Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (17 page)

“But, Father.”

“Do it!”
His father hissed loud enough to be heard by the men on the sand.

In a show of bad grace, the boy gave a reluctant nod of agreement. He picked up his wand and raised it above his head. The trumpets blared. By then it had become unnecessary. The spectators perched on the edges of their seats in silent expectation. Faustus pointed to the surviving gladiators, one by one.

“Come forward,” he intoned.

Preacher, Sparticus, Philadelphia, and Buck did as commanded. They were the only ones. Faustus shook with his barely suppressed outrage, and he stammered as he addressed the four fighting men. He again pointed at each one with the staff of office.

“Since you three are under sentence of death for attempted escape, and you, Sparticus, have made a cowardly surrender and are already a dead man in our eyes, you shall all be thrown in with the Christians and lions. Let the games proceed.”

17

Preacher faced the frightened missionaries in the large holding pen. Arms folded across his chest—a gesture of strength and determination he had picked up from the Indians, rather than one of weakness—he addressed them in a low, hard voice.

“I am only going to say this once. The only way out of here is to fight. There will be plenty of weapons about the arena. I seen 'em puttin' out swords and some spears. They won't be as good a quality as what the gladiators have, but you can kill with them.”

“To kill another man is to damn your soul for eternity,” Phineas Abercrombie blustered. “Not a one of us will do that.”

Preacher cocked his head to one side and eyed Abercrombie with a cold eye. “I was thinkin' on them mountain lions. They're fixin' to eat you before you have a chance to turn a sword on a man. You'd best be willin' an' able to stop them before you go worryin' about facin' a man.”

Raising a stubborn chin, Phineas answered stubbornly. “If it comes to that, we'll be martyred with a hymn on our lips.”

“Where's your pappy, Sonny? Best be hidin' behind his skirts,” Preacher grunted, then turned to the others, ignoring the pompous Abercrombie. “Your best bet is to fight back to back, four of you together. Protect your wimmin an' children inside the squares. That way no lion can come at you unexpected. When the last one is finished off, that's when we go for the walls. Help one another up an' over and then we make a dash for it.”

Encouraged by Preacher's positive outlook, Sister Amelia Witherspoon came forward. “Do you think we really have a chance?”

“If you do what me an' my friends say, you have a lot better chance than followin' this feller here who seems hell-bent on dyin' for no reason. Seems to me he's a few straws shy of a haystack. For the rest of you, I reckon you know what to do when the time comes.”

“What if we do kill the lions, only to be faced by men?”

Preacher gave them a nasty smile. “Well, there ain't many of them left. Or didn't you watch us out there? But, by damn, if that's the case, you kill them, too. It's the only way.”

Tingling notes sounded the final fanfare.

* * *

Out on the sand, the missionaries stood in blinking confusion. Boos and insults greeted Preacher and his fellows. Ignoring them, the four fighting men quickly armed themselves. Catcalls and jeers rang down on the terror-stricken Gospel-shouters. Tentatively, Sister Witherspoon began a hymn.

That brought gales of raucous laughter. More mocking retorts came from the audience. One bloodthirsty spectator pointed at Amelia. “Hey, that one's good-looking. Wonder how she'd be in . . .”

“Why aren't they in the buff, like usual?” inquired another.

“Where's that fat one I saw brought in?”

A smaller, low gate swung open, and one of the handlers gave a mighty shove to the back of Deacon Abercrombie. He stumbled out onto the sand, bare to the waist. His pale, bleached-looking skin and flabby condition produced a windstorm of scornful sniggers. His wife ran to him, tears bright in her eyes, face a-flame with embarrassment.

“Cover yourself with my shawl.”

Shame encrimsoned the deacon's face. “You might not want to be kind to me, my dear. I—I betrayed you all to that monster Quintus. I only wanted freedom for you and I. I fear I may have prevented your one good chance to escape.”

She draped the shawl over his shoulders and patted him consolingly. “There is a strange man, one of the gladiators, who says we still have a way to get out of here.”

“Where is he?” Abercrombie asked eagerly.

“Over—over there.” Agatha Abercrombie pointed to Preacher.

Phineas Abercrombie scowled. “The troublemaker. I'd not put much stock in him, my dear.”

And then they let out the lions.

At once, Deacon Abercrombie began to edge toward Preacher. The spectators cheered and shouted. They rose and clapped their hands in a wavelike motion around the tiers of seats. At first, the cougars seemed as confused and blinded by light as their intended victims. They padded about without direction, sniffed the air and uttered menacing growls. Tension built while the short-sighted critters sought to locate their prey. Two met head-on and traded swats and snarls. Three of the Mobile Church in the Wildwood's women uttered shrill screams.

One big, anvil-headed beast raised up from sniffing and turned baleful yellow eyes toward the sound. The women screamed all the more. One of the men broke and began to run to the far side of the arena from the deadly animals. At once the golden-orbed puma changed into a study in liquid motion. Flawlessly he streaked through the frightened missionaries, most of whom had remained stock still.

It rapidly closed the ground and launched itself at the back of the running Bible-thumper. Long, curved claws ripped mercilessly into tender flesh and raked along the back of the helpless man. His screams of agony set off a new explosion of yelling, stomping and applauding among the onlookers. At once, Deacon Abercrombie's flock came to life and scrambled as one to put distance between themselves and the ravenous animals.

* * *

Preacher turned with all the fluid ease of the deadly cat and hacked through its spine, above the shoulders, with a single blow from the
gladius
he held. It died at the same time as the missionary it had attacked. Instantly, Preacher turned to face another of the beasts bent upon attacking him.

“Dang it,” he roared as he split open the nose of the offending puma, “do like I said!”

With Philadelphia on his right, Buck on the left, and Sparticus behind, the four fought off three more cougars. First two, then six more of the missionaries got the idea from this efficient means of downing the snarling bundles of lightning-fast fury. They quickly armed themselves and formed defensive squares. Only Deacon Abercrombie remained alone and exposed. One big cat soon discovered this. While his wife screamed with terror and the deacon made squawking noises, the cougar pounced.

“Stop! I command you in the name of the Lord,” Abercrombie found voice to thunder. Then he was shrieking out his life. The sand soon pooled with red. A woman among the missionaries screamed when a mountain lion dragged her out of one formation.

Only a short distance away, Preacher took two fast steps forward and plunged the leaf-bladed
gladius
to the hilt in the animal's chest. It released the woman, shivered mightily, arched its back, and fell dead as Preacher drew out the sword. Fickle as always, the crowd went wild.

Now the spectators cheered the beleaguered missionaries. They had thought to be amused by the pitifully useless antics of the condemned wretches, only to find objects of admiration in the sudden courage displayed by desperate people. Preacher took note of it and spoke to his companions.

“Imagine that. All of a sudden they're on our side. Reckon that'll jerk the jaw of that bloody-minded boy-brat.”

Buck answered through a grunt of effort as he split the skull of yet another cougar. “He likes to see blood run, right enough. But I don't think it's that of his prize cats. That one's sick in the head. You can tell by the look in his eyes.”

“Best save our breath for fightin',” Preacher advised. “Let's get these folk on the move, form up close together, in two lines. Less target for the cougars that way.”

One of the tawny creatures leaped into the air for a high attack. Preacher squatted and split open its belly with his
gladius.
“What good will that do?” Sparticus grumbled as he drove a
pilum
into the chest of a raging puma.

Preacher answered quickly. “We can move around the sand like the hands on a clock. Finish off what's left in no time.”

At the shouted urges of the mountain men, the desperate missionaries began to form into two lines, back-to-back. Over his shoulder, Preacher called to those behind him. “Can you walk backwards an' still fight them critters?' When they assured him they could, he issued a loud, if imprecise, command.” Then let's git to it.“

The crowd howled in glee as the enraged cougars died one at a time. When only a single pair remained, those on the sand could not hear a word said by anyone beside them. All around them, the last of the big cats could smell the odor of their dead companions. Fangs dripping the foam of their fury, they flung themselves at the wall of human flesh that inexorably forced them to move. A scream emboldened them as an inexperienced missionary went down, his chest and belly clawed open. The cougar that had felled him did not get to savor its victory.

Even before the line had formed, Amelia Witherspoon had taken up a
pilum
and had speared one of the cats. Now she sank the javelin into the side of the blood-slobbering beast that had disemboweled Brother Frazier. The creature screamed like a woman, arched its back and lashed out uselessly with weakened paws. Amelia hung on to the shaft and felt the power of the animal vibrate through her arms. The hind feet left the ground, and she had to let go quickly to keep from being dragged down onto the dying cat.

“Good girl,” Preacher said, though no one could hear him over the roar of the mob in the stands. “I knew she had some pluck.”

An instant later, he had to defend his life against the last of the beasts. It hurtled at his part of the line with a mighty, bowel-watering roar. Preacher buried his
gladius
in its chest, though not before it had its forelegs wrapped around him and the claws bit agonizingly into his back. Then, half a dozen swords, javelins, and tridents sank into the golden coat to drive the last of life from the animal. Pressure eased in Preacher's back, and he felt the gentle touch of Philadelphia as his friend pried the claws from him.

“It's all done.”

“I doubt that, Philadelphia.”

Once assured that no more mountain lions lurked to spring upon them, the surviving force turned as one to face the blighted little boy who ran the games. Preacher saw through the haze of pain, and the sting of sweat in his eyes, that Faustus' face had been twisted into a mask of evil. With a sudden-born smile of such sweetness as to melt the hardest heart, the boy made a signal with his imperial baton.

* * *

First came the cleaning crew. They hauled off the carcasses of the dead cougars, spread fresh sand over the pools of blood, then exited. It gave everyone time to catch their breath. It also allowed the timid among the missionaries to exercise their imaginations on what might come next. Preacher, Philadelphia, Buck, and Sparticus considered the same thing, though not colored by fear and trepidation.

“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.