Preacher and the Mountain Caesar

by William W. Johnstone

  “I reckon that little monster is going to throw something else at us,” Philadelphia opined. “Why ain’t we moving?”

  “He’ll have to do something. He’s got his neck stuck a whole ways out sayin’ how we would all die,” Preacher agreed. “Whatever it is will maybe give us a better opening.” Preacher turned to the black gladiator. “What do you figger, Sparticus. And—ah—it’d be kinda nice to know your real name.”

  Sparticus flashed a white smile. “It’s no better’n the one they hung on me. It’s—you won’t laugh?—Cornelius.”

  Preacher fought the quirk of a smile. “Then Sparticus it is.”

  “Obliged. I expect as hows that li’l bastard will send in the whole rest of the gladiators. They’ll finish these weaklings fast. Then it’ll be up to us.”

  “Not if I can come up with something better,” Preacher promised.

  “It had best be good,” Buck put in his bit.

  Above them, the trumpets brayed. The portcullis raised to admit the twenty remaining trained gladiators. Their weapons were of the serious type. No gaudy costumes or colorful shields. They carried workmanlike swords, flails, javelins, and two had bows. They advanced, their arms at rest, to salute the box. That’s when providence handed Preacher a large portion of good fortune.

  “I gotta make this fast. All of you sheep listen up. Whatever we do, you do. And that starts now! Run at them,” Preacher shouted as he set off at a fast trot toward the unprepared gladiators.

  * * *

  With their weapons aimed more or less at the advancing gladiators, the missionaries followed in the wake of Preacher and his companions. Preacher let out a caterwaul as the unexpected charge closed with the newcomers. It froze them for a vital moment. Preacher smashed one to his knees with the flat of his blade, and shoved through to stab another in the gut. Beside him, the arms of his friends churned in deadly rhythm.

  Philadelphia drove a pilum into the gut of a burly gladiator who had leaped aside to swing his spiked ball at Preacher. When the tip entered his flesh, he dropped his weapon and doubled over on the shaft of the spear. He clutched it with trembling fingers as he sank to his knees. Philadelphia left the pilum in his victim, snatched up the flail and shoved on into the melee of struggling gladiators. The audience lost their minds while the four courageous fighters hacked and slashed their way through the ranks and came out on the other side.

  At once, Preacher led the way to the gate, which had not as yet begun to close. He darted under the pointed ends of the portcullis and downed a guard with a sword thrust. Beside him, Buck Sears killed the guard at the windlass that controlled the wooden-framed iron barrier and quickly grabbed hold to secure it.

  Behind him came Philadelphia and Sparticus. They made short work of the three astonished handlers who stood gawking at the furious battle. Then they turned back to hold the opening for the missionaries.

  Hewing like gleaners in a wheat field, the Mobile Church in the Wildwood’s members smashed through the ranks of gladiators. They streamed by ones and twos toward the open gateway. Preacher noticed that the handsome young woman with the spear fought with the ferocity of the men. While he registered this, she poked the iron tip of the pilum into the eye of a huge man with a long sword. He fell screaming. The iron-slat gate held motionless while they dashed under its pointed ends.

  When the last one cleared the barrier, Buck let it go. It crashed down with a resounding roar. Buck quickly slashed the rope that supported it. Led by Preacher and Philadelphia, the missionaries rushed down the stone corridor, into the bowels of the coliseum. Amelia Witherspoon had dropped her pilum and clung to Preacher all the way.

  “Where are we going?” she panted in question.

  Preacher nodded to the tunnel entrance. “To the home of the master of games.”

  “But, why? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Not so much as not doing it. For one thing, I’m not leaving here without my horses and my shootin’ gear. I’ve got me a pair of Walker Colts I’ve grown right fond of.”

  “Walkers? I’ve not heard of that breed before.”

  “They ain’t my horses, Missy, they’s shootin’ irons.”

  “Oh! ... OH!” she squeaked.

  Preacher chuckled. Then he thought he had better explain it to these featherheads so they’d know. He slowed his pace, halted them midway in the tunnel and spoke in a low, earnest voice that still echoed off the walls.

  “Listen up, folks. This ain’t over yet. We’re goin’ to the storehouse at the games master’s house. You can get better weapons, an’ you’ll need them, and horses to make a quick getaway.”

  “You mean there’ll be more fighting?” Agatha Abercrombie asked in a trembling voice.

  “Sure’s skunks stink, ma’am. There’s the better part of two legions out there.”

  “Oh, dear, dear, maybe we should not have done this,” she wailed.

  “You could have always gotten et up by the lions, like your husband,” Preacher told her coldly.

  “You cruel, cruel man,” she chastised.

  “I’m cruel? What about that devil’s spawn brat who ordered all that? I got no more time for you. Keep movin’, folks.”

  * * *

  Entering the storeroom at the house of Justinius Bulbus from the gladiator school proved easier than the frontal approach. The two guards at the far end of the tunnel had gone down like one man when Preacher and Sparticus unexpectedly appeared. With them out of the way, Preacher had called upon the great strength of Sparticus to help him breach the iron gate.

  It gave with a noisy screech, and the refugee missionaries stumbled through. Being empty, the school had an eerie quality to it. Buck Sears led the way to the passageway that issued into Bulbus’ residence. Preacher took the point with long strides past the colorful tile murals that lined the hallway. The subjects being gladiators in various forms of killing and maiming, he paid them scant attention. He signaled for a halt when he reached the far end.

  A wooden-barred gate closed off the passage. Preacher gave it a try, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges. He found himself again in the courtyard with its tinkling fountain. This time, the steward happened to be out picking posies for his master’s table. He saw Preacher and let out a yelp that could have been heard at the Temple of Vesta, had there not been such an uproar from the coliseum. It did serve to summon three burly sentries.

  They soon showed that they did not lack the courage to engage the gladiators who boiled out of the passageway to the school. For all their willingness to fight, they did not last long. Their leader, an off-duty contubernalis from Legio II, Britannicus, took on Preacher—much to his regret as it turned out.

  By far not a skilled swordsman, Preacher had nevertheless learned tricks in the gladiator school that were foreign to this stolid soldier. The sergeant lost his sword hand in his first precipitous rush. Preacher nimbly sidestepped him and chopped downward with his gladius. The hand, and the weapon it held, appeared to leap from the end of the legionnaire’s arm. Desperately he clutched the blood-spouting stump with his other hand while he sucked air in a muted whoosh. With the shield lowered, Preacher got a shot at an exposed neck. A swift cut ended the life of the sergeant. Preacher looked to his left.

  Sparticus held one of the guards over his head, straightened out like a man asleep on his back. The startled yelp that came from him broke the illusion of slumber. His scream ended with a loud crack when Sparticus hurled him against the lip of the stone fountain. At once, the huge black gladiator strode across the courtyard to where Buck held half a dozen more sentries at bay in the doorway of the guardroom. Preacher looked the other way to check on Philadelphia Braddock.

  To Preacher’s right, Philadelphia let go a bear growl and smashed the shoulder of the last guard. Stunned, the man went to one knee, his shield up to protect his head. Laughing, Philadelphia swept the soldier’s supporting leg out from under him and crowned him solidly on the top of the head with a heavy cudgel.

  “Sp
articus, stay there with Buck. We’ll bring you weapons, food and a horse.”

  “Sho’nuf, Preacher.” Sparticus grinned and rippled the muscles of his shoulders and arms.

  In the arms store, the more aggressive among the young missionaries acted like kids in a vacant candy store. Preacher three times had to caution one or another about taking too many rifles.“Takes too long to reload. Tires your horse, too. Take four or six pistols instead.”

  He quickly found his favorites and loaded them all. He turned to the suddenly belligerent pilgrims and instructed, “Load up every one you take. We’ll be needin’ ’em to get out of this place.”

  That prediction proved only too true the moment they reached the street. Two contaburniae—twenty soldiers—trotted their way in formation down the Via Iulius. Shields up, their piliae aligned perfectly, the legionnaires advanced, only their shins and grim faces visible. In his insane state as Marcus Quintus Americus, Alexander Reardon had made only one mistake. He had insisted on accuracy in arms and armor, and the Romans had fought long before gunpowder came into being.

  Preacher knocked the sergeant of the first rank off his feet with a .56 ball from his Hawken, then laid the smoking rifle across his lap. He let fly with one of his .44 Walker Colts. In rapid succession, three more soldiers fell. His friends, Preacher noticed, accounted for themselves rather well also.

  Philadelphia dumped two in the second rank and went for another pistol. A legionnaire yelped, and blood flew from a scalp wound as the .36 caliber squirrel rifle in the hands of Amelia Witherspoon barked to Preacher’s right rear. He decided the time had come to depart this place. Setting spurs to Cougar’s flanks, he led the charge on the dismounted men.

  Their advance became a rout. Shot through the shield and chest, one soldier staggered to the side to lean on the wall of the gladiator school. He died before the last of the escapees rode out of sight. Panic broke out in the streets. Women screamed and men shouted in angry tones, until they saw the thoroughly armed band that thundered down on them. Then they gave way rapidly.

  In seemingly no time, the fugitives reached a gate. Preacher took aim and shot down the guard who wrestled to draw closed the thick, heavy barrier. Then he shouted good advice.

  “C’mon, folks, don’t dally. We’ve lots of miles to put between us and them.”

  18

  Confusion and surprise turned to panic when the order to shut the gates was taken too literally by the stadium staff. Spectators swarmed into the aisles, only to find the entrances to the coliseum barred against them. They began to push and shove, then to fight among themselves. In the imperial box, his face a flaming scarlet in childish fury, Quintus Faustus shrieked impotent demands and threats. Robbed of his bloody climax, he lost what tenuous hold he had on his reason.

  Marcus Quintus saw the trembling boy with slobber and foam flying from his lips and rose to confront his son. He put a hand on Faustus’ shoulder and squeezed gently. Frenetically, Faustus jerked away from his touch. Exasperated and embarrassed beyond endurance, Quintus lost his grip for a moment. He swiftly raised an arm and delivered a solid backhand slap. A red spot appeared on the pallid skin of his cheek, and Faustus bugged his eyes.

  “Control yourself,” his father snapped.

  Faustus sat down abruptly and buried his head in his toga. His thin shoulders shook violently as he bawled like a baby. Marcus Quintus knew at once that he must take command. He raised cupped hands to the sides of his mouth and shouted over the tumult.

  “Open the vomitoriae! Clear these people out of here.” In stentorian tones, he brayed for his army commanders. “Bring Legate Varras. I want his cavalry after that vermin at once. Bring me Legate Glaubiae! Start a search of the city. Do it now!”

  Varras appeared beside Quintus and saluted. “Get out of here, use the private tunnel. Organize your cavalry and get after those people,” Quintus screamed at him. Varras saluted again and departed hastily.

  Gaius Septimus Glaubiae came next, his face flushed with the effort of climbing the steep steps to the box. Quintus raised his arm casually to return his salute. He leaned slightly forward and screamed in his general’s face. “I want the legions organized at once. Outfit them for a long time in the field. They are to search for the escaped prisoners. I want them back. All of them.”

  “Do you believe they have gotten out of the city?” Glaubiae asked.

  Quintus’ eyes narrowed. “They will have by the time order can be restored.”

  Then he began to scream at the panicked crowd. He was still screaming orders when the escaping prisoners swarmed out the southern gate.

  * * *

  Preacher led the fleeing prisoners at a fast pace down the Via Ostia, named for the port to the west of ancient Rome. Why the madman who had created this place had picked that name for the road to the south, Preacher did not know. He doubted that this Marcus Quintus feller knew either. Two miles beyond the corrupt city, he slowed the pace to a quick walk. Elation slowly swept over all but one of the missionaries, he grumblingly noted as they began to chatter among themselves.

  “We’ve lost everything,” wailed Agatha Abercrombie. “Our wagons, our portable organ, even the pulpit.”

  “Be thankful we got out of that place alive,” Sister Amelia Witherspoon told her coldly.

  That pleased Preacher mightily. That li’l gal had some pluck. She was learning fast. For the first time Preacher looked at her in another way than as a nuisance. Pretty little thing, he mused. Clean her up a little, get some clean clothes on her. . . . He suddenly had to cover his mouth to hide a broad grin and suppress a hearty guffaw that bubbled in his throat as they continued their exchange.

  “Excuse me? I am unaccustomed to accepting such criticism from anyone. Especially from my inferiors.”

  Sarcasm dripped from Amelia’s words. “Oh, that’s quite obvious. Only I don’t see myself as your inferior. I didn’t see you raise a hand to defend yourself, let alone anyone else back there.”

  Outrage painted Agatha’s face. “How dare you!” She looked around herself for some support, only to see a laughing Preacher. His shoulders shook with his mirth. She redirected her anger. “This is all your fault, you heathen barbarian!” she lashed out.

  Nodding, Preacher choked back his hilarity. “Yep. It sure is. An’ right proud of it, I am. Weren’t but five of you folks got harmed. Might be if you’d lent a hand some of them would be with us now. As fer this fine young woman, she carried her share of the load, fought bravely and did for a couple of cougars, two gladiators an’ a soldier. On my tally sheet, that puts her head and shoulders your better, ma’am. Danged if it don’t.” Preacher’s eyes widened, and he screwed up his mouth as though to spit out a wad of chew tobacco. “By damn, there I go speechifyin’ like a politician. I’d best put a lid on my word bucket.”

  He held his peace until the cavalcade crested the saddle notch and halted on the far side. By then he had worked out what needed to be done. He called them together in the shade of a tall old pine that soughed softly in a fresh breeze. “Everybody rest some; drink a little water and eat something.” Then Preacher began enlightening them on something that had been bothering him for a long while.

  “The way I see it, our best chance lies with splittin’ up. That way it thins out them that comes after us. Now, there’s somethin’ we need to decide on. I declare, that place is the foulest nest of snakes I’ve ever runned across. Ain’t gonna change much, from what I guess. So, this nasty business has to be ended right and proper. To do that, we have to have help.” He pointed to Philadelphia and Buck.

  “I want you to set off to find any old wooly-eared fellers that’s nestin’ out there somewhere. Philadelphia, you take the west trails; Buck, you head east. I’ll cut down to the southwest, find Bold Pony an’ his Arapahos. A couple of those prisoners who died at the hands of Quintus’ gladiators were from his band, I learned. That gives him a stake in fixin’ this tainted meat. Sparticus, you done good to join us. I want you to stick with thes
e pilgrims. Teach them more about how to fight for when the time comes they need to. Take the big trail south to Trout Creek Pass; it’s well marked. We’ll all rendezvous there and lay plans.”

  “Preacher, how do I get any of these mountain men to join us?” Buck asked.

  “You tell ’em you’re askin’ in my name. An’ I’ll send along a note to that effect. Most of these boys can make out writin’ good enough, an’ those what can’t do know my name an’ my Ghost Wolf sign.”

  “I—I want to stay with you, Preacher,” Amelia Witherspoon spoke up.

  “Why, the brazenness of that—” Agatha Abercrombie began, to be cut off by a hard look from Preacher.

  He shook his head as he spoke to Amelia. “No, it’ll be too dangerous.”

  Undeterred by this logic, she continued to press her issue. “What could be more dangerous than what we just faced?”

  To his surprise, Preacher did not have any quick reply for that. He mulled it over a moment. “I can’t answer that, Missy. Danged if you don’t argue like one o’ them Philadelphia lawyers.” He shot a glance at his fellow mountain man. “No offense, old friend. But, the answer is the same, Miss Amelia. Where I’m going, the Injuns mightily favor a long lock of yeller hair on their scalp poles.”

  “Bu—but you’re friends with them; I’ve heard Philadelphia say so.”

  Preacher smiled to soften his demeanor. “We’re friends when they’re in the mood for it. Otherwise, they’d lift my hair, too. This time I’ve got a reason for them to keep right cordial. It wouldn’t do, though, to provoke them before I get out my message.”

  Preacher turned to the rest of them, the subject closed for his part. “So, we’ll all rendezvous at the tradin’ post. I’ll bring in the Arapaho last to prevent a panic.”

  * * *

  Preacher took a narrow trail to the southwest when he departed from the others. Leading his packhorse, he made much better time than Sparticus and the missionaries. He was far out on the Great Divide Basin when sundown caught up with him. He made a hasty cold camp and settled in for the night. He doubted he would see anything of the soldiers from New Rome, yet he did not want a fire to betray his presence. No, he’d not see the legions of New Rome again, not until he wanted to. Far off, in the rolling hills behind him, he heard the musical call of a timber wolf.