Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (11 page)

“We ain't enemies of no state. Not at all. An' we come here on our own. We don't spy for anyone. At least not anymore, nohow. There was a couple of times we done some scoutin' for the Dragoons. I suppose some as would call that spyin'.” Preacher put his hands behind his back and began to pace. “Like I said, there ain't any Gauls anymore, so that charge is out the window, too. Taken all in all, we'll just say we're sorry about bustin' up your watchmen here, and bid you a peaceable farewell.”

“I think not!
” The voice of Marcus Quintus cracked like a rifle shot. “My fellow judges and I will confer and render our verdict. Jailer, take them away.”

Preacher and Philadelphia found themselves in a small, windowless room with a sobbing young girl. Curiosity prompted Preacher to ask her what had brought her here and caused her distress.

“I—I'm to be branded as a runaway,” she wailed, her English rusty. “But I didn't really run off. I was caught by a terrible thunderstorm and had to stay over the night at the farm of Decius Trantor. It wasn't my fault. But the watch caught me before I could reach home and explain to my master.”

“Why, that's hardly fair,” Preacher commiserated. “What brought you here in the first place?”

“We—my family—were on our way with some others to the Northwest. Our wagons were attacked. I was—I was—they had their way with me, and then I was sold into slavery.”

“Why, them black-hearted devils. How long you been here?”

“It seems forever. At least two years. I remember my last free birthday was my fourteenth. We had a party right on the trail. There was music from a violin and a squeeze box.” She put her head in her hands and began to sob wretchedly.

Preacher cut his eyes to Philadelphia. “When we get out of this fuss, we're gonna have to do somethin' about that.”

“Yep,” Philadelphia agreed readily.
“If
we get out.”

* * *

Shortly before the noon meal, the guards came for Preacher and Philadelphia. Hustled into the trial room of the curia, they again faced Marcus Quintus and his fellow judges. Quintus looked at them sternly.

“It is the considered decision of this court that you are guilty as charged. You are to be scourged, then sold into slavery for life. Give your names to the clerk.”

Preacher gave Philadelphia a quick wink first. “M'name's Arthur. I don't rightly know what my last handle happened to be. I been out here since a boy not yet in my teens.”

Eyes suddenly aglow with interest, Quintus leaned down toward Preacher. “That's most interesting. Come now, do you also happen to answer to the name Preacher?”

Preacher hated deliberate lies. He swallowed his objection to untruthfulness and answered with a straight face. “I heard of him, of course. Why is it you ask?”

“I'm . . . most interested in this wildman Preacher. I've sent men after him, to have him fight in our arena, but none have returned.”

“With good reason, too,” Philadelphia answered sharply. “Preacher's the wildest, wooliest, ringtail he-coon in the High Lonesome. 'Less you send about a dozen or more, you'll never see hide nor hair of Preacher, other than he wants you to.”

Anger tightened the skin around the eyes of Quintus so that they became flinty points. “You'll learn manners as a slave, or you'll be dead at a young age. Tribune, have the guards take these men off to be scourged.” Quintus paused and sighed. “It is too bad you are not Preacher. What a glorious fight we would witness on the sand. See they are whipped quite soundly, but do not mark them. And notify Justinius Bulbus of these splendid fighting men we will have on the sale block.”

11

“Everything is turned topsy-turvy in this dang city,” Preacher lamented as their escort conducted them to the small square off the forum, where a raised platform filled the center.

A crowd of men pressed close to the edges, faces turned up, eyes fixed on the shapely young woman standing there beside a burly fellow with a coiled whip over one shoulder. He held a long reed pointer in one hand, and gestured grandly as he called off what he clearly saw as selling points.

“She's broad-hipped and will deliver with ease. Notice those smooth, straight shoulders, gentlemen. She can carry heavy burdens. All in all, a treasure for a bargain price. Now what am I bid?”

“Six,” a voice called from the throng.

“What? Only six
sestercii?
”

“No. Six
denarii,”
came the answer, followed by laughter.

“Surely you jest? Why, I would gladly pay ten talents for her myself.”

“Then you buy her,” the heckler taunted.

A more serious buyer bid himself in. “I bid four talents.”

Brightening, the auctioneer located his bidder. “Now, that's more like it. I have four, who'll give me five? Five-gimme-five—five-five—yes! Now six.” His chant rolled on until he had worked the sale price to eleven talents. A lot of gold for a young woman.

Her new owner claimed his prize and took her to the cashier's table to pay his fee. The auctioneer motioned for the next sale lot. A muscular, bullet-headed assistant shoved forward two small boys. Their red hair, freckled faces, and dark brown eyes marked them as brothers.

“Lot number seven. Two house servants. They are brothers, aged nine and eleven. They were taken from a wagon train one month ago, and have mastered enough Latin to show they are quick learners. They will make ideal body servants for sons of gentlemen. Now, I'm going to open the bidding at ten sestercii, take your choice.”

“They been cut?” a suspicious buyer demanded.

“No, sir. I'll guarantee that.”

Not satisfied, the skeptical one pressed on. “A good look's the best guarantee I know of.”

Sighing, the auctioneer tucked his pointer under one arm and reached for the white loincloths the boys wore as their only item of clothing. He gave hard yanks, which exposed them to all eyes, and humiliated the lads to their cores. Blushing all over, they stood with heads hung, tears running down their cheeks. “As I said, they have not been gelded.”

“Why, that egg-suckin' dog,” Preacher growled. “I'll fix him good when I get up there.”

Philadelphia nodded to the javelin-wielding guards at the side of the platform. “More likely those bully boys would pin you with their pig stickers while that feller used his whip on you, Preacher.”

Not one to waste breath on “if only,” Preacher sighed heavily and accepted the inevitable. “It sure ain't the High Lonesome anymore. This sort of thing is downright shameful.”

“Then maybe we oughta be thinkin' about takin' our leave,” Philadelphia muttered silently.

“Now your talkin', Philadelphia. We'll both work on that, keep our eyes open. First chance, we be gone.”

“Count on it.”

Their turn came sooner than either mountain man had expected. Not surprisingly, a burly man with a face mean enough to stop the charge of a bull bison purchased them. “You'll make fine additions to my gladiator school,” he told them as armed and armored men hustled Preacher and Philadelphia away.

* * *

Hoisting a gold-rimmed cup, Marcus Quintus called across the expanse of table to his principal guest, Gaius Septimus. “The two barbarians who were captured night before last will make excellent additions to the birthday games for Quintus Faustus, will they not?”

Septimus curled his lower lip in a deprecating sneer. “That sort of man is entirely too independent to make a good slave, let alone a gladiator. Do you not agree, Justinius?”

Bulbus, the third guest, glanced up from his intense study of a lovely young dancing woman. “Quite to the contrary, Septimus. They are quick and strong, and used to fighting for their lives. Once their spirit is—ah—molded to my liking, they become marvelous in the arena. Some are absolutely fearless.”

“Yes, like Preacher, who I fear is still on the loose,” Quintus snapped.

“Will I get to watch your new slaves die?” Faustus, at the fourth table, asked.

The two senators who had been invited hid their reaction to the boy's rudeness behind pudgy hands. Bulbus glanced idly at the youngster, who had been included at this all-male dinner party by his doting father. There was something . . . not at all right about the child, Bulbus thought, not for the first time. His reaction to the games was—odd. Were he a couple of years older, Bulbus considered, it might be ascribed to the erotic fires of puberty. For all his suspicions, he answered cordially enough. After all, the youth was the son and heir of the First Citizen.

“No, young Faustus. They show much too much promise to be dispatched so soon. Unless, of course, someone lands an unfortunate blow.”

“Why is that?” Faustus asked, genuinely interested.

“Keeping a crippled gladiator is like having a pet elephant. The cost of feeding him is ruinous.” Bulbus laughed at his own joke. “But, you are quite right, Marcus Quintus, these last two specimens are in superb condition. I will intensify their training so that they can appear at your son's birthday games.”

Flattered by this, Quintus ignored the admonition of Bulbus about sparing them for future games. “Wonderful. It will surely be marvelous. They will die magnificently,” he burbled on, his eyes fixed on some unseen distance.

* * *

In a numbing cadence, the bored voice of the drill master barked out the commands. “Strike left . . . strike right . . . strike left . . . strike right.”

Another chanted to his victim of the moment, “Shield up! Parry! Strike target! Parry, dammit!

“Duck! Duck, you idiot!” quickly followed as the heavy wooden ball on the opposite arm of the practice frame swung around and clobbered the hapless former immigrant. His dreams of the Northwest had long been abandoned in the rigors of the gladiator school. He looked up pitifully as Preacher and another gladiator stomped by, trading sword blows with weighted wooden weapons. The metronomic throb of the drumbeat used to mark movements accelerated to a rapid roll and ceased.

At once, the student gladiators ceased and headed for the large fountain in the center of the training yard. Dripping with sweat, they plunged bare torsos in to the waist. Preacher found himself a place beside Philadelphia.

“To carry off that escape we talked about,” he observed to Braddock, “we must first get out of this dang-blasted gladiator school. An' I don't allow as how I've figgered out a way to do that as yet, what with them big dogs.”

“We'd best find it soon. We've been here the better part of a week now. I've got bruises where I didn't know a man could get them.”

Standing to Philadelphia's right, Buck Sears listened with interest. Here was a pair who sounded like they still had some grit left. A quick check over his shoulder showed Buck that the trainers were occupied elsewhere. He decided to take a chance.

“Don't worry about that. I have it all figured out. And, believe me, it's the only way you can get out of the school.” He paused to check on their overseers. “If you promise to take me along, I'll show you how.”

Philadelphia gave him a gimlet eye. “Got it all figured out, huh?”

“Yep.” A smug smile brightened by sudden relief bloomed on the face of the teamster. “I'll tell you all about it at the baths after tomorrow's training session.”

“Mighty decent of you, Buck,” Preacher said agreeably. “We'll be obliged for the help. An', sure, you can go along.”

“That's a relief. I can't stand it in here much longer.”

Preacher nodded and smiled back. “None of us can, son. Not a one.”

* * *

Due to his lifestyle, Arthur proved to be a magnificent standout at gladiator training. In early afternoon the next day, a bemused Justinius Bulbus stood in his private box watching the ripple of muscles in the arms and shoulders of the big mountain man. He could not believe his good fortune. Bulbus had his doubts that the legendary barbarian, Preacher, who so preoccupied the thoughts of Marcus Quintus, could be much better.

Whatever the case, the master of games intended to match this one against Preacher when, or if, the famous denizen of the mountains was captured. Bulbus' shaggy eyebrows rose as he watched the big one batter down another of his trained gladiators. He raised an arm to halt the man scheduled to next face the powerful barbarian.

“Crassis, you take him,” he instructed one of the trainers.

With a big grin born of overconfidence, the heavily muscled Crassis came forward; his small shield, strapped to his forearm, was held up to protect his chest; his blunt sword was poised. Bounding like a panther, Preacher surged out to meet him. He struck the wooden shield with such force, it split down the middle and broke the forearm behind it.

An expression of surprise flashed on the face of Crassis, but was quickly replaced by a grimace of pain. Preacher swung again and caught Crassis against the side of his head with the flat of the blade. Rubber-legged, Crassis stumbled away to drape himself over the lattice of iron strips that formed the training ring. A ragged cheer went up from among the captive would-be gladiators. Preacher looked around for another opponent.

Bulbus quickly provided one. A bigger trainer, one who taught the net and trident, came forward. “Julian, bag him with your net and teach this upstart a lesson,” Marcus Quintus called from the cushioned chair upon which he sat, beside his wife, Titiana Pulcra.

They had arrived unannounced and put the school into a tizzy, not the least Bulbus, who wanted always to put on the best of shows for his benefactor and patron. He had hastily devised this test of strength for the enormously powerful mountain man. It now seemed to have turned out ill-advised. Even his trainers could not best the agile, resilient man. Bulbus cut his eyes anxiously from husband to wife.

At least Pulcra appeared to be enjoying the exhibition. She squirmed in her seat with each excellent blow by the mountain man. Now, while Bulbus covertly studied her, she crossed her legs and began to swing one nicely turned ankle. A sure sign a woman had a naughty itch to soothe, Bulbus thought lasciviously.

“I'll have you down to size in no time,” Julian taunted. “Then I'll prick your hide to give you a good lesson.”

Julian feinted to the right, dodged back to the left, spun a full circle on his heel to gain momentum, then whipped out his weighted net. Preacher ducked, picked up the edge of the fan-shaped snare and did a wrist roll that collapsed it into a long, folded filament. This he quickly climbed, mock sword in his teeth. When he reached the forearm of Julian, he let go with one hand and dosed his fist around the hilt.

A swift swat to the temple and Julian went down, a stone dropped into a fathomless pool. And with hardly more than a ripple. Preacher came to his moccasined feet and turned toward the box. A steady flow of sweat blurred his vision and stung his eyes. It kept him from clearly seeing the occupants, though he rightly guessed one to be Bulbus and another Quintus.

Exasperated, Bulbus clapped his palms together. “I'll have an end to this at once! Two of you, have a go at him at the same time.”

A pair from the training staff came forth. One wore a
caestus,
its usually sharp bronze talons blunted with India gum. The other bore a curved Persian sword. Preacher greeted them with a nasty grin.

Above him, Pulcra veritably writhed in her chair, her leg swinging ever faster, small beads of perspiration breaking out on her upper lip. Fascinated by this enthralling demonstration by the mountain barbarian, Marcus had eyes only for what went on in the arena.

Preacher went for the swordsman first, after a glance at the blurred figures in the box. He came in low, leading with his sword. The tactic thoroughly distracted his opponent, who raised his weapon to parry the blade with enough force to knock it from Preacher's hand and do a quick reverse that would have, had his own been sharp, disemboweled the hapless antagonist who so insulted their abilities. Only it did not work that way.

At the last second, Preacher let the tip of his sword drop, so that the edge of the other one slipped across the flat without making contact. Startled, the trainer stumbled off balance while Preacher drove straight in. He rammed the point of his weapon into the helpless man's gut. It drove the air from his lungs in a gush.

Preacher wasted no time on finishing him, and then spun to confront his second threat. The armored fist lashed out at him and forced the mountain man to duck. Even with the sticky gum on the four triangular blades, they could inflict a terrible injury. Preacher avoided the
caestus
and hacked at the trainer's belly. Far quicker than the man with the sword, the trainer dodged the blow and tried to backhand Preacher in the head.

In a flash, Preacher went down at his knees and extended one leg. With a powerful push-off from one hand, he spun on his heel and swept the feet from under his opponent. A startled yelp came from twisted lips as the burly brawler left the ground and painfully landed on his rear. Preacher jumped to his moccasin soles and towered over the dazed man. He reversed his hold on the practice sword and rapped the trainer soundly at the base of his skull.

Preacher stepped back and let him fall. Then he placed one foot on the unconscious man's chest. Slowly he raised his eyes to the box.

“Blast and damn! Enough. You are through for the day, Arthur,” Bulbus bellowed angrily. “You have won more than you have lost, so you get early baths, along with the other winners. Now, get out of here.”