* * * * *
_Dear Diary_: I have no idea what the date is, so I just won't put any
down. If the world goes topsy-turvy, it's not _my_ fault. I'm all in a
flutter. I hardly know where to begin writing.
I guess it all began when that pig-headed Myers came breaking into
my house in the middle of the night. Breaking in, literally! My front
door was locked, naturally, so he just kicked in a window and walked
through it. I was down in the basement with my poor Romans, who hadn't
been sleeping too well lately. I was trying to get them to take some
barbiturates, but they seemed afraid to do so for some reason. They
preferred to turn and toss on their cushions all night.
Well, at any rate I heard a noise. And then the next thing I heard was
his bull voice calling, "Bugsy! Bugsy!" Before I could head him off
he was at the top of the steps and clumping down. My poor Romans just
stared at him.
"So here you are," he said triumphantly.
"Is that odd?" I replied. "After all, it's my house. And, while we're
on the matter, I'd like to know how you got in, and by what right--"
"Oh, shut up," he said and pointed at my Romans. "Are these the sixteen
you stole first?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I answered coldly. "These are
some foreign students from one of my classes. We're holding a seminar
in Roman customs."
He just snorted, and, ignoring me entirely, turned to the nearest Roman
and started jabbering at him in barbarous high-school Latin. I even had
trouble following him, but my Roman didn't. His face lit up and before
I could say a word he was telling Myers all about what had happened
to them, and the tests I'd been giving them. And right then and there,
I learned something about Roman ingratitude. Can you believe it? Those
sixteen young fellows weren't the least bit thankful for being saved
from death in the Arena. All that concerned them was the fact that they
were homesick. Homesick! For lions and gladiators!
* * * * *
I interrupted and asked my Roman whether he hadn't been well treated.
And he turned on me and said--almost in those very words--that he
had--he'd been too well treated. He'd been a hardworking artisan and
Christian all his life and it didn't come natural to him to loll around
on cushions and play with children's toys. He ended up by saying that
if I gave him another test he'd ram it down my throat.
Well, after something like that, I was only too glad to get rid of
them. I told Myers so and we started up the stairs. Just at that moment
there was the most curious shiver--decidedly unpleasant--and we all
suddenly found ourselves back at the foot of the stairs again. Myers
turned white as a sheet.
He gasped. "Good God, I didn't think it would start this quickly!"--And
I don't mind telling _you_, dear Diary, that for a second even I felt a
touch of fear.
We hurried, all eighteen of us, across the darkened campus and up to
his laboratory. Twice more those curious shivers threw us back a step
or two in time, and we had to do things over.
"It's cracking faster," said Myers, and herded my Romans into an area
marked off by chalk lines on the floor. Myers took me by the arm.
"Listen," he said, "and listen good, because I don't have time to
say it twice. I've got the sixteen Romans waiting in a trigger
area. There's a trip mechanism that will throw them back to their
own time the minute there's an opening for them to fit into. I'm
going to stay here and operate the machine. I want you to ride the
time-grapple back to the Arena and see that the others--you said they
were Roundheads?--and nobody but they get into the time-grapple for
transference back to their own time."
"Me?" I said. "Into the time-grapple. I certainly will not--" Before
I could finish he seized me by the shoulders and pushed me into the
time-grapple area.
The moment I stumbled across the line the laboratory faded around me.
I felt a moment of nausea, and then I was swinging, unsupported and
apparently invisible above the royal box in the arena. When I leaned
down I was right on a level with Nero himself. I took one horrified
look at him, gasped, and turned away.
I looked down in the arena, and saw immediately why Myers had sent me
back. The time-grapple would, of course, have to get the Roundheads
all on one grab and it would be impossible until they were all close
together. I knew that, back in the laboratory, Myers could see me
apparently standing on the floor in front of him and his devilish
machine. He could also, of course, see Nero and part of the Royal box.
I would have to direct him to the Roundheads when the time came.
I looked out in the arena, and groaned. The door to the cells was
just opening and the Roundheads were filing out onto the field. The
gladiators were already out; the Roundheads were too far dispersed for
the time-grapple to grab them.
"Get together, get together!" I cried--but of course they couldn't hear
me as long as I was in the time-grapple field.
Just then Nero spoke up next to my ear, and I _could_ hear him, because
of the auditory equipment built into the field.
"My dear," he was saying petulantly to a thickly powdered, fat-faced
woman beside him. "Look at those Christians! And Lictus promised me
that I shouldn't be disappointed. Look how sober and dull they are.
They usually come on with their faces lit up, almost exalted."
"Perhaps," said the woman, "this group doesn't feel so much like being
martyred. Maybe they'll run around a bit more."
I could stand no more of this, and signaled Myers to move the field
down toward the Roundheads. The idiots were still too far apart to be
picked up and were talking together in that odd, seventeenth century
English.
"What think you, Sergeant," said one fresh-faced youngster, "are we to
be put to trial by those armored demons, yonder?"
"It may be, John," replied the individual addressed as Sergeant.
The young man sighed. "I feel the hand of the Lord strong upon me," he
said. "None the less, had I but my claymore--"
"Fie, John Stowe," reproved the Sergeant. "Let not your mind dwell
upon earthly matters. Look rather upon yon armed demons, with a mind
to marking their true natures. See yon demon with the chased shield,
which is surely Pride. And the other beside him, whom, by his lean and
envious face I clearly read as Covetousness."
And the Sergeant went on giving names to the various gladiators, so
that the other Roundheads became interested and drifted over. I was
beginning to have hopes of snatching them up immediately when the
Sergeant wound up his little discussion.
"And besides, John Stowe," he said. "If the Lord wisheth us to have
weapons, He surely will provide them."
* * * * *
At this moment, an attendant of the Arena leaned over the stone parapet
that encircled the field and dropped a bundle of swords and armor.
"What did I tell you?" said the Sergeant.
So they dispersed in the process of putting on the armor, and the
chance was lost.
"What's holding things up?" boomed the voice of Myers in my ear.
"The battle," I snapped. "They're supposed to fight those gladiators."
"What!" yelled Myers. "Stop them. Don't let them do it. They've all got
to get back alive."
"What can I do?" I asked bitterly. "It's up to the Roundheads."
And, indeed it was. There is no way of knowing how many lives were
depending upon those Roundheads at that moment.
At any rate, there was a toot on a horn, or some kind of signal like
that, and off they went.
"Do you take Pride, Stowe," said the Sergeant. "And so each of the rest
of you pick out a cardinal sin. I, myself will take Covetousness." He
lifted his Roman short sword over his head and shouted like a wild man.
"Now, LET GOD ARISE!" he shouted, and the Roundheads charged toward the
enemy.
"I'm moving you back to Nero," said Myers' voice in my ear. "Maybe we
can put pressure on him somehow."
I was swooped back to the royal box. But by the time I got there the
situation was such that neither of us could think of anything to do.
Nero was bouncing around like a fat toad, squeaking at the top of his
lungs.
"Why--what--what--" he was squealing. "What are they doing? You
Christians, stop it! Stop chasing my gladiators, do you hear me? Stop
it! Stop it!"
Somebody blew that silly horn again, and the gladiators stopped, but
the Roundheads went right on.
"Guard thyself, Pride!" the stentorian voice of John Stowe floated up
to us in the Royal box. Beside Stowe there was a clang and a thud as
the Sergeant decapitated Covetousness.
Gladiators were getting cut to pieces right and left. But not for long.
Nero was ordering his own guard out of the stands, down into the Arena.
"I've got an idea," I called to Myers. "Drop me on the field."
"It better be good," he grunted. "Or you'll go the same way they're
going!"
He dropped me. I came into sight of those Romans suddenly, and the
shock of my appearance temporarily halted the Praetorian Guard. They
looked from me to Nero and back again.
"To me!" I yelled, running over the field, waving my arms. "To me,
Roundheads!"
Well, they looked up at the sound of my English voice and, to make a
long story short, gathered around in short enough space for Myers to
pick them up. The field faded around us....
* * * * *
_March 3, 65_: TO THE CAPTAIN OF THE ARENA: I thought I ordered you to
produce Christians for slaughter! What devilish magic have you loosed
upon Rome under the guise of Christians? I order you to capture those
sixteen hell-spawned devils who murdered our gladiators. At once!
NERO, Imp.
* * * * *
_March 3, 65_: TO THE EMPEROR: My Caesar! I know not how the sixteen
Christians escaped from the arena--replacing themselves with sixteen
others. I have contacted Papirius, Captain of Police, and he informs
me it must be a plot on the part of the Christians for an uprising
throughout the City. I believe the missing sixteen are in hiding. My
Guard will be ordered out at once to apprehend them.
(signed) Lictus,