Preacher and the Mountain Caesar (9 page)

He halted the animals in good order and stopped the vehicle without incident, due to the hand brake, an improvement over the original design. Bulbus stood in the gateway to welcome them. Born Able Wade, Justinius Bulbus looked the ideal director of a school for gladiators. His thick, burly body, low brow, jutting jaw and hairy ears made a clear statement of his past as a brawler and a thug.

Cunning and ruthlessness lighted his pale blue eyes, rather than intelligence. When recruited out of the dockside slums of Boston by Marcus Quintus, Able Wade had been more than enthused by the proposition made to him. He had babbled on and on about various weapons and fighting styles of the ancient gladiators. It became clear to Quintus that Wade had likewise shared the benefits of a classical education. Only the lack of a keen intelligence, and his father's sudden loss of a vast fortune, such as that of the Reardon's of Virginia, had ended that schooling abruptly and left Able in the lowest strata of society. Quintus could not have cared less. So long as the newly named Justinius Bulbus could run a school to teach men exotic ways to slay their fellows, he would be amply rewarded. Quintus now returned the greeting salute of the master of games and dismounted from the chariot.

“You are just in time, First Citizen.” Bulbus had had little difficulty becoming fluent in Latin, recalling snippets of it from his years in the finest schools. “We are about to begin the morning session. Come, join me in my box.”

“With pleasure, good Justinius. You know my son, Quintus Faustus?”

“Of course—of course. A bright lad.” Bulbus peered closely at his guest. “He certainly takes avid interest in the games.”

“That he does. The games to honor his birthday are coming soon. I am sure you have prepared a magnificent program?”

“Oh, yes. You see, we have this new contingent of Christians. I'm sure the boy will fair pop a—ah—button at the spectacle I have planned.”

Faustus brightened even more; his face writhed in expectation. “Christians, Father? How wonderful.” He clapped his hands in emphasis.

Bulbus directed his important guests to the small, private box that overlooked the practice arena. Exactly one-third the size of the coliseum, it afforded space for only two pairs to fight at once, or for rehearsal of half of one of the “historicals” or farces at one time. The rest of the participants in the latter two presentations looked on from behind bars set into one wall of the arena. They studied the movements of their counterparts, then changed places and did the routine themselves. Final rehearsals would naturally be held in the coliseum. Bulbus made sweeping gestures to cushioned chairs in the front row, and father and son seated themselves.

Bulbus raised an arm. “All right, let it begin.”

“Will Sparticus fight first?” Faustus asked the master of games.

Offended by this slighting of his star gladiator, Bulbus answered sharply. “Certainly not. Sparticus is my grand finale. Lesser-knowns are for opening the show. Today, and this will be a preview of your birthday games, young man,” he confided, “Baccus Circus will open. He has taken to training well and shows real aptitude.”

“He's a magnificent specimen.” Quintus brought the subject back to Sparticus, who had appeared while Bulbus spoke to the boy, and was working out in a side cage that could be seen beyond the wall of the arena. He nodded to the huge black man.

“Our legionnaires found him wandering on the high plain east of here. No one in Nova Roma knows his real name. He's a runaway slave, of course. And, frankly, I don't care to know his identity. He is the best gladiator in Nova Roma, as I am sure you know. But, a slave is a slave, so Bulbus owns him. Sparticus likes his work.

“He's never been intractable or rebellious. That must also be true from before he came here.” Quintus paused. “If you examine him closely, you'll find there's not a whip mark on him.”

Bulbus was not to be put off a lecture on his favorite subject. “Timing is everything with the games. It is like the theater.” He would have said more, but the shriek of wrought-iron hinges interrupted as the Porta Quadrila opened and two gladiators stalked out.

Big and burly, the first blinked at the sudden, bright sunlight. Thick muscles rippled in his shoulders and arms. He bore a spiked club and a small shield. His opponent, Baccus Circus, carried a round “target” shield and a twin-bladed dagger. Of nearly sword length, it made a formidable weapon. They paced across the sand and saluted Bulbus and his distinguished guests.

“Begin,” Bulbus commanded in a bored tone.

That this would not be a fight to the death soon became obvious. The middle-range fighter squared off with Baccus Circus, and they began a series of set-piece drills. They consisted of four or five varied attacks, at the end of which they engaged shields and weapons and rotated a quarter way around the arena. Both men soon glistened with sweat. Their smoothly shaven bodies sparkled in the sunlight. The speed of their drill increased with each engagement. Quintus, bored by so routine a performance, looked to his son.

Faustus stared intently at the battling men, jaw slack, lip parted, eyes glazed with excitement. His breath came harshly from a dry throat. Slowly, the pink tip of his tongue slid out and licked his lips. It was not, Quintus noted, a quenching gesture, rather one of unhealthy arousal for a boy so young. He quickly cut his eyes back to the contestants.

Their contest ended in the third quarter, when Baccus caught one of the spikes in the head of his opponent's club between the two blades of his weapon and disarmed the man. Quickly, Baccus stepped in and laid the flat of his dual knives against the throat of the other.

“Well done!” Bulbus shouted over his applause. “You are doing magnificently for a beginner, Baccus Circus.” He turned to Faustus. “Now it is time to see some real blood flow, eh, lad?”

Faustus brightened. “Yes! Oh, yes . . . please.

Bulbus made a full arm gesture and called to his staff. “Bring in Sparticus. And . . . one of those teamsters from the freight wagons, I think.”

* * *

Baccus Circus winced when he heard that. He hated the name given him. To himself, he would always remain Buck Sears. He hated what he had been forced to do. Most of all, he hated it when a fellow teamster captured in the high plains or the mountains was slaughtered needlessly to slake the appetites of some crazy fool who believed he lived in ancient Rome.

Buck had been brought here six months ago, after his train of freight wagons had been ambushed by men in the weirdest outfits Buck had ever seen. When he heard them speaking a foreign language, Buck at first thought the country had been invaded by the Mexicans. Only two years past the big war with Mexico, it seemed likely to him. Put into chains and forced to walk with the other survivors and captives, his first sight of New Rome stunned Buck.

This could not be. He didn't have a lot of book-learning, only six years of grammar school. Yet, he had a haunting suspicion that he should recognize the sprawl of shining white buildings and the seven hills they occupied. Rage almost earned him the lash when the captives had been led to the market, stripped, and sold like those unfortunate slaves in the South. He and half a dozen others had been purchased by a man whose function he did not then know.

Then he had been taken to the gladiator school. No stranger to fighting, the idea did not bother Buck, until he discovered that the contests were to the death. For all his moral objections, eventually he became resigned to it. At first, their training had been in English, with some Latin words worked in as they grew familiar. Now he spoke Latin with all the ease of those born in Nova Roma. Buck glanced up as they neared the portal and passed through with the first sensation of regret he had known in a long time. Against his better judgment, he quelled his reflections and remained at the iron lattice to watch the slaughter of his brother teamster.

* * *

Sparticus gazed coolly at the sorry specimen standing beside him. This wouldn't take long. The best Sparticus could recall, this one had not been at the school more than a month. What could he have learned in that time? Oh, well, the white boss says, “You do dis,” you sho'nuf do it. He says, “Do dat.” You do that. He shrugged it off and raised his arm.

“Give us a good show, Sparticus,” Bulbus told the big black gladiator.

Now, that would be a hard one. Sparticus lowered his arm and prepared to step into position. Frightened to desperation, the shivering teamster did not stand on formalities. He struck swiftly and without warning. Only by the barest of margins did Sparticus elude death.

“Bis dat qui cito dat!”
the spoiled little boy jeered down at Sparticus.

He gives twice who gives quickly,
Sparticus thought angrily. That was supposed to apply to charity—snotty little brat. He made a quick lunge. His opponent dodged clumsily. Sparticus pressed in on him.

With wild slashes, the hapless teamster defended himself. Metal shrieked off metal, a spark flew. Then another. The clash of blades became a constant toll of chimes. In a surprisingly short time, the teamster's wrists began to weaken. Sparticus played with him like a cat with a mouse. Small cuts began to appear and stream blood from the chest, arms, and belly of the amateur. Eventually the big black man grew bored with his sport. Swiftly, with a confusingly intricate movement, Sparticus struck again.

The short, Etruscan sword went flying. For all his furious action, the teamster went pale. Sparticus loomed over him. Tasting defeat, his opponent lowered his shield and let his chin droop to his chest. Sparticus looked up at the box.

Before Bulbus could signify the fate of the teamster, Quintus interposed a request. “Since it is close to his eleventh birthday, and he will be
imperator
at the games in his honor, I'd like to make a present to Faustus at this time.”

“Go ahead, Your Illustriousness.”

“Faustus, you may have the honor of deciding the fate of this wretch.”

Faustus gaped. “Thank you, Father.” Then young Faustus leaned even farther over the arena and thrust out his arm, the fist closed, thumb extended. With an exalted expression of ecstasy, he made a quick, jerking movement and turned the thumb down.

9

By the third day after their return to Trout Creek Pass, Preacher had to admit he had all he could handle to keep up with Terry and Vickie. Much of it centered around behavior they considered entirely ordinary, yet that which most of society frowned upon, or saw as outright immoral. If ever he was to find a family to take in the youngsters—he had long since given up on the return of their mother—Preacher felt obligated to instruct them in manners and other socially acceptable conduct. To that end, he established an open-air classroom in a stand of fragrant pines.

Squirrels chittered and birds sang from above while the children sat on the low stumps of trees harvested to build the trading post. It was going the same way it had during the past morning and afternoon sessions. Terry and Vickie sat politely, still and attentive, their cherubic faces upturned to Preacher. One by one, Preacher dealt with their moral shortcomings, as he and his culture saw them. They listened, he felt sure of that. Then, in the most innocent of words, they dismissed entirely every manner of conduct that differed with the way they wanted to do things. This afternoon's session had finally gotten around to their sleeping habits.

“Now, over the past days, I've been tellin' you a lot about how decent people do things. Also about the sorta stuff the good folk would never do. Some of it, I'm sure you understood. What sticks in my craw is how you manage to make it sound out of the ordinary and your way to be better. To tell you straight out, that cain't be with what I want to talk about this afternoon. There comes a time—ah—when youngins reach a certain age—that decent folk just don't countenance them sleepin' together, if they be of opposite sorts.”

“What do you mean?” Vickie asked, all sweetness and light.

“Take the two of you. Terry is twelve, you ten, Vickie. Decent boys and girls of those ages don't sleep together nekid, especially if they's brother and sister. They don't even sleep together in nightshirts. Or even like you sometimes on the trail, in all your clothes.”

“Why not?” Terry prodded.

Preacher's face clouded. “We been over this before. You both told me you knew about animals an' stuff. How they get their young. An' that sort of thing went on a lot among that brood of kids with your folks. Well, if you an' Vickie continue to sleep like you do, other folks are gonna think it goes on betwixt you.”

“But we
don't!”
they protested in chorus.

“I know that. But decent folks are gonna
think you
do.

Terry took on an expression of sullen defiance and challenge. “If they think those kinda thoughts, seems to me they cain't be too decent themselves.”

Preacher's cheeks turned pink. “Now, there you go, boy. Deep in my heart I know I'm right, especial for brother an' sister. Yet, danged if I don't have to agree with you. Only dirty minds could dwell on those sort of notions.”

Terry and Vickie gave him a “so there you are” expression. Preacher cut his eyes from one to the other, stomped the ground and turned away. Images of Indian children, all curled up together in furry buffalo robes, marched through his head. Over his shoulder he announced to them, “All right. Dang-blast it, all right. School's out for today. At this rate, I'll never make you fit to live among proper folk.” He grumbled to himself as he walked off.

* * *

Preacher did not get off the hook that easily. Early the next morning, over a plate of fried fatback, beans and cornbread, he found his good mood spoiled by Anse Yoder, the factor of the trading post. A strapping, amiable Dane under most circumstances, Yoder had his visage screwed up into the best expression of disapproval and anger that his broad, pink face under a tousled mop of straight, blond hair could produce.

“Preacher, those little hellions of yours have gone too far. Hoot Soames got howlin' drunk last night. When he passed out, I put him to bed in the common room. Those devil's spawn snuck in there, and they dribbled molasses all over Hoot's face. Then they cut his pillow. He woke up this mornin' thinking he had been tarred and feathered.”

Preacher's first response was to let go an uproarious belly laugh. He restrained himself and considered the situation over another cup of coffee. From what he had dragged out of Terry and Vickie, the children saw their former criminal activity as high adventure. It had taken some powerful talking for him to convince them to find another outlet for their charged spirits. He hadn't expected them to turn to stinging jokes on the customers at the trading post. He would definitely have to do something about it. That decided, Preacher prepared to relax, when Anse dropped the other boot.

“Just the other day it was Olin Kincade, near to killing himself trying to get out of the chick sale. Ya see, what those
schnorrers
of yours did was to rig some rattlesnake rattles under the bench in there, right by the opening. They had dem so that they made a purty real sound when a string got pulled. So, what happens? Olin went in to answer a call of nature. Those brats waited until he got settled all well an' good, then let go. Olin came up off that seat with a roar and nearly tore himself apart tryin' to get out. He forgot he had slid the latch bolt closed when he went in.”

“Now, that's nothin' that ain't been done before,” Preacher defended, all the while making a powerful attempt to hold in his laughter.

“That's grown men playing a gag on one of their fellows. No, sir, I tell you, Preacher, I tell you true. You have to find a home for them and damned fast at that.”

Grumbling to himself, Preacher finished his breakfast and looked up from his place. “All right, Anse, I'll do just that.” With that he left to find Terry and Vickie.

* * *

“Nope. Sorry, but I heard about them two already. What I want is for them to be as far away from me and mine as anyone can get.”

Preacher found the story the same wherever he went. Not a single household wanted anything to do with Terry and Vickie Tucker. After one silver-tongued effort to beguile a thickly set timber cutter, and father of four, the man rounded on him, double-bit axe in hands made hard by work.

“No, sir. I'd as leave have the devil hisself move in. Why that pair would pollute my youngins faster than a man can say 'Go.' Those Tuckers was nothin' but trash. Plain ol' hill trash from the west part o' Virginny. They just natural have the morals of an alley cat and the urges of a three-peckered billy goat. It's those mountains they growed up in, I think. Even the Injuns called them big medicine. The Cherokees, before they was removed from Carolina and Georgia, wouldn't set up a camp there. Only went for religion things. Whatever it is, it's done twisted those white folk that live there. Say what you might, Preacher. I just ain't gonna have them here.”

After they rode off, Preacher's keen hearing hadn't any difficulty picking out the faint sound of sniffing. The children had dropped back slightly, so he turned to see what caused it. Tears filled the eyes of Terry and Vickie. Caught in an embarrassing moment, Terry took a quick swipe at his nose with the back of one hand.

“There ain't anyone wants us, is there, Preacher?” Vickie asked, her voice shaky with weeping.

Preacher roughly cleared his throat. “We ain't seen
everyone
yet.”

“Don't matter,” Terry fretted. “No one's gonna take us in.”

Eyes squinted, Preacher challenged the boy's conviction. “I wouldn't be takin' any wagers on that, Terry.” He sighed and looked back at the roof peak of the cabin they had just left. “Maybe we ain't gone far enough.”

“But, you already said we'd come ten miles from the tradin' post.”

Exasperated, Preacher snapped. “Right enough. Only maybe that ain't far enough, considerin' the reputation you Tuckers has hangin' on you.” Then he softened his harsh words. “We'll look some other places.”

* * *

After four more refusals over the next three days, Preacher had about talked himself into accepting Terry's cynical version of their predicament. He had even agreed with his doubting side that given another turndown, he would return to Trout Creek Pass and keep the kidlets with him, at least until he had time to journey to Bent's Fort and hopefully hand them off to some unsuspecting pilgrims.

What an awful thing to do to both sides, he thought charitably a few minutes later. He had crested a low saddle and saw beyond a tidily built, inviting-looking cabin of two stories, complete with isinglass windows that sparkled in the afternoon sun. Thin streams of smoke rose from two well-constructed chimneys at opposite wings of the building, one of them of real brick. A lodgepole rail fence surrounded it, and defined a generous kitchen garden to one side of the front. A corral of the same material featured high sides, and a sided lean-to for sheltering stock from summer's heat and spring's rain.

A half barn abutted it, no doubt the remaining portion dug into the hillside. Then, on another small knoll, with a huge, gnarled old oak shading the plot, he noted three small, fresh mounds of dirt behind a split-rail fence that guarded the final resting place of those who had departed. Preacher confounded the youngsters by removing his battered, floppy old hat and holding it over his heart as he rode past. At a hundred yards, he halted and hailed the house.

“Hello, the cabin!”

“Howdy, yourself,” came the answer from the doorway to the barn, where a man appeared, a pitchfork in one hand.

“We be just the three of us. These youngins an' me are friendly, oncest you get to know us.”

Their host squinted, then nodded. “I know you, right enough. Know of you anyway. You're Preacher, right?”

Terry groaned. “We might as well ride on,” he said under his breath.

It didn't escape Preacher. “Now, hold on there, boy. Let him tell us that.” To the stranger, he answered, “That I am.”

“Ride on in, then. My wife's bound to have coffee on the stove. An' there's buttermilk or tea for these two,” he added.

“My goodness,
tea,
as I live and breathe,” Preacher said from the corner of his mouth. It brought a giggle from the children. “Mighty obliged, mister.”

Down at the cozy, large cabin, Preacher learned that they were Cecil and Dorothy Hawkins. Two rug-crawlers clung to Dorothy's skirts and peeked shyly at the mountain man, their eyes widening when they saw Terry and Vickie. Tears sprang into Dorothy's eyes as she studied the towheaded youngsters.

“Are they . . . yours?” she asked in a low, grief-roughened voice.

“No, ma'am. They're not. You might say they is orphans. At least for sure on their pappy's side.”

Cecil interrupted in an effort to spare his wife more sorrow. “You can tell us about it over some plum duff and coffee, Preacher.”

“Obliged, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Call me Cecil.”

They entered the house, the children showing the nervous excitement common to the good smells they picked up. This Mrs. Hawkins must be the best cook in the whole world. Seated at a large, round oak table in the center of the main room of the cabin, Preacher felt himself relaxing—this was a house full of love. This was also a house that had experienced a recent tragedy. He longed to ask about it directly. Good manners prevented him from doing so.

“What brings you this way, Preacher?” Cecil asked as though their earlier conversation had not occurred.

Preacher took a big bite of the plum duff that had been set before him. “Well, like I said, Cecil, I'm lookin' for a home for these tadpoles.” His hosts lowered their eyes. Preacher made a note of that.
Strike,
he thought in a cliche that had originated long ago in some army's surgical tent,
while the iron is hot.
“Did I say anything wrong?”

A long silence followed. At last, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, Cecil Hawkins answered him. “No, Preacher. Likely you said something right for the first time in a long time.”

Always sensitive to the emotions of others, Preacher spoke softly. “How's that, Cecil?”

“We—we just lost our three oldest youngsters, Preacher. It was—was a fever that sort of sprang up all of a sudden. There ain't any doctors anywhere around here, not for a thousand miles. We didn't know what to do. We doped them with goose grease and sulphur, put cold cloths on their heads and chests. Nothin' did any good. It . . . took a long time. We buried the last only three days ago.”

Sadness drew down the corners of Preacher's mouth. “I'm powerful sorry to hear that. The Almighty gives and He taketh away. It don't matter no-how what we wish things to be; the final outcome is in the hands of our Maker. I don't imagine, in your grief, you'd be willing to take on responsibility for two wild colts?”

Cecil and Dorothy cut their eyes, one to the other. A long, silent message seemed to pass between them. Cecil drew a long breath. “You say they are orphans?”

“Same as. I kilt their pappy, an' their momma has gone and deserted them.”

“Are they well-behaved?” Dorothy asked.

Preacher took a deep breath, then let the words out in a rush. “They could be, if you've a strong hand and a powerful will of your own.”

Another silent conference occupied the Hawkinses. Cecil scooted back his chair and came to his boots. “You'll excuse us for a moment?”

“Certainly. Take your time.”

Preacher drummed his fingers on the table while the pair left the cabin. Their muted voices came from outside. He could make nothing of what they said. At last, they returned. Expectation lighted Dorothy's face. Cecil cleared his throat, his hands doing nervous things with one another.