by Anthology
The roaring throngs along the street seemed in a gay and festive mood. Laughing men and women, obviously citizens of Caesar’s Empire, cheered and yowled, and threw things at the slowly moving chariot. One of these gaily hurled missives—probably a paving brick—came directly at Reggie, catching him on the forehead and blotting out consciousness for the third time.
It was not a bright and beaming Reggie Vliet, consequently, who finally came out of a fog of nausea and pain to find himself, no longer shackled, herded in the corner of what seemed to be an ancient locker room some hours later.
Looking through red-rimmed eyes, Reggie observed that the same hapless-looking, long-haired gentry who had been shackled with him all this while, were still clustered around him. Reggie realized, now, that these poor devils were probably captives like himself.
So he spoke to the ape-like, beetle-browed fellow who sat directly beside him. “Well,” Reggie observed, “where would you say they’ve taken us now, chum?”
The ape-like fellow shook his head dismally. “We are in the prisoners’ room of the great Roman arena, friend.” He sighed deeply. “In a little while we will be thrown to the lions.”
Reggie mused. “Well,” he said at last, “I’ve heard more cheerful opening lines than that. Are you sure we’ll be turned into lion food?”
The ape-like fellow shrugged. “Not all of us.”
Reggie took heart. “Capital, that’s more like it. Then there is a chance that we may survive?”
“I didn’t say that,” the ape-like creature declared gloomily. “I said that all of us won’t be tossed to the lions. Some of us will be given a net and a dagger, and sent out to face the gladiators of Caesar’s legions.”
Reggie gulped. “Ugh,” he shuddered, “But still, that isn’t as bad as the other fate eh?” His voice became even more enthusiastic, optimistic. “There’ll be a chance in combat with another human.”
The ape-like fellow appraised Reggie dourly. “Me,” he said at last, “I’m praying that I get the lions instead. They’re quicker.”
Reggie’s optimism drained like soup from a leaky tureen. He paled. He had been trying to keep the cold facts from his brain. But now he knew it was useless. The stark, numbing terror against which he had been fighting, returned a ghastly wave of cold sweat. He trembled uncontrollably.
There was no way out of this. Absolutely no way at all. For Cleopatra, wherever she was at the moment, had the Time Machine strapped about her lovely wrist. Reggie thought of the somber Lowndes and cursed him roundly. And then, of course, he thought of Sandra. At which point an overwhelming wave of anguish and remorse swept over him at the realization that he would never see her again. And worse than that she would never know what had happened to him. She would never know that he, like some gallant knight of old, had risked everything to step back into the past thousands of years, to tinker with Time so that they could be wed. Perhaps she would forget him.
So Reggie wept in great emotion until he became so engrossed in a magnificent feeling of self-pity that he brightened somewhat. He swept aside the realization that he had never for an instant imagined he was running a risk when he’d decided to go back into the past. He felt suddenly and splendidly heroic.
“Reginald Vliet Risks All For Love,” he declared. And the ape-like chap blinked in surprise at the words. And then from the corridor outside the prisoners’ room, there, there came a clanking of armor and swords.
A huge bearded Roman sentry entered the room. Behind him were other huge and bearded Romans. The first glowered fiercely at Reggie and at the rest of the prisoners.
“It is time for the contests,” he announced malignantly.
In the back of Reggie’s brain, a plan was forming. It was but the germ of an idea, but it grew more and more developed as Reggie and the rest of the unfortunates were herded to their feet and out of the room into the corridor.
As they marched along the corridor under the close guard of the Roman sentries Reggie turned again to the ape-like chap. “What was it that they call these contests?” he asked.
“A circus,” the chap replied. “A Roman circus.”
“What subtle senses of humor these Romans have,” Reggie observed. And then the pointed edge of a sword caught him in the seat of his toga and he increased his pace . . .
All the prisoners, including Reggie were grouped in a terrified band in one corner of the open arena. They had been this way for half an hour, while the chariot races concluded. It was an occasion, Reggie had to admit, of magnificent spectacles.
The place was jammed. If there had been mass cheering, and goal posts, Reggie would have felt certain that he had stumbled upon a Rose Bowl game. Any promoter would have given his remaining eye-teeth to have managed the gate on the crowd that was packed into this ancient stadium.
Then a Roman sentry stood before the prisoners. “Which of you swine,” he inquired pleasantly, “would prefer the lions to the contest?”
There was an instant clamoring, as all the prisoners including the apelike fellow begged to be designated as lion meat for the afternoon’s entertainment. Reggie blinked. Maybe there was truth and wisdom in the ape-like fellow’s previous preference for the lions as against the gladiators. But Reggie held his ground. His plan entailed combat in the gladiatorial ring. He would go down fighting.
The Roman sentry frowned. “Are you all craven cowards? Will none of you face our gladiators? Do all of you prefer the lions?” Then his eye caught Reggie.
“Ahhhh, now,” the sentry beamed ghoulishly. “Here’s a brave fool!”
Reggie gulped uncertainly at the dubious compliment. Then he squared his slim-shoulders, brushed his blond hair from his forehead, and stepped up. “You can give me a dagger and a net,” he declared, his voice sounding surprisingly like someone else’s.
The Roman sentry slapped Reggie delightedly on the shoulder. “A fine fellow. Somewhat puny—but courageous.”
Reggie picked himself up from the ground, where the gay slap had knocked him, and grinned frozenly. He heard a voice—that of the ape-like fellow—hissing at him from behind.
“You fool!” warned his fellow prisoner, “it is a captive’s right to choose what form of death he desires. Insist on that right. Choose the lions!”
Reggie weakened for but an instant. Then he squared his shoulders once more. “Give me a dagger,” he ordered, “and a net!”
So while the sentry led him off to get his weapons, and an announcer in the center of the arena told the howling mobs that only one captive would face a gladiator, Reggie went over his sketchy plan again. It was rather simple, although he hadn’t worked in the details as yet. Reggie had about given up all hope of getting out of this mess alive. He had also given up hope of ever returning to Sandra and 1944. This being the case, he had decided that there was but one thing to do—make a gallant and glorious end of it.
Reggie was here because he had dared to challenge history, because he had been foolish enough to endeavor to change it. And now he was caught, and there was no way out. But inside his fluttery heart, Reggie had made one vow. Before he left, before he died, he was going to alter history in some fashion. He would somehow justify his having come here. He would somehow embellish the name of Randhope on the pages of history before he died. He was going to personally assassinate Julius Caesar!
For Reggie had realized, even as he was being taken from the prisoner’s room, that the great Caesar was always present at the Roman circuses. The great Caesar was undoubtedly here today, occupying one of the better boxes near the center of the arena.
Reggie had a hunch that, should Caesar be assassinated ahead of time, history would change completely through the rest of its pages. And after all, what did he, Reggie, have to lose?
“Nothing,” Reggie told himself, while his thighs were strapped in protective leather. “Nothing at all. I’m a dead duck anyway.” And then they put a dagger in his right hand, and a huge, cumbersome net in his left. Someone shoved him to the center of
the vast arena, and the noise from the crowd was deafening—drowning out the knocking of the Vliet knees.
Reggie Vliet, Broadway playboy, stood awaiting the arrival of his gladiator opponent. Stood and shivered, a tiny dot in the center of the gigantic arena, while the mighty, blood-lusting voice of thousands roared buffetingly down upon him!
Sweat trickled down Reggie’s brow, and the dagger-hilt in his hand felt slippery and damp, while terror drained his strength until he could scarcely hold the heavy net in his other hand.
“Perhaps,” Reggie told himself beneath the roar of the multitude and the loud thumping of his heart, “perhaps I have been a bit hasty.”
And then, to the terrific explosion of sound from the crowd, the gladiator whom Reggie was to face marched into the arena!
Reggie Vliet, gazing strickenly at the advancing gladiator, had but one impulse. He wanted to run like hell.
But the very blanket of bedlam from the crowd pressed in on Reggie like something alive, holding him roofed, terrified, motionless. Unable even to gulp away the cotton that had somehow filled his mouth. And the gladiator came warily, yet confidently, closer!
The gladiator was wearing a thick iron helmet that came down over his face, covering everything but his eyes.
The eyes glared savagely from behind a metal visor, sending the blood running chill along Reggie’s spine. Every vital part of the fellow’s body was covered by thick iron armor, all except his arms, which seemed as thick and knotted as the trunk of oak trees. The gladiator was almost seven feet tall and, Reggie could swear, just, about that wide.
Looking hysterically down at the heavy net in his hand, Reggie wondered what in the hell he was supposed to do with it. Perhaps, he thought wildly, he was supposed to hide behind it.
But it had holes. So Reggie discarded that possibility.
The gladiator was less than ten feet away. Reggie felt morally certain that he meant to pounce, and so promptly retreated ten feet, dragging his net behind him.
Reginald Vliet had faced irate traffic policemen. Reginald Vliet had braved the perils of cafeteria food. Reginald Vliet had even faced creditors. But he had never faced anything like this.
The roar of the mob, although climbing to an ever increasing pitch of wild confusion, was forgotten by now. Reggie had but one thought in mind and it was basic: Self-Preservation.
There was something horribly business-like in the manner of the gladiator as he continued to advance. Something definitely frightened in the manner Reggie continued to retreat.
Reggie thought of dropping the net, but he found that his hand had somehow slipped through the mesh, and the thing was determinedly attached to him. While trying to free his hand, Reggie looked up at the gladiator, baring his teeth in a glare such as a rabbit might shoot at a boa-constrictor. But it had no effect. The gladiator continued to move cautiously inward.
The gladiator was so close to Reggie that he could see the lower—and exposed—half of the fellow’s face. The part where the iron visor ended. The part revealing mouth and chin.
And if Reggie had felt squeamish about his immediate prospects of living, a moment before, he now had no doubt about the fate awaiting him. For that jaw protruding below the iron part of the visor helmet could belong to no one but a Vanderveer!
This menacing hulk, then, was undoubtedly one of Colonel Horatio Vanderveer’s ancestors!
Reggie squealed in terror, backing sharply away, still tugging at the net, cursing his inability to free himself from its meshing. The gladiator, the Vanderveer forebearer, bellowed once and charged in.
At precisely that instant, Reggie tugged desperately on the net. And in precisely the following instant, the gladiator, the Vanderveer, did a neat somersault and landed on his head. The net, over which he had charged, had flipped him over just as if it had been a rug jerked sharply from under his feet!
Roaring wildly into his ears, Reggie felt the tumultuous applause of the galleries. Dazed, groggy, Gladiator Vanderveer was rising to his feet, a thin ribbon of blood trickling from his helmet.
Gladiator Vanderveer waved his huge sword in mighty arcs, making sounds like a maddened bull ape.
Reggie gulped, almost swallowing his tongue. “What is there about me,” he whispered to himself, “that the males in the Vanderveer line don’t like?”
And then, somehow, his hand was freed of the tangling net. Reggie wasted no time. He turned, dashing away from the trumpeting figure of the gladiator like a startled whippet. Reggie’s hand had been freed, but not his feet. Seven strides, and his foot was jerked out from under him, spilling him to the ground. The net meshings had tripped him up!
Reggie’s nose was in the dirt of the arena. A fact which wasn’t enhanced by the blood that covered the ground, and the fact that his small dagger had been knocked from his hand in the fall.
And in that horrible instant, while Time held its breath, Reggie remembered his resolve. He had to get to the box of Julius Caesar. He had to mess up Time in some slight fashion before he was slain by the gladiator!
Reggie clambered hastily to his feet. He felt the hot breath of Gladiator Vanderveer on his neck and dodged quickly, as the gigantic warrior thundered by him. Then, looking wildly around, Reggie spied the gala trappings of an ornate box along the side of the arena. There were no other boxes decorated in such lavish fashion.
Instantly Reggie knew that if he were to get to Julius Caesar, he would find him in that box. Gladiator Vanderveer, probably Tiberius Vanderveer, had pulled up to a stop, panting like some huge elephant, and was heading again for Reginald Vliet.
Reggie streaked to the side of the Arena. Streaked for the gaily covered box where the dignitaries of Rome were watching. Behind him, bellowing terribly, followed Gladiator Vanderveer.
As he raced madly toward the box, Reggie realized that he would have to choke Caesar to death, inasmuch as he was now without his dagger. The thought was repulsive to him. He had never killed a man. But Caesar was due to die sooner or later anyway. And what the hell—this was Vliet’s Last Stand, Reginald’s Final Act!
Three feet from the box, Reggie broke his stride into a magnificent leap—which was definitely unsuccessful, since the box was a full ten feet from the ground!
Reggie had the infinitely painful sensation of badly barked shins and bruised elbows. Then he was flat on his back, gasping skyward, the breath knocked out of him completely.
And then a heavy foot landed on his chest, and he was gazing in terror at the glowering features of Gladiator Vanderveer who was looking down at him. Caught!
While the crowds gave vent to their blood-screams, Reggie’s swimming eyes brought into focus the gala-colored box for the first time. And for the first time, looking despairingly at the faces of those who sat there, Reggie saw that Julius Caesar was not present.
This was the payoff, the final irony. His mad dash, culminated by failure, and topped off by the fact that the mighty Caesar was absent—probably home with a cold!
Gladiator Vanderveer was making grunting noises, while bringing his heavy foot down again and again on Reggie’s chest. And as gladiator thumped with his foot, he waved his huge sword and looked to the gaily covered box. And then Reggie remembered . . .
The gladiator was asking whether it would be thumbs up or thumbs down—an old Roman custom!
A girl rose in the box. Reggie had noticed her vaguely while searching for Caesar, but now her features became clear for the first time. She was Cleopatra!
It came to Reggie, in a sudden wave of horror, that as guest of honor in the arena, it was Cleopatra’s privilege to point her pretty thumb upward or downward over fallen gladiatorial contestants. It was her privilege to say whether he would live or die.
Anthony was beside her, Reggie saw this too from his place on the ground. And Anthony, face black with wrathful scorn, was whispering in Cleopatra’s ear.
“It isn’t fair!” Reggie bleated muffledly. “Influencing a referee’s decision!”
But obvio
usly Anthony had done just that. For Cleopatra’s pretty white hand lifted, thumb extended, and the thumb then pointed sharply downward!
The jerk of her hand was hard, sharp, positive. Death to Reggie Vliet, misplaced gladiator!
The voice of the crowd became a sudden wild scream.
Reggie closed his eyes, waiting for the sword to descend, to sever his head from his body. Nothing happened. Gladiator Vanderveer seemed to be hesitating. Reggie opened his eyes and saw why.
In Cleopatra’s sharp gesture with her thumb, two rings and a bauble had slid from her wrist and fingers, had fallen to the dust of the arena. Gladiator Vanderveer, gallant to the core, had taken his shoes from Reggie’s chest and was bending to retrieve them before getting them bloody with a death stroke.
Catching the gleam of the bauble which had fallen from her wrist, Reggie’s heart turned cartwheels. It was the wrist-watch-like Time Machine. With a squeal, he was struggling to his feet, diving toward the gleaming, clocklike bauble.
He got his hands on it by a superb dive, like a halfback recovering a fumble. Got his hands on it as he heard Gladiator Vanderveer bellow in astonishment and rage. Reggie closed his eyes, turning the dial on the tiny Time Machine, pressing the button at the same instant.
He thought he heard the swish of a sword above his head, and then he felt that familiar dropping sensation.
The rushing, roaring torrent of sound swept around him instantly. For a shocked, split second he saw Cleopatra’s deep liquid eyes widen incredulously. Then oblivion claimed him . . .
When Reggie opened his eyes again it was in strong sunlight. He blinked owlishly and peered about. He was seated on the summit of a grass-covered hill. At the foot of the hill, miles away, he could see a majestic city, impressive and mighty, sprawled under the clear blue sky.
Understanding came to Reggie in big chunks. He glanced quickly at his time machine, set for the year 410 A.D. It had saved him, with seconds to spare from the wrath of the Vanderveer gladiator.
