‘I can’t see that it really makes much odds,’ I told him.
‘As far as I’m concerned, anyone can find it and welcome for all the good it’s likely to do them. Can you seriously believe that God’s gift to industrial archeology will ever get off the ground again?’
He chuckled, in that irritating way of his. ‘In N-dimensional space, dear boy, the ground, as you call it, is an out-dated concept with no relevance whatever to our momentary mechanical malfunction, or our temporary temporal predicament...’
‘And what about our human predicament? How are we going to get out of here?’
‘Please! There is no cause for alarm. The TARDIS
would function just as well as always...’
‘That is simply not good enough!’
‘
I
am speaking, Chesterton. Just as well as always, I say, were it to be inverted in an erupting volcanic crater or rotating at the centre of a cyclone. Its environment is in no sense germane to its interior.’
‘A great comfort! So how do you suggest we
penetrate
its interior to find out if you’re right or not? There’s a hulking great tree trunk blocking the door! Here – give me a hand, can’t you?’
‘All in good time, my dear Chesterton. For one thing, I am
invariably
right... and, in any case, there is surely no hurry, is there? For once, I advise you to relax, and enjoy a short holiday. Personally I’m having a marvellous time...’
And do you know, Headmaster, I really believe he meant it? Producing a bunch of grapes, he offered me a couple; and then, cackling maniacally, he trotted off, looking for all the world like Bacchus on his way to an informal debauch! Sometimes I begin to believe that the man is demented!
For moreover – yet another instance, here – on my returning to the villa which has become our bivouac, I discovered that, incredibly, he has allowed Barbara and Vicki to wander off to the local town unaccompanied – to do, he says, some shopping! How about that?
Which
local town? He fails to remember, so I cannot even follow them.
He has no sense of responsibility whatever; and once more I can only regret the impulse of misguided curiosity which first led me to become entangled in his eccentric, tortuous, and altogether incomprehensible affairs.
Or rather, which
will
one day lead me to become so entangled; for, since we have been travelling
backwards
in time, I suppose I haven’t met him yet. How very difficult this all is! Well, in that case, when I
do
meet him for the first time, I shall do my utmost not to recognise him, and see how he likes that!
Meanwhile, all I can usefully do it seems, is to continue to record events in this journal; in the hope that one day in some unimaginably distant future it will enable you, Headmaster, and the school governors, of course, to realise that your science master has been trapped by history, and your history mistress snared by science; instead of your continuing to believe, as you doubtless do, that Barbara and I have eloped together!
For it is my constant fear that unless I can somehow dispel this not unnatural suspicion, it could well lead to the forfeit of our potential pensions, and then where would we be? And where are we now, come to that? I wish I knew; but meanwhile remain,
Your always loyal employee,
Ian Chesterton.
First Extract from the Doctor’s Diary
I am becoming increasingly worried about young Chesterton – if that
is
his name. For some time now he has been morose and uncooperative, but today has added tantrums and sulks to these melancholy qualities, and I begin to fear that his disaffection, if unchecked, may well have a deleterious effect on morale. It is almost as if he were not enjoying the unique experience of exploring time and space which I, at some personal inconvenience and to the detriment of my own weightier affairs, have been able to provide for him.
Well, to be honest, it is in fact convenient for me to slip from circulation for a small sabbatical until, as they say, the heat is off: but nevertheless Chesterton’s constant nonsense about returning to the singularly uncivilised century, where I found him, is irritating, to say the least.
One would have thought that even the merest glimpse of the grandeur that is Rome – if I may coin a phrase? –
would have been sufficient to persuade him that life under the Emperors is infinitely preferable to the squalor that was England in 1963!
Enough of this. I am not to be diverted from my primary purposes by the witless whims of a secondary school master; and, in view of his behaviour, I have decided that on no account can he be allowed to accompany me to Rome itself – for that is where I intend to go as soon as I have completed my arrangements for the journey. Besides, his fashionable passion for so-called democracy might have been all very well during the Republic, but could hardly fail to raise eyebrows and attract attack in the Empire. Suppose, for instance, that he were to advocate its transformation into a Commonwealth?
No, it would never do – as it never does, in my experience.
Further, and after some reflection, I have also decreed that Barbara Wright shall remain here with him. She and Vicki have just returned from what I intended to have been a cautious reconnaissance foray to the neighbouring market town, and what do I find? Why, that instead of sounding the ground as instructed, they have attracted undesirable attention to themselves by what I can only describe as an unauthorised orgy of public spending, and purchased enough drapery, napery, and similar feminine fal-lals as to overstock the bargain basement of a consumerama!
Mind you, I do not blame Vicki for this. She is a sensible child; and has never to my knowledge previously been exposed to the compulsive unnecessary expenditure syndrome on which capitalist society is so ludicrously based. So she shall certainly be allowed to be my travelling companion and confidante during the enterprise.
Already, it seems, she has discovered that the present Caesar is the Emperor Nero: and I am convinced that a glimpse of his artistic and cultural achievements will prove to be not only educational but positively stimulating for her.
For my part, I would certainly like to interview the man, for I have always suspected that History has dealt harshly with him. For instance, I have never believed that he fiddled during the famous conflagration; and I base this conclusion on the fact that the violin had not as yet been invented; no, the instrument, if any, must surely have been a lyre. So, if the fiddle be myth, then what of the Great Fire itself? Well, we shall see – for no doubt Nero himself will be able to enlighten me in due course...
Later: hardly had I written the above, when Vicki provided an instant corroboration of my musical speculations.
It appears that, this very morning, she and Barbara encountered in town a quavering ancient who professed himself to be a wandering scholar or bard; and who proceeded to prove this contention for the benefit of such passers-by as he could detain, by the performance of a rambling iambic account of the Rape of Lucretia.
Hardly a suitable subject for a mixed audience, I would have thought; but no matter: the important point is that he accompanied this piece of prurient scurrility upon an instrument which can only have been - from Vicki’s description - a lyre!
So I was right - as always! What a bright child she is, to be sure! And what an amenable amanuensis she will make during my short survey of the foundations of Western Culture...
We shall leave for Rome tomorrow.
First Letter from Legionary (Second
Class) Ascaris
Salve, Mater!
I hope you are well as habitual, and as it leaves me also, I am pleased to say.
Well, this new posting is a piece of cake and cushy as they come, so do not worry or fret as I would have expected of you if I’d been sent to bash barbarians in Gaul like my poor eagle-carrying mates.
So, guess what! I have been taken off normal duties, and put on special service to the Empire! So how about that for a bit of all right, eh? What it boils down to, though, is that I am at this moment sitting in a bush waiting to kill a lyre-player - or should that be lyricist? Anyway, it’s a fact, and one on account of which I could not be happier, neither of my ears being in the least musical, as you and Dad have reason enough to know I should think! Well, you can’t have everything, can you? But what I do have is these other homicidal tendencies, which were once a worry to you, but can now be put to good use at the Emperor’s pleasure. For the whisper in the barracks is that my orders come from his very self, the crack-brained twit!
And why, you may ask, should His Imperial Obesity concern himself over the disembowelment of one humble musician, when there are so many other more distinguished persons nearer home who are simply asking for it, many of them relatives, and at least one his wife?
Well, I will tell you: it appears that this particular target is by no means humble, but reckoned to be in the running for the Golden Rose Bowl at the Senate Song Contest for which you will have seen the publicity hand-outs in full colour. And, of course, His Nibs can’t have that, can he?
‘Cause he’s already tagged the trophy for his own purposes, and moreover cleared a space for it on his dining table.
So what I’m required to do is nobble the favourite, thank you, and sharp about it, or else! Would you ever believe artistic licence could go so far? Never mind, I anticipate no difficulty, as they tell me the jazz-singer in question is of an elderly type and not likely to put up much of a struggle.
Must close now, as I think I see the innocent victim approaching down the Assissium Road, and I have to get my dagger drawn, et cetera.
But will let you know how things turn out in my next.
Till then I can only remain,
Your unusual but affectionate son,
Ascaris.
Second Extract from the Doctor’s Diary
Vicki and I set out for Rome this morning with a brisk step and high hearts; for there is nothing, to my mind, more calculated to bring a spring to the leg muscles and a tone to the torso than the prospect of a day or two spent in the exploration of ancient monuments and the deciphering of hieroglyphics; followed, as I hope, by an evening or so in the company of one of the most unscrupulous and blood-soaked tyrants in History!
What an unrivalled cultural opportunity I am providing for the child, as I keep explaining to her. Why this should be
necessary
I do not know, but I suppose her somewhat subdued manner to be occasioned by the temporary but unavoidable separation from her two refractory friends, Ian and Barbara, of whom she appears to be quite fond.
I must say that the latter have hidden their disappointment at being excluded from the expedition with well-simulated equanimity; but I ant not so easily deceived, and am confident that this relatively brief period of being, as it were, confined to barracks will prove to be a salutary lesson for them. As we left they were breakfasting
al fresco
in the rose arbour by the ornamental lake, affecting to enjoy some silly syllabub or other, washed down with some rather inferior local wine, and pretended not to notice our departure. No doubt words failed them - a disability from which, mercifully, I have never suffered; and I was still chuckling at my small disciplinary triumph when Vicki and I refreshed ourselves at the roadside with some really delicious crab-apples, ripe as they would ever be, and a bowl or so of only slightly sulphurous pond-water; in which I admit I detected, almost too late, the remains of a somewhat anaemic frog or toad.
Since these raddled remnants first manifested themselves in Vicki’s portion, I was at first inclined to attribute her expression of frozen horror to that circumstance - for she is sometimes over-squeamish in dietary matters - but on following the direction indicated by her quivering forefinger, I observed an upturned and blood-stained human foot protruding from the thorny undergrowth in which we had hitherto been relaxing. Her subsequent scream was, in these circumstances, quite understandable, and I therefore saw fit not to rebuke the girl.
A cautious examination proved the foot to be attached to the leg of an emaciated
corpus delicti
, detectably done to death by a knife which still protruded from the rib-cage, and probably, I deduced, the victim of some rogue or foot-pad; such as, I now remembered, were a notorious hazard in the Italian hinterland at this time, and I therefore resolved to keep a sharp lookout in the future.
The body was that of an elderly man, whose fine, distinguished, intellectual features somewhat resembled my own: and it was to this coincidence that I at first attributed Vicki’s claim that she recognised him.
‘Nonsense,’ I said, ‘how could you? But if you inspect him closely, you will see that he and I have several points in common, prominent amongst which are the handsome, aristocratic face, and the long sensitive hands. It is this which has misled you.’
She gave me a look which under other circumstances I would have described as impertinent, but no doubt she was still
distraite
from her discovery, so I overlooked the matter.
‘I tell you, Barbara and I saw him in the market only yesterday,’ she said; ‘and, if you remember, I told you so at the time. It’s the lyre-player who sang that embarrassing song about Lucretia! Very vulgar, it was!’
I agreed that, on second thoughts, the resemblance was not so strong as I had supposed; for I now noticed a lubricious curl defacing the dead lips, which I had hitherto taken to be a symptom of the death-agony. But I was still not altogether convinced by her identification, for surely a lyre-player might reasonably be expected to carry a lyre about him?
‘He was. You’ve been sitting on it for the last twenty minutes,’ she informed me; somewhat pertly, I fancied.
‘In that case, why didn’t you say so at once?’ I demanded, rising to inspect the instrument, which I had hitherto taken to be one of those superannuated bedsteads so commonly discarded in places designated as being of special scenic interest. ‘I might have damaged it.’