Apologies for taking so long with this chapter! This week has been a bit mad. Apologies too for not responding to reviews - see the aforesaid madness! Hope you enjoy...
CHAPTER TEN
Sarah Jane had encountered many strange, frightening, and wonderful things during her lifetime, but opening her front door to find a pair of absolutely genuine, bona fide Roman soldiers on her doorstep was a new experience, even for her. Their cloaks were of wool, once red but faded by time and the elements. She could see where the material had been skilfully darned. Their helmets gleamed, and beaten leather strips criss-crossed down their legs to their rough marching boots.
'Wicked,' Clyde muttered behind her. 'In any sense,' he added more dubiously.
Sarah Jane could not blame him for his caution. At first sight, the pair of centurions presented a comical prospect, a Latin Laurel-and-Hardy duo. One was tall, lean, and lugubrious. The other was short and fat with glittering eyes that roved everywhere, missing nothing. Only this was not their world, and the pair could not be dismissed as members of some historical re-enactment group…
'Sarah Jane Smith?' the fat one said. 'You're comin' with us.'
Clyde slipped out from behind Sarah Jane before she could stop him. 'No! Who do you think you are, coming and taking people away like this? The Nazis?'
Sarah Jane reached out and pulled her young friend back. 'It's all right, Clyde,' she whispered into his ear. 'I'm a journalist, remember? The … Emperor might have something useful to say.'
'Just be careful,' Clyde chided. 'No silly risks, promise?'
Sarah Jane promised, whilst mentally wondering when their positions had switched; usually it was she giving Clyde this very warning.
'If you hurt her –' Clyde said to the soldiers. 'I'll – I'll –'
'Hush, slave!' the fat soldier snapped. 'One more word of cheek from you, and you'll be joining your mistress!'
'Leave it, Clyde!' Sarah Jane called out in alarm when she saw Clyde step forward, his jaw tight and fists clenched. The boy was understandably on the verge of losing control, and she absolutely did not want him with her – or worse, taken away from them altogether.
'She will be safe,' the lean soldier said directly to Clyde. 'I'll verify it myself. The Emperor wants only to speak with her.'
'See? I'll be fine,' Sarah Jane assured him, after exchanging a glance with the lean soldier. It was odd; she felt comfortable with him at once. His eyes were steady and kind, the eyes of a man who knew how to wait. 'Go on; I'll see you soon. Find out what you can about –' She raised a hand to her head and made waving motions with her fingers, simulating River Song's wild mop.
Clyde said nothing; with his jaw still tight, he nodded stiffly and withdrew back into the safety of 13 Bannerman Road. The door shut behind him with a definite click, and Sarah Jane took a deep breath and stepped forward.
'I'm ready when you are, gentlemen.'
The lean soldier took her arm, his touch gentle and respectful. 'Then come this way, domina. We must not keep Caesar waiting.'
Sarah Jane's journalist soul relished the journey to Buckingham Senate, despite the circumstances. Her status was confirmed by the appearance of a litter instead of a tumbrel-cart, and she tried to relax as four burly men hoisted her on their shoulders and began to carry her with practiced ease through the streets of London.
This is the true meaning of multiculturalism, Sarah Jane thought flippantly as she peeked out from behind the curtains that enclosed her. Small aircars nipped past, their speed causing the curtains to flutter wildly and her litter bearers to stumble and curse as they were caught in the draught. Pterodactyls and pterosaurs circled overhead, the sound of their clacking mingling strangely with the audio news feed being broadcast from every high point. People of all times and ages mingled in the streets, Romans rubbing shoulders with medieval peasants, Tudor noblemen, modern teenagers, and the odd humanoid alien.
The Mall was still packed with crowds from the earlier procession, and Sarah Jane watched them dispel in the classic manner of British royal-watchers, burdened by empty picnic carriers and seating paraphernalia, urged on their way by a motley police force that put the bobby to work alongside Celtic warriors and Roman soldiers. Not surprisingly, this was occasionally dangerous, and Sarah Jane bit her lip as she watched a Roman and Celt turn on each other, their altercation short but vicious and bloody – and the crowds continued to move, unbothered by what was apparently a common occurrence.
Finally, Sarah Jane's own particular cavalcade approached the familiar statue of Queen Victoria, circled it, and entered the palace-cum-senate's grounds. Sarah Jane's curiosity remained at its peak; in her own reality she'd only visited the Palace once before, some ten years previously when an old journalist friend had asked her to accompany him when he went to collect his 'gong'.
From what she could see, little had changed, apart from the banners of imperial purple that hung from the balconies and wafted from the flagpole. The Household Guard stood in their customary places; only now they wore Roman robes instead of their customary uniform and bearskins. It was surreal to see how the tourists still flocked, still captured images for their personal posterities with everything from pencil-and-paper to a smartphone-type device that Sarah Jane was certain would recreate the scene as an interactive hologram. She had something similar in one of her treasure boxes in the attic…
Then they were passing under the arch into the inner courtyard, and she withdrew behind her curtains once again, preparing herself for whatever was to happen next. Being lowered almost to ground level was disconcerting, causing her stomach to flip, and she was relieved when her lean friend pulled back her littler curtains and offered a hand to help her leave it.
'Marcus has gone to tell Caesar you're here,' he said when her eyes skittered away from him, seeking out his unpleasant companion. 'I'm to escort you to the Throne Room.'
She jumped at the chance to glean information from a friendly face. 'Do you know why the Emperor wants to see me?'
Something flickered in his eyes. 'I am only a soldier, domina.'
'But you suspect something,' Sarah Jane pressed, her journalistic instincts coming to the fore. 'Come on, you can tell me.'
The soldier's eyes darted left to right before he leaned in so that he could whisper in her ear. 'The Emperor has a soothsayer. He is mad, they say, he raves night and day about how the end is nigh. None can get sense from him; he simply mutters about silence and a woman…'
The relief that flooded Sarah Jane at that point was so great that her knees literally buckled, and the soldier's hand reached out to steady her.
'Are you ill?' he asked, his tone concerned. His eyes scanned her … as a nurse or doctor would, she realised.
'I'm fine,' she murmured, wanting to pull away and race inside. The Doctor was there, she was sure of it. He wasn't dead…
Not yet, some irritating little voice at the back of her mind pointed out. He's only not-dead because River played with time.
The memory caused her chin to lift and her spine to stiffen. There was work to do. 'Shall we go?' she suggested, indicating the several steps that led up to a double door. 'Let's get this over with … and see if you're right about this soothsayer.'
The soldier's eyes held hers for a long moment before he removed his hand from her arm and turned, his red cloak swirling behind him. 'This way, domina.'
Sarah Jane paid no attention to her surroundings as they traversed corridors of marble and white and gold on their way to the Throne Room. She was entirely focused on getting to the Doctor. All the same, she could not repress a gasp when they entered the Throne Room; it was almost a parody of images she had seen from Roman ruins, a temple to power and excess, with a long table running down the centre of the room. The table was large, but even it was dwarfed by the sheer scale of the surroundings.
At the centre of the table sat a man alone, garbed in white robes and draped in the same imperial purple that hung outside. He was instantly recognisable, even without the bowler hat and cigar, his glum expression making her certain that Winston Churchill's 'black dog' had pursued him into this reality.
'It's still two minutes past five on the twenty second of April 2011,' he was muttering as they approached. 'Always the same, time never moves…. ' He glanced up and his gaze sharpened. 'Ah. Sarah Jane Smith, I presume.'
This isn't just odd, this is beyond surreal, Sarah Jane thought giddily as she heard the voice that had eulogised the Few and conceptualised the Iron Curtain pronounce her name.
'Yes… Caesar,' she affirmed after a quick glance her soldier friend. 'I'm Sarah Jane Smith.' She bit off the other questions and demands that wanted to come; sometimes, one had to wait.
The 'Emperor' studied her from the other side of the table. 'You're the only person he's named, what,' he boomed. 'Sarah Jane Smith. "My best friend", he calls you.' He peered at her, and his scanty eyebrows shot up and he continued, mostly to himself. 'But I don't think you're the woman he blames.'
'Who is "he"?' Sarah Jane demanded. She already knew the answer, but only fools rushed in, especially in alternative realities, and Sarah Jane Smith was no fool.
'I don't know his name,' Churchill said gruffly. Sarah Jane could almost see an imaginary cigar moving as he spoke. 'He calls himself Soothsayer.' He leaned forward, and his eyes were pleading. 'Go to him, Miss Smith. Find out what the devil's worrying him. His tales of doom and destruction disquiet even me… and the ruddy clocks have stopped, what. Fix it, Miss Smith. Fix him. Fix time.' He drew out the last word and pursed his lips on it, his eyes turning round with emphasis.
That's a tall order, Sarah Jane thought. Saving the world was one thing, but fixing time itself? That was something else. 'I'll try,' she said. There was never any point in making promises where the Doctor was concerned.
'Hmm. Rory will take you to him,' Churchill boomed, and he nodded at the patient centurion. 'Try very hard, Miss Smith. All our lives may depend on it.'
Sarah Jane nodded her understanding and turned back to Rory, who waiting for her.
'Ready, domina?' he murmured as they reached the door to the Throne Room.
She nodded again, followed him silently as he took her down into the bowels of the building. The deeper they went, the darker and more Spartan the rooms and corridors became. Finally, they stopped outside a single door that was lit only by a flickering gas lamp. The paint was peeling away, was nearly entirely gone, but once upon a time it had been blue … TARDIS blue.
'He's in there,' Rory said, nodding at the door. 'I'll wait here for you. Just call if you need me.' And he crouched down and turned motionless, a living statue.
Sarah Jane placed her hand gently on the door and listened. She could hear muttering, the same feverish, purposeful muttering she had heard so many times, and her heart clenched.
She straightened her shoulders and pushed, determined to save her best friend yet again.
TBC.
Next time: Do we stick with Sarah Jane or switch back to Bannerman Road? Your choice...