“Then you’ve heard of me.” He was pleased. “I’d no idea my work was known in Carthage. But what is this Ars Amatoria of which you speak? It’s a good title, but I have written no such work.”
“But you will!” I exclaimed.
“I beg your pardon?” He was puzzled.
“Nothing. I’m just confused. I’m sorry.” I realized then that I was meeting Ovid at a time prior to his having written the masterpiece which would come to be known in the English-speaking world as The Art of Love.
“Still, it is a good title,” he mused. “Has someone else used it?”
“No,” I assured him. “Feel free to use it yourself.”
“Some day I will.”
It seems I’d made a contribution to posterity.
“Where are you staying in Rome?” Ovid asked.
“I’m not settled yet.”
“Then you must be my guest and stay at my villa.”
“Thank you.” I accepted the invitation.
A short time later I was ensconced in a suite of rooms in Ovid’s home. He bid me goodnight, left me alone, and sent a pair of slaves to see to my needs. When they entered, I was startled. They were ringers for Georgus and Lurlina, the slaves I’d met in Sheba.
“I am Wallatzius and this is my wife, Echo.” The man-slave introduced himself and the woman. “Master Ovid thought you might find this toga more suitable for wear in Rome than your native garb.” He handed me a toga. “If there is anything else, sir, we will be pleased to do your bidding.”
“Where are you from?” I asked, curious.
“Carthage. The same as yourself, sir. We were slaves there, as our parents before us. Then we were sold to a Roman merchant who in turn sold us to our master, Ovid.”
“I see. Then you’ve always been slaves.”
“And always will be. It is our lot in life, sir. Some are born nobles, some are born slaves.”
“Some are born nobles, some are born slaves,” his wife Echo echoed.
“Slavery is an institution.”
“An institution,” Echo confirmed.
“And institutions are sacred to the gods.”
“Sacred to the gods.”
“Besides,” Wallatzius added, “slaves are naturally inferior.”
“Naturally inferior . . .”
“And we take pride in our inferiority.”
“Pride in our inferiority . . .”
“Blissful are the ignorant,” Wallatzius said positively.
“Ignorant are the blissful . . .”
“No, no, you’ve got it backwards, Echo. It’s ‘blissful are the ignorant.’ ”
“Blissful are the ignorant.”
“She’s not too bright,” Wallatzius confided. “I have to guide her every step of the way.”
“Every step of the way.”
“I don’t think she’d ever say anything if I didn’t put the words in her mouth.” Wallatzius bowed low, scraping the floor with his nose. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Not right now. You can go.”
“Thank you, sir.” He bowed again and she followed suit. Then they both backed out of the room, bowing all the way.
Finally alone, I turned on my wrist radio.
“EX-GOVERNOR GEORGE WALLACE OF ALABAMA15 SAID TODAY THAT COMMUNIST AGENTS WERE BEHIND ATTEMPTS TO DESEGREGATE SOUTHERN SCHOOLS. HIS WIFE, MRS. LURLEEN WALLACE, THE CURRENT GOVERNOR, SPOKE AFTER HER HUSBAND. THE MAIN POINT OF HER ADDRESS WAS THE DANGER PRESENTED BY COMMUNIST AGENTS WHO HAVE INFILTRATED THE RANKS OF CIVIL RIGHTS WORKERS SEEKING TO INTEGRATE SOUTHERN SCHOOL SYSTEMS . . .”
I switched off the news broadcast and fiddled with the wrist radio until I’d managed to make contact with Tibet. I was in luck. Dudley Nightshade was waiting for my call.
“What the hell is going on?” I wanted to know. “First I land in Sheba, and now in Rome eight hundred years later. Why didn’t you bring me back to 1967?”
“Don’t yell, Steve. It makes me nervous. It’s very bad for me. My heart palpitates. I could drop dead just from aggravation. And believe me I’ve had plenty lately.”
“You’ve had plenty! What about me?”
“If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll tell you what happened.”
“So tell me.”
“Well, you’ll be glad to hear that Papa Baapuh finally finished his washing.”
“I trust everything came out Rinso-white,” I said sarcastically.
“Oh, yes. He was very pleased. You see, it’s an experiment and he’s keeping notes on each wash.”
“I see. With an eye peeled for tattle-tale gray,” I guessed.
“Exactly. Anyway, it put him in a good mood and he cooled down and I was finally able to get him back to the time machine. That’s how come we got you out of Sheba.”
“And in the nick of -- you’ll pardon the expression -- time,” I told him. “But why didn’t you bring me back altogether?”
“It’s not that simple. The way Papa Baapuh explains it is that it takes a lot more power to bring you forward than it did to send you back. His generator isn’t powerful enough. He can only do it in short hops.”
“Can’t you get him a bigger generator?”
“I suggested that, but he’s afraid to try it. He’s not sure how added power would affect the machine. He wouldn’t be able to control it. He might send you a thousand years into the future by mistake. You see, it’s still in the experimental stage.”
“That’s reassuring!”
“You’ll have to be patient.”
“That’s easy to say. But what’s holding up my next jump?”
“It was Papa Baapuh’s time to visit the Lamasery. He promised to crank up the generator and bring you forward another jump when he gets back. So there’s nothing for you to do but wait.”
“Great!” Still, I knew he was right. I had no choice. But if I was going to be stuck here, then I decided I’d need a better idea of the local situation. “Listen, Dudley,” I said, “do some research for me on Rome at the time of the Emperor Augustus. I’m particularly interested in his daughter Julia and the poet Ovid.”
“We may get you out of there before I can get that info for you.”
“Well, get it anyway. I’m curious.”
“All right. Be patient. And say a prayer I should live long enough to see you back here.”
“Take care of yourself, Dudley. Take very good care of yourself.”
“You’d better mean it, Steve. I don’t think Papa Baapuh would bother with you if I wasn’t here to nag him.”
“Eat lots of nourishing foods,” I told him. “Get plenty of rest. And don’t forget to take your pills.”
“Ooh! That reminds me. I’m due to take one right now. So long, Steve.” He signed off.
I sighed and got undressed for bed. Dudley was right. There was nothing to do but wait. I went out like a light as soon as my head hit the pillow.
It was still dark outside when the loud knock at my door woke me up. Groggily, I answered it. The slave Wallatzius was there. Standing behind him was a burly-looking Roman soldier. Before the slave could speak, the centurion pushed him roughly aside and addressed me himself.
“I come from the Princess Julia,” he announced. “She bids you come at once.”
His manner and the short sword at his waist precluded argument. I climbed into the toga Ovid had provided and went along with the soldier. “How did you know where to find me?” I asked when we were out on the street.
“I was sent to ask the Poet Ovid who you were and where I might find you. It is good that you were in his home. It will save time. The Princess will be pleased. She wants what she wants when she wants it. If I’d had to spend the night searching for you, she would have been in a pique by morning. And then your reception would not have been as warm as I suspect it will now be.”
He was right about the “warmth” of my “reception.” Princess Julia had raised the temperature of her bed to hot coals by the time I arrived. She immediately dimissed the soldier and her servants and came to the point.