When in Rome...

by Earl Waud

I materialized in Rome, 56 A.D. Give or take. Time travel isn't an exact science—more of a high-stakes guesswork game with catastrophic consequences if you miss. Like performing brain surgery during an earthquake while blindfolded.

The quantum haze dissolved around me, leaving that familiar copper taste in my mouth. The Colosseum wasn't built yet, but the Forum buzzed with life, draped in marble and intrigue. I smoothed my hastily-assembled toga and patted the scroll hidden beneath my tunic.

"Salve, citizen," I addressed a passing centurion whose armor gleamed under the Mediterranean sun. His muscled frame suggested a man who could snap my spine like kindling.

He snorted. "Salve? Which province taught you to speak like a constipated senator?"

Damn. My neural language implant had downloaded Classical Latin instead of Vulgar. I might as well have walked around Renaissance Italy speaking Shakespearean English.

"Apologies," I said, switching dialects. "I'm Alexandrian. Marcus Valerius. Scholar." A lie wrapped in truth—my real name's Darius Vale, holder of three doctorates in Temporal Physics from institutions that wouldn't exist for another two millennia.

The centurion spat near my sandals. "Another philosopher. Watch yourself. The emperor executed three Stoics yesterday for suggesting his poetry lacked... what was it? Ah yes, 'emotional authenticity.'"

Perfect timing. Nero's artistic insecurities were at their peak.

I had precisely four hours and seventeen minutes before the quantum tether yanked me back to 2418. Just enough time to deliver a message that would prevent the Great Fire of Rome, save thousands of lives, and—according to our simulations—preserve crucial texts that otherwise turned to ash, texts containing mathematical principles that would accelerate human development by centuries.

Rome unfurled before me like a living museum. Not the sanitized marble white of historical recreations, but a riot of colors, smells, and sounds. Buildings painted in vibrant reds and blues. The reek of human waste mingling with exotic spices. Street merchants hawking everything from Damascene steel to Egyptian papyrus. And everywhere, the electric current of a civilization at its zenith, unaware of its coming fall.

The palace guards blocked my path with crossed spears.

"The emperor sees no one today," barked the senior officer, a weathered man with a scar dividing his face like a lightning bolt.

I pulled out a silver denarius—authentic, excavated from the Thames in 2415. "I bring a message from the Oracle at Delphi."

"Apollo's been chatty lately," he sneered. "We've had three 'messengers' this week."

I leaned closer. "Tell him it concerns dreams of fire that consume seven hills, and how to prevent them."

His eyes widened. Nero's nightmares were not public knowledge—not in this century, at least.

The imperial chambers were a testament to excess. Gold leaf adorned every surface. Fountains burbled with wine rather than water. Musicians played softly in corners, terror visible in their eyes each time they struck a wrong note.

Nero reclined on a couch, surprisingly young and unsettlingly alert. Not the bloated tyrant of popular imagination but a sharp-eyed youth of twenty whose fingers drummed constantly against his thigh.

"You," he said without preamble, "are displaced."

I bowed. "All travelers are, Caesar."

"No." His eyes narrowed. "You vibrate at a different frequency. Like plucking a lyre string that doesn't belong to the instrument."

I hesitated. The historical records never mentioned Nero's perception being so... acute.

"I come bearing a prophecy," I said, producing the scroll. "And a warning."

He unrolled it with delicate fingers. "Do you know what happens to bearers of bad news in my empire?"

"I bring solutions, not just problems."

He read silently, expression unreadable. The scroll detailed the coming fire, the political aftermath, the scapegoating of Christians that would follow. And an alternative: an edict of religious tolerance that would—according to our models—prevent the conflagration entirely through a complex cascade of cause and effect.

"Interesting," he murmured finally. "You're suggesting tiny changes create massive ripples."

"History pivots on moments, Caesar."

He studied me. "What do you gain from this intervention?"

"A future," I said simply.

Nero laughed—not the maniacal cackle of legend, but something more thoughtful. "Tell me, traveler. In your time, am I remembered as monster or genius?"

The question caught me off-guard. "Both," I answered honestly. "Your artistic contributions are studied. But so are your excesses."

He nodded slowly. "Fair enough." He reached for his seal. "I'll issue your edict. Not because I fear your prophecy, but because I'm curious what happens when we defy fate."

As quantum particles began to dance around me, signaling imminent extraction, Nero raised a hand. "When you return to whenever you're from, remember something: history isn't written by winners or losers, but by those who survive to hold the pen."

The world dissolved into cascading light.

Back in the sterile lab of the Temporal Institute, alarms blared. My supervisor, Zhang, rushed toward me, tablet in hand, eyes wide.

"Vale! The timeline—it's shifting faster than predicted. You didn't just prevent the fire. You—"

I held up a hand. "Don't tell me. Not yet." I looked at the temporal distortion monitor. The butterfly effect was spreading outward from 64 A.D., vibrant threads of causality reweaving the fabric of history.

"Let Rome have its second chance," I murmured. "We'll see where the ripples lead."

On the screen, a blinking notice appeared: Timeline Bifurcation Complete. New Historical Branch NR-64 Established.

"Aren't you curious what you've changed?" Zhang asked.

I smiled. "History is patient. And now, we have more of it."