Managra

The fresco of The Last Judgement blazed electric blue. A burst of electromagnetic frenzy illuminated the painted wall of the barrel-vaulted hall. Displaced air fled down the hall with a rush as supercharged ions unleashed a manic dance of crazed lightning. A flamboyant novelty was arriving with a flash and a bang.

The lightning fizzled out and the luminosity dimmed as a blue object intruded itself upon the candlelit expanse with a noise like an asthmatic tank engine afflicted by grating gears. At first more phantom than substance, the intruder phased from image to solidity. In seconds, a blue police box stood on the marble floor.

It stood there for some time, quiet and still, devoid of pyrotechnics, behaving as a proper police box should.

Its door began to open. ‘No need to check the screens, Sarah,’ a cheery male tone announced from inside. ‘Sorry about the tricky touchdown, but this time I’ve landed us right on a Shalonarian beach.’

‘That’s what you said last time,’ muttered a woman’s voice, loaded with irony.

The door opened wide and a tall man stepped out, hands thrust in the pockets of a brown overcoat, a brown fedora planted on the coppery bramble of his hair. An inordinately long multi-coloured scarf swung down from his neck and scraped his shoes. From head to toe, he was the essential

bohemian, and his toothy grin exuded bonhomie.

‘Sun and sands,’ he declared.

He pulled to an abrupt halt and confronted the dark, vaulted spaces, the light and shadow of the frescoed hall.

His pale blue eyes bugged and his mouth fell open. ‘Ah...’

A young woman, almost a foot shorter than her companion, emerged from the box. She was dressed in a black bikini, her heart-shaped face adorned with sunglasses, a towel in one hand, a bottle of sun-tan lotion in the other. Slowly, deliberately, she placed the towel and lotion bottle on the floor and pushed her shades to the top of her head, revealing hazel eyes and a peeved look.

He bent an apologetic smile in her direction. ‘Ah...’

‘This doesn’t look like a sun-drenched shore of Shalonar,’ she said dryly.

‘Just a teeny bit off course,’ he conceded. ‘But what’s a couple of centuries and a few light-years between friends, eh, Sarah? Sarah?...’

Sarah Jane Smith pursed her lips. ‘Don’t – don’t tell me you’ve landed us in "a spot of bother" again. I still haven’t recovered from the last one.’

‘Yes, that was a bit of a rum do, of somewhat apocalyptic proportions, in which I played a not insignificant role, if I say so myself,’ he said, taking several strides to a baroque altar fronting the near wall.

Sarah heaved an exasperated breath and tracked his steps.

‘Doctor,’ she said in a warning tone, ‘if you start exploring again I’ll –’

‘Jelly baby?’ offered the Doctor, cutting her off in mid- threat as he whisked a paper bag from a pocket while simultaneously pointing at the immense fresco. ‘The end of the story,’ he murmured, gaze roving the depiction above the candlelit altar. ‘A graphic story. What does it tell you?’

Ignoring the proffered bag of sweets, Sarah’s mouth formed a moue as she studied the fresco. She’d recognized the spacious chapel almost at first glance; she’d visited it on a tour back in 1971. But she was in no mood to play the Doctor’s games, not with a bikini barely covering the necessary on her goose-pimpling skin she wasn’t. ‘Why don’t you tell me a graphic tale,’ she said, all wide-eyed innocence.

The Doctor, however, had lapsed into a thoughtful silence. His features, although partially shaded by the wide-brimmed hat, betrayed a hint of uneasiness as he scanned the painting. Despite accompanying the Time Lord through two of his incarnations, Sarah still found much of his character a giant question mark, but she’d learned to pick up on the little signals of content or anxiety. Something troubled him now, as he studied the images on the wall. ‘Eschatology isn’t what it used to be,’ he mumbled to himself.

Curiosity aroused, she examined the fresco. It was familiar from a hundred popular reproductions: The Last Judgement, Michelangelo’s towering nightmare in paint. Her stare was drawn to the stern, Grecian Christ hovering high above the altar. His athletic physique seemed to move in the light-and-shadow-play of the flickering altar candles. Christ brandished his right arm at the cascade of lost souls tumbling down to Charon the Ferryman who waited to ship them off to Hell. The damned were suitably horror-struck. But then, even the faces of the blessed appeared less than ecstatic as their souls were sucked into Heaven.

A macabre picture, but Sarah couldn’t spot what was bothering the Doctor. She glanced over her shoulder at the murky chapel, sparsely patched with the illumination of flambeaux and the candles of side-altars. If the scene was intended to evoke reverence and awe, it didn’t succeed. It was downright spooky: she could almost imagine a painted Renaissance spectre stepping off a wall.

‘Astounding!’

The Doctor’s loud exclamation made her heart do the hop-skip-and-jump. She darted a glance at his animated expression: a near-childlike excitement had got the better of him. You could always rely on the Doctor to be erratic.

He was engrossed in the portrait of St Benedict. ‘Look,’ he said, indicating Benedict’s aged hand. ‘The attention to detail is remarkable.’

She already knew what to look for; she was educated, she was an astute journalist: besides, she’d read the guide books. Michelangelo had painted his own features into the wrinkled flesh on the back of the saint’s hand. A neat little touch, sure, but what was so amazing about it?

She gave an indifferent shrug. ‘Just a portrait in wrinkles. Michelangelo’s face.’

‘Do you recognize Michelangelo?’

How the blazes was she supposed to identify the Renaissance artist in a maze of wrinkles? ‘No,’ she said in a flat tone. ‘Sorry. Don’t recognize him at all.’

He peered closer at the painted hand. ‘Neither do I, Sarah. Neither do I. Most curious.’

Puzzled by his remark, she was about to pose a question when he spun on his heel and marched swiftly down the hall, his arms spreading expansively. His energetic tone boomed in the cavernous space as he hurled his personality in all directions. ‘You know where we are, Sarah Jane? I’ll give you a clue: there’s no place like Rome.’

Cursing under her breath, she ran after him, the soles of her rope sandals slapping on the marble. By the time she drew alongside his gangling figure she’d traversed more than half the length of the floor.

‘Of course I know,’ she snorted. ‘We’re in the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel. Judging by the wall-torches, sometime before the mid-nineteenth century. And, if you hadn’t noticed, I’m strolling around the Vatican in a skimpy bikini.’

His pace didn’t slacken as he headed for the far wall. ‘Hmm... The TARDIS has materialized inside the Sistine Chapel – makes a change from the cargo hold of an alien spacecraft.’ Momentarily, there was a distant glint in his stare. ‘Inside the Sistine Chapel, within the Vatican.’

‘Yes, so, this is the Sistine Chapel. What of it?’

He flashed one of his disarming grins. ‘A rose is a rose is a rose – and if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’

‘You call that an answer?’

‘No, but at least it’s a point of view.’

They’d reached the far wall to confront the first of the nine panels portraying the narrative of Genesis: the Separation of Light and Darkness. The Doctor’s gaze moved up the wall, then travelled along the frescoes of the vaulted ceiling.

‘What neurotic splendour!’ he marvelled. ‘Rather like Michelangelo himself, in fact. He didn’t want to do all this, you know. Pope Julius II badgered him into it. But then, Michelangelo chose the subject – the Bible, from Creation to the Last Judgement, a graphic story from beginning to end.’

As he was speaking he walked to a side-altar, beckoning his companion to follow.

She stood her ground. ‘Doctor, if this is turning into another of your investigations I’ll nip into the TARDIS and slip into something more – uncomfortable.’ She nodded in the direction of the time-travelling police box that contained a mini-universe. ‘Let’s face it, I’m not in suitable attire for a Vatican visitor.’

He pointed a finger at the ceiling, indicating the depiction of the Creation of Eve. ‘You’re more fully clad than Eve,’ he said.

‘Tell that to any passing cardinal.’

‘This won’t take more than a few seconds, Sarah, I promise.’ He held out a hand. ‘Please?’

She did her best to muffle a smile as she joined him by the altar. ‘Oh, OK. You always know how to get round me. Too fond of you by half, that’s my trouble.’

‘Really? I’m terribly fond of you, Sarah, and I don’t find it any trouble at all.’ Beaming genially, he nodded at the lighted altar candles. ‘Try putting one of the candles out.’

She raised a quizzical eyebrow, but stepped up to the altar and slammed a hand down on a candle. Her eyes widened as she witnessed the flame flickering through her hand. There wasn’t the slightest sensation of heat. Light without warmth.

Sarah glanced questioningly at the Doctor. ‘A holoflame,’ he informed, ‘like the fires on the wall-torches. The programmed flicker is an absolute give-away.’

She withdrew her hand. ‘Puts paid to my guess about the century. OK, you’ve had your little demonstration. Let’s get back to the TARDIS and head for the sun-kissed beaches of –’

‘The face.’

The Doctor’s incisive tone and remote aspect silenced her. In an instant, all trace of the clown and prankster had vanished from his features. In the blue of his inward gaze was the light of an alien world, exposing his habitual tomfoolery for what it was, the froth on the surface of the ocean.

He looked a young forty going on eternity.

At times like these, mercifully rare, she felt as small as a mouse.

‘What about the face?’ she heard herself whisper.

His baritone thrilled right through her. ‘The image on St Benedict’s hand was a composite face. Faces within faces. I thought I recognized the pattern – from long ago.’

The moment of abstraction lengthened, then he shook his head and broke into a smile as he pulled out a yo-yo and put it into play. The froth was back on the ocean, obscuring the depths.

‘A composite face?’ she said.

‘Oh, heed me no heed,’ he grinned, performing a figure-of-eight with the yo-yo. ‘A little trot down memory lane to a door I never opened, into the rose garden.’

Quicker than she could blink, the yo-yo was back in his pocket. He raised his arms and circled on his heels, taking in the surroundings. ‘Impressive. A near-perfect reconstruction. The artificial ageing is particularly noteworthy. However, the patterning of the marble floor is distinctly anachronistic, to say nothing of those gargoyles up there.’

She frowned. ‘A reconstruction? This is the Vatican, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a Vatican.’

She scratched her head. ‘Just how many are there?’

‘Oh, very few. In fact –’ His hand flew to his mouth. ‘Oh dear.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘We’re on Earth.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘It is if I got the time co-ordinates right for Shalonar - AD 3278. Vatican City was remodelled in the 31st century by colonists from the Overcities, signalling the inception of the Europan era. If this is the Europa of 3278, or even a century either way...’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Quick, Sarah, back in the TARDIS. I’ll be right behind you.’

She didn’t need any more prompting to take to her heels as fast as her flip-flops would allow. Her sprinting strides devoured the distance to the vehicle, the Doctor’s heavier steps thumping close at her back. Something was about to go seriously wrong, she just knew it.

But only a few more paces to the open door of the police box. Inside, safety.

Almost there...

The police box dropped clean through the floor.

Sarah skidded to a halt at the rim of an empty black square where the TARDIS had stood an instant earlier.

She spun round to confront the Doctor’s dismayed expression. ‘What happened?’ she demanded, heart thudding. ‘Don’t tell me you managed to land the TARDIS right on top of a trapdoor.’

‘A drop-slab,’ he responded. ‘I thought the patterning of the floor was peculiar – interlocking squares. Any one of them can function as a drop-slab. Should have realized that at first glance.’

A low rumble resounded from the square-framed pit as a slab of marble slammed up and slotted back into place, leaving the floor intact as before, minus the TARDIS. Sarah stared forlornly at the spot where the TARDIS wasn’t.

‘Somebody knows we’re here,’ she said bleakly.

‘Yes.’ The Doctor’s tone was sepulchral. ‘They must have known it from the moment we arrived.’ For a moment, he wore a woebegone expression, then switched from the funereal to the happy-go-lucky. ‘Oh well, that wily old girl of a TARDIS must have had one of its “tendencies”, depositing us here for some jolly good reason. After all, the TARDIS is a sort of extension of my psyche. No doubt, deep in my , I intended to come to this space-time co-ordinate. And so – here we are...’

Sarah closed her eyes and counted to five before speaking. ‘Do you actually believe that?’

‘Not a word of it,’ he said. ‘But a fool who persists in his folly becomes wise, as a friend of mine once said on Brighton sands. Mind you, he thought he was talking to Moses at the time...’ He straightened abruptly, snapping to attention. ‘No time for chit-chat. Must get the TARDIS back. Bothersome thing is, you left the door wide open.’

‘I left the door wide open?’ she snorted, hands on hips.

He raised a hand in absolution. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Sarah. A mistake anyone could make.’

On the verge of delivering a barbed retort, she bit her lip. ‘Are you trying to rile me so I forget to be scared?’

He appeared genuinely baffled. ‘Am I? Oh well, if you say so.’

‘Tell me, just what should I be scared of? Dropping through the floor like the TARDIS? Being attacked by a mob of demented monks? What do you know about – what did you call it – Europa?’

‘Its reputation,’ he said darkly.

‘Oh, come on. You can tell me more than that.’

He scratched his brambly hair, as if trying to tease memories from his head. ‘Not much more. I’ve never visited Europa. All I know is a little something I picked up once from the TARDIS data banks. Europa is an area reconstructed on the site of the original Europe – East and West, and – er, this is slightly embarrassing...’

‘Go on, be embarrassed.’

‘Whatever you say. Well, how shall I put it – Europa is infested by ghosts, vampires, werewolves, ghouls and other grotesques spawned from old European folklore. I think we’re in a spot of bother, Sarah Jane.’

She gave a slow shake of the head. ‘I don’t think I want to hear this...’

The Doctor breezed on regardless. ‘And the whole kit and caboodle is ruled by the Inquisition under a renegade branch of the Catholic Church. The official papal seat is, I believe, situated in the Betelgeuse system during this era.’ The Doctor’s grin broadened into a crescent that was positively devilish. ‘If you want an idea of what it’s like travelling through Europa, imagine running scared in the Black Forest under a bad moon.’

‘But you’re talking about that old, black magic!’ she protested. ‘Has science just got ditched out the window?’

He twitched his shoulders. ‘Someone once said that advanced science becomes indistinguishable from magic, or words to that effect. Besides, I’m only quoting the data banks, which are not immune to the occasional gremlin. Perhaps this era has developed highly sophisticated psionics and – oh, never mind.’ He started to move away. ‘Now, Sarah, let’s introduce ourselves to the local ecclesiastic dignitaries before they introduce themselves to us.’

Breaking into a brisk stride, he made for a pair of imposing double doors. With a philosophical shrug, she tracked his long paces. At the doorway, he paused, and shot up a finger. ‘Take me to your pontiff! How does that sound as an introduction?’

‘Ho hum,’ she responded. ‘Although it has a resounding ring. The ringing tone of a ham actor. Lead on, Macduff.’

Pushing open the doors, he gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘That’s the spirit, Sarah. I do so admire a plucky journalist.’

She scowled. ‘I hate it when you call me that.’ The scowl faded. ‘Or are you deliberately riling me again?’

‘Am I?’ he said, his bugging eyes the soul of innocence.

‘Hard to tell.’

A rumble from the floor startled the pair. Alternate drop-slabs had plunged out of sight, leaving the floor resembling a chess board with empty gaps for black squares.

‘Time to run?’ Sarah urged.

He raised a hand. ‘I don’t think so. Better wait and see what happens.’

Bare seconds passed before the slabs ascended back into place. On each slab stood a man garbed in livery reminiscent of the Swiss Guards, a score in all, bearing cruelly barbed halberds.

The nearest soldier, whose insignia marked him out from the rest, jabbed an accusatory finger at the time-travellers. ‘Protestant heretics!’ he roared. ‘Captain Emerich of the Switzia Guardians places you under arrest for the of Pope Lucian!’

‘You were right, Sarah,’ the Doctor confided out the corner of his mouth. ‘Time to run.’