Doctor Who

by Alex Kingston

  ‘Stop!’ yelped the cat –

  I touched the ruby –

  Whirling, swirling through space, breath whipped from my body, turning inside out, stretched to the skies then twanged back like an elastic band –

  Then a landing, the world coalescing around me into normality. I wasn’t in the tomb any more, there was sunlight through the windows and the sound of water and birdsong and people …

  I shook myself and staggered upright.

  ‘River?’ said a surprised – no, an outraged voice.

  I hastily flung myself into a bow. ‘Your majesty,’ I said to the very definitely not dead Cleopatra.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EGYPT, 30 BCE

  The queen looked older than when I last saw her, but no less striking. Such are the blessings on women whose attraction comes from character rather than beauty. I didn’t believe she had been raised from the dead, which meant touching the ruby had thrown me backwards in time. Cat Malone had not come with me.

  We were in a room looking over the sea. Only Cleopatra and two other women – waiting women, whose names were Charmian and Iras – were present.

  ‘You intrude on my solitude,’ Cleopatra said coldly. It was as though she was unaware that I had materialised out of the air, and I assumed some slight hypnotic field had been in play. That was reinforced when she gave a small shake of her head, as if to assure herself she was seeing what she was seeing. She studied me for a few moments, then spoke again, more gently than before: ‘Yes, it is you. Nowhere in all of Rome or Egypt have I met another whose hair is so like my own. Yet you have not changed, even after 14 years.’

  I was momentarily surprised she knew to a moment when she had last seen me, but of course it was also the time when her lover had been murdered. That’s the sort of date that sticks in your mind. And ‘14 years’ told me I hadn’t been flung back very far in time; I was still in 30BCE, just earlier.

  ‘But it is,’ I said. ‘It is me.’

  ‘I wondered then if there was something godly about you,’ she said, ‘and now I know it is so. I believe you to be a handmaiden of Anubis himself. For you came to me first on the day of Caesar’s death, and now you come to me on mine.’

  She gestured for me to sit beside her on her couch.

  I knew many of the things that had happened to her since we were last together. I knew that she had not given birth to another child of Caesar’s, but had gone on to have twins by her new lover, Mark Antony, then another son too, children who would be marched in chains through the streets of Rome after their parents’ deaths, and only one of whom’s fate would be known to history. I knew that Rome had declared war on her, and she and Antony had lost in battle against Octavian’s troops, and lost badly. I knew that Antony had killed himself and that she was a prisoner of Octavian.

  I knew that on a day in August, 30 BCE, about ten days after Antony’s death, Cleopatra would die – most probably by poison, perhaps by her own hand – with her handmaidens dying alongside her. If legend was correct, an asp was smuggled in to her in a basket of figs, she caused it to bite her and died of its venom, leaving behind a note for Octavian.

  ‘You are going to die, then?’ I asked her.

  ‘I am,’ she replied. ‘I will not be an exhibit in Octavian’s triumph. I believe he will let my children live if I die, so die I will and must.’

  Now, there are fixed points in time, as you know. Caesar’s death we’ve already mentioned. You might think Cleopatra’s comes under the same heading – it’s a huge part of history, after all. The thing is, though, sometimes there’s a difference between what happens and what we think has happened. Caesar was stabbed in public by many people who knew him. But Cleopatra died inside a locked and guarded room. What if she just disappeared? Escaped? Octavian might still announce her death, and who would know otherwise?

  ‘I take it there are guards outside this room?’

  ‘Many, and armed,’ said Cleopatra’s maid.

  Well, that needn’t cause too many problems. I could use my …

  My thought trailed off into horror. I raised my wrist. No, I hadn’t been mistaken.

  I was no longer wearing my Vortex Manipulator.

  For several moments, I stopped breathing. No, not my respiratory bypass system kicking in, just something close to … yes, I think it was actually fear.

  I wondered how long Deff would wait for my return before killing my parents.

  ‘Don’t go dying yet,’ I told Cleopatra. ‘I need to think some things through.’

  I got up and paced around the room. I was thinking back to the moment I touched the ruby. I remembered Cat Malone calling out ‘Stop!’ – oh, if only I’d been able to react in time! The cat had worked out, somehow, that the jewel was a trap, another of Ventrian’s defensive flourishes, not the Eye of Horus at all. I realised that had I not already been acquainted with Cleopatra, things wouldn’t have gone well for me. She might have been a prisoner, but there were a lot of armed guards around.

  I remembered the world starting to spin. Yes, as I replayed it again and again in my head I had the impression of the Vortex Manipulator falling away from me, as if whatever swept me from the tomb had rejected it. It must be lying there still – or rather, as I had gone backwards in time, it would be lying there sometime in the future; about three weeks by my calculations. So all was not lost. I could still get it back.

  But getting into the tomb a second time, especially without Cat Malone’s help, would be unbelievably hard.

  Except … Ventrian’s defences wouldn’t yet be in place! From my conversations with the locals when I first arrived, I knew that Ventrian didn’t set up his tomb traps until Cleopatra’s body had been placed inside. This was my window, my way to get in! Then I just had to wait for myself to arrive again.

  But I also knew that the tomb was guarded even before that, because it was filled with riches. Guarded heavily. Just because they weren’t tortuous or alien didn’t mean the obstacles to getting inside weren’t deadly.

  And talking of which … ‘Are you guarded?’ I asked.

  Cleopatra nodded. ‘The doors are locked. Once a day food is brought to us, once a day our leavings – of all kinds – are removed.’

  ‘And when do they bring food?’

  ‘It will be soon.’ She smiled sadly. ‘But today as well as bringing food, they will be bringing my fate.’

  ‘Asp in the figs?’ I asked.

  Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. ‘I have indeed arranged for a viper to be brought in secretly to me, one that can kill swiftly.’

  I waved a hand, dismissing my mind-reading power. Of course I magically knew about her felo de se plans – I was a handmaid of Osiris, after all.

  Guards, guards, everywhere. And I had no Vortex Manipulator, no hallucinogenic lipstick, I’d even lost my sharpened nail file somewhere in Cisalpine Gaul.

  There was very little time to come up with a plan before the man from Asps R Us arrived. While I sat and thought, Cleopatra began to talk. Unsurprisingly, one thing uppermost in her mind was the fate of her son, Caesarion.

  I was only half-listening, my mind occupied with potential schemes. Then a word caught my ear. ‘What was that?’ I asked.

  ‘I said that Caesarion was to go to the seaport of Berenice,’ she said. ‘He is to go to Ethiopia, then onwards to India.’

  Berenice. It’s the title of an Edgar Allan Poe story, the one about the girl who’s buried alive. (Not that that narrows it down, Poe was always writing about people being buried alive.)

  Oh!

  People being buried … alive!

  I was being allowed a do-over! From here, this place and this point in time, there was a way I could get back into the tomb! And perhaps I could achieve even more than that …

  I went and knelt down at Cleopatra’s feet. ‘Your majesty,’ I said. ‘You have been a queen all your life, and now you are ready to die. But answer me this truthfully. Would you be prepared to live instead? Not as
a prisoner paraded in chains by Octavian – but not as a queen either. Just as a free woman. I can’t promise it would be a life of riches, but you might find that freedom is better than any treasure.’

  It took her a long time to answer me. A million thoughts, a thousand different scenarios, must have passed through her mind. In the end, though, she answered me: ‘Yes.’ Nothing else was needed.

  I explained my plan to the three women. I knew it sounded bizarre, and wasn’t without risk. But they seemed to have decided to trust me.

  I was hiding underneath the couch as the door opened (an extra inhabitant might just have aroused the tiniest bit of suspicion). In was brought food and drink – including the promised basket of figs. Cleopatra had written her letter and handed it over, to be taken to Octavian.

  ‘Why are you veiled, my lady?’ a guard enquired.

  ‘You dare to question me?’ replied the queen. ‘I am the goddess Isis. You know of the veil of Isis? No mortal may lift it.’ Another tidbit from ancient literature, Plutarch this time. That visit to Rome had been useful after all – I’d learned of Cleopatra’s identification with the goddess and caught up on my reading. And I was also now acutely aware of the power of curses in the Ancient world. That, with my own unique biology, added up to a near perfect plan.

  As soon as the door had shut again, I came out and we staged our scene.

  Neither Charmian nor Iras had a respiratory bypass system, obviously. But I was able to teach them some Venusian breathing techniques that would achieve a similar effect, even if only for a few minutes.

  When the door was opened again, to collect the dishes, this was the sight that met all eyes: two handmaidens lying on the floor, and a woman prostrate across the couch, clothed in rich garments and jewels, red-gold curls hanging down, a heavy veil obscuring her face that no mortal could dare to lift, doused in strong perfume. Obviously, it was Cleopatra’s body. Who could suspect an impostor?

  Guards rushed in, checking for signs of life. There were none.

  I heard the ladies-in-waiting being carried out. Dead bodies need no guards; if they kept up my Venusian techniques, they would be able to escape as soon as they were alone.

  The body of ‘Cleopatra’ was taken too. The guards did not lock the room behind them. So the real Cleopatra, hidden beneath the couch, would soon be able to make her escape.

  Cleopatra had requested in her letter to Octavian for her body not to be embalmed, but instead taken immediately to the tomb already prepared, where it would rest for ever alongside the ashes on Antony.

  This was where my plan became only nearly perfect.

  Conscious and aware, but unable to move, I hoped desperately that her wishes would be carried out. I really didn’t want my brains to be pulled out through my nose while I was still alive. It would be awfully inconvenient.

  People fussed all around; each new person increased the risk of discovery. Would someone notice Cleopatra had gained height? Would someone defy the gods and raise the veil?

  But finally came a time of quiet. Finally I felt it was safe to come alive.

  I opened my eyes – to total darkness.

  I started to breathe again – but the air was thin and musty.

  I tried to push back the veil. There was barely room for my arms to move.

  I was back inside Cleopatra’s tomb, just as I’d wanted to be.

  But I was trapped inside her coffin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  EGYPT, 30 BCE

  My limbs were stiff and weak from pretending to be a corpse. But eventually I regained enough strength to push aside the coffin lid. The air of the tomb was muggy, but heaven in comparison to the sarcophagal stink.

  I was filled with triumph. Against all odds, my plan had succeeded! I ruled!

  That euphoria lasted for, ooh, ten minutes?

  And then I got a bit bored.

  I like action.

  Not just ‘action movie’ type action, narrow escapes and high kicks and karate chops. Sharing a quiet, still, endless night under the stars with one you loved – that counted too. Moments when you are fully being.

  Hanging around in a tomb for weeks does not count.

  I had harboured the tiniest secret hope that somehow I would get to communicate with Ventrian and cut out this whole sorry mess, paradoxes be damned. If the way to access the Eye of Horus Device was in this tomb, and I was in this tomb, surely our paths must cross?

  This was not the case. When I ‘awoke’, things were already as I would find them weeks later. The Eye of Horus was carved on the wall, the deceptive ruby at its centre (I stayed very clear of it), the traps and protections were in place. Oh, how tempting it was to leave myself a message. DON’T TOUCH THE RUBY, IDIOT WOMAN, for example. But despite my defiant words, I knew I couldn’t really risk a paradox.

  The grave goods ensured I didn’t go hungry or thirsty, that was something at least. And I got in a lot of reading – for example, the Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe, which turned out to be a very slim volume when you removed all the ‘buried alive’ stories (way too soon).

  I had no external way of telling whether it was day or night, but my innate time sense kept me centred and enabled me to keep track of the passing days. Finally I knew the day had come.

  I didn’t want to spend longer in the sarcophagus than I had to. It wasn’t just the buried alive thing, they don’t have any of those satin-lined padded affairs that vampires go in for back in Ancient Egypt so it really does your back in, and I’m not getting any younger, you know. Well, actually that’s not entirely true, I had a little fun with my DNA when I regenerated, but the point stands. That sarcophagus could really do with a memory-foam mattress.

  I was just having a snack of dried meat – reminding myself to leave enough for the cat to chomp on – when I heard myself kicking off my Sunday shoes in an anteroom. OK, we’re on!

  I climbed inside the sarcophagus and with some difficulty pulled the lid into place above me. The temptation to tell myself not to touch that ruby was immense, but ripping all of time and space apart was probably something to avoid. Once entombed, I couldn’t hear what was happening outside, so I again had to rely on my time sense to know when it was safe to emerge. I’m not denying I would love to see my face if I jumped out of a coffin in front of myself, but again, ripping all of time and space apart, bad idea.

  At last I judged it was time to rise from the dead. As I started to ease aside the sarcophagus lid, I heard a familiar voice calling, ‘River! River! Where you gone?’

  Well, I couldn’t prank my actual self, but this was almost as good. ‘I’m here … ’ I drawled in my best zombie impression, and Cat Malone screeched and was out of the door before I’d even finished speaking.

  She trotted back in a few moments later, mumbling something about cat reflexes and not actually being scared. I rubbed her under the chin to apologise, then with great relief retrieved the Vortex Manipulator from the floor, where it lay alongside my bundle containing The Ruby’s Curse, and fastened it tightly around my wrist.

  It didn’t take long to tell Cat Malone what had happened to me, but I had one big question for her. ‘Why did you try to stop me touching the ruby? Did you know what was going to happen?’

  Her cat head shook from side to side. ‘No. But I suddenly thought of the clue of the rhyme, and what it might mean. We’d solved the mention of the Ides – but not the Rubicon.’

  ‘I guess it’s just a reference to me – a famous River.’

  ‘No,’ said Malone when I told her that. ‘That’s a coincidence – well, I guess an extra layer, rather. See, I’m thinking it’s a separate riddle in itself.’

  ‘And you think you’ve solved it?’ How did that work? How could someone I had created solve a mystery before I could?

  ‘Say it aloud,’ she told me. ‘See if you spot it too.’

  ‘The Eye’s the only Rubicon,’ I recited. ‘That’s the eye … ’ I pointed to the wall. ‘The eye is the ruby.’

&nb
sp; ‘Try again,’ she said.

  ‘The Eye’s the only … ’ I trailed off. ‘Not Rubicon. Ruby – con!’

  Only the Cheshire Cat can grin, but Cat Malone gave it her best attempt.

  ‘Oh, that’s good!’ I said. ‘That fits! What a lovely piece of misdirection. Of course, the ruby doesn’t help at all, it’s just the product of a paranoid delusional mind. We’re right back where we’re started with no idea how to get the Eye of Horus.’

  ‘But even with the con ruby, Ventrian made sure there was a way straight back here for you,’ said Cat Malone. ‘The real deal has to be here somewhere … ’

  I slumped down on the sarcophagus. The carving of Cleopatra with baby Caesarion seemed to look down pityingly upon me. I wondered where the real queen was now. Had she safely left Egypt? I remembered that although Caesarion had been supposed dead, no one had ever seen his body. Perhaps I’d choose to believe that Cleopatra found her son and they headed off to an inconspicuous, but safe, life together …

  Cleopatra’s son, Caesarion.

  Cleopatra – the embodiment of Isis, the mother goddess.

  Isis – the mother of Horus.

  Horus – the son of Isis.

  I didn’t stop to think it through, I didn’t want to talk myself out of the conclusion. I leaped up and put my hand on the baby’s carved eye …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, AD 1939

  I opened my eyes. I was staring straight up at a slightly curved surface barely a foot above me. My first thought was that I was back in a sarcophagus. My second thought was that at least it was a very comfortable sarcophagus. Someone had got my memo about memory-foam.

  A knocking sound. Someone at a door? Yes. That’s what had woken me. At which point I realised I must have been asleep. I was in a bed … no, a bunk. That’s why I was so high up. It was a comfortable if narrow bunk, and I was no longer wearing linen but something sleek and silky – scarlet satin pyjamas.