Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (14 page)

Preacher looked beyond him at the nearly closed gates. “I'd not break my arm pattin' m'self on the back just yet. Them gates is gonna slow the cavalry, but they're comin' after us. You can be certain sure of that.”

* * *

At the crest of the southern pass, Preacher called another halt. He and his companions looked back. Far back among the plowed fields they observed hurried movement along the roadway. Preacher took out his telescope and extended it. Peering through it, he made out the billowing scarlet cloak and dancing plume of a centurion. Behind him, the mounted troops of New Rome were strung out in a ragged formation that more resembled men fleeing for their lives than determined hunters. He nodded, satisfied at the lead they had, created by the confusion at the gate.

“They won't be catchin' up any time soon. Well, boys, what's your pleasure now?”

Philadelphia considered that a moment. “I say we hightail it to Trout Crick and gather up as many good ol' boys as we can. Then come back here and kick us some crazy Roman butt.”

“Sounds good to me,” Buck agreed. “But, I ain't a mountain man. Will they accept me goin' along on this?”

Preacher considered him with keen eyes. “If you kin hit what you shoot at, they'll welcome you like a long-lost brother. If you kin do that and not make noise goin' through the woods, they'll give you their sisters.”

Buck turned him a straight face. “I know better than to walk on my heels. Spent some time with the Kiowa whilst I was freightin' on the Santa Fe. They taught me to walk on the edge of my foot, and I'm at home in moccasins.”

Preacher and Philadelphia nodded solemnly. “You'll do. Only first, I think we ought to confuse them fellers a little before we leave these parts, don't you?”

Broad grins answered him. They set off, making no effort to conceal their tracks.

* * *

The stratagem worked. For only a moment the legion cavalry reined in where the escapees had halted. Then they set off at a rapid trot. Totally lacking in scouting skills, they made no effort to look ahead or to the sides. They stared only a few yards in front of their horses' heads, eyes fixed on the sign of those they sought. It didn't work.

The Roman soldiers soon found themselves in a box canyon. Confused and disoriented, they milled about at the face of the high wall that denied them further progress. Centurion Drago cut his eyes from one to another of his men. He was up for
primus pilus
—first spear, or adjutant to the legate—and dared not fail in this mission. Tradition in the
Legio XIII Varras Triumphae
said that the
primus pilus
was always elevated to command of the legion upon the retirement or death of the legate. He wasn't about to throw that away.

“Find how they slipped out of here without our seeing the trail,” he commanded.

Thirty minutes later, a young cavalryman trotted up and saluted. “We have found it, sir. They crossed over the stream and used the trees to screen them.”

“Brilliant. A first-week recruit could figure that out. How many are they now?”

“Only two, sir.”

On the heels of his remark came a solid, meaty smack, followed by a brief scream and the rolling crack of a rifle shot. Before Drago and his troops could recover, the centurion heard the rapid drum of departing hooves. Right then, Centurion Drago made an uncannily accurate observation to his men.

“Jupiter blast that man. First Citizen Americus may not know it, but I think he had this mountain man, Preacher, in his hands all the time.”

* * *

Philadelphia looked up as Preacher ghosted in to the grove of aspen where he and Buck waited for the crafty mountain man. A broad grin spread when he saw the new layer of powder grime on Preacher's right hand. Preacher slid from the back of Cougar and dropped the reins. At once, the broad-chested stallion went to munching grass.

“There's one less of them.”

“How far behind us are they?” asked the always practical Philadelphia.

“I'd reckon at least half an hour. Most likely more, their horses haven't had any rest, like ourn.”

“The bad news is there is only one trail out of here, unless we want to spend our lead climbing one ridge after another. Well, back to the trail.”

Preacher led the way. Two miles down the wilderness road they found another meander that circled a steep pinnacle and went beyond, with a side-shoot that ended atop it. They rested up there, eyes fixed on the winding trail through the Ferris Range, while they munched strips of jerky and crunched kernels of parched corn. By the fat turnip watch in a pocket of Preacher's vest, forty minutes went by before the greatly subdued cavalry rode into view. At once they put away their eats and reached for rifles.

Preacher honed in on the third from the last man in the column. Philadelphia took the second; and Buck, the rear soldier. They fired almost as one. Swiftly, Preacher and Philadelphia began to reload. Below them, the trio of legionnaires jerked in their saddles and fell sideways off their horses. Shouts of dismay echoed upward to the ears of the shooters. Buck finished reloading last. Once more they took aim.

Three shots rippled along the canyon walls. Cries of alarm raised again, and Drago halted the column. A terrible mistake. It allowed the intrepid mountain men to reload and take three more from the backs of their mounts. Then Preacher was up and leading the way to their horses. Ten down, and they still had a quarter-hour lead.

* * *

Preacher led the cavalry of Legio XIII into four more blinds and successfully ambushed them, carving great gaps in the ranks. They had only settled down in another spot to pick off more, when the thunder of hooves alerted them to a danger they had not anticipated.

Fully fifty mounted troops, most foot soldiers unaccustomed to horseback, lumbered awkwardly toward their hiding place. Drago rallied his cavalry and charged with determination. No matter how well they fought, regardless of how many they killed, Preacher knew at once that they were doomed.

The Roman troops swarmed over them, took dreadful losses from the rifles, pistols and revolvers of the mountain men. Several received nasty knife wounds, and two had their skulls split by Preacher's tomahawk. At last, though, they prevailed. After suitable punishment for their prowess, the soldiers trussed them up and slung them over their saddles. Preacher, Philadelphia and Buck found themselves on their way back to Nova Roma.

* * *

Marcus Quintus Americus looked up sternly from the written report of Justis Claudius Drago. His brows knit, while anger ran rampant across his features. His words were formed carefully.

“Our laws are clear on this. Not only have you murdered twenty-seven members of our Thirteenth Legion, but you have escaped. The penalty for escape is death in the arena. My only regret is that you will not have long to regret your deeds and fear your ultimate death. My son's birthday is three days from today. There will be games, of course. You three will be the central attraction.”

14

Excitement sent an electrical charge through the missionaries of the Mobile Church in the Wildwood. During all of their lengthy captivity they had never heard of anything so hopeful. Blue eyes shining, her long, golden curls a-bounce under the fringe of her modest, white-trimmed, gray bonnet, Sister Amelia Witherspoon hastened to take the latest news to her friend, Sister Carrie Struthers.

“It's a sign from God,” Sister Amelia declared confidently. “If someone can escape from this dreadful place, then someone else can as well.”

“But you said yourself that they were men,” Carrie complained, her freckled face agitated below a wreath of auburn curls. “What can we possibly do, mere women?”

Amelia looked at her friend, blinked and answered sharply. “What can we do? We can put our foot down, that's what. Demand that the
men
in this company make some effort to effect our escape.”

“Well, I'm not so sure . . . ,” demure Carrie began, long, coppery lashes lowered over dark brown eyes.

Fists on hips, Amelia responded forcefully.
“I am sure!
The least they can do is try to get away from this insane community.”

Deacon Phineas Abercrombie bustled over, his considerable girth inflated with righteous indignation. “Here now, what is this all about?” Amelia quickly told him. It did not sit well at all. He peered disapprovingly at her down his long nose. At last he spoke his mind. “I am sure you will agree. If it is God's will that we become martyrs, then so be it. Who are we to question Him?”

Stubborn, Amelia continued to press her point. “What sort of martyrdom is it to be killed by lunatics who believe this wretched place is some rebirth of Ancient Rome?”

Abercrombie dismissed that reasoning. “That is for the Lord to decide, Sister. I am afraid I must forbid you to discuss this topic with any others of our flock. Besides, I hear that the men who escaped have been recaptured. It is really all so futile,” he concluded with a bored sigh.

Not one to be easily intimidated, Amelia Witherspoon flounced off to speak with others of their small congregation. In open defiance of the deacon, she urged them to join in making some sort of plan to effect an escape. Watching her from a distance, the deacon grew angry at the impertinent young woman. He made a casual, angled course to the bars at the front of their communal cell. There he made a covert signal to one of the guards.

A few minutes later, with Sister Amelia still urging at least resistance if not actual escape, a centurion arrived outside the iron gate to their prison. “Which one is Deacon Abercrombie?” he demanded.

“I am he,” the deacon volunteered.

With a curt gesture, the centurion sent two burly guards into the holding pen, and they roughly dragged Deacon Abercrombie out into the stone corridor. Without another word, the centurion started off with his prisoner in the firm grips of the pair of thugs.

* * *

Buck Sears looked across the dining table in the gladiator quarters at his new friends. “We're going to be taken over to the coliseum tomorrow. There are to be rehearsals for the spectacles.”

Preacher looked up, lines of concern etched in his forehead. “How do you rehearse being fed to the lions?”

“It's them Bible-thumpers, ain't it?” Philadelphia asked. “You're worried about them.”

“There's women and children among them,” Preacher explained.

“Fools for comin' out here, I say. An' to'd you just a short while ago.”

Preacher sighed. “You're right, Philadelphia. On both counts. It's only with them bein' youngins, it's all so—so uncivilized bein' a cougar's light lunch.”

“No matter. There ain't a thing we can do about it.”

“Right again. Only keep your wits about you, and if an opportunity comes to ... well, just be ready, hear?”

Philadelphia pulled on one large ear lobe. “Oh, yeah. For certain sure. I don't know what sort of weapon they might give me, but I sure would like to wet it in a little Roman blood.”

Preacher forced a laugh he did not feel. “That's the spirit. How about you, friend Buck?”

Buck shrugged. He had been giving that question considerable thought since their recapture. “I'd rather be dead than forced to fight every time they have some sort of holiday.”

Preacher rubbed dry, calloused palms together. “That's settled then. We'll look to give them a show like they've never seen before.”

Philadelphia's sour expression belied his enthusiastic words. “Beats daylight outta sittin' around wonderin' which one o' them profess'nals is gonna do us in.”

* * *

Bejeweled fingers aglitter, Marcus Quintus Americus caressed the gold wine cup he held, then set it aside as the centurion from the gladiator school entered with a portly, pompous-looking man with graying hair and the eyes of a prophet. The first citizen had dined sumptuously on roasted bison backribs, stuffed quail and an enormous fish. Recalling it made Quintus salivate. Then a flicker of annoyance shot across his face. Why could they never get the wine just right? It always tasted more like vinegar than a vintage selection. After a protracted three minutes, he raised his eyes and spoke.

“Yes, what is it?”

“He claims to have information for you, First Citizen.”

Quintus studied the prisoner in silence, sipped from his wine goblet and motioned the captive forward. “Bring him forth, then.”

Given a not-too-kindly shove, Deacon Abercrombie staggered forward. “I—I've come to you with a plot for an escape.”

Quintus threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Did you now? Would it surprise you to learn that they were captured earlier today and returned to Nova Roma?”

Although quaking internally, Deacon Abercrombie stood his ground. “No. Not in the least. I am not referring to those three men. This has to do with some of my own flock. They are talking about overpowering some of your guards and making a break for it. A young woman, Sister Amelia Witherspoon, is behind it.”

Quintus narrowed his eyes. “When is this to happen?”

“I . . . am not certain. Though I would imagine it would be when we are taken to the coliseum tomorrow.”

Considering this, Quintus jabbed a ring-encrusted finger at Abercrombie. “And why is it that you have come to me?”

Abercrombie drew himself up, an otherworldly light illuminating his face. “I have reached the conclusion that it is our destiny to be martyred. Our Lord wishes to call us home.”

Quintus despised these sanctimonious churchmen for their weakness. He could not keep the sarcasm out of his tone of voice. “How very convenient for your Lord that we have such efficient means to accomplish that. However, I am not clear as to why you slunk off to inform me of this. Hummm?”

For the first time, Abercrombie looked embarrassed. “I—I have come to the conclusion that while martyrdom might be a suitable end for many, and sacrifice for our Lord is always desirable, I—I simply feel that I have much more important work to accomplish during my time here. I have years of good works ahead of me. So, all—all I ask is that I be spared. My wife and I, that is.”

Quintus feigned surprise. The jeweled rings on his fingers sparkled and sent off spears of brightness as he moved one hand to his chest in mock distress. “What is this? Do you mean to say you want special treatment?”

“Well . . . yes—yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“Oh, you'll get special treatment, all right.” Quintus produced a wolfish smile. “You will have the privilege of fighting your way to freedom. After all, the
rudis
—the—ah—wooden sword of retirement—is a cherished custom of the games. Think of it, my dear deacon. If you manage to fight and claw your way over the bloody, broken bodies of your fellow Christians, you will be a free man, a citizen of New Rome and able to do whatever you wish.”

A low cry of anguish came from deep in Abercrombie's chest. His knees sagged, and the men who held him tightened their grip. Quintus gestured to the centurion.

“Take him back. No, take him right now to the coliseum. Put him in one of the small holding cells alone. It wouldn't do for him to have pangs of remorse and confess all to his followers.” As the guards frog-marched a stricken Abercrombie out of the dining chamber, Quintus looked across the room to his son, reclining on a dinner couch. “By the gods, how I hate such craven villains. They haven't one drop of the sap of manliness.”

Those words stung Phineas Abercrombie, although what followed utterly humiliated him. “Will he die in the arena, Father?” young Faustus asked.

“Oh, assuredly. He'll be the last to be chewed by the lions, because he will cower behind his people. And when he dies, it will not be with a roar, but rather a whimper.”

* * *

Word came by way of the slave grapevine. Preacher, Philadelphia and Buck took the news with grim expressions. Someone among the passel of Bible-thumpers had started stirring them up with escape in mind. The time for this attempt would be the next morning.

“And confound it, there's two things wrong with this. First off, what I hear is, it is a female critter who done the stirrin' up
and
the plannin'. Whatever she come up with, you can be sure it won't work. That's for starters. Now, what's it you heard those guards sayin', Buck?”

Buck, the only one of them who spoke Latin, produced an expression of contempt and disgust. “It appears as how one among the gospel group tattled on them to this-here Marcus Quintus.”

“You mean to that ol' he-coon of this whole place?” Preacher asked.

“The same. Thing is, what can we do about it? They're due to be thrown to the lions at the games two days from tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Philadelphia agreed. “That looks like the end for them.”

Preacher took over. “Simple. There's little we can do about whatever they have in mind for tomorrow. What we have to concentrate on is to defeat our opponents in the arena, force our way out of there and take these soul-savers along with us.”

Philadelphia gave him a blank face. “Oh, you make it all sound so easy, Preacher.”

* * *

Early the next morning, two small boys splashed and laughed together in the
tepidarium
of the palace private baths. Without their clothing, one could not tell that the blond, curly haired lad wore the purple-striped tunic of a patrician, while the black-haired, shoe-button-eyed kid was his body servant. Master and slave had grown up together and formed a deep bond. Young Quintus Faustus confided all his really juicy secrets to little Casca.

Loyal Casca kept his silence about these revelations. In fact, he often shared in the more entertaining of them. Today, their early morning bathing was energized by their awareness of the looming excitement of the birthday games to be held for Faustus on the last day of September. The birthday boy was beside himself. He jumped and surged in the water, splashed his whole arm, flopped like a seal off the slick tile of the edge, and dived between his only friend's legs.

Casca did the same. Then they swam the length of the lukewarm pool and climbed out with their arms around the shoulders of one another. Light danced in Casca's eyes. “Is it for sure, Faustus? Your father is going to let you be
imperator?
All by yourself?”

“Certainly. I will be eleven, you know,” he added solemnly.

“Yes. And I will be in two months.”

“You're coming to the games with me. I have just decided. You can hand me ices, feed me grapes; we'll sit under the awning and you will have a parasol to shade us both.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

Faustus put nail-bitten fingers on his servant's shoulder. “It's the least I can do, considering you can't attend the birthday feast as a guest.”

Casca produced a brief pout. “Yes. I know. And I understand. I really do.”

For a moment Faustus looked like he might cry. “You're a true friend, Casca. You're the best friend any boy could ever have.”

“You're my best friend, too, Faustus.” His eyes twinkled as he tapped a finger on his friend's wet knee. “Will you—will you sneak me a bowl of your birthday custard?”

“Of course. This time it is a new kind of custard Mother learned about. It is called ice cream.”

From an archway of a side entrance, someone cleared his throat in a deeper tone. Marcus Quintus stepped into the damp room, wearing only a towel over one shoulder. “There you are, son. I hoped I would find you here. You may go, Casca.”

“See you in the
frigidium,”
Casca called over one shoulder to Faustus. After the boy had padded barefoot toward the cold bath, Quintus sat on a bench beside his son.

“How does it feel? It's only two days away now. Are you really ready for it?”

“Yes, sir. I'm so excited. I wish it was this afternoon.”

“It will keep. I wanted to urge you to remain stalwart. When you are the honoree master of games, you must retain your poise. Avoid any excessive show of emotion. Listen to Bulbus in regard to giving death to any of the professionals. And, do not flinch at assigning death to those who deserve it. You must show the people that you have the fortitude. Remember one thing. Your performance at the games will show that you either do or do not deserve the title
Princeps Romanus.”

Prince of Rome!
How heady it sounded to Faustus. He got a faraway, glassy look in his eyes as he mentally reviewed past kills he had enjoyed in the arena. His nostrils flared and his breathing became harsh as he answered.

“Don't worry, Father. I
like
to see the blood flow.”