“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.”
* * *
Early the next morning, the guards roused the professional gladiators first, and they trooped through a wooden door to the tunnel that connected the school with the coliseum. They would have their breakfast there and spend the morning hours braiding up their hair and oiling their muscular bodies. This was done to prevent a handful of hair from being used against them, and to keep lesser fighters from holding on to them in a bear hug. Too much time and money had been spent on them to allow their defeat by an amateur.
Next, the lesser-trained gladiators were escorted by guards through the underground passage to identical, dank stone cells in the bowels of the large stadium. Preacher judged that an hour passed before the burly, well-armed warders came for him and his companions. As condemned men, they were kept separately from all other participants.
They had only reached the far end of the tunnel when the condemned missionaries got rousted out of their holding pen and directed into the tunnel. Angry shouts rose as Preacher, Philadelphia and Buck were roughly shoved into a cell. The sounds of a struggle came to their ears after the clang of the closing iron-slat door. It appeared the guards had been prepared for this resistance. The hollow, north wind whistle and the crack of whips followed immediately, along with the cries of pain from those who received the lash. Meaty sounds of cudgels on backs and shoulders told Preacher and his friends of the swift end of the brief resistance. So much for their big escape.
Preacher spoke quietly to his companions. “At least some of them Bible-thumpers have got some sand. Maybe we can make use of that when we get out there.”
Philadelphia did not agree. “More likely, they got what little spunk they had whupped out of them. Them laddies wield a mean whip,” he added, as he remembered the scourging they had received after their recapture.
“With or without them, we’re goin’ over those walls and out of this place,” Preacher declared hotly. “When they come back from practicin’ that thing they’re supposed to do before the lions, I intend to talk to a few of ’em.”
Preacher had his opportunity shortly before the noon hour. The captives were driven back inside the lower levels of the arena and given a chance to slake their thirst. All of the regular gladiators had been released from their cells to be equipped for the practice fights. Preacher had been decked out in the flanged, peaked helmet, net and trident of a riatarius. For a while he strutted around the common room, in imitation of the professionals, until the wary guards grew lax. Then he sidled over to the bars of the cage that held the missionaries.
Quickly he outlined his intention to make an escape and reviewed the plans with several of the younger men. He concluded with a logical suggestion. “The more of us that makes the try, the better chance we have of getting away.”
A middle-aged Bible-thumper stepped close. “It sounds like you have given this considerable thought. Only, we cannot be a part of it. We’re nonviolent. Surely, the government has learned of this dreadful place. They will put a stop to it.”
Preacher studied the man like he would a strange insect that had just crawled out of his shirt sleeve. “No man ever got free by whinin’ about it until the government gave him freedom as a handout. Government don’t give people freedom, they take it from them.”
“You don’t mean that. Our government—”
“Ain’t no different in that respect from any other. That’s why I spent most of my life out here.”
With a self-righteous sniff, the pilgrim announ
ced, “Our trust is with the Lord.”
Preacher cocked his head to one side, a twinkle in his eyes. “Might be you need to look a little further into that Bible you’re so fond of quotin’. Seems it’s writ in there somewhere that the Lord helps them what helps themselves.”
Without another word, Preacher turned on one heel of his fighting sandals and walked away. From a short distance off, Sister Amelia Witherspoon looked after him with a longing that was not the least bit sexual. She had been wondering about the whereabouts of Deacon Abercrombie when he had begun to talk with the men. What he said made her completely forget the deacon. She hungered for a man of courage like this one. Someone who would lead these timid souls to freedom. Sounded to her like this could be the one.
15
Two days went by swiftly. Preacher took Buck and Philadelphia aside for a final discussion on their plan to escape from the arena. His words were as grim as they were low.
“We cain’t know when or how we’ll do this. I figger we hoss one another up the inner wall and make a run through the onlookers. They won’t be armed, and most of ’em will plain panic when we swarm in among them with weapons drippin’ blood. That’ll keep the guards away.”
Overhead the coliseum was filled with noise as early spectators filled the rows of stone benches. Concessionaires could be heard hawking their wears. To Preacher it sounded like something they would do back East. A Fourth of July celebration or something.
“I think the best thing is to do it right off. Go after that brat kid of Marcus Quintus and use him as a shield,” Buck opined.
Preacher slowly shook his head. “No, the guards will be watchin’ right close at first, when we’re fresh and all. If we can string it out until the gospel-spouters are brought in, we can probably get a half dozen or so to come along. We’ve all been in enough tussles to know when’s the best time. Use your judgment, but keep an eye on me.”
The long, valveless trumpets sounded, announcing the entry of the day’s master of games. The crowd roared. Another fanfare, and then the other musicians joined in. Metal creaked and grated as the portcullis raised enough to let out a party of clowns. Preacher watched them with divided attention.
They did somersaults and cartwheels, ran into one another, took pratfalls and rolled in the sand. One, with an animal bladder filled with water, pounded on his companions until the thin skin broke and soaked the victim. The crowd howled in merriment. When the last buffoon scampered back inside the dark interior of the coliseum, the attendants went out to smooth off the killing ground. That accomplished, the trainers came to line up the whole company of gladiators and condemned prisoners.
A moment later, the trumpets sounded again, clear and crisp. The gate rumbled upward, and the lead fighters in the Company of the Dead stepped out onto the sand.
* * *
Young Quintus Faustus Americus entered the imperator’s box with the first fanfare. Dressed in a snowy toga, with a broad purple hem stripe, he wore a circlet of gilded laurel leaves, with gold-strapped sandals. Followed by his body servant, Casca, he went directly to the center seat of the front row and raised his right arm. In his hand he held an ivory staff with a gold eagle on the top. He turned from side to side, as he had been instructed, and waved to the cheering crowd.
Some stomped their feet, others cheered and whistled. Led by the paid clique, they chanted his name in a wavelike roar. Eyes sparkling in pleasure, he nevertheless maintained his composure while he seated himself and stared serenely across the sand at the giant portal, behind which the gladiators and condemned prisoners waited. Casca popped a grape between the lips of Faustus. His father and mother joined him and took seats at either side. Bulbus came next, followed by a dozen patrician boys who had been invited by Faustus. When the box had been filled, Faustus rose and elevated the wand. The trumpets roared again. “The auguries are good! The gods are pleased. Let the games begin!” he called out in his squeaky boy’s voice.
Casca handed Faustus a chilled cup of wine as the portcullis squealed open and out spilled the clowns. Their antics delighted the crowd. Their erratic tumbling absolutely captivated the birthday guests. Faustus laughed until the tears ran and he held his sides. Then he suddenly remembered the seriousness of his position today. He cast an uneasy glance at Casca, who winked at him; he then sobered and forced unwilling facial muscles into a placid expression. The real fun, he reminded himself, would come later.
* * *
When the clowns ended their performance, the trumpets blared again. The portcullis raised the full way, and the Company of the Dead marched forth. In the lead came the ranks of professionals, followed by those in training, and lastly the prisoners. A small smile of expectation fiickered on the lips of Faustus. In perfect formation the participants in the games reached the base of the “emperors’” box. They raised their weapons in salute.
“Hail Caesar, we who are about to die salute thee!”
Faustus rose to speak the lines he had prepared. Leaning forward, he addressed them while Casca shaded him with a parasol. “Friends. Thank you for the spectacle you have prepared in honor of my birthday. I am sure that I will enjoy it. Now it is time to begin. Parade yourselves for my other friends to see, then bring on the first pairs.”
It having been spoken in Latin, Preacher did not recognize a word. “Lotta jibber-jabber, you ask me,” he whispered to Philadelphia.
Drums and wind instruments struck up, and the gladiators turned smartly to make a circuit of the arena. Behind them came the “accommodators” to smooth the sand. Although the air was cool on this last day of September, Preacher had worked up a sweat from the closeness of the coliseum and the heat of the sun by the time they returned to the cool interior of the underground cells.
At once, the clarions summoned the first two fighting pairs. Four professionals stepped out onto the sand. They faced off, one-on-one, saluted one another and set to. A riatarius tested his skill against a gladiator dressed as a Samnite. The long, curved blade in the Samnite’s hand danced a blue-white arabesque in the air. The trident man looped his net in a hypnotic pattern before the eyes of the swordsman. He prodded with his three-tined spear. Preacher and Philadelphia stood close to the iron lattice of the portcullis and watched intently.
Beyond the fighters, he saw Faustus lean forward raptly, his mouth sagging open, pink tongue flicking in and out. There was a grunt as the Samnite lunged with his sword. A moment later the crowd roared as the riatarius flicked out his net and snared his opponent’s blade and right arm. The trident darted toward his exposed, bare belly.
Dancing on tiptoe, the Samnite turned to his right, away from the spear and free of the knotted lines of the net. A mighty shout came from the spectators. Lightning fast, the riatarius came after the retreating gladiator. The Samnite’s sword slashed through the air and bit deeply into the wooden shaft of the spear.
“Gotta remember to keep from doin’ that,” Preacher said to himself.
“What’s that?” Philadelphia asked.
“I was talkin’ to myself. That feller almost got his spear chopped in half. Careless.”
“There’s a lot to learn for this kind of fighting,” Philadelphia agreed.
On the sand, the net flared outward and fluttered down over the head and shoulders of the Samnite. At once, the riatarius ran around his helpless opponent and secured him in the snare. Then, with a powerful yank, he jerked the swordsman off his feet. He pounced on the supine body and raised his trident for the fatal blow. He hesitated at that point and looked up at the box.
Faustus, lights dancing in his eyes, leaned forward and shot out his arm. At the last moment, his father reached over and touched him lightly on his bare knee. Disappointment painted the boy’s face momentarily. Then he turned his thumb upward. The mob shouted its approval.
When their bedlam subsided, a scream came from the lips of a gladiator with a spiked-ball flail. He had taken his eye off his opponent for a split second. That was all it had taken. With blurring s
peed, the gladiator with a gladius made a diagonal slash from the incautious fighter’s right nipple to his left hip. Howls of approval and jeers for the wounded man.
“It’s Brutus. Stupid Brutus.”
“Brutus has never been any good.” More insults came from the audience, though Preacher did not understand them.
“Finish him!” a woman’s voice shrieked.
Brutus shuddered as he walked more into Preacher’s view. Blood streamed down his torso in a shimmering curtain. He brought up his shield to cover his vulnerable body and began to swing his flail back and forth. The sword came at him again. Brutus blocked it with his shield and converted his sideways motion into a circular one. When the heavy, spiked ball reached a position directly behind its handle, he lashed it forward.
It struck with a clang on the small shield of his opponent. With a powerful yank, Brutus jerked the protective disc out of the other gladiator’s grasp. At once he tried to free his weapon. That proved his undoing. The opposing gladiator came at him with a blizzard of varied attacks. It ended with a horizontal slash that opened the belly of Brutus an inch above his navel.
Brutus sucked air deeply and dropped the handle of his flail. He sat abruptly. His eyes grew wide, and he worked frantically to stuff his intestines back inside his body.
“That’s dumb, Brutus,” a critic directly over Preacher shouted.
Preacher looked over at the box along with the victorious gladiator. Panting in his excitement, Faustus wore the mask of a child demon as he eagerly thrust out his arm and turned his extended thumb downward. The swordsman quickly stepped over and struck the head from Brutus’ shoulders. The crowd went wild.
* * *
Shoulder to shoulder, the three surviving gladiators marched to salute the young boy in whose honor this display of gore was being held. Then they returned to the gate, which rose to admit them. The trumpets blared and four more professionals came out. A quartet of confused, frightened men followed.
They saluted the imperator from the center of the sand and set to it with speed and energy. This round of combats lasted only a short time and the blood flowed freely. Two of the half-trained fighters died within a minute, dispatched by the downturned thumb of Quintus Faustus. The survivors strutted back to the holding pens. Another fanfare brought out the clowns.
Preacher and the Mountain Caesar Page 16
