Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

  At the sound of an engine, Dog waddled over to the bedroom window and stared up at the panes. Homer pulled the curtain aside. Three floors down, a gardener worked in a little side garden, planting red geraniums in a rectangular bed. It could have been a scene on a postcard, except for the army tank driving up the path. It was the kind Homer had seen in movies about World War II, and it rolled right past the gardener and stopped beneath the bedroom window. The driver’s hatch opened and Baldwin, dressed in fatigues and an army helmet, popped out. He looked up and waved. Homer waved back. “What’s Baldwin doing?”

  Hercules peered over Homer’s shoulder. “He’s preparing to storm the coliseum. The safest way in and out is in an armored vehicle.”

  “You said the atlas is in the coliseum?”

  “Uh-huh,” Hercules replied.

  “I have to get it. And my backpack.”

  “No way. You can’t go out there.” Hercules backed away from the window. “Baldwin can drive us to a bookstore, and we’ll buy another atlas. It’s only an hour’s drive.”

  “Another hour? That’s too much time. Besides, I still need my backpack.” What choice did he have? Lorelei, three hours ahead, might already be flying to Mushroom Island on the cloudcopter, with all of Zelda’s equipment at her disposal. Homer needed his gear.

  “But Diana and my brothers are in the coliseum. If they get their hands on you, they’ll toss you through the air like a Frisbee. They’ll roll you across the arena like a bowling ball. They’ll—”

  “I want my backpack.” Homer didn’t want to face the Simple siblings any more than he wanted to face a pride of hungry lions, but without his binoculars and night vision lamp and all the other stuff, he was just Homer. And that didn’t give him a whole lot of confidence. He opened the window and leaned out. “Baldwin!” he yelled, waving wildly. “Wait for me!”

  He stuffed the scrolls and the honey bear into the clue box. Then he tucked the box under his arm. “You don’t have to go. But I do. This is my quest.” He looked down at Dog. Would they toss him like a Frisbee? “Maybe Dog can stay here with you.”

  “What?” Spit flew from Hercules’s mouth. “You want me to stay alone with your dog? No way.”

  “Ur.”

  Of all the things Hercules was afraid of, his fear of Dog seemed the most ridiculous to Homer. Dog wouldn’t hurt anyone. He was practically perfect. Certainly there were dogs that smelled like shampoo rather than smelling like sweaty feet, but there were no dogs with gentler, sweeter personalities. And it kind of hurt Homer’s feelings that Hercules wouldn’t even pet Dog.

  “Fine,” Homer said as he opened the bedroom door. “We’ll do this without you. Come on, Dog.”

  Dog ambled toward Homer, and they got halfway down the hall when a voice called out. “Wait!” Hercules caught up to them. “Put these on.” He handed Homer a helmet and elbow and knee pads. Then he slid pads over his own knees and up the striped sleeves of his rugby shirt.

  “What are you doing?” Homer asked.

  “I took a vow. I’m a sworn member of L.O.S.T.” He tucked his first-aid kit under his arm. “I’m supposed to keep you safe, and if I don’t do what I’m supposed to do, they might kick me out. I don’t want to get kicked out. I like going to the meetings. I like having someplace to go.”

  “Then you’re coming with us?” Homer asked.

  Hercules nodded. “I’ve survived the coliseum. If you’re going to survive, you’ll need my help. But I want you to promise that you won’t leave the tank until I tell you. It’s really important that you listen to my instructions. It’s crazy out there.”

  “Okay,” Homer said, strapping on his helmet. “I promise.”

  24

  Chaos in the Coliseum

  Sherman tanks are not designed with basset hounds in mind. Most things are not designed to be basset-hound-friendly. Homer tried heaving Dog onto the tank. “Urrr,” Dog complained as Homer gripped his haunches.

  “You’re… too… heavy,” Homer grunted.

  “I’ll do it,” Hercules said. He wrapped an arm around Dog and then scampered onto the tank. After setting Dog onto the hull, he reached out his hand and pulled Homer up.

  “Thanks,” Homer said, surprised by Hercules’s strength. He was obviously hiding some muscles under those long sleeves.

  Baldwin poked his head out of the driver’s hatch. “Mr. Simple, I’ve just received a radio transmission from the chef. Your brothers and sister have stormed the kitchen in search of protein shakes.”

  “Good,” Hercules said. “That will give us a bit of time but not much. Let’s go.”

  Baldwin frowned. “Are you certain you want to go to the coliseum, Mr. Simple? Need I remind you of the last incident?”

  “I don’t want to talk about the last incident,” Hercules said, his voice trembling. “So you’d better go before I change my mind.”

  “If your brothers and sister are in the kitchen, can’t we just run out to the coliseum and get the backpack?” Homer asked. Surely it would take less time than maneuvering a piece of World War II machinery around flower beds.

  “Yeah, you can run out there. If you want to… DIE. Do you know how long it takes to chug a couple of protein shakes? Not long enough.” Hercules lifted Dog onto the turret, then climbed up next to him. The turret was the top, roundish part of the Sherman tank that usually held a long machine gun, but on this particular tank, the gun had been removed. Hercules opened the turret’s hatch, then reached into the depths of the tank and set his first-aid kit inside.

  Homer climbed onto the turret and handed his clue box to Hercules, which was also placed inside the tank. Then Hercules closed the hatch. He, Homer, and Dog perched on the top of the turret as the tank began its slow trek out of the side garden. Baldwin drove around a statue of a Spartan warrior, then through an opening in the hedge. Homer’s breath caught as the coliseum swelled into view.

  A piece of ancient Rome had been re-created in the gated community of Lofty Spires. There, in the backyard of the Simples’ palace, stood a wonder in architecture. Made of stone and three stories high, with arch-shaped windows cut along each elliptical wall, the coliseum rose from the bright green lawn. Homer had seen it from the airplane window, but at ground level it was massive. The tank rolled beneath an arch and into the coliseum’s arena.

  For a moment, Homer felt like he’d gone back in time. Though the coliseum’s seats were empty, he could practically see and hear the screaming crowds in their togas, cheering for the gladiators. But the mirage faded as he looked around the arena. Chairs, umbrellas, televisions, and uprooted trees were just a few of the items that littered the ground. Books lay everywhere, as if a tornado had set down in the middle of a library.

  Baldwin drove the tank into the arena, crushing a chair and a cutting board in the process. Then he shut off the engine. Hercules reached into the hatch and pulled out a pair of binoculars. “Here,” he said, handing them to Homer. They were standard issue, not nearly as nice as the Borington Binoculars in Homer’s backpack, but they’d have to do. Homer stood, carefully balancing on the edge of the turret. Squinting into the lenses, he scanned the elliptical field. Backpack, where are you?

  “I see the washing machine,” Hercules reported, pointing. “Baldwin, what else was on your list?”

  Baldwin popped up from the driver’s hatch and read from his list. “A golf cart, a jumbo pack of toilet paper, two maids, and Mr. Pudding’s backpack.”

  “Don’t forget about the atlas,” Homer said. “We need that, too.”

  “I see the maids,” Hercules reported, pointing over Baldwin’s head. “They’re being used as goalposts.”

  Homer aimed the binoculars. Sure enough, at the edge of the field, two maids in black-and-white dresses stood on stone pedestals, like statues, except they were trembling. “I shall retrieve them,” Baldwin said as he climbed out of the tank. Then he jumped onto the dirt and ran toward the maids. Homer turned slowly on the turret, sweeping the binoculars across the d
irt, then up the stone benches that rose above the field. “There it is,” he said. “On the second row. My backpack.”

  “I’m guessing you have about ten minutes until they return,” Hercules said. “Go now. As fast as you can.”

  The distance to the backpack seemed vast. Two football fields could have fit inside the coliseum. And Baldwin had parked the tank smack-dab in the center.

  “Hold Dog,” Homer said.

  Hercules cringed. “I can’t hold him. You know I don’t like dogs. What if he bites me?”

  There was no time to argue. Homer pulled Dog’s leash from one of the many pockets in his shorts and tied Dog to the turret. Dog cocked his head as if to ask, What are you up to?

  “I’ll be right back,” Homer told him. Then he slid off the tank and sprinted as best he could. The helmet bounced on his head as he jumped over a toilet seat and over a dresser drawer. He darted around a broken bust of some Roman guy. Needle-sharp shards of china lay in the dirt. Sunlight bounced off broken windows. The arena was like a war zone. In war movies, soldiers always kept low to the ground as they crossed a battlefield. Even with the knee pads, Homer wasn’t about to crawl through this dirt. Even if his professional adventurer clothing was bladeproof, those china shards would easily pierce his hands. But if Hercules’s brothers and sister returned, he’d be an open target. Might as well paint a red dot on my back.

  “Howoooo!”

  Homer glanced over his shoulder. Dog teetered on the edge of the tank. Hercules stood next to him, peering through the binoculars.

  “Howoooo!”

  Dog would just have to wait. He’d only be without Homer for a few minutes. Homer raced up the stone steps, passing the first row of stone benches. He turned down the second row. The backpack lay in one piece, zipped shut. A wave of relief washed over Homer as he grabbed a strap and threw it onto his back. Then he cringed as something rattled inside. Something was broken.

  Dog threw his head back. “Howoooo!”

  “Homer!” Hercules yelled, pointing. “The atlas. It’s on the seventeenth row. It’s red!”

  This was turning out to be much easier than Homer had hoped. He slid his arm through the other backpack strap, then started up the steep stone steps. His thighs burned, but he pushed hard. How many minutes had passed? Empty water bottles and soda cans crunched beneath his feet as he turned down the seventeenth row. A large red book lay faceup on the bench. The Illustrated Atlas of the Entire World. It took both hands to lift the massive volume.

  The seventeenth row offered a panoramic view of the field. Baldwin was helping the maids into the tank. Dog stood on the turret watching Homer’s every move. Even though there was still no sign of the Simple siblings, Hercules jumped up and down, frantically motioning for Homer to come back. For one victorious moment, Homer smiled. He’d gotten the backpack and the atlas.

  Clutching the heavy atlas to his chest, Homer hurried down the stone steps. The backpack thumped against his spine as he started across the arena grounds. He ran past a broken television, a lamp, and an electric fan. Sweat broke across the back of his neck. Lorelei had probably just grabbed an atlas from Zelda’s sitting room. She’d probably read it in front of a comfortable fire with a plate of cookies at her side. Maybe she’d gotten a three-hour head start, but Homer wasn’t defeated yet. Another smile spread across his face when he reached the tank. He handed the atlas and backpack to Hercules, then climbed onto the hull. “I did it,” he said proudly.

  “Just in time,” Hercules said as thunder filled the air. “They’re coming back.”

  “Prepare for departure,” Baldwin said as he jumped back into the driver’s seat and closed the driver’s hatch.

  “Quick, get in.” Hercules pointed into the open hatch at the top of the turret. Homer climbed up and peered in. It would be a tight squeeze, what with the two quivering maids already stuffed inside.

  “Come on, Dog,” Homer said as he handed his backpack to one of the maids. He reached for the ladder. “Come on.” His eyes widened as he looked around. “Where’s Dog?”

  “What do you mean where’s Dog?” Hercules asked. “He’s right…”

  Homer’s heart sank into his gut. The leash and the empty collar dangled over the side of the tank. He turned in a quick circle, desperately scanning the arena. Where was Dog? The thundering grew louder. A cloud of dirt arose at the coliseum’s entrance. Then, out of the cloud, two horses emerged, their hooves kicking up debris as they charged into the arena. Each horse pulled a golden chariot. Two more horses followed, pulling two more chariots. Romulus, Caesar, Tiberius, and Diana—whips flying in their hands, the sun bouncing off their golden helmets and breastplates—shouted and laughed. Homer gasped.

  Gladiators.

  The horses galloped to the center of the arena, then split, two to each side of the tank, a cloud of dirt following behind like exhaust fumes. Dirt landed on Homer’s face as the horses and chariots charged past. “Hey, Hercules,” Diana called.

  When the gladiators reached the other side of the arena, they turned and formed a line. The horses stomped their hooves. Diana held up her arm. “On your mark…” she cried. They were going to race.

  “Dog!” Homer yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. He wiped dirt from his eyes. “Dog!” Where was he?

  “Do you see him?” Hercules inhaled dirt and broke into a coughing fit.

  “Get set…” Diana yelled.

  As the cloud settled, motion caught Homer’s eye. Something moved over near the washing machine. It was Dog. But what was he doing?

  Homer’s heart skipped a beat.

  Dog was digging!

  25

  The Gladiator’s Treasure

  Homer leaped off the tank. Pumping his arms and legs, he charged across the field. He didn’t care that Dog was digging. He didn’t care that Dog was about to uncover treasure. All he cared about was keeping Dog from getting crushed beneath chariot wheels.

  “Go!” Diana yelled.

  With the crack of the whips, the horses bolted forward, their eyes wild. Hooves tearing up the ground, manes flying, they galloped across the arena, kicking books and water bottles into the air. Dog, still digging, was apparently oblivious to the danger. Homer had learned that when Dog smelled treasure, nothing else mattered until that treasure was uncovered. Homer pumped his legs faster. The knee pads rubbed together, slowing him down. But there was no time to remove them. If the gladiators stayed on course, racing straight across the arena, then Romulus’s chariot would run right over Dog.

  Diana pulled in front of her brothers. “Whoopeee!” she yelled. A whoosh of hot air blew across Homer’s neck and back as her chariot passed by, nearly hitting him. His heart pounded in his ears. Romulus, the red feather on his helmet waving, was closing in.

  Dog was only a few yards away. “Ur, ur, ur, ur, ur,” he grunted, his bottom sticking out of the hole he’d already dug. Dirt flew as he kicked his stubby legs, digging deeper.

  “Dog!” Homer yelled. He took a huge breath and launched himself at the hole. But he missed by a foot and landed on the hard ground. His helmet toppled off. Sharp pain stabbed his right shoulder. Flying through the air always looked easier in the movies. Wincing, he rolled onto his side. A dirt cloud approached, swirling like a tornado. Through its haze, the beating black legs of a stallion and Romulus’s golden helmet appeared. There was no time to escape. Homer rolled into the hole and threw himself over Dog. He closed his eyes tight. This was it. One horse hoof or one wheel—that’s all it would take to crush them. Treasure hunting will kill you. He pressed his face against Dog’s warm neck and inhaled, for the last time, the sour scent of basset hound. The noise was deafening. Romulus’s battle cry rang throughout the coliseum. A whoosh of air sounded. And the danger passed by.

  Homer let go of his breath and raised his head. He and Dog were unhurt. The horse had veered around the hole. The race ended near the archway. Diana, the winner, laughed heartily, leaning out of her chariot to slap her brothers’ han
ds. Hercules motioned frantically from the top of the tank. “Hurry!” he called.

  As soon as Homer scrambled out of the hole, Dog started digging again. Homer reached in and grabbed Dog’s back legs, but Dog wiggled free. “Oh no you don’t,” Homer said, leaning into the hole and clutching Dog by his vest. Dog grunted and turned his dirt-covered nose up at Homer. He blinked his red-rimmed eyes. Why can’t I dig? he seemed to ask.

  That’s when something glinted at the bottom of the hole. Dog sniffed it, then pushed at it with his nose. Curiosity clouded Homer’s judgment. He grabbed an edge and tried to pull the object free, but it was wedged deep.

  “Woof!”

  Something dripped onto Homer’s face. He looked up into black eyes and a mass of black fur. “Uh-oh,” he whispered as he wiped drool from his forehead. “Good girl, Brutus,” he cooed. “Go away now. Go away.”

  Dog wagged his tail as he furiously dug. Nothing would divert him from the scent of treasure—not a rabbit, not a dozen rabbits, not even a Neapolitan mastiff twenty times his size.

  Brutus stuck her face into the hole and sniffed Dog. Homer covered his face as she sniffed him. Then Brutus thrust her front half into the hole and started digging. Like the Simple siblings, she was a muscular powerhouse, a force of mighty strength. After only a few strokes of her paws, the treasure broke free.

  It was a golden trophy. Dog wagged his tail and licked the trophy, cleaning away the dirt to reveal the engraving: SPELLING BEE CHAMPION OF THE WORLD.

  “Homer!” Hercules yelled. “Hurry!” His voice echoed off the coliseum’s walls.

  “Come on,” Homer urged. He reached in and grabbed the trophy. He expected Dog to start growling and barking at Brutus, as he’d done on their previous encounter. But Dog sat very still as Brutus sniffed him. Then he wagged his tail as she licked dirt from his nose. His saggy expression looked even dopier than usual.