Page:Weird Tales Volume 10 Number 5 (1927-11).djvu/48

 I looked up from the rock upon which I was seated to see a familiar face regarding me affectionately.

"I shouldn't want to miss that, Quintilian," I replied in the fluent Latin in which he had addressed me.

I cast a hurried glance at my attire, thinking how incongruous a figure I must appear in a suit of the Twentieth Century. But my alarm was short-lived, for I perceived that a spotless toga draped my body in graceful folds.

My companion plucked my sleeve, and I arose and turned toward the Forum.

"See," exclaimed Quintilian, "the soldiers are already passing the Temple of Vesta. Hurry!"

Stretching before me beneath an azure sky lay the busy Roman market-place of the First Century, its pure marble fanes and statues reflecting the brilliance of a midafternoon sun. Throngs of white-robed people intermingled with young men in military accouterments who were scattered singly and in groups about the great mart.

My sensation was a most peculiar one. While I recognized my identity as Paul Ebson, of Cleveland, Ohio, at the same time I was cognizant that as I stood here with my good friend Quintilian, the famous rhetorician, I was Pliny the Elder, noted naturalist of Rome.

We forced our way through the crowd and stood before a statue of two figures, symbolic of the conquest of Judea by Rome; as beautiful a piece of statuary as I had ever seen, comparable to the works of the most noted Greek sculptors rather than to this decadent period of Roman art. Alas that the Twentieth Century had never seen even a remnant of this masterpiece of sculptural art!

I was about to comment upon this creation when the cheers of the populace directed my attention to the approaching procession, at the head of which, mounted upon a richly caparisoned steed, rode young Titus, emperor of Rome. He was followed by a body-guard of stalwart men. Following this came a cohort of Roman soldiers, and immediately behind, long lines of captive Jews, eight abreast, their heads bowed to the yokes of the conquerors. Then followed the legions of Rome, their spears and shields clattering rhythmically as they marched toward the great triumphal Arch of Titus.

A youth of eighteen years came up to my side and greeted me with a friendly salutation. He was my nephew, Pliny the Younger, who shared with me the joys of scientific research.

"Uncle," he cried, his eyes sparkling with excitement, "I wish I had been old enough to have gone with the legions of Titus to Jerusalem like Flavius over there; but see, they have passed through the arch and some of the soldiers are rejoining the rest of us. Look, here comes Tacitus. Isn’t he handsome?"

I looked at the stalwart young soldier who was nearing our group. Yes, it was Tacitus, who, though young, was establishing for himself quite a reputation as an historian.

"Tacitus—Tacitus," I repeated under my breath, but I knew that the youthful historian and soldier was Lee Clayton.

Tacitus regarded me with an enigmatical smile.

"Is your ire still aroused, Pliny, that the portrait of my fellow historian appears upon the arch and mine does not?" he asked. Then he added, "You must remember that his years number more than mine and that his reputation in the chosen profession of both of us is already established."

"I know that, my dear Tacitus," I replied, "but I am convinced that