White

Aaron stashed his time machine in the cellar of the Flavian Amphitheatre. None of the shackled Christians would snitch on him. And if the senators figured out what it was, they’d feed him to the lions, too.

But what to do for clothes? Geez almighty, he’d stick out like a sore thumb if he showed up in his torn Diesel jeans, orange Converses, and Abercrombie T. Before launching from Aunt Wilhelmina’s, he’d forgotten to rummage through his closet for toga and sandals.

He sneaked over to the Roman Forum unseen – thank goodness for the dark hour of the night, the nobles would all be at the banquet – until he saw as fat boy playing Brahms on the violin.

“Halt,” the boy squealed at him, “who goes there?”

Should he make a break for it? In his Converses, Aaron could outrun the fat boy in sandals anytime.

“It is I, Aaron Aardvark of California.”

“Arrest the pagan!” the boy said and went back to the Brahms. Wait a second ... Brahms on the violin, when it was only the 4th century?

“And where’s your time machine, fat boy?”