by Anthology
Reggie shivered in the warm air. He thought of Cleopatra and Anthony and his sad failure to change the history of their lives. It occurred to him suddenly that they were both dead for centuries by this time. Dead, and already the history of their love had been recorded and nothing he or anyone else could do would change it.
“Pretty much of a flop on that deal,” Reggie muttered to himself. “If I don’t do better pretty soon I might as well give up the ghost. I’ve got only four more chances.” He wiped his hand over his forehead and suddenly he started trembling. A horrible thought had burst upon him. He had almost been killed in the arena. If Cleopatra hadn’t dropped the Time Machine right in front of his nose he’d have been a goner.
Reggie wiped his suddenly damp hands on the abbreviated toga he was wearing. It was all happened five hundred years ago but that was still too close for comfort. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, still trembling nervously from his narrow escape. He couldn’t forget the fact, however, that he had failed. Failed miserably to reroute the course of history by so much as one historical inch. He was as far away from his goal as when he started back into time.
A great feeling of futility stole over Reggie as he thought about the Vanderveer gladiator, with the unmistakable Vanderveer jaw. It was slightly encouraging to realize that the Vanderveer family tree had its share of sour apples but it was damned discouraging not to be able to do something about it.
Reggie squared his shoulders. The stern gritty stuff in him came to the fore.
“I won’t miss the next time,” he vowed grimly, “I’ll disrupt things so badly that they’ll have to rewrite America’s Sixty Families from cover to cover to keep up with me.”
He looked down at the magnificent metropolis spread out beneath him. Why—that’s Rome, he realized excitedly. Mighty Rome, Mistress of the Mediterranean, Ruler of the known World, at the height of her wealth and power . . .
He wheeled and shaded his eyes with his hand. Off in the opposite distance from Rome his questing gaze was rewarded. There spread over acres of ground was a sprawling, barbaric camp. Even at that great distance, Reggie could recognize wild Asiatic horses, tethered in herds away from the numberless tents that dotted the ground.
Reggie trembled with excitement. He knew he was looking at the savage armies and retinue of Alaric, the mighty Gothic warrior, who had sacked and destroyed Rome in the year—his heart leaped—in the year 410! He remembered the date from his school days. It was said that the sacking of Rome and the dissolution of the Roman Empire was one of the most significant events in all history.
Reggie’s heart began to thump faster. Supposing—supposing he could change that—prevent Alaric from sacking Rome? It would change the entire course of the world. Hope began to burn again in Reggie’s heart. A change of such consequence would unhorse the Vanderveers, for all time, from their snobbish seats of heredity and background.
Reggie spat on his hand and squared his jaw.
“Alaric,” he muttered, “here I come!”
The distance to Alaric’s camp was farther than it looked, and, by the time Reggie reached its outskirts, the sun was dropping like a brass ball on the horizon.
Reggie approached the camp cautiously. He debated whether he should barge right in or whether it might be wiser to slip in quietly. Before he could make up his mind, however, the decision was taken out of his hands.
He heard a furious, hungry yapping behind him. He looked and saw two massive slavering dogs charging toward him, their blood-thirsty baying growing louder by the second.
A hero or an imbecile might have accepted their definitely unfriendly approach as something in the nature of a challenge to be faced and rebuffed; but, fortunately for Reggie, he was neither of the above.
He wheeled and ran. His torn and dusty toga stretched out behind him as his thin legs went into action. Down the short stretch leading to Alaric’s camp, he raced. The baying grew behind him. Other mastiffs, entering the spirit of the thing, were joining the chase. Reggie risked a terrified glance behind him, saw that the drooling fangs of the nearest dog were but inches from his flying heels.
“Help!” he screeched. “Help!”
He was streaking into the camp proper now, a round dozen hounds yapping at his heels. From the corners of his rolling eyes, Reggie caught a confused blur of bearded men emerging from tents, weapons clutched in their fists. A crescendo of sound rose from the camp as the screams of the women and the yowlings of the dogs blended into a mad unholy cacophony.
In spite of his frantic efforts to remove himself from the dog’s menu as a supper special, Reggie was able to realize that he had not chosen the most ideal manner in which to creep into Alaric’s heart.
He glanced desperately over his shoulder. The dogs were almost upon him. It was at that precise instant that something gave way in Reggie’s overworked knees. He wasn’t conscious of falling. One minute he was racing along and the instant his face was plowing into the dust.
He heard shouts and angry barking intermingled horribly. He buried his head in his hands. “This is the fitting end for a hot-dog addict,” he thought fleetingly. But the barks came no closer.
Reggie remained in his ostrich-like position for several dark seconds and then he cautiously raised his head. The dogs were a scant ten feet away, snarling and growling at him, but venturing no closer. Then Reggie saw the reason for this.
A tall, magnificent woman, dressed in a very unconcealing leather garment, was slashing at them with a short blunt whip and shouting angrily.
Reggie stared at her, fascinated. Muscles rippled up and down her bare back as her sinewy arm rose and fell the whip. The dogs were slinking away under her onslaught and Reggie didn’t blame them.
In a matter of seconds it was all over.
Reggie stood up and tried to brush himself off. A score or so of bearded barbarians watched him with impassive eyes but the woman who had driven the dogs away was openly curious.
“Where you from?” she asked with commendable directness.
Reggie looked into her strong handsome face and into her childlike brown eyes and smiled. “Oh, nowhere in particular.” He glanced up the road he had just been chased. “Kind of sporty course you got here. Does everybody get a crack at it, or is it reserved for specials?”
The girl spread her lips in imitation of Reggie’s smile. Then she walked to his side and took his arm. “Come,” she said, “I like you.”
Reggie shrugged. It might be a good idea to ingratiate himself with this girl. She might be some chieftan’s daughter. “Sure thing, old kid,” he said brightly. He patted himself mentally on the back. This kid might be the daughter of Alaric himself. “Lead on,” he said.
She led him to her tent. It was a larger tent than the others and was comfortably lined with cured pelts. Heavy bear and wolf-pelts covered the dirt floor and in one corner of the tent a pot was suspended over a smoldering fire.
“Neat,” Reggie said appreciatively, “but not gaudy.”
The girl motioned him to sit on the floor and she turned to the steaming kettle and poured a ladle full of greenish soup into a copper bowl. This she placed in front of Reggie.
“Say,” Reggie said, “what’s this Alaric like?”
The girl looked at him intently and then shrugged her shoulders. “You will see,” she answered listlessly.
“Now look,” Reggie said, “what about this raid, he’s thinking of pulling on Rome? Is it all set?”
The girl’s brow knitted. “No, no,” she said. “No bother Rome.”
Reggie smiled knowingly. “That’s what you think. I happen to know it’s going to be pulled off pretty soon.”
The girl struggled to grasp his words. Then she shook her head again.
Reggie frowned, puzzled. History very definitely recorded the sacking of Rome by Alaric, yet this girl knew nothing of it. Maybe Alaric was the strong, silent type who kept everything to himself.
“When do I get to meet Alaric?” he asked between sips
of soup.
“Soon,” the girl answered, “he be home soon.”
“That’s nice,” Reggie said absently, “but where’s his home?”
“Here. Here home.”
“Here?” Reggie repeated. “Why then you must be his daughter.”
The girl shook her head. “No. Wife.”
Reggie strangled on a mouthful of soup. “Wife?” he sputtered. “Why didn’t you tell me? What’ll he think if he finds me here?”
The girl shook her head dolefully. “He won’t like.”
“Oh my God,” Reggie cried. He scrambled to his feet. “Anthony . . . and now Alaric.” He turned beseechingly to the girl. “What’ll I do? You’ve got to help me.”
He noticed a shadow, a large shadow fall across the tent.
“It is late, too late,” the girl said, sighing, “I like you too.”
“You mean,” Reggie babbled, “that—”
He wheeled as the flap of the tent opened and a heavy-set figure stalked into the tent. The new arrival was a squat, massive character with thick, inch-long brows and savage pig-like eyes. It was Alaric!
Reggie stared. Not at the powerful muscles, not at the savage, hot eyes but at something far more stunning, far more astounding.
He stared at Alaric’s jaw. It was square and solid and massive. It was as wide and flat as a shovel. In short, it was a Vanderveer jaw!
“Incredible,” Reggie breathed, “another Vanderveer.”
Alaric breathed noisily through a flat nose and his Vanderveer jaw hardened. His hot gaze swept from his wife to Reggie. They stopped on Reggie, riveted themselves there.
His huge hand closed over an ax in his leather belt.
“I kill!” he growled.
Reggie had never gotten along with a Vanderveer in his entire life and he was not exactly surprised at Alaric’s lack of cordiality. Nonetheless, he protested. “Really,” he said nervously, “you’re being awfully hasty. Maybe we could kind of talk this thing over.”
“Kill!” Alaric growled again, and this time his voice was trembling with rage.
Reggie had vast respect for the Vanderveer temper and he realized that he was facing the great-grand-daddy of all Vanderveer outbursts.
“Now—” he started, but he got no farther.
Alaric’s arm rose in the air and at the same instant a strong pair of arms hurled Reggie to the floor. He squirmed his neck just in time to see the ax hurtle through the air and rip through the wall of the tent. Crawling to his feet, he dodged Alaric’s first maddened rush. He ducked to one side and collided with the make-shift stove in the corner of the tent. The heavy kettle of boiling soup swung precariously. Reggie grabbed the handle to keep it from spilling.
He was in that position as Alaric rushed him the second time. Reggie was hardly conscious of lifting the kettle from the rack; hardly conscious of swinging it in a circle over his head and letting it fly.
But he was conscious of Alaric’s maniacal screams some tenth of a second later as a gallon or so of boiling soup baptized him.
He was conscious of the girl pulling his arm, jerking him to the rent in the tent caused by Alaric’s ax. “Go,” she said tensely. “I think he might get a little mad now.”
“You think?” Reggie cried, “I know!”
He scrambled through the hole in the tent and raced into the darkness. Back in the tent he could hear Alaric bawling at the top of his voice and he could hear shouts and cries arising from all sides, as the men hurried to the voice of their leader. Dogs, yapping and yowling, added to the din, but over it all he could hear the shrill terrified neigh of the wild horses.
It was toward this sound that Reggie hurried. The whole camp was aroused now. He could still hear Alaric’s voice trumpeting like an enraged elephant. Flares were visible now, as the barbarians tramped about in search of him.
Reggie reached the horses not a second too soon. Three Goths rounded a corner and began bawling loudly as they sighted him. Reggie untied a champing stallion and vaulted onto its back. The horse reared and plunged like a demon but Reggie clamped his long arms around the animal’s neck and clung like a burr.
“N—n—ice h—ho—horsey,” he panted into the jolting horse’s ear, “t—take—it easy.”
Either the horse recognized Reggie’s plight and decided to lend a helping hand or it just needed exercise for it suddenly plunged into the street, steadied its stride into a ground-eating gallop and left Alaric’s camp like an arrow from a bow.
Reggie’s heart felt a glow of hope, but seconds later it was thoroughly quenched. Risking his life and limb on a glance over his shoulder he saw a body of horsemen racing after him, and in back of them, he could see hundreds of shadowy figures mounting and preparing to ride. The whole camp was awakening. A harsh bugle signal sounded and Reggie’s last glimpse of Alaric’s camp showed him a scene of frantic and feverish activity. All for him.
“This is your party,” Reggie told the horse desperately, “I’m just along for the ride.”
It was a ride he never forgot. Over the rutted narrow roads and through the thick knee-high grass his horse galloped swiftly; but behind him, Alaric’s screaming horsemen inched closer and closer.
In a glance Reggie saw that Alaric was leading his men, mounted on a splendid white stallion. In that terrified glance Reggie could see Alaric’s face twisted in rage and fury and he could see the infamous Vanderveer jaw clamped like an excavation shovel. The hoarse, savage cries of his pursuers brought the short hairs up on Reggie’s neck.
Reggie licked his dry lips. He’d have to ride this one out. He could escape with his Time Machine but he’d lose forever his chance of preventing Alaric from sacking Rome.
The horse was laboring now as they charged up the grass-covered hill overlooking Rome. From its summit, Reggie had a panoramic view of the mighty city, gleaming palely in the moonlight. Then he was clinging frantically for dear life as his charger thundered down the side of the hill toward the slumbering city. Behind him he heard the savage screams of Alaric’s hordes as they breasted the hill and charged down after him.
The rest of the ride was a jumbled, hideous nightmare, comprised of screaming barbarians behind him, a jolting bundle of dynamite beneath him and the sanctuary of Rome far ahead.
But miraculously, incredibly, he made it. With his horse trembling from fatigue and heaving with exertion, Reggie swept into a hard-packed boulevard that led into the heart of Rome. Toga-clad citizens stared wildly at him, and then fled in terror as they beheld the fearsome horde of barbarians who were pouring into the city like a wild flood.
Reggie dug his heels into the flanks of his mount and was rewarded with a last burst of speed. He charged toward the center of the city, aware that the yells and screams of the barbarians were growing fainter as he pulled away from them.
Thanking his lucky stars fervently, Reggie turned his mount off the main boulevard and raced up a side street that led to the outskirts of the city.
Everywhere he saw fleeing citizens, madly plunging horses, excited soldiers of the Roman legions.
Racing on, Reggie soon left Rome behind him. But he still did not feel secure, and it wasn’t until he reached a small hill a mile or so from the city that he was able to relax and rein his spent horse. He slid from the horse, his knees trembling, his breath surging in and out like a tide. He mopped his damp forehead with a shuddering hand. “That,” he said wearily, “beats anything Tom Mix ever did.”
Then he looked toward Rome. His knees buckled at the sight.
Rome was in flames! Half of the city was burning and by the leaping flames Reggie could see the savage, bearded horsemen of Alaric, charging through the streets of the city, slaughtering, pillaging, burning everything in their path.
Reggie’s knees gave way completely and he sank to a sitting position. The destruction was immeasurable; the holocaust was complete. Slowly to his stunned brain came understanding.
He was witnessing the sacking of Rome!
There co
uld be no doubt of it. It was going on before his very eyes. This was the invasion and destruction of Rome by Alaric the Goth that history had recorded.
Reggie groaned, a heart-felt, heartsick groan that came from deep inside him. For another sickening realization was forced onto his brain.
The sacking of Rome, that historians made so much of, was nothing but an accident caused by Reggie Vliet. Alaric had followed him into the city, but once there, his men had fallen on the inhabitants in barbaric frenzy.
Reggie shuddered. He was responsible for the sacking of Rome! If he had just left everything alone it would never have happened, the course of world history would have been different, the Vanderveer’s would be different and Sandra Vanderveer would have been his.
On that tiny hill overlooking the burning city of Rome, Reggie’s spirits sank to their lowest ebb. He had botched everything, so far, messed up the whole works. There was only one consolation that presented itself to his haggard hopes.
He still had, roughly speaking, sixteen centuries ahead of him, in which to change the course of world history. This thought renewed his confidence, flagged and fanned his expiring hopes, to a slight extent.
He looked at his Time Machine and his eyes gleamed: The fifteenth century looked promising. Reggie set the machine firmly, with determination. He looked down at the conflagration that was Rome and his lips tightened. A man couldn’t be wrong all the time. Or could he?
“Columbus,” he muttered, “here I come!”
Reggie set the machine unhurriedly. There was a new quality of deliberation and purpose in his actions. This popping about in Time had been something of a lark at first, something whimsical and comical; but now the Vliet mood had changed. Grim efficiency was replacing his former slipshoddiness. The episode with Alaric had done something to him, made him see things in a new light. If he were going to succeed in re-arranging history he’d have to be more business-like about it. He had three chances left now. No more shenanigans, no more slip-ups. Efficiency? Pip pip! Pronto!
With this high resolve burning in his heart, Reggie’s hand moved to the send-off button. “Columbus,” he thought to himself, “your Genoese goose is cooked!”
