Free Preacher and the Mountain Caesar by William W. Johnstone Page B

me directions on how to find that canyon?”
    A hint of a smile lighted the face of Bold Pony. “It is possible, old friend. I could tell you simply to follow your nose. They are dirty, an unwashed lot. You can smell them from far off. Or I could tell you to follow your ears. There are many children there, and they seem to squabble all the while—very noisy. Or I could tell you to journey half a day to the east until you come to a big tree blasted by the Thunder Bird. There you would find a small stream that comes from a narrow opening to the north. Follow that and you will find them.”
    â€œI am grateful, old friend.”
    â€œIt is good. Now we must eat more or my woman will be unhappy.”
    â€œI’d rather to be off right away. But—” he looked up at the stout, round-faced, beaming woman and waggled one hand in acceptance—“I reckon another bowl of that stew wouldn’t do no harm. Half a day will put me there a mite after the middle of the night. I can hardly wait,” he said to himself with sarcasm.

6
    Eight men, who were dressed in traditional diaperlike loincloths and spike-studded sandals, marched out of a stone archway after the clarion had sounded and the portcullis had been raised. Four of them looked entirely unwilling. They had every reason to be, considering that they were captives from an ill-fated wagon train, not professionals, as were their opponents. When the eight reached the lavish, curtained box, they halted and raised their weapons to salute the imperator in the sanctioned words.
    â€œAve Caesar! Morituri te salutamus!”
    And, right here on the sands of the Coliseum of Nova Roma, they really were about to die. At least the four pilgrims were, who possessed a woeful unfamiliarity with the odd weapons they had been given. One had a small, round, Thracian shield and a short sword. The second had the spike-knuckled caestus of a pugilist—a fistfighter. The third had the net and trident of a retiarius . The fourth bore a pair of long daggers, with small shields strapped just below each elbow, in the style of the Midianite horsemen. The professionals bore the appropriate opposing arms. They looked expectantly beyond their soon-to-be victims of the imperator.
    Marcus Quintus Americus rose eagerly and gave the signal to begin with his gold-capped, ivory wand. At once, the gladiators ended their salute, each squared off against his primary opponent, and the fight commenced. Shouts of encouragement and derision rose from the stone benches filled with spectators. Many of these people, the “citizens” of New Rome, had been here for years. Not a few had formerly been the inmates of prisons and asylums for the insane. Whatever their origins, they had acquired a taste for this bloodiest of sports. That pleased Quintus, who resumed his seat on the low-back, X-shaped chair beside his wife, Titiana Pulcra, the former Flossie Horton of Perth Amboy, New Jersey.
    â€œRather a good lot, this time, eh?” Quintus asked the striking blonde beside him.
    Pulcra/Flossie tossed her diadem of golden curls and answered in a lazy drawl. “Come, Quintus, you know the games bore me. They are so gruesome.”
    From her far side, the small voice of Quintus Faustus Americus, her son, piped up. “But that’s what makes them so exciting, Mother.”
    Pulcra gazed on him coolly. “I was addressing your father, Faustus. Really, Quintus, for a boy of ten years, he has truly atrocious manners.”
    â€œEleven, my dear,” Quintus responded. “He’ll be eleven on the nones of September.”
    â€œWhich makes it all the worse. He needs a proper teacher. There’s geography, history, so many things, including manners, he should be taught.”
    â€œEleven is a good enough time to begin formal education,” Quintus countered. “A boy needs to be free to indulge his adventurous spirit until then, doesn’t he, son?”