Doctor Who: The Romans (8 page)

‘All I’m trying to say is that I have developed a wholly new technique...’

‘I advise you to forget it at once!’

He sighed deeply. ‘You can’t halt progress, you know...’

he ventured unwisely.

‘Who can’t?’ I snarled.

‘I mean, you can’t uninvent something, once it’s there.

And what I’ve invented is the ultratonic scale.’

‘A what and tonic?’

‘It’s a totally new theory of harmonics. I thought it would interest an enlightened despot like your goodself...?’

‘You were wrong! It sets my teeth sideways, if you must know...’

‘You will find,’ he continued complacently, ‘that before very long - speaking cosmically, that is - it will have completely superseded the outworn Classical and Romantic traditions, which are merely the symbols of a reactionary preoccupation with jolly good tunes.’

The man was manifestly mad; and I was about to strike him with a suggestion, when I suddenly thought of a better one...

‘Look, I don’t want to be unfair,’ I told him; ‘so why don’t you give the complete piece an airing at the Nero Fest tomorrow? Then we’ll be able to see how it goes down in front of a packed house, eh? And if I’m wrong, I’ll apologise - the way I always do!’

He looked apprehensive, as well he might: because if I’m any judge, no self-respecting mob of promenaders is going to stand for that sort of thing for long without eviscerating, or otherwise incommoding, the performer.

Which would save my recently rather overworked lions the trouble.

‘I’m not entirely sure that the world is ready...’ he began.

‘Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?’ I comforted him. ‘Good - so that’s settled, then. Oh, by the way, I’d better have the title for the programme notes, hadn’t I?’

He swallowed something, blushed, and then,

‘Thermodynamic Functions,’ he mumbled modestly.

It is perhaps fortunate that, at this moment, a girl came in with some drinks...

Sixth Extract from the Journal of Ian
Chesterton

Well, the die is cast – but whether for ill or good only Time, as they say, will tell; and there doesn’t seem to be a lot of that left, from where I’m standing! Or slumping, rather, for I have been chained to the cell wall in such a manner as to prevent my either standing or sitting comfortably; and if that is a recommended discipline for the night previous to a title bout, I’m surprised, to say the least!

In fact, it is only by the most painful contortions that I am able to continue this chronicle at all, but I am determined not to relapse into apathy; and it is only the thought that, somewhere in the far distant future, I have a friend – for so I consider you, Headmaster – which sustains me through this dark vigil.

You will have gathered from my reference to tomorrow’s contest that I have opted for single combat – to the death! – with Delos; rather than to go rushing round the ring with a lot of strange lions of uncertain temper, and I can only hope I have chosen wisely.

The weapon I have selected is the javelin - perhaps you may remember my prowess on the dart-board at the staff social? - and my defence is to be a weighted net, with which I shall hope to entangle my vast opponent’s sword arm at the first opportunity; thereby rendering him powerless, and at my mercy. Which mercy I shall, of course, be prepared to grant. For I recall a film featuring Kirk Douglas, in a role similar to my own -
Spartacus
, I think - when the two combatants spared each other’s lives, and then together turned on their tormenters with some degree of success.

I put this suggestion to Delos, but he merely regarded me pityingly; and the only concession he seemed prepared to make, was that he would do it quick, when the time came, as he was anxious to get back to his home in Greece, and not hang about.

He then summoned our gaoler, and arranged to be given separate accommodation for the night, as he wanted to get a good night’s sleep before starting; a thing he would find impossible if I was going to keep on making fatuous suggestions every five minutes.

For my part, I was quite relieved to see him go, since he does not so much snore as snarl and eructate alternately; and I can only hope that the morning will fmd him in a more amenable mood. For I still maintain that, back to back, against whatever odds, we might well hold off our adversaries for long enough to make good our escape.

But will the dawn never come? And if it does, as seems likely, then what will it bring? These and a hundred other rhetorical questions flood my brain; but no time for more now, as I must get a spot of shut-eye myself, if I’m to be anything like on top form.

Your very sincere, but often apprehensive, Ian Chesterton
DOCUMENT XXII

Third Extract from the Commonplace
Book of Poppea Sabina

I am more than ever convinced that unsteady is the head which sports a crown, or some such; and it is quite right to be so under the circumstances. Which are that my unsought consort will shortly qualify for the laughing academy if he carries on like this!

Today when I visited our cosy old throne-room, expecting – not unreasonably, I think – to catch him at it with the demon Barbara, I found instead
another
nutcase (What
is
it about the lyre which does this to people?) who proceeded to lecture me on the hydrostatic principles of the aqueduct, if I understood him correctly.

I was backing away to summon assistance on the alarm gong, when my husband entered – on his stomach, for some reason – and immediately engaged the man in a totally incomprehensible conversation, bearing, I think, on aspects of political economy; culminating in a lyre obligato of such dissonance as to set me swooning, swan-like in a dream of sudden screams in saw-mills.

I was roused from this temporary inverted coma by the entrance of yet another new slave-girl, bearing two drinks on a tray; at one of which I clutched, in an unusually palsied paroxysm of the dipsomania which has troubled me from infancy, when I was given pause by her murmuring as she curtsied, ‘From the lady Locusta, ma’am;’ upon hearing which I shrank back from the proffered cordial as a cobra does from a mongoose, and offered it to my husband, saying, ‘Nero, my god, to thee!’ or some similar spontaneous quip.

However, he had already raised the other glass halfway to his unpleasant lips, when our visitor, the gnomic musician, addressed the serving wench as ‘Vicki’, followed by an exclamation mark.

‘
Veni, vidi, vici!
’ she agreed, with a saucy wink, before he could continue, but too late to dispel the impression that they had somewhere met before; and Nero, who is sometimes as quick on the uptake as the only slightly insane, lowered his own goblet thoughtfully, saying that for some reason he no longer felt thirsty, and perhaps I would like it? An offer I declined with an amused sneer.

Whereupon, having been through this ‘Pass the Poisoned Chalice’ routine together so often on long winter evenings, we both extended our toxic what’s-its in the general direction of Mad Max and his young confederate; who confirmed our dawning suspicions by rejecting the blue and bubbling beverages, the former accompanying his refusal with a lecture on the evils of strong drink, which was overdoing things rather, I thought, unless he really
did
know what was in it!

So, as usual, we put the matter to the test by summoning an independent arbitrator, the wretched Tigillinius drawing the short straw on this occasion; who shortly thereafter expired in a cloud of steam, and with what I’m sure would have been a strangled scream on his lips, had the poor fellow ever been capable of speech.

Although shocked by the occurrence, Max was clearly mollified to some extent by this immediate justification of his temperance principles, and later the conversation became general, as far as I remember. It was soon revealed that the suspect serving wench was in fact, Petullian’s ward, who had only been helping Locusta out below stairs to fill in the time, so all misunderstandings were resolved –

or as nearly so as they
ever
are in this abode of love and trust: and we invited them to join us in watching a gladiatorial contest featuring two recaptured galley-slaves tomorrow morning.

This invitation the old man rather churlishly refused, however, on the grounds that Vicki was far too young to watch so bloodthirsty a spectacle, however educational it might be, since it was likely also to deprave and corrupt (and where’s the harm in that, I would like to know?); while he himself felt that his time would be better spent in rehearsing his piece for its premiere in the evening, the poor fool!

So with many false expressions of mutual goodwill we parted; and I now look forward to seeing them torn to pieces by a howling mob of brutal and licentious music lovers after the performance.

Just another boring day in the life of a very ordinary Roman Empress. Heigh-ho as usual.

And so to bed,

Fifth Letter from Legionary (Second
Class) Ascaris

Dear Mum,

I have already let you know the dodgy outcome of my last vain attempt to redeem ‘my fallen fortunes’, which ended in the sad death of my commanding officer, but was an accident, as he would be the first to admit was he so able. But without his valuable testimony as to his sitting in the wrong seat at the time of the stabbing, I have thought it best to keep my low profile in the sewer for a bit longer while things blow over me. Which I now believe they may have done, since no word has reached me to the contrary, or indeed at all for some time.

But I cannot rest here easy while Petullian lives, for he and the screaming baggage who must also go both saw me do the job, and so it is now them or me, as I’m sure you will quite understand. So here I go again, with a heart as high as the rest of me, to sort out the pair of them for keeps this time, let us hope!

After which I should be over-ripe for promotion if there is any justice; and a credit to you, like you suggested I should try being sometime.

Still no letter. Your very puzzled

Ascaris.

Sixth Extract from the Doctor’s Diary
Neither of the Neros having had the grace to offer us accommodation for the night, and the events of the evening having persuaded me of the inadvisability of dining with them – what a very
odd
couple, to be sure! - I eventually succeeded in booking two somewhat squalid but quite adequate rooms in one of the city’s poorer quarters; and we retired early after an interesting meal of ants’ eggs sautéed in some sheep’s milk.

Personally I slept well; but in the morning Vicki was in a refractory mood, complaining of bats in her attic and rats in her mattress, and similar irritabilia, until I quite lost patience with her, and suggested she take her breakfast of stewed lampreys back to bed, while I found a quiet corner of the palace to perfect my concert piece.

But today it was difficult to find any sequestered rest-room suited to my purpose, since all available space was seething with spectators who had come to watch the big fight; so, skirting the arena and its environs, I eventually came to a balcony overlooking what I presumed to be the zoological gardens, where several fine specimens of
felis leo
were taking a siesta in the shade, and here I determined to rehearse.

I confess to being well pleased with my first attempt at atonal composition,
Thermodynamic Functions
, since to me it typifies the eternal conflict between Art and Audience -

which is brought to an altogether alienating crescendo of raucous discords in the final movement.

But it begins relatively quietly, with a wailing lament for lost innocence, modulating freely through a good many keys, until it reaches the long and lachrymose
legato
passage which expounds the violent argument - without, of course, resolving it in the slightest! If you follow me?

And I find it especially satisfactory that I, a scientist, should have so easily been able to achieve what unborn generations of professional concertgoers are bound to find extremely difficult.

So it was with a certain amount of justified complacency that I reached for the first bundle of chords - and struck them with all the strength at my disposal...

It has been said, I believe, that music hath charms to soothe the savage breast; but on this occasion at least, I was interested to note that the effect was entirely different.

As my ineffably incredible
arpeggios
sank amongst the hitherto somnolent carnivores before me, they instantly opened indignant eyes, and backed bristling towards the opposite wall of their enclosure, snarling and spitting suspiciously in all directions!

Simultaneously a loud and angry cry from behind me caused me to duck, and, as I did so, over my head flew that squat and unsavoury figure whose frequent attempts on my life have been such an unwelcome feature of my stay in Italy.

Instinctively I struck out at it in passing with my lyre, unfortunately once again entangling the man’s flailing arms in the strings; so that as he descended into the lions’

den he was carrying the instrument with him; whereupon it emitted one last despairing diapason, and then disintegrated - I would say irreparably, confound the fellow!

The lions, for their part, looked at the cracked apparatus resentfully, then rose to their paws and paced implacably towards my assailant, flexing their biceps in the manner of cats who are going to settle this thing here and now.

Obviously the assassin received the same impression, for he now ran whimpering around the limited space available to him, like a mouse in a bucket, making a series of despairing and ineffectual leaps towards the parapet.

Why I should have helped the man I am not sure, for I certainly owed him no consideration after his previous behaviour towards me; but I had noticed that near to where I was standing there was a winch mechanism from which ropes descended to a sliding door, which I presumed

- erroneously, as it transpired - led to the beasts’ sleeping quarters. If, I reasoned, I opened this door just sufficiently to allow of his escape, and then instantly lowered it behind him, he would be trapped intact within their dormitory until such time as he could be delivered to the proper authorities, and made to give an account of himself.