The Doctor and Peter arrived in Rome during the morning of the 19th – the Quinquatrus – and made their way through the streets to the Aventine Hill. They'd not passed Ursus's cart during their night-time ride, nor found any trace of him at guesthouses along the way, but it wasn't letting that discourage them – they were 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 as they moved through it the Doctor chatted 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?" 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, of snubs and sneers. So, the Doctor and Peter found out quite a lot about Ursus – but not his location. Refusing to be disheartened, they began a whirlwind tour of Rome.
Any watcher would be hard put to decide if they were the most devout of men, visiting each temple in turn, or the most irreverent, bringing no offerings and showing little regard for custom. They also visited taverns and snack bars, the Doctor demonstrating an indefatigable appetite for honeyed wine, hot pies and gossip.
"I know a statue by Ursus," Someone would say, and they would hare off across the city to find a marble Vesta or Flora – some astoundingly lifelike creation that filled them with fury. They were as certain as they 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 they were no closer to finding Ursus, or Rose, or any clue at all. But they wouldn't stop looking. Then they'd spotted a shrine they hadn't visited yet. It was small, not like some of the magnificent temples they'd seen earlier, but it was a shrine to Fortuna herself. Where better to find a statue of Fortuna than in her own temple? The Doctor thought. Surely the goddess of fortune must bring them luck! There were no priests around – their first lucky break. The Doctor took a deep breath as they 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.
"Hello?" Peter called as he 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 to life – and the others. All praise to me – that is, Fortuna, and all that." Though the voice was strange to him, Peter picked up on a familiar scent. "Who are you?" He asked but got no answer so he turned to the Doctor, who'd seen his nose flare.
"Smell something?" Peter nodded.
"Perfume I think, familiar but I can't place it." Then they both smelt something new and very unpleasant. It was though the mother of all stink bombs had gone off.
"Oh, wow!" The Doctor chuckled as he pinched his nose. Peter was far from chuckling. Having jumped away from the statue he'd had to virtually stop breathing to stop the stench from burning his nose and throat. Despite the smell, the Doctor was determined to find out who was there and took a determined step towards the statue, but a door slammed open behind them and a voice yelled breathlessly,
"Doctor! Peter!" They 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 they are!" Roared Rufus, pointing at the Doctor and Peter. The Doctor looked back towards the statue, still puzzled – but then turned to face Rufus's men as they came forward and grabbed them.
"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 them towards the door.
"Where are you taking us?" Peter asked, unlike the Doctor, he was trying to loosen the men's grip on him. Rufus smiled, showing a gold tooth.
"To the arena," He said. The Doctor smiled.
"A day out!" He said.
"Er, you do know which arena he means don't you?" Peter checked.
"Oh yes, tell you what, though, I'd be just as happy with an intimate little dinner , bit of a chat. . . "
One of the men slapped him across the face, and the Doctor stumbled.
"Hey!" Peter protested, trying lunging forward, and was rewarded with a blow to the face of his own. 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 were they being dragged into danger, but the Doctor knew they were 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 they were being taken. An enormous structure loomed up ahead, a giant round building that was as tall as thirty Doctors, made of gleaming white stone that sharply reminded them of Rose's probable fate. Dozens of archways stretched round the lowest storey, currently devoid of life. But they 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 their captors informed him.
"Then why are you taking us there then?" Peter snapped. The man grinned unpleasantly.
"Tomorrow, on the other hand, when we honour Mars. . . " The Doctor sighed. He was getting tired of this. Peter had too had enough and had decided to act. 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. But as he moved out of their reach, thinking of a way to free the Doctor, two more pairs of hands grabbed him from behind and tightly re-secured him. This was really not his lucky day.
Coins changed hands between the two lots of men and the Doctor and Peter were dragged off again, this time through a door and down into a dark, malodorous underground structure. The two men who held them 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. 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.
"We 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.
"Who is he then? Why's he so important?" Peter challenged.
"I 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 Doctor confirmed with the two jailers. The men chortled, which the Doctor and Peter took as a yes. "We'll need to see someone else, then," The Doctor told them. "Someone who can overrule Rufus. The emperor. If we 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. Even Peter shot him a futile look on the idea.
"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. He then saw Peter roll his eyes and sigh and he caught on.
"Oh, hang on, were you being sarcastic?" He asked the men. "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. He then came back over and grabbed the pouch at the Doctor's belt and tore it off whilst Flaccus unhooked Peter's gun sheath, the weapon held securely within it.
"No!" Cried the Doctor.
"Put that back!" Peter also protested.
"No," Flaccus chuckled. "After all, they hold no more use to you." Then they gave an almighty shove and the Doctor and Peter stumbled forward into the cell.
"This is a complete miscarriage of justice!" The Doctor cried out. 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. He then realised that there may be another way out.
"Claws?" He asked Peter. He glanced at the lock for a moment and then shook his head.
"It's too big, beating out pins and stuff for ordinary locks is one thing but that's industry sized, we'd need a pair of boot cutters or something."
He then tensed up and turned from the bars. The Doctor looked too and realised for the first time that they was not alone. Eyes were caught in the flickering light, reflecting out of unseen faces: a cartoon for Hallowe'en. They walked further in and could see the eyes' owners better – a sea of hopeless faces barely registering his presence.
"How many?" The Doctor checked with Peter.
"Four" He whispered back. He then watched as the Doctor sat down just in front of him 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 this is Peter." 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," The 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 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. Peter groaned too and rested his head against to he cells bars.
"Doctor please tell me you know where we are and what they do here?" He asked, not bothering to lift his head off the metal.
"He's got some sense at least, but you, are you thick or what?" The first voice asked.
"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" The Doctor said.
"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 charade? 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 only Peter could see it.
"Oh now you've done it," Peter told them.
"What?" The fourth voice asked. Peter caught the Doctor's eye and chuckled at his optimism.
"You've challenged him."
"Challenged us Peter" The Doctor corrected. " Because doing things that no one's ever done is our speciality."
"Yeah, though alternatively we could always wait for Flaccus and Thermus to accidentally shoot themselves with my gun." Peter half joked.
The Doctor came to think of their four chatty cell mates as John, Paul, George and Ringo. There were others too, in other cells, 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 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 and Peter 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. Peter on the other hand had resided to wait and see what the down would bring. He seemed to have quickly realised that any pleas would fall on dead ears here.
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, Peter having proven he knew where he was, 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 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. Then they heard a wolf's howl for the first time. The Doctor saw Peter's head jerk towards the sound automatically, returning a moment later with a look of empathy upon it.
"There's nothing we can do" The Doctor told him sympathetically, knowing his companion, like all wolves, had a strong loyalty bond to all of their kind.
"I know," He muttered back. "Doesn't make it any easier that I can understand what he's saying though." Doubly painful was that many of the animals being heard was what a lot of Sayians could change into back on his home world.
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 rest 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."
