Time Travel Omnibus Volume 1

by Anthology

The newness and cleanliness of my costume bothered me. It did not look worn, and I could hardly break it in around Brookhaven without attracting attention. I decided that if the question came up, I should say: yes, I bought it when I entered Greece, so as not to be conspicuous in my native garb.

  During the day, when not scouring New York for equipment, I was locked in the room with the machine. While my colleagues thought I was either writing my report or dismantling the apparatus, I was getting ready for my trip.

  Two weeks went by thus. One day a memorandum came down from my superior, saying: “How is that final report coming?”

  I knew then I had better put my plan into execution at once. I sent back a memorandum: “Almost ready for the writing machine.”

  That night I came back to the laboratory. As I had been doing this often, the guards took no notice. I went to the time-machine room, locked the door from the inside, and got out my equipment and costume.

  I adjusted the machine to set me down near Pella, the capital of Macedon, in the spring of the year 340 before Christ in our system of reckoning (976 Algonkian). I set the auto-actuator, climbed inside, and closed the door.

  The feeling of being projected through time really cannot be described. There is a sharp pain, agonizing but too short to let the victim even cry out. At the same time there is the feeling of terrific acceleration, as if one were being shot from a catapult, but in no particular direction.

  Then the seat in the passenger-compartment dropped away from under me. There was a crunch, and a lot of sharp things jabbed me. I had fallen into the top of a tree.

  I grabbed a couple of branches to save myself. The mechanism that positioned me in Macedon, detecting solid matter at the point where I was going to materialize, had raised me up above the treetops and then let go. It was an old oak, just putting out its spring leaves.

  In clutching for branches I dropped my staff, which slithered down through the foliage and thumped the ground below. At least it thumped something. There was a startled yell.

  Classical costume is impractical for tree-climbing. Branches kept knocking off my hat, or snagging my cloak, or poking me in tender places not protected by trousers. 1 ended my climb with a slide and a fall of several feet, tumbling into the dirt.

  As I looked up, the first thing I saw was a burly, black-bearded man in a dirty tunic, standing with a knife in his hand. Near him stood a pair of oxen yoked to a wooden plow. At his feet stood a water jug.

  The plowman had evidently finished a furrow and lain down to rest himself and his beasts when the fall of my staff on him and then my arrival in person aroused him.

  Around me stretched the broad Emathian Plain, ringed by ranges of stony hills and craggy mountains. As the sky was overcast, and I did not dare consult my compass, I had no sure way of orienting myself, or even telling what time of day it was. I assumed that the biggest mountain in sight was Mount Bermion, which ought to be to the west. To the north I could see a trace of wafer. This would be Lake Ludias. Beyond the lake rose a range of low hills. A discoloration on the nearest spur of these hills might be a city, though my sight was not keen enough to make out details, and I had to do without my eyeglasses. The gently rolling plain was cut up into fields and pastures with occasional trees and patches of marsh. Dry brown grasses left over from winter nodded in the wind.

  My realization of all this took but a flash. Then my attention was brought back to the plowman, who spoke. I could not understand a word. But then, he would speak Macedonian. Though this can be deemed a Greek dialect, it differed so from Attic Greek as to be unintelligible.

  No doubt the man wanted to know what I was doing in his tree. I put on my best smile and said in my slow fumbling Attic: “Rejoice! I am lost, and climbed your tree to find my way.”

  He spoke again. When I did not respond he repeated his words more loudly, waving his knife.

  We exchanged more words and gestures, but it was evident that neither had the faintest notion of what the other was trying to say. The plowman began shouting, as ignorant people will when faced by the linguistic barrier.

  At last I pointed to the distant headland overlooking the lake, on which there appeared a discoloration that might be the city. Slowly and carefully I said:

  “Is that Pella?”

  “Nai, Pella!” The man’s mien became less threatening.

  “I am going to Pella. Where can I find the philosopher Aristotle?” I repeated the name.

  He was off again with more gibberish, but I gathered from his expression that he had never heard of any Aristotles. So I picked up my hat and stick, felt through my tunic to make sure my gear was all in place, tossed the rustic a final “Chaire!” and set off.

  By the time I had crossed the muddy field and come out on a cart track, the problem of looking like a seasoned traveler had solved itself. There were green and brown stains on my clothes from the scramble down the tree; the cloak was tom; the branches had scratched my limbs and face; my feet and lower legs were covered with mud. I also became aware that, to one who has lived all his life with his loins decently swathed in trousers and underdrawers, Classical costume is excessively drafty.

  I glanced back to see the plowman still standing with one hand on his plow, looking at me in puzzled fashion. The poor fellow had never been able to decide what, if anything, to do about me.

  When I found a road, it was hardly more than a heavily used cart track, with a pair of deep ruts and the space between them alternating stones, mud, and long grass.

  I walked towards the lake and passed a few people on the road. To one used to the teeming traffic of my world, Macedon seemed dead and deserted. I spoke to some of the people, but ran into the same barrier of language as with the plowman.

  Finally a two-horse chariot came along, driven by a stout man wearing a headband, a kind of kilt, and high-laced boots. He pulled up at my hail.

  “What is it?” he said, in Attic not much better than mine.

  “I seek the philosopher, Aristoteles of Stageira. Where can I find him?”

  “He lives in Mieza.”

  “Where is that?”

  The man waved. “You are going the wrong way. Follow this road back the way you came. At the ford across the Bottiais, take the right-hand fork, which will bring you to Mieza and Kition. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” I said. “How far is it?”

  “About two hundred stadia.”

  My heart sank to my sandals. This meant five parasangs, or a good two-days’ walk. I thought of trying to buy a horse or a chariot, but I had never ridden or driven a horse and saw no prospect of learning how soon enough to do any good. I had read about Mieza as Aristotle’s home in Macedon but, as none of my maps had shown it, I had assumed it to be a suburb of Pella.

  I thanked the man, who trotted off, and set out after him. The details of my journey need not detain you. I was benighted far from shelter through not knowing where the villages were, attacked by watchdogs, eaten alive by mosquitoes, and invaded by vermin when I did find a place to sleep the second night. The road skirted the huge marshes that spread over the Emathian Plain west of Lake Ludias. Several small streams came down from Mount Bermion and lost themselves in this marsh.

  At last I neared Mieza, which stands on one of the spurs of Mount Bermion. I was trudging wearily up the long rise to the village when six youths on little Greek horses clattered down the road. I stepped to one side, but instead of cantering past they pulled up and faced me in a semicircle.

  “Who are you?” asked one, a smallish youth of about fifteen, in fluent Attic. He was blond and would have been noticeably handsome without his pimples.

  “I am Zandras of Pataliputra,” I said, giving the ancient name for Patna on the Ganges. “I seek the philosopher Aristoteles.”

  “Oh, a barbarian!” cried Pimples. “We know what the Aristoteles thinks of these, eh, boys?”

  The others joined in, shouting noncompliments and bragging about all the barbarians they would some day k
ill or enslave.

  I made the mistake of letting them see I was getting angry. I knew it was unwise, but I could not help myself. “If you do not wish to help me, then let me pass,” I said.

  “Not only a barbarian, but an insolent one!” cried one of the group, making his horse dance uncomfortably close to me.

  “Stand aside, children!” I demanded.

  “We must teach you a lesson,” said Pimples. The others giggled.

  “You had better let me alone,” I said, gripping my staff in both hands.

  A tall handsome adolescent reached over and knocked my hat off. “That for you, cowardly Asiatic!” he yelled.

  Without stopping to think, I shouted an English epithet and swung my staff. Either the young man leaned out of the way or his horse shied, for my blow missed him. The momentum carried the staff past my target and the end struck the nose of one of the other horses.

  The pony squealed and reared. Having no stirrups, the rider slid off the animal’s rump into the dirt. The horse galloped off.

  All six youths began screaming. The blond one, who had a particularly piercing voice, mouthed some threat. The next thing I knew, his horse bounded directly at me. Before I could dodge, the animal’s shoulder knocked me head over heels and the beast leaped over me as I rolled. Luckily, horses’ dislike of stepping on anything squashy saved me from being trampled. I scrambled up as another horse bore down upon me. By a frantic leap I got out of its way, but I saw that the boys were jockeying their mounts to do likewise.

  A few paces away rose a big pine. I dodged in among its lower branches as the other horses ran at me. The youths could not force their mounts in among these branches, so they galloped round and round and yelled. Most of their talk I could not understand, but I caught a sentence from Pimples:

  “Ptolemaios! Ride back to the house and fetch bows or javelins!”

  Hoofbeats receded. I could not see clearly through the pine needles, but I inferred what was happening. The youths would not try to rush me on foot, first because they liked being on horseback, and if they dismounted they might lose their horses or have trouble remounting; second, because as long as I kept my back to the tree they would have a hard time getting at me through the tangle of branches, and I could hit and poke them with my stick as I came. Though not an unusually tall man in my own world, I was much bigger than any of these boys.

  But this was a minor consideration. I recognized the name “Ptolemaios” as that of one of Alexander’s companions, who in my world became King Ptolemy of Egypt and founded a famous dynasty. Young Pimples, then, must be Alexander himself. I was in a real predicament. If I stayed where I was, Ptolemaios would bring back missiles for target practice with me as the target. I could, of course, shoot some of the boys with my gun, which would save me for the time being. But in an absolute monarchy, killing the crown prince’s friends, let along the crown prince himself, is no way to achieve a peaceful old age, regardless of the provocation.

  While I was thinking of these matters and listening to my attackers, a stone swished through the branches and bounced off the trunk. The small dark youth who had fallen off his horse had thrown the rock and was urging his friends to do likewise. I caught glimpses of Pimples and the rest dismounting and scurrying around for stones, a commodity with which Greece and Macedon are notoriously well supplied. More stones came through the needles, caroming from the branches. One the size of my fist struck me lightly in the shin.

  The boys came closer so that their aim got better. I wormed my way around the trunk to put it between me and them, but they saw the movement and spread out around the tree. A stone grazed my scalp, dizzying me and drawing blood. I thought of climbing, but as the tree became thinner with height, I should be more exposed the higher I got, as well as being less able to dodge while perched in the branches than while I was on solid ground.

  That is how things stood when I heard hoofbeats again. This is the moment of decision, I thought. Ptolemaios is coming back with missile weapons. If I used my gun I might doom myself in the long run, but it would be ridiculous to stand there and let them riddle me while I had an unused weapon.

  I fumbled under my tunic and unsnapped the safety strap that kept the pistol in its holster. I pulled the weapon out and checked its projectiles.

  A deep voice broke into the bickering. I caught phrases: “. . . Insulting an unoffending traveler . . . how do you know he is not a prince in his own country? The king shall hear of this . . . Like newly freed slaves, not like princes and gentlemen . . .”

  I pushed towards the outer limits of the screen of pine needles. A heavy-set brown-bearded man on a horse was haranguing the youths, who had dropped their stones. Pimples said:

  “We were only having a little sport.”

  I stepped out from the branches, walked over to where my battered hat lay, and put it on. Then I said to the newcomer: “Rejoice! I am glad you came before your boys’ play got too rough.” I grinned, determined to act cheerful if it killed me. Only iron self-control would get me through this difficulty.

  The man grunted. “Who are you?”

  “Zandras of Pataliputra, a city in India. I seek Aristoteles the philosopher.”

  “He insulted us—” began one of the youths, but Brownbeard ignored him. He said:

  “I am sorry you have had so rude an introduction to our royal house. This mass of youthful insolence”—he indicated Pimples—“is the Alexandros Philippou, heir to the throne of Makedonia.” He introduced the others: Hephaistion, who had knocked my hat off and was now holding the others’ horses; Nearchos, who had lost his horse; Ptolemaois, who had gone for weapons; and Harpalos and Philotas. He continued: “When the Ptolemaios dashed into the house I inquired the reason for his haste, learned of their quarrel with you, and came out forthwith. They have misapplied their master’s teachings. They should not behave thus even to a barbarian like yourself, for in so doing they lower themselves to the barbarian’s level. I am returning to the house of Aristoteles. You may follow.”

  The man turned his horse and started walking it back towards Mieza. The six boys busied themselves with catching Nearchos’s horse.

  I walked after him, though I had to dogtrot now and then to keep up. As it was uphill, I was soon breathing hard. I panted:

  “Who . . . my lord . . . are you?”

  The man’s beard came round and he raised an eyebrow. “I thought you would know. I am Antipatros, regent of Makedonia.”

  Before we reached the village proper, Antipatros turned off through a kind of park, with statues and benches. This, I supposed, was the Precinct of the Nymphs which Aristotle used as a school ground. We went through the park and stopped at a mansion on the other side. Antipatros tossed the reins to a groom and slid off his horse. “Aristoteles!” roared Antipatros. “A man wishes to see you.”

  A man of about my own age—the early forties—came out. He was of medium height and slender build, with a thin-lipped, severe-looking face and a pepper-and-salt beard cut short. He was wrapped in a billowing himation or large cloak, with a colorful scroll-patterned border. He wore golden rings on several fingers.

  Antipatros made a fumbling introduction: “Old fellow, this is . . . ah . . . what’s-his-name from . . . ah . . . some place in India.” He told of rescuing me from Alexander and his fellow-delinquents, adding: “If you do not beat some manners into your pack of cubs soon, it will be too late.”

  Aristotle looked at me sharply. “It ith always a pleasure to meet men from afar. What brings you here, my friend?”

  I gave my name and said: “Being accounted something of a philosopher in my own land, I thought my visit to the West would be incomplete without speaking to the greatest Western philosopher. And when I asked who he was, everyone told me to seek out Aristoteles Nikomachou.”

  Aristotle purred. “It ith good of them to thay tho. Ahem. Come in and join me in a drop of wine. Can you tell me of the wonders of India?”

  “Yes indeed, but you must tell me in turn
of your discoveries, which to me are much more wonderful.”

  “Come, come, then. Perhapth you could thtay over a few days. I shall have many, many things to athk you.”

  That is how I met Aristotle. He and I hit it off, as we said in my world, from the start. We had much in common. Some people would not like Aristotle’s lisp, or his fussy, pedantic ways, or his fondness for worrying any topic of conversation to death. But he and I got along fine. That afternoon, in the house that King Philip had built for Aristotle to use as the royal school, he handed me a cup of resinated wine and asked:

  “Tell me about the elephant, that great beast we have heard of with a tail at both ends. Does it truly exist?”

  “Indeed it does,” I said, and went on to tell what I knew of elephants, while Aristotle scribbled notes on a piece of papyrus.

  “What do they call the elephant in India?” he asked.

  The question caught me by surprise, for it had never occurred to me to learn ancient Hindustani along with all the other things I had to know for this expedition. I sipped the wine to give me time to think. I have never cared for alcoholic liquors, and this stuff tasted awful to me, but for the sake of my objective I had to pretend to like it. No doubt I should have to make up some kind of gibberish—but then a mental broad jump carried me back to the stories of Kipling I had read as a boy.

  “We call it a hathi,” I said. “Though of course there are many languages in India.”

  “How about that Indian wild ath of which Ktesias thpeakth, with a horn in the middle of itth forehead?”

  “You had better call it a nose-horn—rhinokeros—for that is where its horn really is, and it is more like a gigantic pig than an ass . . .”

  As dinner-time neared, I made some artful remarks about going out to find accommodations in Mieza, but Aristotle—to my joy—would have none of it. I should stay right there at the school; my polite protestations of unworthiness he waved aside.

  “You muth plan to thtop here for months,” he said. “I shall never, never have such a chance to collect data on India again. Do not worry about expense; the king pays all. You are . . . ahem . . . the first barbarian I have known with a decent intellect, and I get lonethome for good tholid talk. Theophrastos has gone to Athens, and my other friends come to these backlands but theldom.”