Doctor Who_ Bunker Soldiers - Martin Day [15]
I tried to clear my mind of these awful memories, hoping that this day would be a safe one, a day of progress.
I asked for Taras, a builder of some repute who was overseeing many aspects of the fortification. It was clear no one had seen him all morning. I was instead directed towards an ever-growing pile of rubble. Lacking the skill to carve the blocks, and the agility to be of much use high up on the scaffolding, I was to sort through the debris for anything that could be reused.
The mound was comprised equally of stone from the original building that had been found wanting, and the ‘off cuts’
of the contemporary masons. I wasn’t quite sure what I was searching for but worked as diligently as I could, piling bits of stone and rock that seemed particularly substantial into an enormous leather bag.
I had been engrossed in my work for some time when I heard shuffled footfalls behind me.
‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ said the Doctor.
‘What are you hoping to achieve?’
‘I want to help,’ I said. ‘I can’t just sit around and do nothing.’
Of course, of course,’ nodded the Doctor. ‘But how best to help these people, hmm? That is the question!’
‘You’re not about to change your mind?’ I asked, hoping against hope that he would reply in the affirmative.
The Doctor shook his head slowly. ‘The governor and I are matched in our obstinacy.’ He paused, seating himself with some difficulty on a large block. ‘I have great respect for the man, you know,’ he said more quietly as he watched work continuing on the walls of the church. ‘And for these people. Dmitri feels trapped by the situation he finds himself in. It’s no wonder his noble fair-mindedness is tempered with such stubbornness.’
‘But you’re still not prepared to help?’
The Doctor paused, clasping his hands together in front of his face. His ring flashed in the cloud-filtered sunlight. ‘I feel... I feel that something else is happening here, in this city. There is a deeper unease. Desperate men are being driven to desperate measures. Perhaps it involves the TARDIS. Perhaps it involves something far worse than the coming Mongol attack.’
‘What could be worse than that?’ I queried.
‘What indeed?’ The Doctor shook his head, as if to clear it of these thoughts, his white hair flowing about his shoulders. ‘Do you know anything of the history of this city?’ He stared at the church overhead with a steely fascination.
‘You know I don’t,’ I said. I wondered if the irritation I felt was audible in my voice. I wasn’t in the mood for a history lesson: if he had nothing more useful to say, then he might as well leave me to my work.
The Doctor continued, regardless of my annoyance.
‘Vladimir the Great is venerated as a saint by the Orthodox Church,’ he said, in a voice rich with sarcasm. ‘He is seen as the ruler who brought a form of decency to a land riddled with pagan practices and belief. And yet records show that his
“conversion”, and the forced conversion of his people, was for entirely political ends, cementing an alliance with Constantinople. According to legend...’ The Doctor paused as a couple of workmen passed, wary perhaps of their reaction to his tale. ‘According to legend, Vladimir considered Judaism first –
but then he decided he was too fond of pork. He settled on Islam, but discovered that they forbade alcohol, which he was rather partial to.’ The Doctor chuckled wickedly. ‘He finally settled on Christianity.’
‘You don’t have much time for religion, do you Doctor?’
‘I have no time for hypocrisy,’ said the Doctor coldly.
‘Sometimes you have to turn the world upside down for it to make sense. And sometimes the least popular course of action is the right one.’
I didn’t quite know what to say. It was as if the Doctor was trying to justify his obstinacy