Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (23 page)

“Good luck,” served as words of dismissal. Preacher let go a soft sigh of relief.

Plop!
came from another cannon touch hole. Then again. Then it was Preacher's turn. He took a swat, then glanced nervously at the stockade. Two more followed his. He suddenly realized he was sweating bullets. Much of this could take years off a life. He tugged at the spike to check its set, then hit it on the shaft. It bent but did not break off. Damn. He did not dare risk another. Preacher raised his hand to signal the others, and they stole off into the darkness, their task completed.

* * *

Preacher's small party, and those who had attacked the watch towers around the rim, waited out the rest of the night on the intermediate ridge. Their horses would be brought up to them. Elated, and relieved that they had encountered no difficulties in the night's activities, Preacher chose to spend his wait on a good snooze. He reckoned as how he would need every bit of alertness and stamina he could recover during the day to come. An hour before dawn, the main force arrived. Preacher roused himself to speak with the leaders.

“Yellow Hawk, I want you and your warriors to take your place where I told you about now. Have 'em keep low and be danged quiet. They must stay complete out of sight until I give the signal.”

Preacher had brought along six fat, greasy, paper-wrapped sticks of blasting powder from the trading post. He had caps and fuse for them in his saddlebag. Some would be used to distract and confuse the enemy, or to blow down the gates to the city. The first one would be to signal the Arapaho to attack.

“Have them take plenty water gourds, too. Wouldn't do for 'em to get too thirsty to fight proper.”

Yellow Hawk nodded his understanding. “You have fought many more battles than I, Ghost Wolf. It is good to have wise counsel. Only one thing worries me. That we are not to fight in the open, pick our enemy and count coup before we slay him and go for another. We have never fought this way before.”

“Let's hope you never have to again,” Preacher said fervently, recalling his earlier thoughts on the subject. “But this time it is important. The way the Romans fight makes it so. Now, if you please, go on and put the braves in the right places.”

Preacher turned his attention to the others. “Philadelphia, you'll lead our boys in this fracas. I'll be quarterin' the field between you an' the Cheyenne. It's gonna be pure hell to keep them dog soldiers from breakin' ranks and countin' coup before we can spring the trap. So I'll mostly be with them.”

“Think they'll listen to you?” Philadelphia asked with an eye on the patient Indians who remained with their mountain men allies.

“They'd better, if they want to stay alive. In the right hands, them javelins have might near the range of a Cheyenne arrow. They ain't like a head-heavy flint lance point. Timin'. Everything in this counts on timin'. We're outnumbered, sure's hell. But if we do this right, there won't be enough Roman soldiers left to form one of those . . . what do you call them ten-man outfits?”

“Contaburnium,”
Buck Sears supplied.

“Yeah. That's the one.”

Buck scratched his head. “You seem so sure of this, Preacher. Did you learn it from some army feller?”

“I'll tell you about it later, Buck. Right now, I want to go convince Blind Beaver to keep a lid on his men.” Before he could do that, he had one more task to complete. He squatted before Terry and put a big, hard hand on one slim shoulder.

“You do right like I said. Stay here on this ridge tomorrow. Don't move a muscle.”

* * *

Shortly after the sun rose two fingers over the eastern rim of the valley, the mountain-man-and-Indian army crested the ridge to the south. Not a signal went out to announce their arrival. Below, in the camps of the legions, the soldiers went about their morning fatigue duties of taking down the stockade and tents. The approaching host had ridden halfway down the reverse slope when someone first noticed them.

Brassy blasts on the long, straight, valveless trumpets sent the men hastily to their weapons. Tent mates helped one another into their breastplates and greaves. Bawling NCOs brought order to the ranks, which formed in the traditional Roman squares. By then, the bandsmen had been assembled.

While the invaders walked their horses onto the floor of the meadow, the
buccinae
hooted and the
clarinae
tooted, while the
timpanii
throbbed and rumbled in fine martial style. Lastly, the legates of the legions appeared, dashing on their powerful chargers, the cavalry legion of Varras swinging into the traditional position in the order of battle. They took their reports from their adjutants and began to exhort the legionnaires to do their utmost in battle. The enemy rode inexorably closer.

At about two thousand yards, their double line began to change shape. The flanks, two ranks deep, curved inward, while the middle, consisting of three ranks, hung back slightly. When they had molded in a bison-horn formation, they halted. All of this brisk human activity had frightened the small animals and birds to flight or silence. When the invaders halted, an eerie silence enveloped both sides. Curious eyes studied the “barbarians.”

Equally curious eyes took in the boxlike formations of the legions from the other side. Squinty Williams nudged Philadelphia in the ribs. “What they all bunched up like that for? They're just askin' for a shower of Cheyenne arras.”

“We'll find out soon enough, I reckon, Squinty,” Braddock replied. “Accordin' to Preacher, the old-timey Romans were real mean fighters. Whupped ever'body they went against.”

“Wull, they didn't never come against us fellers, I bet.”

Philadelphia stifled the laugh that rose in his chest. “No, Squinty, they didn't.”

Abruptly the drums opposite them began to throb. Bull-roar voices bellowed orders. In full regalia, complete with cavalry and band, the Roman legions began to march forward like a single man, rather than nearly nine hundred.

* * *

Marcus Quintus Americus gazed over the ranks of his brave legions. Pride swelled his heart. They were ready. They surely were honed as fine as any soldiers could be. They had about a thousand
stadia
to cover, and then the cannons would open up. The legions had heard them fired enough not to falter when they blasted away. And then the cohorts would pick up the pace to a trot, pilae slanted forward at eye level to these unprotected barbarians.

Riflemen would open up at the same time. This should be over soon enough that he could be back in the palace for a soothing bath and a light lunch. How tedious these matters could be. It would bloody the legions, which they would need. Knowledge of New Rome had undoubtedly become wide-spread outside the valley. Secrecy could not be maintained forever, he knew. Yet, he had hoped to keep the true enemy ignorant of his power and intentions for a while longer. A sudden shout came from ahead of him at the left-hand battery. It was repeated by stentorians until he could make meaning of the sounds.

“The cannon have been spiked! The cannon are useless!”

Those fateful words chilled Quintus. Everything hinged on the artillery. He looked about him in serious despair. He had to act. He must do something, and it had to be right.

23

It wouldn't do to start off with all this fanfare and then retreat in the face of a determined, if small, hostile force. There could not be more than a hundred and fifty of them, Marcus Quintus made a quick, inaccurate tally.
Be decisive.
The words mocked him. Yet, he must do something. Marcus Quintus turned to the trumpeter beside him.

“Sound for the legates,” he commanded.

With a nod, the signalman put the mouthpiece of his instrument, one which had been coiled to compact it, to his lips and blew. It produced a mellower note than the straight trumpets. At once, Glaubiae, Bruno and Varras turned the heads of their mounts and cantered to the center. They saluted formally.

Quintus spoke brusquely, not meeting their eyes. “I am sure you heard the disastrous news. Somehow those barbarians had the wit to infiltrate our encampment and spike the cannons. That places the burden of victory more directly upon your soldiers. We will advance within range of our archers and pilae. The cavalry is to divide and take positions to sweep those thin flanks back on the main body.”

“First Citizen,” Varras spoke urgently. “I recommend against splitting my force.”

“Why not?” Now Quintus glared directly into the black eyes of Varras. “Given a good shower of arrows and javelins, these unarmored louts will break ranks and flee. You will be able to slaughter them at your leisure.”

“Need I remind you that they all have guns. Even most of the red savages.”

Quintus found that a subject for contempt. “Savages cannot hit what they shoot at. See that it is done as I have said. I will take the center in my chariot.”

He dismounted and climbed to the platform of the gold-chased chariot. There he drew a silver inlay
gladius
and held it at the ready. Disgruntled, yet keeping their tongues silent, the legates of the three legions of New Rome rode back to their commands. There they conveyed the orders of their supreme commander, and the cavalry departed for the flanks of the mountain men's formation.

When they reached the desired location, Quintus raised his sword and ordered his troops forward. The band began again, and the soldiers stepped out with a steady, measured tread. They came right on until a distance of only fifty yards separated them from the invaders. Not unlike an exercise on the drill field, the commands barked from centurions to sergeants to the men. Javelins hissed through the air while arrows arched above and moaned their eerie song.

* * *

“Now ain't that obligin' of them to come in so close?” Philadelphia Braddock drawled.

Preacher agreed with him. “Sure enough is. Steady on, boys,” he added as the Romans halted, their formation still perfect.

Then came the commands to fire. The projectiles seethed through the air. Unlike the static squares of the Roman soldiers, the mountain men and Cheyenne allies were free to move at will. Which they did by jumping their horses forward enough to be missed by the missiles. A split second after recovering from the movement, they fired a ragged volley.

Bullets punched right through bull-hide shields. Even the brass ornaments on them yielded to .56 caliber lead balls. Preacher had taken aim at a fancy dude in a glittery uniform who seemed to be in command. His slug shattered the breastbone of Yancy Taggart and ended the career of General Gaius Septimus Glaubiae. The gaudy uniform became a heap of lifeless clothing at the feet of the
primus pilus
of the Thirteenth Legion. At such short range, not a one of the mountain men and Indians could miss. One hundred fifty-seven Roman soldiers went down in that first volley.

Marcus Quintus Americus stared on in horror as he saw his senior general slain with casual indifference. Another flight of arrows and javelins answered the fire, only to be avoided while men rapidly reloaded. The air turned blue with powder smoke once again.

Preacher made quick note that the discipline of the troops they faced had begun to falter. With a little luck, he might not even need to use the Arapahos. He drew a .44 Walker Colt, and the mountain men around him went to pistols also. The more rapid fire had a withering effect on the legions.

It had even more on the fancy-dressed fellow in the two-wheeled cart, Preacher realized as that one—it must be that Marcus Quintus—shouted an order. Another shower of arrows and then the Romans began to withdraw, marching backward, long rows of leveled javelins pointed at the men whom they left in command of the field.

“Well, if that don't just beat all,” Preacher declared wonderingly. “Don't know what to make of that.”

“Me neither,” Philadelphia remarked. “A feller gets himself all worked up for a fight like they did, it usual lasts a spell. They sure's the devil had us outnumbered.”

“They may be back. Best pull back a ways and stand fast. I mark that Quintus feller to be a tricky bastard.”

* * *

While the archers let fly another deadly flock and the soldiers hurled their slender javelins, Marcus Quintus Americus looked around him in confusion. Another ragged volley came from fifty yards off. Why weren't his own riflemen firing? For a moment, it plagued him; then he recalled that he had assigned them to cover the cavalry, which as yet had not engaged the enemy. Another thought struck him.

He would have to get a replacement for Gaius Septimus. His first spear had all the imagination and initiative of a stone post. Who could it be? Rufus Longinus of the Second? Yes. He had almost as much knowledge of military matters as Glaubiae had possessed. Bruno could get himself a new
primus pilus.
But this was hardly the place to hand out promotions. He turned to right and left, bawling out the most bitter order ever given by a commander.

“Fall back on the camp. Make it in good order and keep an eye on the enemy.”

Trumpets sounding, the order was relayed by the adjutants of each legion, one in temporary command of his. Slowly the tramp of thick-soled military sandals sounded, and the century squares became a retrograde movement. Dust began to rise in thick clouds. Not enough, though, to mask, let alone protect, potential targets.

Although puzzled by the retreat, the mountain men and Indians kept up a steady fire into the dwindling ranks of the legions until they maneuvered out of range. Quintus ordered his chariot to turn and get around the formations of troops. He wanted to be calmed and refreshed when he met with his generals to promote one man and offer advice. Tomorrow would be a far better day, he convinced himself. Besides, the omens had not been all that promising at the morning sacrifice.

* * *

Four-Eyes Finney seemed mightily pleased with himself. “He who hits and runs away . . .,” he quoted.

“Is a yellow-bellied cur,” Jack Lonesome added his own version to the end.

“Naw, that ain't it, Lonesome,” Four-Eyes corrected. “It's about livin' to fight another day.”

“Why'd they run? Why didn't we just finish them here an' now?” the grizzled mountain man pressed his point.

“Tell you what, Jack,” Preacher began diplomatically. “We got 'em whittled down some, and it's for certain sure those cannons don't work. But there's at least five of them for each one of us. What say we pull back to the base of the ridge and settle in. They'll do somethin' 'fore long.”

Preacher turned out to be right on that. An hour later, three officers, one with a white flag, rode out from the Roman camp. With them came a number of soldiers and a line of wagons. The one with the truce flag advanced to where the mountain men lolled on the ground, eating and sharing some scarce whiskey.

“Which one of you is the general in charge?”

Preacher came to his boots and tucked the stick of jerky he had been gnawing on in a shirt pocket. “I reckon that would be me. But I ain't no gen'ral.”

“What do you call yourself?”

“Folks around these parts call me Preacher.”

“By Jupiter and all the gods,” the young Varras blurted. “Gaius told us you were the one we saw fight in the arena.” His tone turned rueful, and his expression became wry. “No one but you could have made good on that escape.” He saw that his flattery had no effect on Preacher. That decided him to come to the point.

“We came to ask permission to recover our dead and wounded.”

“He'p yourselves. We've got no quarrel with them.”

“But you do with us?”

“Somethin' like that. There's those among us who don't take kindly to having our friends made into slaves and forced to fight to the death.

The trio of officers exchanged glances. The one in the middle, with the flag of truce, looked back at Preacher. “What's wrong with that? It's a good way for a barbarian to make a living.” They all laughed.

Preacher instantly developed a thunderous expression. “You keep that up an' you'll be joinin' those you came to get.”

Varras' protest came at once. “Bu-but we're under a flag of truce.”

Preacher reached up and yanked the white flag from the astonished general's hands. “Funny, I don't see a damn thing.”

Youngest and the most nervous of the junior officers, the one on his left spoke in a soft, quiet voice. “Legate Varras, I think he's serious.”

“At least
you've
got it right, Sonny,” Preacher snapped.

Touching a lightly trembling finger to his lips, the youthful general pushed his point. “Let's—uh—get on with it, shouldn't we?”

To their stiff backs, Preacher said, “You can come back for this rag when you're done.” To the others he spoke in a low tone. “We're gonna have to do somethin' about that rudeness.”

* * *

By the time the dead and wounded had been retrieved from the field, darkness hovered on the ridge to the east. Westward, magenta and gold washed over the pale blue of the sky. Preacher had men busy making objects from the thorns taken from the underbrush and rawhide strips. While they worked, he went among them, explaining what would happen.

“When it gits good and dark, we're gonna take these things out and scatter them in front of those little movable forts of theirs. Really sew the ground with them. Then some of us is gonna pay a visit to the big city.”

“How do ve get past dose soldiers?” Bloody Hand Kreuger asked in a surly tone.

“Ve
don't. You'll be with the others spreading these here caltrops. Horses don't like 'em much and men don't either. Messes up their walkin' right smart. I'll pick those goin', and everyone eat a good meal. We'll start out at midnight.”

True to his word, Preacher led an expedition out from their camp at midnight. He and eleven others would penetrate into the city and cause what havoc they could contrive. Another party, under charge of Philadelphia Braddock, set off to scatter the deadly four-point caltrops in the tall grass outside the Roman camps. Preacher's picks had smeared soot and grease on their faces, and all wore dark clothing.

They had a variety of flopped hats and animal-skin caps to break up the regularity of the shape of their heads. All carried pistols and knives, a few tomahawks. Rifles would only hamper them. At Preacher's direction, fire pit trestles had been heated and one end of each bent into a hook. Ropes had been attached and knots tied along their length. Preacher had remained secretive about the purpose of these.

When they reached the walls, the fires burned low behind the palisades and everything lay in silence. Preacher wrapped his hook in cloth and shook out a length of rope. He gave it a steady swing, moving his hand and arm faster with each circle. At last he let it go and it sailed upward. It struck a foot short with a soft thump. When it dropped back, Preacher tried again. Once more he failed.

“This one'll do 'er,” he assured the others in a whisper.

It didn't.

At last, on the fifth toss, the hook sailed over the wall and stuck fast when Preacher pulled on the rope. Quickly the others with hooks began to throw them at the battlement. When the sixth one caught, Preacher leaned back and went up his hand-over-hand, feet braced against the outside of the rampart. More men quickly followed until all twelve had scaled the barrier.

“We're here, now what?” Squinty Williams asked.

“I'd say a visit to the baths,” Preacher offered.

“Me?” Squinty squeaked out. “I've done took my summer bath.”

“I was thinking of breaking a few things in there and flooding the streets,” Preacher responded. “You won't even have to take off those ripe-smellin' moccasins, Squinty.”

“Don't you be doin' that to me, Preacher. I'll have to swim for it if you break that place apart.”

“Not if you run fast enough. Now, let's go.”

The twelve-man party made it to the baths without the
vigilii
spotting them. Inside, they subdued the night watchman and spread out through the series of pool rooms. Buck Sears led the way to the confluence of the underground waterways. There they plied crowbars and mauls to break the plaster away and penetrate the brick walls.

In no time after that, they were walking ankle deep in swift-flowing water. It spread through the baths and headed for the front door. Enough done here, Preacher thought. He directed them to split up into pairs and go do mischief.

“Keep a sharp eye for those watchmen,” he cautioned. He and Squinty headed for the central square, the forum.

“What are we going to do there?”

Preacher chuckled as he explained. “We're gonna wake up some ladies and scare them out of their nightshirts.”

Squinty cocked his head, then shook it. “You actual thinkin' about dallyin' with some wimmin in a place as dangerous as this?”