Doctor Who BBC N07 - The Stone Rose

by Doctor Who

  But none of them did. Oh, they knew of him – but Ursus clearly wasn’t the life-and-soul-of-the-artistic-community type. He didn’t join in the gossip or swap tips; he wouldn’t recommend suppliers or train apprentices. His sculpting abilities were praised – but his meteoric rise to fame hadn’t gone down that well. The glory he’d received in less than a year was not appreciated by those who had been serving their apprenticeships for many moons. They told of tantrums and threats, 63

  of snubs and sneers.

  So, the Doctor found out quite a lot about Ursus – but not his location.

  Refusing to be disheartened, he began a whirlwind tour of Rome.

  Any watcher would be hard put to decide if he was the most devout of men, visiting each temple in turn, or the most irreverent, bringing no offerings and showing little regard for custom. The Doctor also visited taverns and snack bars, demonstrating an indefatigable appetite for honeyed wine, hot pies and gossip. ‘I know a statue by Ursus,’

  someone would say, and the Doctor would hare off across the city to find a marble Vesta or Flora – some astoundingly lifelike creation that filled the Doctor with fury. He was as certain as he could be of the nature of Ursus’s true ‘talent’. No sculptor could have created this many works of art in less than a year with just a hammer and chisel.

  The evening was drawing in and the Doctor was no closer to finding Ursus, or Rose, or any clue at all. But he wouldn’t stop looking.

  Then he spotted a shrine he hadn’t visited yet. It was small, not like some of the magnificent temples he’d seen earlier, but it was a shrine to Fortuna herself. Where better to find a statue of Fortuna than in her own temple? Surely the goddess of fortune must bring him luck!

  There were no priests around – his first lucky break. The Doctor took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  A statue of Fortuna stood at the end of the shrine and his hearts quickened. But although she shared a pose with the statue they’d seen in the British Museum, although she carried a cornucopia and gazed proudly forward, this was not Rose – was not even a new statue. The marble was discoloured, the paint faded.

  ‘Rose is prettier than you,’ the Doctor told the statue.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the statue.

  Of course it wasn’t the statue. It was a voice coming from somewhere behind it. But all the same, there was something wrong here.

  The Doctor started forward to investigate, but as he did so he almost trod on a small glass phial that came rolling out from behind the statue. It seemed to be full of some bright green substance. He stooped to pick it up, as the voice continued, ‘This’ll bring Rose back 64

  to life – and the others. All praise to me – that is, Fortuna, and all that.’

  The Doctor took another determined step towards the statue, but a door slammed open behind him and a voice yelled breathlessly, ‘Doctor! Doctor!’

  He turned to see Gracilis stumbling in. ‘Thank goodness I’ve found you!’ he puffed. ‘I’ve come to warn you –’

  But there was another interruption. Into the shrine strode Lucius Aelius Rufus, the man from the guesthouse, accompanied by several armed guards.

  There he is!’ roared Rufus, pointing at the Doctor. The Doctor looked back towards the statue, still puzzled – but then turned to face Rufus’s men as they came forward and grabbed him.

  ‘Well, excuse me,’ said the Doctor, mildly scolding. ‘This is no way to behave in a temple. I think it might be what they call sacrilege. Or is it blasphemy – I never can remember the difference? One of them, anyway, is what it is.’

  The men ignored him and started to drag him towards the door.

  ‘So, where are we going?’ the Doctor asked conversationally.

  Rufus smiled, showing a gold tooth. ‘To the arena,’ he said.

  The Doctor smiled back. ‘A day out!’ he said. That’s a nice thought.

  Tell you what, though, I’d be just as happy with an intimate little dinner for two, bit of a chat. . . ’

  One of the men slapped him across the face, and the Doctor stumbled. To his horror, the glass phial fell from his hand. He tried to pull away but the men were strong and he was dizzy from the blow.

  ‘Gracilis!’ he tried to call, but they were out of the shrine now and he received another slap for his troubles.

  Not only was he being dragged into danger, but he was being dragged further and further away from what might be Rose’s salvation. And he was unable to investigate the biggest mystery of the day – why was someone in an ancient Roman temple talking to him through something that sounded distinctly like a vocoder?

  It was soon only too clear where the Doctor was being taken. An 65

  enormous structure loomed up ahead, a giant round building that was as tall as thirty Doctors, made of gleaming white stone that sharply reminded him of Rose’s probable fate. Dozens of archways stretched round the lowest storey, currently devoid of life. But the Doctor knew that at times tens of thousands of people would stream through those entrances, eager to see the bloody spectacle that awaited beyond.

  This was the Flavian Amphitheatre, which would one day become known as the Colosseum. Home to gladiator fights, wild beast hunts, and thousands upon thousands of grisly executions.

  ‘Are we going to take in a show?’ asked the Doctor with interest.

  ‘Only we seem to have come on the wrong day. It’s a bit quiet, so probably better to come back another time.’

  ‘No blood is shed on the Quinquatrus,’ one of his captors informed him.

  ‘Ah, righto, pleased to hear it. Well, if you’ll just let me go, then. . . ’

  The man grinned unpleasantly. ‘Tomorrow, on the other hand, when we honour Mars. . . ’

  The Doctor sighed. He was getting tired of this. Suddenly he put on the brakes, digging in his heels and making his surprised captors unbalance. He brought his arms down sharply, wrenched them round and broke the men’s grips, leaving them gaping in astonishment.

  ‘Don’t worry, gents, I can find my own way home,’ he said, moving rapidly out of their reach. . .

  . . . and into the arms of two other men who had come up behind him.

  This was really not his lucky day after all.

  Coins changed hands between the two lots of men and the Doctor was dragged off again, this time through a door and down into a dark, malodorous underground structure.

  The two men who held him fitted the place well. One was short and stout, a curved scar bisecting his cheek from mouth to eye, giving him a twisted clown’s leer. The other was taller, with a long face crowned by greasy black hair. Both smelled of sweat and misery.

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  The Doctor recognised his surroundings – not as a specific, but as the sort of place he’d visited involuntarily hundreds upon hundreds of times. The damp walls, the gloom, the tang of fear – this was a dungeon.

  ‘I haven’t had a trial, you know,’ he remarked conversationally to the scarred man, who was referred to by his colleague as Thermus.

  ‘Tried in your absence,’ the man replied.

  ‘Really? You know, last time I looked, the penalty for borrowing a horse wasn’t death. I realise I may be terribly behind the times –or possibly ahead of them – but I would have thought a “sorry, bit of a misunderstanding, here’s a denarius or two for your troubles” was more to the point.’

  ‘We don’t make the law,’ said the tall man, Flaccus.

  ‘No, but Lucius Aelius Rufus does,’ Thermus pointed out.

  Both men seemed to find this observation the height of wit and snorted happily.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Doctor. ‘Am I to believe that the gentleman in question is a magistrate of some kind? The corrupt, power-hungry kind with an inflated sense of his own importance, perhaps?’

  The men chortled, which the Doctor took as a ‘yes’.

  ‘I need to see someone else, then,’ he told them. ‘Someone who can overrule Rufus. The emperor. If I could just get an audience with the emperor. . . ’

/>   By now the Doctor’s captors were laughing so hard they were finding it hard to stay upright.

  ‘See. . . the. . . emperor!’ gasped Flaccus. ‘Yeah, we’ll send him a note. He’s always popping round of an evening.’

  ‘Well, that’s handy, then,’ said the ‘Doctor. ‘Oh, hang on, were you being sarcastic? Because obviously that’s enormously helpful. Tell me, did you receive any training in the social-work aspect of your role here, or did it just come naturally?’

  They’d reached the end of a corridor lit only by a single guttering torch. The flames flickered on metal bars ahead, a tinsel sparkle among the gloom. Thermus dropped the Doctor’s arm and moved forward, a large metal key in his hand. The door swung open.

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  Flaccus grabbed hold of the pouch at the Doctor’s belt and tore it off.

  ‘No!’ cried the Doctor.

  ‘Yes,’ said Flaccus sarcastically. ‘After all, it’s no more use to you.’

  Then he gave an almighty shove and the Doctor stumbled forward into the cell.

  ‘This is a complete miscarriage of justice!’

  But they took no notice. Thermus slammed the door and the key turned.

  Normally, the Doctor would not have been concerned. Any lock could be undone by his sonic screwdriver. But that was the sonic screwdriver that was in his belt pouch. And that was the belt pouch –

  Rose’s belt pouch – that was on the other side of the bars, gradually retreating out of sight as it swung from Thermus’s sweaty, podgy hand.

  The Doctor turned from the bars and realised for the first time that he was not alone. Eyes were caught in the flickering light, reflecting out of unseen faces: a cartoon for Hallowe’en. He walked further in and could see the eyes’ owners better – a sea of hopeless faces barely registering his presence.

  He sat down on the cold stone floor and smiled around, although it was doubtful if anyone would care, even if they could see him. ‘Hello,’

  he said. ‘I’m the Doctor.’

  There was silence for a moment, then a voice out of the murk said,

  ‘Can you cure crucifixion, then?’

  ‘Yeah, or being burnt alive?’ said another. ‘Prevention is better than cure, don’t you think?’ the Doctor said evenly.

  There were discontented murmurs at this.

  A more reasonable voice spoke. ‘Look, we’re all going to die tomorrow. No way out of it. Most of us even chose this way to go.’

  ‘Better a quick death than a slow one in the mines,’ a fourth voice put in.

  ‘Yeah. So forgive us if we’re not that welcoming. Not much point in making friends when you might have to kill that person tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said the Doctor. ‘I don’t think making friends can ever be a bad thing, can it? It’s not like I’m expecting you to toss 68

  round a beanbag and tell an interesting fact about yourselves. Let’s just have a chat. For example, why are you going to be killing each other tomorrow?’

  There were a few disbelieving snorts from his audience.

  ‘Are you thick or what?’

  ‘He must be a foreigner,’ said the kinder voice. ‘Look, mate, that’s the way it is here. We don’t know exactly how we’re gonna go, but we’re gonna go. Burnt alive, crucified, fed to the beasts – or made to fight each other to the death. And then the only way you’ll survive is to kill and kill again and keep killing, in the desperate hope that the crowd’ll be so impressed they won’t want you to be finished off in the end. It’s the only chance you’ll have of getting out of there alive.’

  ‘Seems a very small chance.’

  ‘Right. But better than no chance at all.’

  The Doctor’s voice was full of sadness. ‘Where there’s life there’s hope? How can I tell you that’s wrong?’ He paused. ‘But what about dignity? What about not participating willingly in this bloody cha-rade? What about all standing together and refusing to fight?’

  ‘Then we get cut down where we stand. No life, definitely no hope.

  No one’s ever escaped from the arena.’

  The Doctor smiled, though none of his companions could see it.

  ‘Then it’s your lucky day. Because doing things that no one’s ever done is my speciality.’

  The Doctor came to think of his four chatty cell mates as John, Paul, George and Ringo. There were others too, men and women, freemen and slaves, too far into the depths of despair to talk to anyone. Several hundred prisoners were being held ready for the next day’s games.

  Many of them had been a willing audience at previous games and knew just what to expect.

  ‘You never want ’em to go free,’ confessed George. ‘That’s not how it’ works. Everyone’s howling for their blood, and you howl too.’

  ‘I remember this brilliant one,’ said Paul. ‘There was this bloke, a musician, and he thought he was there to play to the crowd. Then halfway through some tune they let the animals out! He thought it 69

  was a mistake and he’s running around, trying to get them to let him out, but of course they don’t. So he tries charming the beasts with his playing, like he’s Orpheus in the Underworld!’

  ‘Did it work?’ asked John.

  ‘Nah. Reckon the lion what got him wasn’t much of a music lover.’

  John chipped in with his own anecdote. ‘There was this time when they’d got a couple of blind men,’ he said. ‘Gave them both swords and set them at it. They’re swinging away, no idea what’s going on, occasionally getting a bit of ear or something by luck. That was hilarious.’ He paused. ‘Doesn’t seem so funny now.’

  ‘It doesn’t, does it?’ Paul concurred.

  George and Ringo muttered their agreement too. ‘Then let’s talk about the alternatives,’ said the Doctor.

  Some of the prisoners drifted off to sleep, but the Doctor stayed awake all night. Occasionally guards would visit, and the Doctor took every opportunity to remind them that he was, in his opinion, there unlawfully. They only laughed.

  Even the Doctor, with his excellent time sense, found it hard to tell when the next day came. Night reigned eternally in the dungeon, the single torch outside functioning as both sun and moon. It was sounds rather than light that alerted them all: roars and howls and bellows.

  ‘Getting ready for the wild beast hunt,’ explained George. ‘First business of the day.’ Having assumed the Doctor to be a stranger to Rome, he’d taken it on himself to explain all the customs of the arena.

  ‘Marvellous animals they’ve got. You being from foreign parts, you might have seen some of the beasts already, though, back home.’

  ‘Leopards they’ve got, and stags, and these incredible tall things called giraffes.’

  ‘And elephants, don’t forget them.’

  The Doctor clenched his fists. ‘Do you know how many species will be made extinct by these games?’ he demanded furiously. ‘Good grief, what is it about you humans? You think you’re the only thing on this planet that’s worth anything, that you can ravage nature just to show your superiority. Can you even comprehend a fraction of what’s being 70

  done here?’ Then he calmed down just as quickly, became sorrowful instead of angry. ‘No, you probably can’t. And I expect you wouldn’t care if you could.’

  ‘He must be foreign,’ Ringo concluded after a moment. ‘Either that or barmy.’

  ‘Foreign,’ the others all agreed.

  After a while, other sounds began to be heard, creeping faintly over the distance. There was music, followed by the cheering of an expectant crowd, growing in volume as more and more people arrived.

  ‘They drive the beasts into cages,’ George explained, ‘and then they’re hauled up to ground level. The arena’s all set up with trees and hills and things, and the trainers use burning brands to force them out into it. They try to create a bit of panic, make the things run around for a while, and then they hunt ’em down. Some of the beasts kill each other, and that’s all right, but the trainers finish the re
st off. I’ve seen a man kill a tiger with his bare hands,’ he concluded wistfully.

  They sat in silence for a while, listening. Gradually the roars of the animals grew fewer and fewer, and the cheers of the crowd reached a peak.

  ‘That’s that,’ observed John.

  ‘What happens next?’ the Doctor asked.

  ‘Next? Well, first they have to clear away all the bodies. That’s a bit of a job.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then it’s us. It’s our time to die.’

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  The Doctor thumped his fist against the cell bars. ‘All this for borrowing a horse. It’s ridiculous!’

  Ringo snorted. ‘You think that’s something? There’s me, nice little business selling artworks, never said they were your genuine Greek, can’t help what people thought, and then suddenly here I am about to go and meet Pluto.’

  He’d obviously struck a chord. ‘What they got me for’s serious enough,’ said George quietly. ‘Only thing is, I didn’t do it.’ He paused in thought for a moment, then continued. ‘Made the best pies in the city, I did. People came from miles around for one of my pies. Then one day this lad comes in. Posh sort, but looks like he’s been in a fight, and he’s barely able to stand from the drink. He’s flashing his money bag around, so I give him a pie and ask him if he wants me to get a doctor. Next thing I know, he’s on the floor. Dead.’

  ‘I think I can guess what’s coming,’ said the Doctor.

  George sniffed. ‘They’re all saying I poisoned him.

  Never mind that he barely touched his pie and he was half dead when he came in. Said I did it to get his money. Some toerag ran off with his purse while I was trying to bring him round. All my friends are saying I didn’t do it. But his family were rich. So I didn’t have a 73

  hope.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the Doctor murmured.

  They sat there in silence for a moment. Then everyone froze as footsteps approached the dungeon cell. Everyone except the Doctor.

  ‘Just try to remember what I said,’ he told the others. ‘If we stick together, who knows what we can achieve?’