Doctor Who

by Alex Kingston

  I didn’t think I would forget what I had discovered here. I suspected that on previous days I had actually made it inside the tomb, and that is where it had happened. But I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk bringing another Shenti here tomorrow, in all innocence leading yet another man to his death.

  I hunted for something to write with, and found a blackened stick. Not the best tool, but better than nothing.

  The Silence are distinctive-looking, having bulbous grey heads with dark, hollow eye sockets like a skull’s. I drew little charcoal symbols – upside down pear-shapes with two black eyes – on my hands, my arms, my feet, anywhere I could fit one. They’d easily rub off, but it was the best I could do – they just had to last until I was able to create a more permanent reminder.

  Shenti was wary of me the whole way back. I wondered what he’d tell Mereret and Imi about the crazy lady, and imagined it wouldn’t be very flattering. But at least he’d lived to tell the tale.

  I was back in Alexandria earlier than on previous days, for obvious reasons. Nevertheless, Cat Malone was sitting on the bank of the Nile, seemingly waiting for me, just as she had been on every day before. A meal of fish and fruit awaited us back in the apartment; she naturally preferring the first, while my tastes ran more to the latter.

  But before I went back, I wanted to check something. There was something about the book, something that was at the back of my mind, something I’d read. An addition of Ventrian’s perhaps? One subtle enough that it hadn’t fully registered? I couldn’t quite remember, I just felt now that I’d missed something significant. Of course, I couldn’t remember where in the book it had been, and I skimmed through quite a few chapters before I got to the relevant one.

  There it was. The mention of a character called ‘Silent Joe’. I hadn’t put that. No ‘Silent Joe’ in my book. And what was said about him: Always on duty at the door, throws you out and don’t say a word? That was telling me about the Silence guarding the tomb. Why didn’t I click earlier? It would have saved so much pain.

  ‘I’m an idiot,’ I said out loud. ‘I am slow and stupid and utterly ashamed of myself.’

  I turned back to the book.

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. I mean, Silent Joe? Who woulda guessed?’ Melody Malone sounded sarcastic.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered, feeling as if the book were telling me off.

  ‘Looks like you better pay a bit more attention next time, maybe.’ Melody was still on my case. It was funny, it felt a bit like I was …

  ‘Am I having a conversation with a book?’ I said.

  ‘Finally caught on, have we? Yeah. We’re partners now, right?’

  I laughed at myself. The coincidence of a couple of lines – a couple of fairly generic lines, at that – and I’m behaving ridiculously. ‘I’m just imagining it,’ I said.

  ‘No. You’re not. You’re not imagining it at all.’

  ‘I refuse to have a conversation with a book!’ I said aloud.

  ‘Oh, we’ll find a way around it,’ said Book Melody.

  Feeling doubly stupid now, I read on. Melody Malone had walked off into another scene, and said nothing more that could be interpreted as a message to myself in any way. This whole thing had been a ridiculous brain blip – oh, I still liked to bandy around the word ‘psychopath’ to describe myself, and my upbringing and training had cemented things in my psyche that would never be removed, but the run of dead guides had knocked me off balance. And while I never doubted I would succeed in the end and rescue my parents – Deff appeared to have overlooked the considerable hole in his plan for me to obtain an all-powerful object and hand it over to him, which was that at some point in this process I would have an all-powerful object – perhaps having the threat to them hanging over me had caused an unusual, uncharacteristic, and frankly unwanted vulnerability.

  ‘Right, sorted. Is this better?’ said the cat.

  The cat. Had Spoken. To me.

  This was ridiculous. I looked at the cat. ‘I’m not in the mood for this,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ said the cat. ‘I was guessing you’d find it easier this way. You said you wasn’t enjoying talking to the book, right?’

  ‘So you thought you’d talk to me via a cat instead?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’ll start. I’m River Song, and I’m a human being. Well, more or less. Bits of me are a tad Time-Vortexy. Your turn.’

  ‘OK. I’m Melody Malone, and I’m a private detective in Old New York Town. Also, a cat. Well, more or less. There’s part of me that’s a bit more artificial-intelligence-created-by-Ventrian-using-the-Eye-of-Horus-Device-y.’

  ‘Well, this is a turn-up for the books,’ I said. ‘Or turn-up for the book, I should say. Couldn’t you have popped up before now? I’ve wasted enough time.’

  ‘Not my fault. I had to wait until you started talking to me. Look, Ventrian – he was an OK guy. But honestly? He was tying himself up in knots. He’s paranoid about anyone apart from you getting access to the Eye of Horus thing so he puts in all these complicated safeguards, which is fair enough. But we’re talking about someone who’s getting weaker by the day, his head’s not functioning properly, he’s trying to fight this all-powerful Device that wants to take him over, and if that’s not enough, he’s working on his first novel.’

  If you put it like that …

  ‘So I can’t expect anything useful from you? You can’t tell me a safe way into the tomb, for example?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK … Can you tell me if I need to get into the tomb safely?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No I don’t, or no you can’t?’

  ‘No I can’t.’

  ‘There’s nothing useful you can tell me at all?’

  ‘You happen to be interested in how to make yourself look real large in front of anything threatening you or the etiquette of sniffing other cats’ backsides?’

  I smiled. I could feel the smile, the ends of my mouth pulling upwards into my cheeks. I pulled them up as far as they would go. I’ve never seen the smile myself, never bothered to practise it in the mirror, because I’d seen it reflected many times in the terror of the person or persons towards at whom I’d been directing it.

  It didn’t bother the cat one tiny jot. Oh, of course not. It was a cat. Also, it was a cat who was sort of me. So it knew my tricks.

  I let my mouth relax back into a neutral expression. ‘So what exactly is the point of you?’

  The cat tried to shrug, but its anatomy wasn’t entirely cooperative. ‘Look, Ventrian couldn’t give you any direct answers, I’ve explained that. So I can’t point you in the right direction either. I know zilch.’

  ‘So I ask again, what is the point of you?’

  The cat leant on her side and scratched herself behind the ear. ‘Life’s better with an accomplice,’ she said.

  Oh. Oh yes. I’d said that to Ventrian once, although it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  ‘Plus I’m a detective. That’s gotta come in handy. I’ll even give you a discount on fees, seeing as we’s almost family.’

  That made me laugh, genuinely. I could imagine Melody Malone saying that.

  Well, she had just said it. What I meant was, I could imagine writing that for Melody Malone to say. Somehow this cat-AI hybrid really had taken on the personality of my fictional character.

  ‘Do you accept payment in grey mullet?’ I asked, remembering the meal that was waiting for us back at the apartment.

  ‘Hot diggity, sure I do!’ she said.

  We returned to the apartment where I paid Cat Malone her fee in advance, then we talked through the situation together. I brought up the rhyme at the front of the book, the nonsensical ‘Beware the Ides – now Caesar’s gone, The Eye’s the only Rubicon.’

  ‘Yeah, I ain’t got no fancy history degrees,’ said Cat Malone, ‘but I done a lot of reading about the Cleopatra dame, so I know stuff about this guy Caesar too. Ides, right? You h
eard of the Ides of March?’

  ‘Of course I’ve heard of the Ides of March,’ I say. I wasn’t about to be condescended to by a cat. ‘The most famous example is the Ides of March in 44 BCE when Julius Caesar was assassinated.’

  ‘And Rubicon?’

  ‘The river between Italy and the province of Cisalpine Gaul, named for its red colour – red in Latin is rubeus, ya rube – caused by a bed of iron-rich clay. Also best known for its Julius Caesar connection: he refused to disband his army and crossed with it into Italy, breaking Roman law and inciting civil war. Look, this isn’t helping.’

  Malone purred and started washing herself. I waited impatiently. Eventually she finished, and said, ‘You know Suetonius, right?’

  ‘The historian? Not personally.’

  ‘Geez, you time travellers take things so literally. Have you read him?’

  ‘I have, yes. Not recently, though.’

  ‘He’s got this whole bit about a supernatural apparition popping up at the river. Could be a clue. Maybe Ventrian moseyed back a few years and left some answers there?’

  I admit, I thought this was a bit far-fetched. Riddles tended to be a bit more, well, riddly than that. A bit more esoteric. Not just ‘Here’s a place, go visit’. But as Cat Malone had pointed out, Ventrian was pretty ill by the end.

  ‘So I’d go to the Rubicon and – anything supernatural at the Ides of March?’

  The cat stood up and stretched, arching her back, then sank back down again. ‘Guess there was some soothsayer handing out cryptic riddles, if that counts.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Well, anything was better than sitting around, hoping to alight on an idea. At least I’d be doing something.

  ‘I’d take you with me, but this only carries one,’ I said, indicating the Vortex Manipulator.

  ‘You gonna be back in time to feed me?’ Cat Malone asked, adding an insistent little mew at the end.

  ‘I have perfect time sense,’ I told her. ‘I’ll be back before you know I’ve gone.’ I grinned.

  History awaited me – quite literally.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CISALPINE GAUL, 49 BCE

  What comes to mind when you think about a trip to Northern Italy? Skiing in the Alps? Milan Fashion Week? Cheese and ham tasting in Parma? A trip through Venice by gondola? Any or all of these, of course.

  A day out following Caesar and his chums around Cisalpine Gaul was not quite so picturesque, delicious or romantic.

  First, Caesar had been to the theatre. Not so bad, you might think. But the show was no Antony and Cleopatra (or even No Sex Please, We’re British); the audience threw things, and they didn’t have usherettes handing out little tubs of ice cream in the interval. But I got through it.

  Then he goes off to inspect a gladiatorial school. Now, that sounded rather more up my street, and I was prepared to cope with an afternoon watching some oiled gentlemen waving swords around. I might even have joined in. But it turned out the school hadn’t actually been built yet, and Caesar’s ‘inspection’ was merely checking some plans and a few solitary bricks. Gee, thanks, Julius.

  At least the food was good at his next stop. I allowed the slaves to provide me with honey cakes while I was waiting to see what Caesar would do next. And what did he do? He went to a bakery. A bakery! Come on, Caesar, you’ve just eaten, what do you need a bakery for? A few boxes of doughnuts for the troops, a dozen each of jelly, sprinkles, glazed and chocolate frosted?

  As it turned out, no. I hadn’t been hanging around outside for long when he comes back with a couple of mules and gets one of his soldiers to fix them up to a gig. Ah. Could this be it? Were we on our way at last? It seemed so.

  Now, if Caesar and co. were secretly heading off to the Rubicon in the middle of the night, they were going to be on alert. Following them might not be the best move. As I knew where he was headed, getting ahead of them might be a better plan. I waited until the mule-drawn cart had moved away and went round to the back of the bakery. There was another mule in the stable yard, which I decided no one would mind me borrowing – I did scratch Benigne! on the wall with my sharpened nail file, though.

  I set off by mule, and thanks to the coordinates provided by my Vortex Manipulator, I was able to ride all the way down to the Rubicon and find the exact spot where Caesar was due to cross.

  An Italian river by night. How wonderfully romantic. Or it would have been if I’d had someone to share it with – or if it hadn’t been January and close to zero degrees. My Egyptian sleeveless linen tunic was not ideal, and I wrapped the mule’s saddle-blanket around me as I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Good grief, how long does it take for a man, a mule and an army to walk a few miles to a fairly unimpressive waterway?

  I waited some more. Eventually the sun began to rise, and still no Caesar. I was seriously hoping I hadn’t got the wrong day, I was eager to get back to Alexandria.

  As dawn broke, I wandered down to the river. I’d known it was named for its red colour, and as the sun rose it looked like a river of blood. How appropriate – there was so much bloodshed ahead.

  Further down the bank some shepherds were tending their sheep. I plucked some reeds and occupied myself with making a reed pipe, playing a few tunes to pass the time. The shepherds crowded around, clearly fans of ‘Jailhouse Rock’ and ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. I’d moved on to ‘Vogue’ (with the moves, obvs), when the soldiers finally appeared.

  They looked at us as though they couldn’t believe their eyes. Well, I am a bit of a vision first thing in the morning. I could see Caesar standing amid his men, and I gave him a little wave, before striking a pose. Right. Here we were. The crossing of the Rubicon – and a clue for me. The supernatural apparition would appear any time now.

  ‘We may still draw back – but once we cross, we must fight,’ Caesar announced.

  I waited. Nothing happened. Caesar just stood there. Maybe a bit of inspirational music would help. I launched into ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’, trad. arranged R. Song. A few of Caesar’s trumpeters (for what is an army without trumpeters?) came down to join in and we jammed a bit. But quite honestly I was getting tired of this. All you have to do is cross the damn river, it’s not difficult. Yes, you’re heading to civil war, but could you just get on with it so I can meet this apparition?

  Fed up, I called up the text of Suetonius on my Vortex Manipulator to check what should be happening.

  As Caesar stood thus in hesitation, an apparition of superhuman size and beauty was seen sitting on the river bank, playing upon a reed pipe. A party of shepherds gathered around to listen and, when some of Caesar’s men, including some of the trumpeters, broke ranks to do the same, the apparition snatched a trumpet from one of them, ran down to the river, sounded a loud advance, and crossed over. Upon this, Caesar exclaimed, ‘Let us accept this omen from the gods, and follow where they beckon, for vengeance on our enemies. The die is cast.’

  Ah. Oops. Mind you, while I’m not complaining about the superhuman beauty part, I happen to know I’m exactly the same height as Caesar himself. Tall, yes. But Suetonius makes me sound like some sort of attractive giraffe!

  Oh well, best get on with making history. I grabbed a trumpet from one of the men, gave a loud halloo, and ran across the bridge.

  Now Caesar seemed to get the idea. ‘The die is cast, let us follow!’ he went, more or less as Suetonius would later report, and across they all came, some on the bridge, some wading through the shallow red water.

  Not the first time I’ve had hundreds of men chasing me. And just like those times, I thought it best to remove myself from the scene. I melted into the trees as the army swarmed – better to remain a godly vision under these circumstances; I was getting no answers here.

  I waited until the 13th Legion had gone on their way towards history, filling my time with a bit of research – more Suetonius, Plutarch, Dio. Then I reprogrammed my Vortex Manipulator and left. />
  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ROME, 44 BCE

  A few seconds for me, five years for Caesar. For him, so much time had passed, and so many things had happened.

  Caesar had won the civil war and been made dictator of Rome – although never king, a title Romans abhorred above all others. He’d tried his best to overcome that hatred and adopt the crown, but the feelings ran too deep, and he had to pretend he never meant it, like a child protesting ‘It was only a joke!’ when their unacceptable behaviour has been exposed.

  Of most interest to me, Caesar had supported Cleopatra in a war against her brother, after which they had made a baby together, helpfully given the name ‘Caesarion’ to make it extremely clear who his daddy was. Caesar had brought the queen to Rome and put her up in one of his houses – goodness, that meant she’d be around here somewhere!

  How Caesar’s wife felt about his activities I didn’t know. What I did know (Suetonius again) was that she was soon to wake from her sleep, terrified because she had seen in her dreams a stabbed Caesar dying in her arms. I suppose it makes a change from finding yourself in an exam you didn’t study for or losing your teeth.

  Having discovered that I was myself the supernatural apparition Caesar had encountered at the Rubicon, I took myself directly to the correct time and place – I did not want to take on the role of soothsayer, jumping out at Caesar halfway down the Appian Way with a cloak thrown over my head croaking out ‘Beware the Ides of March!’

  Time travel is a strange beast. Caesar’s death is a fixed point in time, no one can change it, but here I am, jumping up and down his time stream. I find it helps to look on the people you meet as cartoon characters – whoops, an anvil’s fallen on them, oh here they are back again! Caesar means nothing to me personally. And yet I felt slightly squeamish, knowing his death was coming. But it’s all part of the time-travel game.

  Had Caesar changed since I saw him last? Yes, he looked older – by more than those five years. Did he know his time would soon be at an end? I suspected not. As a high-profile Roman and soldier, death was always around the corner. You’d take precautions, yes, but mainly you just kept going and assumed it wouldn’t happen to you – after all, the ego of someone in his position, someone who was pretty much trying to become king of the world, would be frankly enormous. Not to mention Caesar was due to head off on a great campaign a few days after the Ides, his attention would be focused on that.