Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (16 page)

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, thrilled 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.

“Don't talk that talk to me, white man,” Sparticus growled truculently.

Preacher ignored him. “I mean it. You can get out of here, too.”

Sparticus would have none of it. He came at Preacher with a huge cudgel, a single, long spike protruding through the side of the thick tip. It swished through the air as Preacher jumped backward. Muscles rippled under the oiled black skin as Sparticus planted another big foot on the sand and advanced again.

Preacher whipped the air with his flail. The spiked ball smashed into the boss of the shield on Sparticus' left arm. It made a resounding, thunder-clap sound. Instead of retreating, Sparticus stepped in. The men found themselves chest to chest. The muscles in Preacher's left arm and shoulder strained to hold the powerful arm that supported the cudgel.

To the onlookers they appeared to be dancing as they shuffled their feet to find better purchase. Some began to clap rhythmically. Cries of “Fight! Fight!” rang in the tiers. Preacher spoke quiet reason to Sparticus.

“Even though slavery is the law of the land, it don't amount to a hill of bison dung out here. If you join us in winnin' free, an' takin' them helpless missionaries with us, I'll personally guarantee that you can make a new life for yourself in the High Lonesome, an' live a free man.”

Sparticus curled his lips in a sneer and snarled his reply while he cuffed Preacher with a backhand blow with the cudgel. “What do I want that for? I'm due to earn the
rudis
soon. That'll make me a wealthy man, an' free. Why should I risk all of that for a passel of white folk who prob'ly owned slaves before they got captured?”

Preacher gave it another try. “They're Bible-thumpers. Mission folk. Their kind don't hold slaves.”

“Knowed me a preacher-man down South. He owned hisself three house slaves. I'll be a big man around here after I kill you an' retire.”

Unable to obtain dominance above, Preacher used an old Indian trick. He shifted his weight to one leg, shot the other forward and hooked his heel behind the ankle of Sparticus.

With a swift yank forward, he toppled the big black gladiator off his feet. At the last second, Preacher rolled away as Sparticus crashed to the ground. Impact forced grunted words from Sparticus' mouth.

“You're good, I give you that. Who are you, anyhow, Arturus?”

Preacher decided to gamble it all. He turned his flinty gaze straight into the eyes of his opponent. “They call me Preacher.”

An expression of respect, flavored with awe, filled the gladiator's face. “Fore Jesus, I didn't know.”

They had come to their knees now. The force of their impact with hard-packed sand had knocked the flail from Preacher's hand. He saw the trident only a scant foot from his grasp. Sparticus hefted the club and licked his lips.

“I'll be the richest man around if I finish you,” Sparticus declared.

“If.
I'd think on that were I you.”

Sparticus found that to somehow be funny. He threw back his head to laugh, and Preacher quickly unfurled his net and flung it over the kneeling man. Sparticus flung it off like a mere cobweb. Though not before Preacher could snatch up his trident. Opposite him, Sparticus bounded to the soles of his high-laced sandals. Preacher seemed to react slowly, gathering his net.

With the quickness that made him famous, Sparticus charged. The cudgel led the way. Preacher deflected it with the shaft of his trident and prodded at the chest of his opponent. Sparticus laughed mirthlessly and came on. Forced to give ground, Preacher brought his heel down on the haft of a dropped weapon. Instantly, he stumbled and tottered off to one side.

Sparticus seized the moment. “You gon' die, Preacherman.”

Preacher recovered himself as the deadly club swished past his left ear. The heft of the lethal object slammed painfully into the top of his shoulder. Already directed to its target, the trident cut a ragged gash in the lean side of Sparticus. Dizzied by repeated injury, Preacher missed an opportunity to end it.

Pain made his next cast erratic. The net slid from the oiled skin of his opponent and fluttered to the ground. Goaded by the press of time, Preacher hastily gathered it. A blur of movement told him Sparticus had anticipated the miss. The black man bore down on him and forced another retreat.

Feeling the effects of blood loss, Preacher stumbled again. Seized by a frenzy, the crowd howled and stomped their feet. Sparticus acted at once on the tiny break given him. Overconfident now, he stepped in for the kill, only to have Preacher let loose the net again, this time tightly furled. Using a technique he had learned from the instructors, he sent it out like a sinuous snake to coil around Sparticus' ankles.

Immediately he recovered his balance. Preacher ran swiftly around the black gladiator and bound his legs together. Then, a hefty yank took Sparticus off his feet. In a staggered rush, Preacher closed with him and held the trident poised to drive two tines into the man's thick neck. Slowly, reluctantly, he looked up at the imperial box.

Quintus Faustus had bounded to his sandals moments earlier. He jumped up and down in agitation, his face white, eyes wild, his small, red mouth twisted grotesquely. His breathing came rapidly, and he showed obvious signs of arousal. He cut his pale blue eyes to Preacher's hot, gray orbs as he stuck out his arm.

Slowly, almost lasciviously, he turned his thumb down.

“Last chance,”
Preacher told Sparticus.

With considerable regret and hesitancy, Sparticus nodded in the affirmative. Preacher relaxed the position of his weapon. Above him, the shrill voice of Faustus held an edge of hysteria.

“Kill him! Kill him!”
he wailed.

Calmly, ignoring the willful child, Preacher reached down and unbound the legs of Sparticus, raised him to his feet and disarmed him. Then he turned to the box.

“He yielded,” he said simply.

Face clouded with tantrum warning flags, Faustus shoved out his lower lip in a spiteful, pink pout. “I don't care. It's my games, and my birthday, and I want to see men die.”

Preacher replied with calm restraint. “I will not kill a man who yields to me.”

White froth formed in the corners of Faustus' mouth. He dropped his wand of authority into the cushion on his chair and made small fists of his slim, long-fingered hands. His sallow face flushed scarlet as he stamped one foot like a girl.

“I want him dead! Now! Now! Now!”
he shrieked.

To his surprise, Preacher looked on as Marcus Quintus rose from his chair and spoke into his son's ear. At the first words, the boy went rigid, and he shook with the intensity of his childish fury. The more Quintus spoke, the lower the shoulders of Faustus drooped. At last, his tower of rage was reduced to a pitiful bleat.