Doctor Who BBC N07 - The Stone Rose

by Doctor Who

  Vanessa looked up at him through her tears. Then slowly, shakily, she pulled a small black tube out of a fold in her coarse woollen tunic.

  Her finger hovered over the red button at one end as she pointed it straight at the Doctor. ‘Let me go – or I’ll shoot!’

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  The Doctor flung his hands up in the air. ‘Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot! I’m begging you!’

  Vanessa looked confused as he threw himself on to his knees in front of her.

  ‘For pity’s sake, don’t shoot!’ he cried.

  Her hand wavered – and the Doctor reached up and plucked the device from her. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Confuse the enemy, that’s the trick. Not that I’m saying you’re necessarily an enemy. I mean, I don’t think you would really have shot me.’ He glanced down at the device in his hand. ‘Especially not with a vid-caster remote control.’

  She gave him a faint, shaky smile. ‘It’s the only thing I’ve got from home. I was holding it when. . . ’ She trailed off and a tear trickled down her cheek.

  The Doctor jumped to his feet and Vanessa flinched away from him.

  He sank down on the hay beside her and put a kindly arm around her shoulder. ‘Y’see, I know for a fact you come from the twenty-fourth century,’ he said, holding up the remote control. ‘This proves it. So, are you going to tell me about it?’

  She shook her head and the Doctor could feel her tensing up. He 53

  dropped his arm back to his side. ‘Look, I’m sorry I shouted at you,’

  he continued. ‘I’m just upset about Rose. After all, I suspect that whatever has happened to her is what happened to Optatus a week ago, and you didn’t have anything to do with that – well, unless you’re playing a very elaborate game with a lot of accomplices. If this was a detective story I’d probably have to consider that – but it isn’t, and while I may not have a twirly moustache, I can still tell a genuinely scared person when I see one. You were really scared back at that apartment, weren’t you?’

  She nodded, but the tension was still evident in her whole body.

  For what seemed like the first time, she began to speak, really speak

  – a human being, not a frightened sheep. ‘I’ve been scared for such a long time now. I was so frightened and confused when I arrived here. There was some sort of festival going on, people everywhere.

  Balbus rescued me, gave me food and drink. But I said something –

  I don’t even remember what – and I got it wrong. He jumped to the conclusion I could tell the future.’

  ‘Which you could,’ said the Doctor. ‘Very accurately.’

  ‘Well, yes. And then he accused me of being a runaway slave and said I’d be executed – unless I worked for him. And so I had to. I did my best. I’d read horoscopes in magazines and I’ve studied astronomy.

  I thought it would keep me safe, until. . . ’

  The Doctor looked hard at her. ‘Until what?’

  She gave a half-smile. ‘Until I could get home.’ The smile went. ‘But it was terrible. I don’t know my history well enough. I was warning people to stay away from Pompeii, but apparently that happened years ago. And I worried that if I said a word about future emperors I’d get executed for treason. And then there were people like your friend Gracilis, who desperately needed hope and help, and I was giving them lies, feeding on their misery. All the while Balbus looked on, getting richer and richer from the things I was saying.’

  ‘The prophet’s profits,’ quipped the Doctor.

  She smiled again. ‘And then you and Rose arrived. I knew at once you weren’t ordinary Romans.’

  The Doctor gave a modest shrug. ‘Well, I must admit that I make 54

  heads turn wherever I go. It’s a burden that I just have to live with.’

  ‘I was scared again, of who you might be, but I was so desperate to get away from Balbus. . . And then Rose talked to me, and she seemed so nice, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her anything, just in case. . . ’

  She gazed up at the Doctor with pleading eyes. ‘Can you take me home?’ she said. ‘Please?’

  ‘Where is home?’ the Doctor asked her. ‘Where – and when?’

  Vanessa took a deep breath. ‘I’m from Earth – actually Sardinia, so I’m really quite close – in everything but years. When I left, it was 2375.’

  The Doctor darted a look at her. He knew that on Earth, in Sardinia, in 2375, they didn’t have time travel. So that was yet another mystery.

  ‘And how exactly did you come to be in Rome, AD 120, instead?

  Something a bit more than a wrong turn on the way home from school, I’m guessing.’

  The girl didn’t so much try to evade the question as ignore it altogether. ‘Can you take me home?’ she said again.

  The Doctor decided not to pursue the matter for now. He shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Not until I find Rose.’

  ‘But she must still be in the studio,’ Vanessa told him. ‘I’ve been watching all morning and she hasn’t left.’

  The Doctor knew that wasn’t the case. But he allowed himself to hope, just for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s look.’

  The workshop door was still open. They searched every room – but there was nothing. No Rose, no Tiro, no statues, no marble dust. The Doctor dived upon a scrap of papyrus that was lying on a table, but all it said, in hard-to-read cursive script, was ‘One statue to Rome’, followed by a figure – a receipt from the carter? He flung it down.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Vanessa. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ The Doctor’s worst fears were being confirmed, and he couldn’t hide from the conclusion any longer. The statue Ursus had

  – did you see it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was a statue of Rose.’

  ‘Which isn’t possible.’ He was almost shaking with shock and anger.

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  Vanessa held out a nervous hand to comfort him, but the Doctor threw it off. ‘What is it?’ she said, scared.

  That wasn’t a statue of Rose. That was Rose herself. That was Rose in the museum.’ The Doctor stood petrified for a moment, as if he’d been turned to stone too. Then he drew himself up to his full height, towering over Vanessa. Wouldn’t give in to the fear; would never give in. ‘We’re going to find her,’ he said.

  He told Vanessa to wait while he went back to his room, where there was something he needed. Right at the moment he couldn’t think how the sonic screwdriver would help, but he needed any possible advantage he could get.

  The screwdriver was where he’d left it, but there was something else there too, something made of cloth. He picked it up: it was a small drawstring purse, just the right size for a sonic screwdriver. There was a note too:

  Dear Doctor

  Happy unbirthday! Bet you didn’t know I could sew. Marcia showed me what to do.

  Love Rose

  The Doctor crumpled the note in his hand, overcome with grief and anger and helplessness. Then he carefully tied the pouch to his belt and set off to find his friend.

  Vanessa hurried to catch up with the Doctor as he strode out of the house and made his way to the path that led from the villa’s entrance to the road. Here and there the path was muddy, and cart tracks could be seen. The Doctor set off, following them.

  ‘Shouldn’t we. . . tell someone?’ asked Vanessa, out of breath from the pace the Doctor was setting.

  ‘No time,’ said the Doctor abruptly, not slowing down.

  But soon he had to stop. The path had joined with the main road. It was a typical Roman road, long and straight. And as everyone knew, all roads led to Rome. What people didn’t always mention was that this meant all roads also led away from Rome.

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  The Doctor flung himself on his hands and knees, looking for tracks.

  ‘Here,’ he said after a minute. ‘A cart turned to the left.’

  But Vanessa had been searching too. ‘I think one turned to the
right,’ she said.

  The Doctor got up and joined her. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘We’ve got to find a place where the tracks cross. Find out which one came first.’

  But their search proved fruitless.

  ‘Right!’ said the Doctor suddenly, springing to his feet in the middle of examining a dry and definitely trackless bit of road for the third time. ‘We’ll have to divide our resources.’

  Vanessa looked worried.

  ‘I mean,’ the Doctor explained, ‘you go one way and I’ll go the other.

  Look for clues. Talk to people. Find out anything you can.’ He glanced up into the sky, shading his eyes. ‘Wait till the sun’s got down to about

  – there,’ he said, pointing. ‘Then head back and meet me here.’

  ‘But. . . which way do I go?’

  The Doctor thought for a second. ‘Rose and I arrived on the Ides of March. That means –’ he counted on his fingers – ‘it’s almost the Quinquatrus. Yes, Balbus mentioned that. A festival that celebrates Minerva’s birthday on 19 March. Which makes her a Pisces,’ he added with a grin. ‘And Minerva is –’

  ‘Goddess of art and artisans,’ completed Vanessa, catching on.

  ‘It’s the time when all her devotees bring offerings,’ continued the Doctor. ‘And I don’t mean a bunch of daffs or a box of Milk Tray. If I remember correctly, they gather at her temple on the Aventine Hill.

  So, Ursus could be taking her there.’

  Vanessa nodded. ‘Yes, that makes sense. So he’s taken Rose to Rome.’

  But the Doctor shook his head. ‘Not so fast. There were two carts and they’ve gone in two different directions. And we found what is probably a receipt from the carter – to take a statue to Rome. So it could be the other cart that’s gone there.’ He spun on the spot, eyes closed and one arm stretched out. Stopping, he opened his eyes and found he was pointing to the right – towards Rome. ‘I’ll go this way, you go that way. OK?’

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  But he didn’t give her time to answer. He was already heading off, jogging down the road that led to Rome.

  The sun crept across the sky and the Doctor met nobody. The weather was warm for March – perhaps everyone was having an afternoon siesta. Every now and again he spotted cart tracks – but that didn’t mean a thing, they could belong to any cart. Giving up was not in his nature, but hopeless plans weren’t either. He’d return to the villa, see if Vanessa had had any luck; talk to Gracilis – beg the loan of a cart, or a carriage, or even just a donkey.

  He stared fruitlessly into the distance for a final second, as if Rose would somehow be revealed to him. Then he turned and headed back.

  The Doctor beat Vanessa; there was no sign of her either at the road’s edge or on the path to the villa. He was making for the main entrance when he spotted a flash of white among the trees. Optatus’s statue.

  His hearts felt heavy. Optatus’s ‘statue’.

  He made his way towards the grove and wasn’t really surprised to find Gracilis and Marcia there. They smiled sadly up at him.

  ‘You must think us sentimental fools, Doctor,’ said Gracilis. ‘But it helps us feel he is still with us.’

  The Doctor nodded. He moved over to the statue and looked at it carefully. Then he ran a gentle hand down its right arm. ‘There’s a bump,’ he said. ‘Just here.’

  Marcia looked. ‘Optatus broke his arm,’ she said. ‘He fell from a tree. The surgeon set it, but it didn’t heal quite right.’

  ‘Amazing for Ursus to pay such attention to detail. . . ’ said the Doctor; a hint. But he didn’t continue. Couldn’t let them know the truth.

  He stood for a moment, silently gazing at the statue. Then he said abruptly, ‘Rose has disappeared. She’s in deadly danger. We might already be too late.’

  Gracilis gasped, and Marcia looked as though she was about to faint clean away.

  The Doctor carried on, ‘I think she’s on her way to Rome. Gracilis, can you help me get there?’

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  Gracilis nodded eagerly.

  The Doctor turned to Marcia. ‘Vanessa is helping me to search. But I can’t wait any longer for her. When she gets back, will you send word by messenger to let me know what she’s discovered?’

  Marcia also nodded.

  ‘Then there’s no time to lose,’ said the Doctor. ‘Let’s go.’

  Not for the first time, the Doctor cursed the fact that the TARDIS was sitting somewhere in a Roman back street, well over a day’s journey away by donkey. Gracilis had insisted on coming with him, so the Doctor had had to wait impatiently while he bade farewell to his wife and collected provisions. Some people seemed totally unaware that the smallest second could mean the difference between life and death.

  Gracilis still hoped to find a clue in Rome as to Optatus’s where-abouts. The Doctor didn’t tell him that the best clue was right there at his own villa. He did eventually say that he suspected Ursus was responsible for Rose’s plight. But more than that he did not reveal.

  Every now and again the Doctor would jump out of the carriage to check for wheel marks, or to ask a plodding peasant a question, but none of the answers enlightened him. As darkness fell, they approached a way station, where the Doctor had no intention of spending the night.

  Gracilis protested. He was as eager as the Doctor to reach Rome, but the donkeys had to rest.

  ‘Then I’ll carryon by foot,’ the Doctor declared. ‘But perhaps Ursus is resting here too,’ suggested Gracilis, stopping the Doctor in his tracks for a moment.

  The Doctor resumed walking – but now his footsteps were bent towards the guesthouse. ‘All right. We’ll have it your way,’ he said.

  They went inside, and the Doctor immediately cornered the proprietor and described Ursus to him. The man claimed not to have seen the sculptor, however many times the Doctor asked.

  Gracilis called for wine, while the Doctor paced the room.

  The Doctor suddenly had a thought. ‘You’re a way station. You must have donkeys here. Or, even better, horses,’ he said to the proprietor.

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  The man bowed obsequiously. ‘Indeed we do, sir.’

  ‘Then I’d like to hire your best horse, please, immediately.’

  The man humbly begged the Doctor’s pardon, but feared that such a thing was not possible. ‘I’m afraid our beasts are not fresh and would not be fit to undertake a long journey.’

  The Doctor scowled but, reining in his impatience, finally agreed to sit down and share a meal with Gracilis.

  Just as they were finishing, there was a sound of hoof beats from outside and a few moments later the door was flung open. A haughty-looking man in his forties entered, Roman nose stuck high in the air.

  He clicked his fingers and, as the proprietor hurried over, relieved a slave of the cup of wine that was heading towards Gracilis.

  Gracilis began to bristle, his chest puffing out in indignation, but the Doctor raised a hand to stall his angry words.

  ‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully, jumping up and offering a hand to the newcomer, ‘you look a bit thirsty. Long journey?’

  The man stared at the Doctor in disdain, taking in his plain tunic, distinctly un-Roman sideburns and not-at-all-subservient grin. He did not shake hands. ‘I am Lucius Aelius Rufus. I have travelled from Gaul on business for the emperor,’ he said impressively.

  Gracilis jumped slightly. Clearly he’d heard of the man.

  ‘Gaul, eh?’ said the Doctor. ‘Ooh, rough place. Nice scenery, though.’

  Rufus ignored him. ‘I wait here merely while my horse is changed, then I will be on my way.’

  The Doctor pricked up his ears. ‘Your horse?’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck. No fresh horses here.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Rufus. ‘It has all been arranged.’

  The Doctor turned to stare at the proprietor. The unfortunate man cringed like Uriah Heep and begged the Doctor’s pardon again. They had received word that this gentleman was coming. The last horse h
ad been reserved for him. The proprietor was so sorry if his earlier words had misled the Doctor, no disrespect had been intended.

  ‘I see, I see,’ said the Doctor mildly, taking a seat opposite Rufus and ignoring his unwelcoming stare. ‘You must be on very important 60

  business if you can’t even rest for the night,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’ The newcomer sounded bored.

  ‘Life or death, great benefit to mankind, that sort of thing?’

  ‘My business is my own,’ Rufus said, and turned his head away in a vain attempt to stop the Doctor addressing him.

  ‘But you would tell me if it were life or death?’ the Doctor persisted.

  The man’s hand clenched angrily around his cup as he drained his wine. He said nothing.

  ‘Well, I’ll take that as read, then,’ said the Doctor.

  He stood up and walked over to Gracilis. ‘Catch me up if you can, and make sure he doesn’t have the stablehands beaten,’ he whispered in his friend’s ear. Then he casually wandered out of the front door, leaving Gracilis looking bemusedly after him.

  A few minutes later, the sound of hoofbeats could be heard from the road outside the guesthouse, gradually fading into the distance. It took Rufus a moment to cotton on, and by the time he had followed the Doctor out, horse and rider were just a spot in the distance.

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  The Doctor arrived in Rome during the morning of the 19th – the Quinquatrus – and made his way through the streets to the Aventine Hill. He’d not passed Ursus’s cart during his night-time ride, nor found any trace of him at guesthouses along the way, but he wasn’t letting that discourage him – he was hoping that the man was already in Rome.

  First stop was the temple of Minerva – the patron of artists. There was a crowd outside when he arrived and the Doctor moved through it, chatting as he went.

  ‘Minerva’s great, isn’t she?’ he kept saying to various worshippers.

  ‘And by the way, you’re arty sorts, do you happen to know the sculptor Ursus at all?’