Preacher and the Mountain Caesar

by William W. Johnstone

  Only these were not the same frisky children who had performed first. They appeared to be dazed, uncertain of where they were, or what their purpose might be. Handlers quickly goaded them into fighting one another. Some were armed with tubes of sewn skin, filled with sand, others with air-filled bladders. Another group carried straw-stuffed objects that Preacher could only guess at being animal parts. He watched them with a growing frown as they began to flail away at their companions.

  Philadelphia approached him and nodded toward the grotesque performers. “I hear around that those poor folk are captives who have been tormented into states of craziness. They’re supposed to whoop it up out there for a while; then comes the really bad part.”

  “What’s that?” Preacher asked him.

  “Wait, an’ you’ll see.”

  “Sounds grim. Might be you an’ Buck can get more cooperation out of those Bible-thumpers. Why don’t you go in among them and give them a little backbone?”

  “Suits. I’ll get Buck.” Philadelphia turned away and went to find the teamster. Preacher soon saw them talking earnestly among the missionaries. He looked away, back at the sand, when gales of laughter filled the arena.

  “’Pears to me that it’s them that’s watchin’ an’ laughin’ that’s got the sick minds,” he grumbled to himself.

  The sorrowful clowns had milked their antics for all the laughs they could generate. At a signal from the real master of the games, Bulbus, small gates opened around the arena. Out rushed huge, ferocious, starved mastiff dogs. Screams of terror came from the pitiful, demented clowns as the dogs fell on them. The audience loved it. Preacher made a face of disgust as he looked beyond the slaughter to the small boy in the marble box.

  Faustus squirmed in a frenzy of excitement. It made Preacher’s stomach churn.

  * * *

  “I tell you, friend, if you don’t decide to fight back, you’ll get what them poor fellers out there are gettin’. It don’t feel nice gettin’ ripped apart by a cougar,” Preacher told three intently listening young missionaries. “Believe me, I know. I done got mauled by one some years back. If I didn’t have a big knife an’ a war hawk with me, he’d a-been dinin’ on my innards before noon.”

  One of his audience swallowed hard and made a gagging sound. “If I have something to fight with, I’ll fight,” he declared shakily. To the angry glare from the son of Deacon Abercrombie, he added, “I have a wife and two children to protect.”

  “A child has the right to decide for himself,” Phineas Abercrombie replied snippily.

  Defiance crackled in the words of the young father. “If a child cannot make decisions about property, or his schooling, or anything else, Brother Phineas, I say he cannot properly decide to die for the greater glory of the Lord.”

  “Careful Brother Fauts, you are close to blasphemy.”

  Fury born of his protectiveness exploded. “Damn your blasphemy! I’ll fight, and you would, too, if you had any stones.”

  Philadelphia left them to further pursuit of that possibility when a burly handler gestured to him with his coiled whip. Buck, too, had been gathered in. Their warders took them to where Preacher stood. Three of the toughest professionals joined them a moment later.

  “You will fight in pairs. You condemned men, if you win this match, you will be paired with another gladiator until you are killed. So, fight your best and give the people a good show.”

  When the last of the demented victims succumbed to the ravenous jaws of the mastiffs, the accommodators cleared the arena. Hawkers moved through the aisles, selling wine, popped corn, slices of melon and other fruit. Others cut shaved-thin slices off roasted joints of meat and built sandwiches. The spectators ate and drank and talked through their laughter as they recalled their favorite kill by the vicious dogs. It all made Preacher want to drive the three tines of his trident into their guts and twist while they shrieked in agony.

  With the clean-up completed, the clarions brayed again, and the six fighters stepped out onto the sand. They advanced in two ranks, with Preacher, Philadelphia and Buck behind the professionals. At the center, they halted and saluted the boy imperator. Faustus rose and addressed them, his voice husky with barely suppressed emotion.

  “You three who defied the authority of New Rome will die here today. And I will take great pleasure in watching your blood soak into the sand. So, do not slack. Give us a good fight, so we can thrill in your agony.” He pointed his ivory wand at Preacher. “Especially you, my magnificent specimen. I expect great things from you. Now, let the fighting begin.”

  Trumpets shivered the air. All six fighters squared off. Preacher knew he had to make this quick. He began to circle his opponent, the net held loosely in his left hand. He feinted tentatively with the trident. Suddenly, the gladiator opposite him burst forth with a frenzy of furious blows.

  Tall, lean, and muscular, Vindix bore in on Preacher with a smooth network of thrusts and slashes. He smiled grimly as Preacher gave ground. He batted the trident aside and pressed forward with a springy right leg. Blinding hot pain erupted in his thigh as Preacher recovered from the beating and drove two of the three tines of his weapon deeply into the flesh of an exposed thigh.

  A fraction of a second later, he hurled the net, ensnaring Vindix. With a stout yank, Preacher hauled the gladiator off his sandals. He drew the small dagger from his belt and knelt beside the fallen fighter.

  “I’ll make this quick, to spare you pain.”

  Vindix smiled through his agony. “That’s what I intended for you. No need for us to provide entertainment for that sick, twisted child.”

  Preacher looked up at the boy, to see an expression of fury on the soft features. “You were too fast. That’s not fair. Spare him,” Faustus’ squeaky voice commanded.

  Preacher replaced his dagger and offered a hand to Vindix to help him come upright. The crowd cheered. Vindix was a favorite. Preacher spoke softly to him. “You live to fight another day.”

  Vindix gave him a grim smile, face contorted with pain. “More’s a pity.” He limped away, to be replaced by another gladiator. This one bore the spiked mace. He came after Preacher in a rush.

  * * *

  Philadelphia had been matched with a squat, brawny brute who took particular pleasure in maiming his opponents before finally finishing them off. Despite the lingering discomfort of his old wound, Philadelphia Braddock danced lightly away from the gladius that darted before his eyes. Sweat began to trickle down from his temples. He concentrated on the eyes of Asperis and the tip of his sword.

  So quickly that Philadelphia almost missed it, Asperis widened his eyes in anticipation of a slash that would sever the mountain man’s left arm, leaving him without a shield. With a swift jerk, Philadelphia raised the round metal protector, and the iron blade in his opponent’s hand rang loudly against it. Philadelphia swung his right leg forward and pivoted, to smash his armored caestus into the point of the left shoulder of Asperis. The triangular blades bit deeply, and blood flowed in a gush when Philadelphia withdrew his caestus. He shifted his weight and kicked Asperis in the belly.

  Numbed and bleeding profusely from the shoulder, Asperis doubled over, and Philadelphia clubbed him with the armored fist. Unfortunately it left him vulnerable for a moment, during which Asperis drove the tip of his sword into the meaty portion of Philadelphia’s side. Fire flashed through the muscles of Philadelphia’s torso. Biting his lower lip, he hauled back and rammed the spikes of his caestus into the side of Asperis’ head. The gladiator went down in a flash.

  A low groan came from deep in his chest, and Asperis began to twitch his arms and legs. Philadelphia knew what he had done and wasted no time checking with the pouty-faced brat for the signal to finish Asperis. Behind him, the portcullis clanged again, and another contender entered the arena. Philadelphia turned to see that it would be a riatarius.

  “More trouble,” he grunted.

  * * *

  Buck Sears faced a gladiator done up as a Nubian warrior,
complete with zebra-painted shield, towering headdress and assagai spear. Braided elephant-tail hair and feather anklets circled his legs above bare feet. They rippled hypnotically as he bounced and jounced up and down in an advance punctuated by sharp cries from a mouth ringed by a wide smear of black grease paint.

  Buck took this all in and lowered the tip of his sword to the sand. He threw back his head and laughed. “Now, ain’t you just the silliest damn critter I’ve ever seen.”

  The gyrations abruptly ceased. “Huh?”

  “I said you look like a fool,” Buck called out.

  Howling in outrage, the imitation Nubian charged with his spear held over his shoulder in one of the classical positions employed by the Zulu and the Masai, whom the ancient Romans lumped together as “Nubians.”

  Buck lunged out of the way of the advance. He swung the flat of his blade and smashed it into the ribs of his opponent. Laughter rose from the stands. Buck began to enjoy himself. Before the Nubian could turn, Buck booted him in the seat of his pants. He stumbled and lowered his shield. Buck thrust with his sword and cut a line along the gladiator’s forehead right below the gaudy headdress. A sheet of blood poured out. The mob loved it.

  Even that evil-minded brat had started to giggle and clap his hands, Buck noted. He quickly found out he had paid too much attention to such matters. Solis had recovered himself and came at Buck driven by fury. He battered and hacked at the shield Buck carried. Buck’s strength wavered momentarily, and Solis seized the advantage. Setting his feet, he slammed his own shield into Buck’s face.

  Buck’s knees buckled, and he dropped onto the left one. Blackness swam before his eyes. He shook his head in an effort to clear it while he fended off the plunging assagai. With a desperate effort, he brought his gladius around and drove it through the fire-hardened zebra-print shield. The tip sliced three inches into sweaty flesh. Solis grunted, gasped and loosed a thin wail. Buck pulled back and regained his feet.

  Above him, all around the coliseum the throng went wild. They stomped their feet and pelted the sand with greasy strips of paper that had held sandwiches and popped corn. Some threw cushions they had brought along for comfort on the stone benches of the common bleachers. A gray pallor had washed over the face of Solis. He blinked back fear, sweat and blood and tried to focus on his opponent.

  Sucking in large draughts of air, Buck found Solis easily enough. His shield arm sagged; the knob-hilled assagai hung in an unresponsive hand. Pink froth bubbled on his pain-distorted lips. Balefully, Buck advanced on him. Deep inside, he did not want to do this. Then he remembered he was supposed to solicit a decision from the imperator.

  He turned his head upward. Faustus seemed to be on the edge of ecstasy. He rapidly licked his lips and stared fixedly at the bleeding wound in the chest of Solis. At last he re-grasped what was expected of him. Solis was a professional. Faustus spared him.

  Two arena helpers escorted him out. Another gladiator took his place. The six men—three sapped and worn from their earlier battles, the other trio fresh—faced the box and saluted.

  “Awh, hell, we’ve gotta go through this all over again,” Buck muttered. He squared off with the others, and the attacks came immediately.

  16

  Through the open squares formed by the iron gate to their holding pen, Sister Amelia Witherspoon looked on. At first she viewed the grisly spectacle in horror. Then, as the mountain men and their teamster ally bested one professional gladiator after another, her perusal changed to amorous fascination with Preacher. He had to be the bravest, strongest man ever born.

  A shiver of delight ran through her slender body, hidden under the prim, gray dress and her bonnet. If what he did before her very eyes were not so absolutely terrible, she might suspect that she was becoming enamored of him. Possibly even falling in love. Stuff and nonsense, she told herself. Cries of trepidation came from others among the missionaries. One of the young men convinced to put up some resistance by Philadelphia spoke quietly beside Sister Amelia.

  “Is any of them going to be around to lead the way to freedom?”

  An unusual light sparkled in Amelia’s eyes. “I’m sure that one will. Arturus. He has finished off three gladiators so far. Spared the lives of two. He is a true champion.”

  With an indulgent chuckle, the young man nodded toward Preacher. “ ’Arturus’ is it? That may be what these crazy folk call him, but the one named Philadelphia told me he is really the mountain man we were questioned about, Preacher.”

  Amelia’s eyes widened. “I knew it! I knew he had to be the best there is. Oh, Preacher, fight for us,” she offered up prayerfully.

  * * *

  Out on the sand, it appeared as though Preacher had heard her appeal and responded accordingly. He swung his net, snared another gladiator, and hurtled the hapless fighter toward the deadly tines of the trident. A moment before the barbed spikes entered vulnerable flesh, a high, thin voice barked from above and behind Preacher.

  “Hold!” Preacher released his victim. “He has fought well,” Faustus continued. “He is free to retire. You will face yet another, more worthy opponent,” he told Preacher. “At once.”

  Looks like the folks in the imperial box have got impatient. Not gonna wait for all of us to finish our fights, Preacher thought to himself as the gate ground open and a huge fellow lumbered out. Taller by a head than Preacher, he was armed with a caestus and a twin-bladed dagger. He immediately went for Preacher with a roar.

  He swung the caestus with practiced ease, and the spectators greeted him by name. “Dicius! Dicius! Dicius!”

  Like an elephant attacking a toad, he loomed over Preacher and contemptuously swept aside the net when it hissed toward him. He stepped in and engaged the trident with the dual-bladed knife, gave a mighty twist and yanked it from Preacher’s grasp. Preacher tried with the net again and missed as Dicius danced away. Then the muscular gladiator came at Preacher again.

  He bounded forward, jinked to his right, tempting another throw of the net. Preacher obliged him. The tar-stiffened, knotted snare fanned out and lofted over the head of Dicius. Before it could descend, Dicius leaped to his left and struck a powerful blow with the caestus.

  Fortunately for Preacher, the punch landed askew, to glance off the side of Preacher’s head. One of the blades cut a ragged line in the hair above one ear. Stunned, Preacher sank to one knee. Dimly he heard the shrill scream as Amelia cried out.

  * * *

  Philadelphia Braddock looked up at the sound of that anguished wail. He saw Dicius poised with his caestus raised above his head to deliver a fatal blow. For the moment Philadelphia ignored his own tormentor to grasp his sword in front of the hilt and hurl it like a lance. It flashed in the afternoon sunlight as it sped to the target.

  Paralyzed by enormous misery, Dicius emitted a faint moan as the gladius pierced his side and sliced through the soft organs in his belly. He rocked from heel to toe for a moment, and the caestus dropped without force to land on Preacher’s shoulder. Shaking clear of his momentary blackout, Preacher scrambled to retrieve his trident.

  He stood over Dicius, who feebly tried to cut the hamstring of Preacher’s left leg. With a powerful thrust, Preacher drove the middle tine through his opponents throat. He looked up with a nod and a smile for Philadelphia.

  “I reckon they aim to kill us for certain sure. No reason we have to play by their rules,” Preacher told his friend as he abandoned his trident. Then he bent, retrieved the gladius and tossed it back to Philadelphia.

  So astonished by the swift action that he failed to press his attack, the gladiator contesting Philadelphia only then broke his frozen pose. He came on strong, yet the mountain man managed to elude his darting weapon. Philadelphia gave ground slowly, eyes alert for an opening. While he did, Preacher retrieved the spiked mace of an earlier opponent and looked to the portcullis, where his next enemy would appear.

  It turned out to be Sparticus. At the sight of this, Faustus bounced up and down on his chair, th
rilled by the prospects. Preacher did not greet it quite so enthusiastically. He gave a tentative swing of the spiked ball at the end of its chain and advanced on the huge escaped slave. A moment later, Philadelphia got too busy to watch.

  With catlike grace, the gladiator advanced on an oblique angle to Philadelphia. He prodded at him with the tip of his pilum. The slender spear had been equipped with a soft lead collar at the base of the tip to prevent it from being withdrawn from a wound. Altogether a nasty weapon. Philadelphia gave it due respect. His opponent’s advance forced him toward where Buck had just dispatched his latest enemy. Weakened by his recent wounds, Philadelphia could not maintain his balance when he backed into the supine body of the dead gladiator.

  His knee buckled and he stumbled. At that critical moment, the professional thrust the javelin toward him. Only at the last possible moment, Philadelphia covered himself with his shield, turned the pilum, and regained his balance. He hacked at an exposed knee, and the blades bit into flesh at the bottom of the gladiator’s thigh. That let Philadelphia recover completely.

  Ignoring the threat of the javelin, he pushed in on his opponent. At that moment, Philadelphia would have given anything for a good tomahawk. The short sword would have to do, he decided. At least until he could equip himself with something better. At first he made good progress, his antagonist hobbled by his wound; then Philadelphia planted his foot in a pool of blood while attempting a thrust to the chest.

  His feet went out from under him, and he plopped onto the ground. Hoots and jeers rose from the onlookers. Eyes alight with renewed hope, the gladiator moved in on Philadelphia.

  * * *

  Eager to win Sparticus as an ally, rather than having to kill him, Preacher raised his left hand in a cautionary gesture; the net hung limp in his grasp. “It don’t have to end here, Sparticus,” he prompted.