Preacher and the Mountain Caesar

by William W. Johnstone

  A bit of rust flaked off, nothing more. “You two, get in place to the sides. Each take a-holt of one of these and pull when I do,” he instructed.

  This time a faint groan could be heard above the rush of the water. The muscles in Preacher’s bare shoulders bunched as he exerted even greater effort. Philadelphia braced himself and heaved again. Opposite him, Buck planted his feet against a smooth rock and strained against the resistance of the worn iron bars.

  At first, nothing happened. Then a mighty shriek came from the grommets into which the rods had been fitted. Small chunks of stone and mortar rained down on the heads of the escapees, and the first bar popped free. Philadelphia flopped backward in the water.

  “Consarn it,” he yelped.

  Preacher eased it into the hands of his friend and turned to put his full force on the iron rod in Buck’s grasp. Together, they tore it loose with seeming ease. A gathering of driftwood floated through the opening in a lazy spin. Preacher studied the situation.

  “Another one.”

  Facetiously, Philadelphia added, “Make it two more an’ we can drive a wagon through there.”

  “All right,” Preacher agreed readily. “Two it is. Your side seems weaker. We’ll take those next in line.”

  “Awh, Preacher, one’ll do,” Philadelphia retracted his attempt at sarcasm.

  Fate turned a jaundiced eye on the fleeing men. The next barrier held stubbornly in place, refusing to pop out of its header or footing. Buck and Philadelphia lined up on one side, Preacher on the other. He anchored himself on the neighboring bar and surged with his legs. In the back of his mind—as in those of the others—he held the thought that the alarm could be given, at any moment, of their being missing.

  It added the necessary extra energy. With a grinding, cracking sound, the upright came free. They let it fall where it would. Quickly they waded through and up on the sloping bank of the river. Panting, Philadelphia wiped himself partly dry and put on his tunic. Preacher and Buck followed suit.

  “I wish I had a wax tablet,” Buck announced. At the look of curiosity from Preacher, he explained. “Anyone with a tablet of some kind is accepted as being at something official, and he’s ignored. At least, that’s the way I’ve seen it around here, and before in big cities, like St. Louie.”

  Preacher grinned and clapped him on one shoulder. “By jing, if you ain’t got the right of it, Buck. Maybe we can—ah—borrow one somewhere on the way. Now, show us the way back to the school and that storehouse you talked about.”

  * * *

  Buck cut directly across the burgeoning city of New Rome. He walked with the stride and head-up posture of an important slave. Preacher and Philadelphia followed suit. Few cast them a glance. At a market stall, Preacher paused. While Philadelphia distracted the owner with talk about onions and turnips, Preacher filched a wax tablet from a ledge inside the display of vegetables. They quickly caught up with Buck, and Preacher handed it to him.

  “There you go,” Preacher told him jokingly. “Now you can be as important as you’ve a mind to.”

  Amazement glowed on Buck’s face. “Where’d this . . . ?”

  “No, don’t ask.”

  “Thank you, Preacher, but stay close from now on.”

  On the far side of the forum, well away from the Via Iulius, the street took on a twisty course around the base of the Hill of Mars. Buck slowed and gestured the others close for a quick word.

  “If the alarm has been given, we’d best try to make for the outside.”

  “And if it hasn’t?” Preacher prompted.

  “Then we get what we need and head for the high country.”

  * * *

  Shut away in her private wing of the nearly completed palace, Titiana Pulcra lay sprawled on her downy bed. Her heart still fluttered from the intensity of her magnificent encounter with Arthur. Her body glowed. She hadn’t felt this good in a long time. What advantage was the life of the rich and powerful if one’s appetites could not be fully indulged at will? That thought brought her mind to the disturbing topic of her son’s recent conduct.

  She supposed all small boys took pleasure from tormenting insects and small animals. Her own brothers, in another life, another world, had often gleefully tormented cats. That violent aspect of the conduct of Quintus Faustus did not unsettle her, although being on the cusp of eleven seemed awfully old for such behavior. No, it was something else.

  Since that time three weeks past, she had paid careful attention to his conduct at the games. Reflection on the hour just past made all too vivid images of how he had responded to the nearly naked bodies and violent deaths of those who lost on the sand. In her memory, his gasps and quiet moans had sounded utterly too much like her own strident ones in the strong arms of Arthur. She stifled a thrill of horror. Surely Faustus could not be so—so twisted. She forced a change of subject.

  Would she enjoy Arthur’s presence soon again? Could she possibly risk it? Her husband was entirely too dense to ever suspect her. This wasn’t the first time that a handsome gladiator slave had aroused her beyond caution. Pulcra was practical-minded enough to realize it would not be the last. Silently she offered a petition to the gods that Arthur prove a really good gladiator and last a long, long time. An anxious, if servile, scratching at the doorpost diverted her.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  A clearly agitated slave entered, his forehead and upper lip bedewed with oily fear sweat. He advanced awkwardly. “A message for your husband, my lady.”

  “He is occupied elsewhere.”

  “May I ask where?”

  “You may not. He is not to be disturbed.” At least not until she had bathed. “You may give it to me.”

  “It’s a matter of state, my lady.”

  Temper, mingled with sudden guilt, flared. “Dammit, must you be so obstinate? Give me the message.”

  Trembling now in fear of the arena, the slave stutteringly complied. “Three of the slave gladiators are missing, my lady.”

  Alarm stabbed at Pulcra. “Really? Their names?”

  “Philadelphias, Baccus, and the champion of the day, Arturus.”

  Oh, God, Pulcra thought in pain. I am alone. Utterly alone. Duty demanded she rally herself. She girded her frazzled nerves. “Have the games master organize a search. I assume he has already conducted a roll call?”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  “Good. He’s not the lack-wit I suspected him of being. Tell Bulbus to have the city searched first, top to bottom. Then the surrounding fields. They are not to be allowed to get away. More lives than theirs depend upon it.”

  She cast a quick glance into a mirror, evaluated her posture while reclining on her bed. Her pride swelled as she saw the steel she had in her when she needed it.

  13

  Ahead lay the entrance to the home of Justinius Bulbus. Two professional gladiators stood outside in light armor, with a pilum at the ready. Behind them, along the Via Iulius, Preacher, Philadelphia, and Buck heard the sounds of a search being organized. That told them they had been found out. They had to move fast. Preacher came up with a rudimentary plan.

  “Wait here. I’ll go up and get the attention of those two.”

  “How do you figger to do that?” Philadelphia inquired.

  “By telling them what they expect to hear.” With that he set off.

  Preacher approached the two sentries with a blank, slave expression plastered on his face. “I have a message for your master,” he announced.

  “He is out.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the city. You need know nothing more.”

  “Yes, I do. Look, I have it right here. Do either of you read?” Preacher bent low, groping in a fold of his tunic.

  Automatically the two guards leaned with him. When Preacher had them where he wanted them, he balled both fists and slammed them hard at that sensitive point under the jaw. Both men went down in a clash and clatter of bronze. Philadelphia and Buck came on the run.
/>   “Quick, put on their gear and take their places.”

  Preacher went in like a wraith. He slid silently past the steward’s office and followed Buck’s directions down a long hall to a tall, thick, double door. An iron ring served as an opener. Preacher yanked on it, and it swung on well-oiled hinges. He went through and pulled the door to behind him. He found himself in a roofless courtyard. From one side he heard stable noises, and his nose identified it at the same time. Hugging the slim concealment afforded by the balcony overhang, he skirted the wall that enclosed the yard from the house. A two-piece door yielded easily.

  Inside, he located Cougar and Philadelphia’s mount, and the pack animal. He picked one for Buck, saddled all, and led them from the stalls. Outside, he took the animals at an angle across a tiled area where a fountain splashed musically. He ground reined them while he opened the portal that should lead to a treasure trove of belongings and weapons.

  Buck’s description proved to be right on the money. Preacher quickly found his .44 Walker Colts and Hawken rifle. Philadelphia’s weapons came next. Dressed in buckskins again, Preacher fastened his wide, leather belt around his trim waist. He stuffed his knife and war hawk behind it, adjusted their position and added two .60 caliber pistols, then covered it all with his slave tunic.

  Padding softly along the line of firearms, he selected a serviceable rifle and four pistols for Buck. Then he set about loading all. He doubled up on powder horns, boxes of percussion caps and conical bullets. He added sacks of parched corn, a big bag of jerky, another of coffee beans, flour, and a final of cornmeal. Salt and sugar concluded his shopping list.

  Outside again, he packed away all his booty and started for what had to be the gateway that led outside. Its latch gave with a mild squeak; then the hinges squealed with noticeable protest. Preacher winced. At once, a wizened little clerk appeared through the doorway to the steward’s office, a scroll clutched in one hand. His eyes widened and showed a lot of white when he saw the man in slave’s clothing with four horses.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded in Latin. Preacher looked blank, and the clerk gestured toward the horses, changing to English. “What are you doing here with those animals?”

  “Oh, I come to get them for the—ah—master of games,” Preacher bent the truth slightly.

  Emboldened by his freeman status and accustomed to having slaves cringe before him, the bean counter took two steps forward. “Not with all those weapons. You’re—you’re trying to escape, that’s what you are doing.”

  Preacher gave him an expression of genuine regret. “Now you had to go and say too much for your own good, didn’t you?”

  Lightning fast, Preacher closed the remaining distance between them. His arm shot out, and he grabbed the surprised clerk by the throat. He throttled the frail little man into unconsciousness, then turned to leave.

  “Not so fast,” came a more authoritative voice behind the broad back of Preacher.

  Preacher turned to find a man in the by-now familiar uniform of a centurion. He had his sword half drawn and advanced with a menacing tread. Preacher reached under his tunic and drew his Green River knife, with a blade almost as large as that of the gladius in the hand of the centurion.

  “Well, shucks,” Preacher said through gritted teeth.

  No doubt, the Roman soldier had been well trained. He completed his draw and held the leaf-bladed short sword competently as he brushed past the sparkling fountain in the middle of the courtyard. His only weakness came from the fact he had rarely fought against another armed man, particularly one so well versed in the various means of killing his fellow creature.

  With a soft, grunted challenge, the centurion launched his attack. Preacher parried the thrust easily enough and slid the keen edge of his Green River along the muscular forearm of the soldier. It laid open the back of his hand and the meaty portion at the elbow. The young officer cursed and jumped back. Preacher just jumped back. They squared off to face one another.

  “You still have time to look the other way, Sonny,” Preacher suggested.

  “It’s my duty to protect the home of my employer,” he rejected Preacher’s offer.

  A little job on the side, eh? Preacher thought. They circled while Preacher evaluated what he knew of this man so far. At last he worked out something. “You cain’t have been borned here, your English is too good. When were you captured?”

  Strange emotions surged across the broad face of the centurion. “About—about six years ago. At least I think so. What is it to you?”

  Preacher favored him with a comradely smile. “Then you ain’t one of them Roman lunatics. Think of your past, man. Think of getting back there?”

  Loyalties warred on the face of the wanderer, who’d had his life turned upside down some six years ago. He had once had a wife and three children. Where were they now? Yet, he had won recognition and been rewarded by his captors, many of whom became his friends, or he now commanded. What was life supposed to be for him? Maybe he should ask which life? Past and present swirled in his mind, merged, and forged out his decision. With a shout, he launched himself at Preacher.

  “Wrong choice, friend,” Preacher told him sadly.

  Nimbly, Preacher stepped outside the arc of the gladius in the centurion’s hand. The tip of his own knife found the gap between the breast and the back plates of the officer’s cuirass; the wide, sharp-edged metal quickly followed. Preacher wrenched sideways, twisted the blade, and freed it. Slack-legged, his opponent gasped out his final sigh and fell dead. Off to his left, Preacher heard the hurried scurry of sandaled feet. More trouble from that direction.

  He turned to see a quickly retreating back. Time to hurry. He cleaned his knife and replaced it, then went to the horses. Swiftly he led them out of the compound and toward the front door to the residence of Bulbus. His two friends saw him coming and instantly abandoned their pretense of being guards. Philadelphia Braddock swung into his saddle with practiced ease. Grinning, he patted the stock of his favorite rifle.

  “I see you found old Betsy. Now, we’d best take our leave of this place.”

  Jokingly, Preacher made himself appear in a casual mood. “What’s your hurry, Philadelphia?”

  Braddock frowned. “One of the servants of that Bublus feller come squawlin’ out the door, didn’t look left nor right, just runned off down the street like ol’ Nick hisself was after him. I reckoned you had a part in that, an’ also that our escape is no longer a secret.”

  Laughing, Preacher patted Cougar on the neck. “Right you are. We’d best go while we still have a chance.”

  Buck nodded and started them along the Via Iulius.

  * * *

  It was utterly reprehensible, Deacon Phineas Abercrombie thought to himself for what must have been the hundredth time. It was so degrading, so demoralizing, to be herded together like this in a single, large cell. Not a hope of a moment’s privacy. Men and women, whole families thrust cheek and jowl against one another. And that foul-smelling trench at the narrow end of the holding pen as their only place to relieve themselves. With not a curtain or blanket to conceal the most private of personal acts.

  Voiding themselves right out in the open, like animals! Unspeakable. He could find no other word for it. He had complained at every opportunity. Only to be laughed at and told to turn his back if he did not wish to observe. It smelled so foul in here, so fetid, and dank. It had come to the point where he could no longer eat. Even if he tried, it came back up. Would they ever see the light of day again, or the light of freedom?

  Somehow he doubted they would experience either. Sighing, he turned to hear the appeal of young Mrs. Yardley. “Deacon, my boy, Johnny, he’s got himself a case of the runs. Real bad. Says his belly aches somethin’ fierce, and it is sore to the touch.”

  Deacon Abercrombie followed the woman to where a small boy of eight lay on filthy straw near the center of the herd of missionaries. The child whimpered when Abercrombie knelt beside him and lifted up his tat
tered shirt. At least no unusual swelling, the untrained man diagnosed. That could bode even worse if cholera got loose among them. Well, he would have to tell the Yardley woman something.

  “I’m afraid you are right, Sister Yardley. See that he gets all the fluids you can find for him. Keep him covered, and all we can do beyond that is pray.”

  For a moment, anger flared hot and red in the eyes of Mrs. Yardley. “We’ve been praying, Deacon. All of us, day and night. As yet, it appears the Lord has not seen fit to hear us.”

  Abercrombie’s eyes widened. He raised an admonitory, pudgy hand. “Careful, Sister, lest you stray into blasphemy. I will tell the others, and we will join in group prayer for your boy.”

  Chastened, Mrs. Yardley lowered her chin and spoke meekly. “Thank you, Deacon. Thank everyone for me. I’ll try to find Johnny some water.”

  * * *

  Pursuit began at the edge of the Forum of Augustus. Shouts came from the vigilii posted there, and they set off on foot after the mounted fugitives, leather straps slapping their scarlet kilts. People along the way, most in the grubby garb of “common citizens,” pointed accusing fingers to direct the watchmen.

  At least one thing served as an advantage to the fleeing men. All of those forced to accept life in New Rome had long ago learned that the clatter of horses’ hooves in the city streets signaled to get out of the way. As in its historical counterpart, Marcus Quintus had found it necessary to erect vertical stone plinths across the avenues to slow the speed of young rakes in their chariots. That forced the horsemen to zig and zag, yet kept them well ahead of the policemen. Slowly, they even gained some. Then the main body of searchers joined the chase.

  They came at right angles to the vigilii, effectively forcing Preacher and his companions to swerve onto another street that did not lead directly to a gate that gave access to the outside. Several of the newcomers rode horseback, and they pushed on ahead of the yelling men behind them. The gap began to narrow. That’s when Preacher noted some of the details of the construction that went on all around.

  A block ahead, a tall engineer’s scaffold had been erected. It consisted of a beam that pivoted from a central point. Equipped with a counterweight, it allowed large blocks of stone to be lifted by ropes and lowered into place by means of pulleys. The mechanism was operated by a horizontal capstan, manned by sweating slaves. At present, Preacher noted, a huge, rectangular slab of marble hung suspended over the street. More slaves pulled frantically on ropes to swing the walking beam. Without hesitation, Preacher rode in among those around the capstan, their pursuers almost at the heels of his horse. Their mounts filled the center of the street.