Pete silenced him with a lifted hand, pronounced sentence. As he felt the people were behind him strongly, he was naturally greatly surprised by the outburst which greeted his announcement that the prisoner would go free.
Rome didn’t like poisoners.
“To the lions!” someone bellowed. “Flay him alive! Tear out his tongue!”
The professor seemed to shrink. Pete looked about in desperation. He met the eyes of a veiled woman who sat in a corner—watching him intently—perhaps the same one Bibulus mentioned. No help there. But there was a florid, benevolent-looking old man in the front row, and to him Pete turned for aid.
“Sir, will you use your influence in quieting this mob? After all, I’m sure the prisoner had no murderous intentions, and maybe the consul deserved killing anyway, if what I’ve heard about Gaius Hostilius is true.” Bibulus clutched Pete’s shoulder. “Gods, Petus! You put your foot into it that time. That’s the plaintiff, Gaius Hostilius!”
It looked like a big day. The crowd suddenly turned into a mob, with the volatility of the Latin temperament. Pete caught a glimpse of the veiled woman vanishing through a curtain, and saw Gaius Hostilius mounting a chair to shout, “Down with the tyrant! Is this Roman justice?”
“No!” roared the mob. “To the lions with both of them!”
“My-y-y friends,” began Pete, then decided the moment unpropitious for a speech. Instead, he grabbed the professor’s arm and dragged him back through a curtained aperture. But the mob wasn’t so easily thwarted. They came bellowing in, and Pete and Professor Aker fled for their lives. But in vain. They were finally cornered in Pete’s private bath, and attacked with fury.
“Bibulus!” Pete roared. “Get help!” But Bibulus had long since decided on the better part of valor; he had discreetly vanished.
The tumult and the shouting died as a corps of guardsmen marched through the mob, swords bared. Under threat of bloodshed the crowd subsided, drawing back to wait watchfully.
“You’re just in time,” Pete sighed thankfully to the bronzed legatus. “Brother, we needed help, and how!”
“Seize them,” the lieutenant snapped. “Disarm those men! Petus Manxus, you and this felon are under arrest. Caesar himself will decide your fate this day!”
CLAUDIUS DRUSUS GERMANICUS, Caesar Imperator, gnawed on a mutton bone in one hand; with the other, he wrestled impotently with an ornate clavus pila board, tilting it this way and that as a marble bounced merrily down its length. He was a stunted, unhealthy, red-eyed person, clad in plain white garments, his fingers hidden beneath a blaze of jeweled rings. Claudius looked up as Pete and Aker entered.
“Ah,” said Caesar pleasantly, shooting another marble, dropping the table, and reaching for a goblet. “Malefactors. When are the next games, Cratinus?”
“They are in progress now,” Cratinus said. “These men are here at the order of the Empress Messalina, Caesar. She was in the fat one’s court—he’s a magistrate—when the riot broke out, and she summoned the Imperial Guards.”
Just then a strikingly lovely brunette came through a curtained doorway.
“Here is Messalina now,” Claudius beamed. “Sit beside me, my dear. We have these dogs you ordered brought before us.”
The Empress sank down, her dark eyes scrutinizing the men. “And what do you intend, Claudius?”
“Feed them to the lions.” Caesar solved the problem with a gesture.
Messalina frowned, but said nothing. Claudius pondered for a time, and suddenly laughed.
“One moment! I’ve an idea—one that should amuse us, since this banquet is so dull. If either of these two men can prove he deserves to live, he shall live and be honored. If he fails—there will be a holiday in the arena tomorrow.”
The guests applauded. Caesar motioned the guards back.
“Now, you two. Show me your worth! You first, young man. What is your profession?”
Professor Aker gulped. “I am a scientist.”
“What? A magician, more likely. Well, do magic for us.”
The unhappy professor stared around desperately.
“I—I have no equipment—”
Cratinus whispered in the Emperor’s ear, and Caesar looked up with a gleam in his eye.
“I hear you can turn water to wine. Do so!”
“I can’t,” Aker confessed. “Not without certain—necessities.”
“A faker,” Caesar said. “As I thought. To the arena with him.”
“Wait!” Aker struggled to free himself. “I—I can foretell the future. I’m a prophet, that’s it! I can tell the future of Rome.”
Claudius was interested. “Well?”
“Er—Rome shall rule the world.”
“Rome does rule the. world,” Cratinus pointed out. “Every puer knows that.”
The professor tried again.
“Two thousand years hence science will rule the world. Horses will be almost extinct. Electricity—a certain invisible force of nature—will provide unlimited power—”
“Our poets can do better than that,” Caesar yawned. “And I like not what you say about horses. A noble animal, the horse. If these be your best prophecies—hold!” Caesar leaned forward. “If you can truly read the future, tell me how I shall meet my death!” Silence. The guests paused with food or drink half-lifted. All eyes were on the unhappy Professor Aker.
And he, after a hasty glance at Messalina, broke into a profuse sweat and closed his eyes, shuddering. For, as every schoolboy should know, Claudius Germanicus, Caesar Imperator, was poisoned by Agrippa, his wife, after he had put aside Messalina. And to go into detail about this, Aker realized, would not only be untactful but suicidal.
CAESAR grunted and turned to Petus Manxus.
“What about you? I hope you’re of more worth than this idiot.”
Pete took a deep breath. He said gravely, “I am worth a fortune, Caesar. Hidden in a secret place in my house is much gold. Too much for a private citizen to possess. Now if you would accept this treasure as a pledge of my loyalty . . .”
The Emperor’s eyes gleamed. The greed of Claudius was notorious in Rome. Pete felt a little wave of relief.
“We shall see,” Caesar said ambiguously. “Cratinus, do you go and examine this treasure. Where is it to be found, prisoner?”
Pete gave directions, and Cratinus hurried out. Then, at a wave of the Emperor’s hand, Pete and Aker were seized by the guards and pulled back against the wall, where they waited while the banquet proceeded.
The minutes dragged. Yet it was not long before Cratinus returned. With a baleful glance at Pete he approached Caesar and began whispering hurriedly into the Emperor’s ear. Claudius sat erect with a jerk. He turned to glare at the prisoners.
“It is not wise to attempt trickery upon Caesar,” he said at last, in a dangerously low voice. “Cratinus, speak out. Let us all hear of this deception.” Nothing loath, Cratinus announced, “I found the treasure chest where Petus Manxus said it was, filled to the brim with spherical golden ingots. Apparently there was a fortune before me. But I have dealt with thieves before, and I tested one of the ingots. It was of pottery—baked clay—with a shell of gold about it to conceal the deception. All were alike. Almost worthless!” Caesar’s face was bleak and cold. “Take those men away. Tomorrow we shall watch the lions feed.”
PETE spent an unhappy night in the dungeon beneath the Colosseum. He was, he admitted, in a tight spot. And there seemed no possible means of escaping Caesar’s vengeance. Pete tossed for hours upon his straw pallet, but arrived at no solution to the problem. Certainly Professor Aker couldn’t help; he had been dragged off, shouting, to some other dungeon.
At last a guard opened the door. He seized Pete’s arm, and, with the point of a short-sword, urged his unwilling prisoner along a corridor, through a metal grating that swung back on creaking hinges, and into the arena.
Blinding sunlight blazed up from yellow sand, with which the floor of the Colosseum was carpeted. From the spectators—an
avid multitude of them, blood-hungry, impatient—came a thunderous bellow. They had been waiting for hours, some of them, and this was the first event of the day’s games.
Petus was urged toward a box above which a purple canopy hung. He looked up to meet the malevolent stare of Claudius, who sat surrounded by high nobles of the court, Messalina at his side. The Queen’s face was immobile until she saw Petus; then she leaned toward Caesar and whispered something to the Emperor. Claudius nodded, smiling unpleasantly.
Just then the guards dragged up a shrinking figure. It was Professor Aker. His knees were wobbling and his eyes were bloodshot and wide.
Caesar leaned forward. His voice rang loud in the great Colosseum’s arena.
“Petus Manxus, in a moment you and your companion will be alone with the lions. It is our custom to allow prisoners in the arena a short-sword with which to defend themselves, but Messalina has suggested a more interesting weapon. Both of you will be given torches—lighted torches to keep the lions at bay. As long as the torches burn, you will live, perhaps. If you are sufficiently skilful.” Claudius’ face was alight with malice and cruelty. “Now as to this gift of yours, Petus Manxus—these golden globes from your treasure chest. You have asked for them. You shall have them. So—” The Emperor waved his hand. Immediately guards hurried forward, each of them bearing two of the golden spheres. Before Pete could move he was seized and hurled to the ground.
Cords were tied tightly about his ankles. To the ropes a net was attached, and the guards swiftly filled it with the globes. There was a flurry of well-disciplined action; the soldiers marched away; and a door clanged. Pete struggled upright.
A convict with ball and chain! Pete’s ankles were firmly attached to the net filled with the heavy globes. He took a step forward, stumbled, and fell flat on his face.
There was a rattling of metal. A low, distant growling grew louder. The murmurs of the audience grew to a bellowing shout.
“Leonis—the lions!”
PETE heard a strangled gasp.
Through sand-blinded eyes he saw Aker staring, jaw agape, at the far end of the arena. In nerveless hands the professor held two short torches.
Just then a bright object sailed glittering through the air and dropped at Pete’s feet. It was a knife, thrown to him by Bibulus.
He snatched it up.
“Professor!” he yelled. “Hold on! Don’t drop those torches!” Swiftly Pete bent, slashed the cords that bound his feet, and sprang to the netful of glittering globes.
But the lions were in the arena now, and they scented prey. A dozen of the tawny, lithe beasts came pouring up the runway, tails lashing, manes tossing in the sunlight. An angry roar came as a lean, dark-coated lioness shot forward like a thunderbolt, her tail erect.
Caesar leaned forward, moistening his lips with his tongue. Messalina sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the tableau beneath her.
But Pete was almost ready. A few slashes with the knife had parted the cords of the net, and the golden globes rolled free on the sands. Pete snatched up one and turned just as the lioness bunched her muscles a dozen feet from Aker and—sprang!
The paralyzed professor couldn’t move a muscle. He stood waiting for the hungry carnivore to smash him down to the ground, his face paper-white, still gripping the flaming torches in fear-tightened fingers.
Pete seized the torches, thrust the professor aside with a hasty shove, and drove the burning brands out in a swift stabbing motion.
The lionegs tried to turn in midair; she failed, and one of the torches ground into her muzzle. She screamed, snapped at the flames, and suddenly turned to race away, shaking her head in agony. She was out of the battle for a while, at least, Pete realized. But the other lions were coming—and coming fast.
Pete still held a golden sphere under his arm. He bent his head, gripped a bit of whitish string in his teeth, and pulled. A few more inches of string was drawn out. Pete lit it with the torch, hefted the globe in his hand, and hurled it at the approaching lions.
The glittering sphere sailed through the air, fell under the nose of a carnivore, and rolled a few feet. The string was sputtering slightly, an almost invisible bluish flame rising from it. One of the lions batted at the thing with an angry paw—
And then hell broke loose in the Colosseum! With a thunderous, earth-shaking roar a holocaust of deafening, fiery madness blasted out, scattering fragments of bloody lion-meat upon the horrified spectators. Caesar fell back in his gilded seat. The remaining lions stared, aghast, and then fled.
Pete laughed in an unsteady voice. “Hey, professor!” he called. “Grab some bombs for yourself!”
Aker scarcely seemed to hear. He swiveled to look at the pile of golden globes. His lips formed the word, “Gunpowder! Bombs!”
Caesar sprang up. “Open the gates!” he shouted. “Turn loose the beasts—all of them! Slay me these demons!” Frightened guards leaped to obey. The clanging of metal sounded. From the distance came a heavy thumping and a confused sound of roaring, caterwauling, and trumpeting.
“Take a torch,” Pete snapped, thrusting one of them in Aker’s hands. “Here they come!” He considered hurling a bomb at Claudius, but the sudden advent of a score of leopards distracted his attention. He blew the great cats into bits with a well-placed overhand throw.
AKER had come to life and was doing his share as the runways disgorged beasts into the arena. Gasping, he threw a question at his companion. “How—how did you make these?”
“Always knew how,” Pete clipped, lighting a bomb. “Used to make fireworks in a medicine show. Sulphur, charcoal, and saltpeter. Burned willow for the charcoal. Got the sulphur from the volcano—what’s its name—Vesuvius. Bribed a lieutenant to bring me saltpeter from Arabia. He didn’t know what it was—but I’d seen the stuff in Chile and told him what to look for. Get that tiger!”
Aker hastily lit and threw another bomb. The tiger disintegrated. Pete kept on talking swiftly, jerkily.
“Always get ready for trouble—that’s my motto. I figgered I’d get the jump on these Romans if anything went haywire. So I fooled around till I got the right mixture for gunpowder, and then loaded a lot of pots with it and put in shrapnel—all the scrap metal I could find.”
Then, came an elephant. It got uncomfortably close, but an exploding bomb disrupted the creature’s nervous system and it went trumpeting and thundering around the arena, causing additional confusion and adding to the bedlam.
Pete clipped out, “An’ I gilded the bombs just in case. Figured they’d look harmless then—just big round gold ingots. If I got in a tight spot, I could always offer to buy my way out, and when I got my hands on the bombs—well!”
Aker shouted, “Manx! Look!”
Pete whirled—and stood staring. Danger from the animals was past. The few that remained alive had fled, or were cowering against the walls of the arena. But directly under the royal box was the wounded elephant, trunk waving, tiny eyes blazing, trumpeting in rage. He was must—mad! The tumult in the box must have attracted his attention, and he was charging against the massive stonework wall with titanic, jolting blows, while above him men fought and screamed and sprang to escape.
Caesar himself, attempting to flee, stumbled against Messalina, and Pete had a confused idea that the Empress had hurled Claudius down and overturned the gilded throne upon the squirming Roman. That done, Messalina hurriedly left.
“Hold everything!” Pete called to Aker. “I got an idea.”
The wall was already buckling; masonry cracked and groaned under the onslaught of the great elephant. Pete lit a bomb, gauged his distance carefully, and threw it. The resultant explosion made the elephant whirl, trumpeting, his piggish eyes searching the arena.
He saw Pete. He started forward.
Pete threw three bombs. If they failed, he was lost. He had but one left.
But the home-made gunpowder-and-shrapnel did the trick. The elephant died in a thunderous roar of tearing, blinding explosion.
&nb
sp; A little silence fell upon the arena. The beasts were slain; the mob, realizing this, paused tentatively, ready to renew their flight. Pete gripped his last remaining bomb, stepped forward and waited for Claudius to crawl to his feet.
The Emperor of Rome was a wreck. He shot a horrified glance into the arena and started to run. A shout from Pete stopped him.
“Hold! Halt, Caesar!”
Claudius froze. He glared down, shuddering. Pete lifted the bomb menacingly.
“I have destroyed your beasts,” he called, “and I can ruin Rome as easily.”
Claudius gave a terrified squeak. Messalina suddenly appeared, hurried to the Emperor’s side, and whispered to him. Caesar seemed to grasp new hope.
“Petus Manxus!” he called, his voice unsteady. “Do not use your magic! You are pardoned! More—I make you a consul of Imperial Rome—”
Swish!
PETE MANX opened dazed eyes, stared blankly at a face that seemed oddly familiar. For a second he thought the bomb had exploded after all. Then, quite suddenly, he recognized Dr. Mayhem. The Doc! And all around were the wires and gadgets of the Doc’s laboratory. Rome had vanished—Caesar, Messalina, the Colosseum, and all the rest.
“Oh, my head,” Pete moaned, rising unsteadily. “I feel like I been through a knothole. Lemme feel you, Doc, an’ see if you’re real.”
Mayhem chuckled.
“It’s real enough, Manx. You’re back home unharmed, as I promised.” He turned as a hoarse groan sounded. “Oh, here’s Professor Aker. He woke a bit before you did.”
Pete noticed the laboratory was deserted save for the three of them. Aker was leaning against a chair, swallowing convulsively.
“Let me out of here,” he gasped. “Mayhem, I—I—” He turned a virulent green and staggered toward the door.
“Just a moment,” Mayhem called. “Do I get that equipment?”
Aker hesitated.
“You gave your word,” Mayhem reminded. “It was a bet. And in Rome you discovered how necessary the right equipment is. Besides, how would you like the students to learn of your—um—activities as a poisoner?”
Collected Fiction Page 101
