He was called Pope Julius II, the Warrior Pope, and he did not take kindly to the bad state St. Peter's Basilica was in.
All the papers and drawings and schematics for the reconstruction of this decaying monument had been placed to cover two long tables in both aisles of the grand basilica, and in his spare time the Pope had been known to walk circles around both tables, his hand hovering over the papers, all without saying a word.
He went over every detail of the project, like a man planning to attend his own funeral.
"This will become my tomb, housed within the basilica for centuries to come," he had once told the selection of cardinals that was always waiting for him in the wings, plus any servant that had overheard without permission. "This is how I will be remembered. Through the genius of Michelangelo."
He traced a line across one of the papers with a finger, before swiping it to the ground with a single stroke. "Burn it," he added, and immediately someone would come to collect the scrap and remove it from his sight.
He had a white beard, with a patch of black in the middle that seemed to split his beard in two, grown in the shape of a square. His equally greying hair, that wasn't growing from his ears, was tucked neatly underneath a soft red cap. His mozzetta, a sartorial vestment and cape, had the same red color, like rich burgundy, above his piercingly white cassock.
Pale white light shone through the tall and dirty windows. The six jeweled rings on the Pope's hands glimmered. Suddenly the doors opened, a priest entered, and a gust of wind blew some papers from the table. The priest apologized silently, and rushed to aid in the collection of the runaway schematics. His footfalls echoed loudly across the aisles, but the Pope paid him no notice, lost in thought.
He could almost see it. His grand magnificent castle. His final resting place.
Death had been on his mind ever since he started his Papacy, with so many people vying for the job and wanting to assassinate him if they could. Ever since he laid his eyes on his predecessors plans for the basilica, he could not stop himself from imagining, until the opportunity presented himself in the form of the great Michelangelo.
As the priest gathered the papers from the dusty floor, the sketches drew his eye.
"There are so many statues," he said. "Can the Church really afford this?"
The cardinals silently gasped. One actually held his chest as they all turned their heads to see how the Pope would react. The priest swallowed.
From the far end of the table, the Pope came bounding, not with speed or anger, but with tenacity. He was a force of nature. A tired force of nature.
"I have faith," the Pope spoke, nodding to the cardinals, who in turn nodded back.
"Who are you really questioning? The Church? Michelangelo? Or me?"
"No, that's not what I meant at all."
"Or do you question God?"
"Do you really want me to answer that question?"
"Indulge me."
"300 statues, sir," the priest said. "Won't that require a lot of material?"
The Pope closed his eyes and made a cross. "The Lord shall provide."
A shadow with wings flitted past the windows of the basilica.
There were cracks and holes in the mighty walls which ran along the banks of the river Tiber. Clara seemed to find them all just by touch, as she clung to the side for support, running down the stairs. Sunlight died away to the West.
Clara found out the hard way it´s not easy to run in a Venetian gown from the Renaissance.
The gambler rolled around in dirt and straw, wondering how he'd got there. There was a candle and a holder on the floor next to him, dripping fat. He looked around. It seemed to be some sort of attic with holes in the roof through which he started to see stars. The ceiling was high and built toward a point, and the floor was covered in bird poop. Softly, he heard cooing and fluttering of wings above him, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see pigeons nested in every crook and den they could find. His presence had startled them as much as they startled him.
"You're funny," a voice said. Childlike and light. Soft and innocent.
The gambler reached for the candle so he could see further into the dark. With a thump, there came a body, rolling into the light where the floorboards were wet and dark and rotten. The man was still alive, crawling on all fours as soon as he realized he was free. The pigeons flew from one corner to the next.
The gambler saw the collar on his neck. He was a priest, dressed in black robes. As soon as he saw him, he crawled away, not sure he was friend or foe.
"Come find me," the voice said, disappearing down below. As the gambler moved his candle, the shadows moved, and he could see a ladder sticking from a dark hole. He remembered talons and fangs and something lifting him off the ground before he lost consciousness. Then he remembered a man turning to stone before his eyes…
The gambler swallowed and looked to the hole in the roof, wondering if he could take his chances out there instead. The priest regained his breath and found the time to pray in quiet.
But the ladder still beckoned.
"Oh, Mike… what are you doing? How has it come to this?"
Clara stopped running from the shadows in the ruins. The once mighty columns of Rome had turned into a ruin. A civilization stripped bare and used as a dumping ground, with no respect for history. The site looked like a quarry, with bits and pieces of Ancient Rome sticking from the soil. Decayed buildings still formed half roofs and destroyed stairs. It was cold. The place felt like a cemetery.
"Doctor?"
"Have you started to believe your own hype, Mike? Or did you fancy yourself a promotion? The archangel Michael, the greatest warrior angel, and General of the Army to fight in the Apocalypse. That doesn't sound like you!"
A hooded figure rushed from column to column and disappeared. Clara tried to follow it, and tried to follow the Doctor's voice. "Doctor!"
"Don't flatter yourself! Your work is derivative. Your style is so pompous, and everyone has got these big muscles! I mean, why? When did Jesus ever do his own heavy lifting?"
Ancient stones were scattered all over the floor. They were hell to traverse in poor shoes, and Clara kept tripping on them.
"And yes, that's a religious joke, by the way. I make those from time to time. It breaks the ice at parties. Come on, Mikey! Don't you want to shut me up? I know you're there! Come out and face me!"
There he was. The hooded figure. He was standing at the center of a row of columns. It looked to be some kind of podium for an ancient theatre. The ancient bleachers were small, sunken and cracked, and almost entirely swallowed by the soil that surrounded them like a green and black hill in the moonlight.
"Doctor!"
"Clara, no! Stay back! Don't look at me!"
Clara didn't understand.
"I mean it! Close your eyes and turn around! Do it!"
She hesitated at first, yet complied instantly. He sounded panicked. Vulnerable, even. There was an Angel out there ready to kill them, so she trusted him to make the right call. With her back turned, she felt it safe to open her eyes again, but she found a column and put her back against it nonetheless.
"Doctor, you can speak! How is that even possible? How did you manage to break free?"
"I didn't, now shush. I'm sorry, Clara, but I need to focus."
"Killer Angel, got you."
"No," the Doctor said. "That's where you're wrong."
The Michelangelo Angel rose from the dark and landed on the stage.
"Michelangelo," the Doctor said. "You can hear me, can't you? I know you can. I need you to hear me."
The Angel shrieked.
"Oh my god, he's going to kill you!" Clara cried out, unable to look, unable to intervene. Her hands clasped the column behind her. She listened intensely, hoping the Doctor knew what he was doing.
"Doctor, this better be good!"
"It will be," the Doctor said, in a tone intended to comfort and calm the encroaching beast.
"But let's start with a little history lesson. Because I've met the Weeping Angels before. Plenty of times. And I've always wondered what the mystery behind them was. Sure, there were myths and legends even on my home planet, but I never really figured it out, until I got turned into stone myself. I gained… a little perspective. You see, they have the ability to send people back through time and space. What kind of creature can do that? But not just that, they steal entire futures, entire timelines, and they feed off all that potential energy…. And that's the key. They convert matter into energy. They converted me into energy, and turned themselves into matter! And look at you! Where did all that matter come from? It didn't just sprout out of thin air! They've got so much of my energy they're selling it for a bargain! And the Angel inside your head has been gobbling it all up, because yes, there was an Angel inside your head and there still is. And it has been altering your perception for so long, it has made you believe things that aren't real.
Here's something I learned long ago. An image of an Angel is an Angel. There is an image inside your head of what angels look like. How did it get there? Because long ago, angels didn't look like this. No, they change with the times. With cultures, with stories. They used to be harpies in ancient times. All chicken legs and wings for hands, they were a plague. But they evolved. Their image changed, by different dominant beliefs. Belief is the key! Because a picture, an image, isn't the real thing. A painting of a pipe isn't a pipe. It's captured light on canvas. It's an abstract concept. It's just an image. But an image can become so much more. It can become a belief. And when it becomes a belief, it becomes so much harder to get rid of. It jumps from mind to mind when you're not looking.
The image of the Angel in your head has made you believe you are one. It has altered your perception of yourself, changed the image of yourself. When people have been telling you for so long you are divine, that your work is angelic, that you are an instrument of the gods, then you might as well become one! And that's ego. Trust me, I know about ego.
But this isn't you, Mike. You need to remember who you were. You need to see yourself as who you really are. When these Angels get inside your mind, they can make you believe stuff, they can make you see stuff, all of which is not real. They can make you think you're turning to stone. They can make you think you're an Angel. But you're not! Don't you see? You have to fight it! Come back to reality! You're not a monster! You're a human being!
Did you see what it did to those children? You could never do that! Because you're not a monster! Remember the children, Mike! You have to remember! Remember your humanity!"
The creature standing before the Doctor in the moonlight was a full-blown Angel by now. The white toga, the laurel leaves on his head, the beautiful immortally youthful face and the golden wings. In his hands, there was a sword.
But the image faded. The man inside came back to life. The Angel screamed and the man fell to his knees. The sword clattered to the ground and turned to dust. The golden wings faded into moonlight.
"Now that was amazing," the Doctor said. "On behalf of history, welcome back."
The Doctor turned his gaze to the stars. "I wish I could say the same about me."
His right hand had already turned back into stone.
"Why the hell did you wake me?"
Thomassino turned to the driver and poured out all his chagrin. The man driving the cart was uninterested however, and only wanted to ditch his cargo and head to the nearest inn.
"The delivery, as promised," he said, holding up an empty hand, to be filled with currency.
Thomassino ignored him and managed to open up the stable doors to Michelangelo's studio on his own.
"You can park your cart inside. I'll pay half now and the rest tomorrow, when we've unloaded the granite blocks."
The horses managed to pull their heavy cargo inside for the final length of their journey from the docks.
When all was said and done, Thomassino sent the driver to the inn and closed the stable doors. The night was quiet. He stretched his back and let out an enormous yawn. His bed tempted him back home.
But before he left, he inspected the grey granite blocks. Their quality was fine. Just as promised.
As he turned to leave, he could've sworn he heard something hiss from inside the blocks, but it was probably just his imagination.