Preacher pulled his war hawk from his belt and gave it a mighty swing. It severed the thick cable to the capstan with a single blow. The braided hemp parted with a musical twang. The pulleys responded instantly. With a loud shriek, they payed out the loose rope and allowed the three-ton marble slab to descend in a rush on top of the mounted searchers.
Preacher could not resist a backward glance. The carnage was terrible. Only one horseman had escaped the bloody pudding that had been made of his companions. He sat slumped in his saddle, numbed by shock. Once more, the gap between fugitives and hunters widened. Preacher estimated another three blocks, once back on the Via Ostia, the main route to the gate and freedom.
He led the way around one corner, then a sharp turn to the right on the Via Sacra. With only a block remaining, Preacher discovered that the word had gotten to the soldiers. The legion cavalry had joined the search. They thundered forward to cut off Preacher and his friends along the Via Ostia. Ahead, the sentries labored to shut the heavy gates.
Preacher held back in the small plaza formed directly inside the gate to empty a cylinder load from his .44 Walker Colt. It slowed the cavalry considerably. Preacher exchanged his marvelous six-guns and watched as Philadelphia, then Buck, streamed through the narrowing gap in the gate. His turn now. He spurred Cougar and bent low over the animal’s neck. They hit the opening at a full gallop. Preacher further slowed its progress by blasting one guard into eternity with a. 44 ball.
Outside, the trio did not slacken their pace until they had ridden beyond the last cultivated field. Gasping in excitement, Philadelphia slapped one thigh. “We got away. By jing, we done it.”
Preacher looked beyond him at the nearly closed gates. “I’d not break my arm pattin’ m’self on the back just yet. Them gates is gonna slow the cavalry, but they’re comin’ after us. You can be certain sure of that.”
* * *
At the crest of the southern pass, Preacher called another halt. He and his companions looked back. Far back among the plowed fields they observed hurried movement along the roadway. Preacher took out his telescope and extended it. Peering through it, he made out the billowing scarlet cloak and dancing plume of a centurion. Behind him, the mounted troops of New Rome were strung out in a ragged formation that more resembled men fleeing for their lives than determined hunters. He nodded, satisfied at the lead they had, created by the confusion at the gate.
“They won’t be catchin’ up any time soon. Well, boys, what’s your pleasure now?”
Philadelphia considered that a moment. “I say we hightail it to Trout Crick and gather up as many good ol’ boys as we can. Then come back here and kick us some crazy Roman butt.”
“Sounds good to me,” Buck agreed. “But, I ain’t a mountain man. Will they accept me goin’ along on this?”
Preacher considered him with keen eyes. “If you kin hit what you shoot at, they’ll welcome you like a long-lost brother. If you kin do that and not make noise goin’ through the woods, they’ll give you their sisters.”
Buck turned him a straight face. “I know better than to walk on my heels. Spent some time with the Kiowa whilst I was freightin’ on the Santa Fe. They taught me to walk on the edge of my foot, and I’m at home in moccasins.”
Preacher and Philadelphia nodded solemnly. “You’ll do. Only first, I think we ought to confuse them fellers a little before we leave these parts, don’t you?”
Broad grins answered him. They set off, making no effort to conceal their tracks.
* * *
The stratagem worked. For only a moment the legion cavalry reined in where the escapees had halted. Then they set off at a rapid trot. Totally lacking in scouting skills, they made no effort to look ahead or to the sides. They stared only a few yards in front of their horses’ heads, eyes fixed on the sign of those they sought. It didn’t work.
The Roman soldiers soon found themselves in a box canyon. Confused and disoriented, they milled about at the face of the high wall that denied them further progress. Centurion Drago cut his eyes from one to another of his men. He was up for primus pilus—first spear, or adjutant to the legate—and dared not fail in this mission. Tradition in the Legio XIII Varras Triumphae said that the primus pilus was always elevated to command of the legion upon the retirement or death of the legate. He wasn’t about to throw that away.
“Find how they slipped out of here without our seeing the trail,” he commanded.
Thirty minutes later, a young cavalryman trotted up and saluted. “We have found it, sir. They crossed over the stream and used the trees to screen them.”
“Brilliant. A first-week recruit could figure that out. How many are they now?”
“Only two, sir.”
On the heels of his remark came a solid, meaty smack, followed by a brief scream and the rolling crack of a rifle shot. Before Drago and his troops could recover, the centurion heard the rapid drum of departing hooves. Right then, Centurion Drago made an uncannily accurate observation to his men.
“Jupiter blast that man. First Citizen Americus may not know it, but I think he had this mountain man, Preacher, in his hands all the time.”
* * *
Philadelphia looked up as Preacher ghosted in to the grove of aspen where he and Buck waited for the crafty mountain man. A broad grin spread when he saw the new layer of powder grime on Preacher’s right hand. Preacher slid from the back of Cougar and dropped the reins. At once, the broad-chested stallion went to munching grass.
“There’s one less of them.”
“How far behind us are they?” asked the always practical Philadelphia.
“I’d reckon at least half an hour. Most likely more, their horses haven’t had any rest, like ourn.”
“The bad news is there is only one trail out of here, unless we want to spend our lead climbing one ridge after another. Well, back to the trail.”
Preacher led the way. Two miles down the wilderness road they found another meander that circled a steep pinnacle and went beyond, with a side-shoot that ended atop it. They rested up there, eyes fixed on the winding trail through the Ferris Range, while they munched strips of jerky and crunched kernels of parched corn. By the fat turnip watch in a pocket of Preacher’s vest, forty minutes went by before the greatly subdued cavalry rode into view. At once they put away their eats and reached for rifles.
Preacher honed in on the third from the last man in the column. Philadelphia took the second; and Buck, the rear soldier. They fired almost as one. Swiftly, Preacher and Philadelphia began to reload. Below them, the trio of legionnaires jerked in their saddles and fell sideways off their horses. Shouts of dismay echoed upward to the ears of the shooters. Buck finished reloading last. Once more they took aim.
Three shots rippled along the canyon walls. Cries of alarm raised again, and Drago halted the column. A terrible mistake. It allowed the intrepid mountain men to reload and take three more from the backs of their mounts. Then Preacher was up and leading the way to their horses. Ten down, and they still had a quarter-hour lead.
* * *
Preacher led the cavalry of Legio XIII into four more blinds and successfully ambushed them, carving great gaps in the ranks. They had only settled down in another spot to pick off more, when the thunder of hooves alerted them to a danger they had not anticipated.
Fully fifty mounted troops, most foot soldiers unaccustomed to horseback, lumbered awkwardly toward their hiding place. Drago rallied his cavalry and charged with determination. No matter how well they fought, regardless of how many they killed, Preacher knew at once that they were doomed.
The Roman troops swarmed over them, took dreadful losses from the rifles, pistols and revolvers of the mountain men. Several received nasty knife wounds, and two had their skulls split by Preacher’s tomahawk. At last, though, they prevailed. After suitable punishment for their prowess, the soldiers trussed them up and slung them over their saddles. Preacher, Philadelphia and Buck found themselves on their way back to Nova Roma.
> * * *
Marcus Quintus Americus looked up sternly from the written report of Justis Claudius Drago. His brows knit, while anger ran rampant across his features. His words were formed carefully.
“Our laws are clear on this. Not only have you murdered twenty-seven members of our Thirteenth Legion, but you have escaped. The penalty for escape is death in the arena. My only regret is that you will not have long to regret your deeds and fear your ultimate death. My son’s birthday is three days from today. There will be games, of course. You three will be the central attraction.”
14
Excitement sent an electrical charge through the missionaries of the Mobile Church in the Wildwood. During all of their lengthy captivity they had never heard of anything so hopeful. Blue eyes shining, her long, golden curls a-bounce under the fringe of her modest, white-trimmed, gray bonnet, Sister Amelia Witherspoon hastened to take the latest news to her friend, Sister Carrie Struthers.
“It’s a sign from God,” Sister Amelia declared confidently. “If someone can escape from this dreadful place, then someone else can as well.”
“But you said yourself that they were men,” Carrie complained, her freckled face agitated below a wreath of auburn curls. “What can we possibly do, mere women?”
Amelia looked at her friend, blinked and answered sharply. “What can we do? We can put our foot down, that’s what. Demand that the men in this company make some effort to effect our escape.”
“Well, I’m not so sure . . . ,” demure Carrie began, long, coppery lashes lowered over dark brown eyes.
Fists on hips, Amelia responded forcefully. “I am sure! The least they can do is try to get away from this insane community.”
Deacon Phineas Abercrombie bustled over, his considerable girth inflated with righteous indignation. “Here now, what is this all about?” Amelia quickly told him. It did not sit well at all. He peered disapprovingly at her down his long nose. At last he spoke his mind. “I am sure you will agree. If it is God’s will that we become martyrs, then so be it. Who are we to question Him?”
Stubborn, Amelia continued to press her point. “What sort of martyrdom is it to be killed by lunatics who believe this wretched place is some rebirth of Ancient Rome?”
Abercrombie dismissed that reasoning. “That is for the Lord to decide, Sister. I am afraid I must forbid you to discuss this topic with any others of our flock. Besides, I hear that the men who escaped have been recaptured. It is really all so futile,” he concluded with a bored sigh.
Not one to be easily intimidated, Amelia Witherspoon flounced off to speak with others of their small congregation. In open defiance of the deacon, she urged them to join in making some sort of plan to effect an escape. Watching her from a distance, the deacon grew angry at the impertinent young woman. He made a casual, angled course to the bars at the front of their communal cell. There he made a covert signal to one of the guards.
A few minutes later, with Sister Amelia still urging at least resistance if not actual escape, a centurion arrived outside the iron gate to their prison. “Which one is Deacon Abercrombie?” he demanded.
“I am he,” the deacon volunteered.
With a curt gesture, the centurion sent two burly guards into the holding pen, and they roughly dragged Deacon Abercrombie out into the stone corridor. Without another word, the centurion started off with his prisoner in the firm grips of the pair of thugs.
* * *
Buck Sears looked across the dining table in the gladiator quarters at his new friends. “We’re going to be taken over to the coliseum tomorrow. There are to be rehearsals for the spectacles.”
Preacher looked up, lines of concern etched in his forehead. “How do you rehearse being fed to the lions?”
“It’s them Bible-thumpers, ain’t it?” Philadelphia asked. “You’re worried about them.”
“There’s women and children among them,” Preacher explained.
“Fools for comin’ out here, I say. An’ to’d you just a short while ago.”
Preacher sighed. “You’re right, Philadelphia. On both counts. It’s only with them bein’ youngins, it’s all so—so uncivilized bein’ a cougar’s light lunch.”
“No matter. There ain’t a thing we can do about it.”
“Right again. Only keep your wits about you, and if an opportunity comes to ... well, just be ready, hear?”
Philadelphia pulled on one large ear lobe. “Oh, yeah. For certain sure. I don’t know what sort of weapon they might give me, but I sure would like to wet it in a little Roman blood.”
Preacher forced a laugh he did not feel. “That’s the spirit. How about you, friend Buck?”
Buck shrugged. He had been giving that question considerable thought since their recapture. “I’d rather be dead than forced to fight every time they have some sort of holiday.”
Preacher rubbed dry, calloused palms together. “That’s settled then. We’ll look to give them a show like they’ve never seen before.”
Philadelphia’s sour expression belied his enthusiastic words. “Beats daylight outta sittin’ around wonderin’ which one o’ them profess’nals is gonna do us in.”
* * *
Bejeweled fingers aglitter, Marcus Quintus Americus caressed the gold wine cup he held, then set it aside as the centurion from the gladiator school entered with a portly, pompous-looking man with graying hair and the eyes of a prophet. The first citizen had dined sumptuously on roasted bison backribs, stuffed quail and an enormous fish. Recalling it made Quintus salivate. Then a flicker of annoyance shot across his face. Why could they never get the wine just right? It always tasted more like vinegar than a vintage selection. After a protracted three minutes, he raised his eyes and spoke.
“Yes, what is it?”
“He claims to have information for you, First Citizen.”
Quintus studied the prisoner in silence, sipped from his wine goblet and motioned the captive forward. “Bring him forth, then.”
Given a not-too-kindly shove, Deacon Abercrombie staggered forward. “I—I’ve come to you with a plot for an escape.”
Quintus threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Did you now? Would it surprise you to learn that they were captured earlier today and returned to Nova Roma?”
Although quaking internally, Deacon Abercrombie stood his ground. “No. Not in the least. I am not referring to those three men. This has to do with some of my own flock. They are talking about overpowering some of your guards and making a break for it. A young woman, Sister Amelia Witherspoon, is behind it.”
Quintus narrowed his eyes. “When is this to happen?”
“I . . . am not certain. Though I would imagine it would be when we are taken to the coliseum tomorrow.”
Considering this, Quintus jabbed a ring-encrusted finger at Abercrombie. “And why is it that you have come to me?”
Abercrombie drew himself up, an otherworldly light illuminating his face. “I have reached the conclusion that it is our destiny to be martyred. Our Lord wishes to call us home.”
Quintus despised these sanctimonious churchmen for their weakness. He could not keep the sarcasm out of his tone of voice. “How very convenient for your Lord that we have such efficient means to accomplish that. However, I am not clear as to why you slunk off to inform me of this. Hummm?”
For the first time, Abercrombie looked embarrassed. “I—I have come to the conclusion that while martyrdom might be a suitable end for many, and sacrifice for our Lord is always desirable, I—I simply feel that I have much more important work to accomplish during my time here. I have years of good works ahead of me. So, all—all I ask is that I be spared. My wife and I, that is.”
Quintus feigned surprise. The jeweled rings on his fingers sparkled and sent off spears of brightness as he moved one hand to his chest in mock distress. “What is this? Do you mean to say you want special treatment?”
“Well . . . yes—yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“Oh, you’ll get
special treatment, all right.” Quintus produced a wolfish smile. “You will have the privilege of fighting your way to freedom. After all, the rudis—the—ah—wooden sword of retirement—is a cherished custom of the games. Think of it, my dear deacon. If you manage to fight and claw your way over the bloody, broken bodies of your fellow Christians, you will be a free man, a citizen of New Rome and able to do whatever you wish.”
A low cry of anguish came from deep in Abercrombie’s chest. His knees sagged, and the men who held him tightened their grip. Quintus gestured to the centurion.
“Take him back. No, take him right now to the coliseum. Put him in one of the small holding cells alone. It wouldn’t do for him to have pangs of remorse and confess all to his followers.” As the guards frog-marched a stricken Abercrombie out of the dining chamber, Quintus looked across the room to his son, reclining on a dinner couch. “By the gods, how I hate such craven villains. They haven’t one drop of the sap of manliness.”
Those words stung Phineas Abercrombie, although what followed utterly humiliated him. “Will he die in the arena, Father?” young Faustus asked.
“Oh, assuredly. He’ll be the last to be chewed by the lions, because he will cower behind his people. And when he dies, it will not be with a roar, but rather a whimper.”
* * *
Word came by way of the slave grapevine. Preacher, Philadelphia and Buck took the news with grim expressions. Someone among the passel of Bible-thumpers had started stirring them up with escape in mind. The time for this attempt would be the next morning.
Preacher and the Mountain Caesar Page 15