blood on the stone, divining some signs from the gods.
After what seemed like forever, he stood before Caesar, palms together.
“The goddess requires no killing of kings by the hand of Caesar until Lupercalia has ended.”
Caesar chuffed, his dragon not liking the decree, but he nodded and marched back toward the temple entrance, transforming backinto the man as he did. There was a gasp of awe from some in the crowd, seeing the transformation. Plebeians didn’t see the transformation take place often, if ever, since it was only ever done on the battlefield or behind closed doors of patricians’ homes inside the city.
The crowd continued to adore their emperor’s might. I watched him speak to Drussus, who stood in the shadows away from the temple entrance near some of his own men. I recognized two centurions, brothers of the Amethystus House who’d been military tribunes in Drussus’s army since the days we’d battled together in Carthage.
While Caesar dressed, still speaking to Drussus, I backed my way out of the throng. Taking a street that paralleled the forum, I made my way along the narrower alley that came out closer to the senate house.
As I arrived, I noticed my grandfather walking alongside Appius from the direction of the crowds still corralled around the Temple of Vesta. I met them near the giant black marble statue of Mars, the god of war—his sword raised high, wings spread wide, horns curling back, tail lashing the air.
I glanced around but there were very few in the forum; the closest merchant was a potter setting up his wares too far away to hear us.
“Did you see Caesar making his annual sacrifice?” I asked, unable to hide my sneer of distaste.
Grandfather nodded. “I did.”
“When is the triumph for Drussus?” I asked, knowing this would be a good time to meet, when all of the patricians’ eyes were elsewhere.
“Tomorrow. Kato and I were informed this morning.”
“That German barbarian will keep his head longer than most kings,” said Appius on a laugh.
