Time Travel Omnibus, page 330
Cleopatra moved toward him. She wore a cream-colored, mesh-like garment that buckled at her shoulders and ankles.
Reggie backed a step, bumped into the bed and sat down. Cleopatra moved languorously toward him, seated herself beside him.
“Where are you from, strange one?” she asked quietly.
Reggie was puzzled about the language. Either she was speaking English or he was speaking Egyptian. Anyway, they seemed to understand each other and he was satisfied.
CLEOPATRA was waiting for an answer. Reggie’s reeling senses were beginning to right themselves. “It doesn’t matter,” he said soulfully. “How I’ve waited for this moment. I’ve lived for it, dreamed and hoped for it for centuries. To see——”
“I have heard that before,” Cleopatra interrupted him coldly. “That is what you told my maid.”
“Not to mention half the senior class at Vassar,” Reggie said brightly, and then checked himself. Maybe Cleopatra lacked a sense of humor. “The words have been burned into my heart,” he murmured brokenly. He risked a quick look at her, and breathed with more assurance. He took her hand gently, holding his breath. She was looking at his wrist.
“What is that?” She touched the Time Machine with her finger.
Reggie swallowed. “It’s rather a long story. I don’t—”
“Let me have it.”
“Now, Cleopatra——”
“Let me have it.”
Reggie hesitated, then removed the watch. It wouldn’t hurt as long as he stayed close to it. Also Cleopatra didn’t look as if she had a lot of patience.
Reggie watched her anxiously as she twirled it around on the leather strap. She made delighted, gurgling noises to herself which Reggie thought slightly out of character. Finally she slipped it on her wrist and held out her arm proudly, twisting it this way and that to catch the reflection from the light on its glistening surface.
“Very pretty,” Reggie said diplomatically. “Now wouldn’t you rather I kept it for you? Nice and safe, you know.”
Cleopatra shook her head in a delighted negative. Her brilliantly lustrous hair swished back and forth past Reggie’s face. He forgot about the Time Machine and captured her small soft hand.
“Cleopatra,” he began.
“Cleopatra!” A mighty bull-like roar blasted through the room.
Reggie started. He heard heavy, dominant footsteps pounding closer.
“Cleopatra!” The tapestries billowed in the breeze.
The footsteps neared, a horrible sound of clanking armor accompanied them, and then a mightily muscled, flashing-eyed, beplumed warrior strode into the room.
“Anthony!” Cleopatra’s voice exclaimed.
Reggie swallowed hard. Anthony was advancing ominously toward him. His cruel, predatory nose was outthrust like an eagle’s beak. His eyes sparked with green fire. His mighty hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically.
“Glad you could make it,” Reggie said feebly. “Heh heh. Not much of a party without Anthony, Cleopatra was just saying. Yes sir.”
Anthony paused and looked at Cleopatra.
“Who is this scrawny creature?” he rumbled.
“No one to worry about,” Reggie interjected hastily, “Just stopped off to see how you love birds were getting along. Can’t really stay a minute longer. So pip pip! And all that.”
Anthony’s huge hand stretched out and fastened on Reggie’s shoulder. “Not so fast,” he said ominously. His eyes sought Cleopatra’s. “Who is he?”
Cleopatra leaned back on the bed and stared at him through lidded eyes. “Since you are really concerned,” she murmured, “he is nothing but a poor traveling peddler. Look!” She held out her arm, displaying the Time Machine. “See the pretty bauble I received from him.”
“Now wait a minute,” Reggie cried. “You can’t have that. I need it.” He struggled helplessly in Anthony’s grasp. “Fun’s fun,” he said excitedly, “but give me back my—my watch.”
“Silence!” Anthony thundered.
Reggie chose to ignore this excellent advice. With a shrill cry he lunged toward Cleopatra, his hand reaching desperately for the Time Machine, his only link with the future.
Something that felt like a fence post crashed into his head and he felt himself falling backward. Then something hard hit him in the back and Reggie knew he was on the floor.
“Guards!” he heard Anthony thundering, “take this man to the dungeons and chain him there! He attacked your Mistress!”
Reggie felt powerful hands on his arms, and then he was jerked to his feet. His dazed eyes focused on Anthony, the picture of rage incarnate, shaking a sword at him.
“You’ll pay for this,” Anthony bellowed, “you’ll go to Rome to fatten our lions you miserable dog. I’ll watch them tear you apart myself at the next arena games. Take him away guards. . . .”
Reggie looked from Anthony to Cleopatra, who stared silently at him, a faint smile curving her full lips. His eyes gazed dispairingly at the Time Machine on her wrist.
“Well,” Reggie managed to croak, “all roads lead to Rome at that, don’t they?”
Then something struck him on the head once more and he could feel himself being dragged away as a sea of darkness engulfed him. . . .
DURING the vague black nightmare of the next hours, Reggie Randhope regained consciousness momentarily at three separate intervals. On the first of these, Reggie opened his eyes to see that he was lying in what appeared to be the scuppers of an ancient sailing vessel. He was chained and shackled, and there were others beside him who were held captive in like manner. His clothes had been taken and he now wore a dirty toga. From the smell of fresh sea air, and from the nauseating lurching of the deck beneath him, Reggie gathered that he was somewhere at sea. It was gratefully that he swooned into unconsciousness again.
On the second occasion that Reggie opened his eyes, he was being tossed about on some great landing dock by men in togas. Tossed about without any regard for the finer niceties of his physical self. Strong, bearded men were doing the tossing.
Reggie had time to ask himself: “Can this be Rome?” And then someone failed to catch his hurtling, hog-tied body, and his head crashed into a dock piling, blotting out consciousness again.
And then, to a confusion of sounds, a bedlam of roaring voices Reggie regained consciousness again. Opening one eye slyly this time, he found that he was in some sort of a cart or chariot—still shackled. And opening the eye a bit wider, he realized that the roaring came from huge hordes of toga-clad citizenry lining a narrow street along which he was being carried.
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. Fm 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 rooted, 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.
