Doctor Who_ The Romans - Donald Cotton [18]
And in spite of the outcome, I still maintain that under the then circumstances this was the correct and honourable course of action, and that morally speaking I could have adopted no other, as I’m sure you will agree.
However, on arriving at the gates of the Eternal City - or is that Jerusalem, I can never remember - the ill-fortune which, since my first meeting with the Doctor, has followed at my heels like an unwanted timber-wolf, once more took over the control of my affairs, and quickly slipped me the staccato tomato - if you will forgive the somewhat mixed metaphor.
Urging Delos to look as inconspicuous as possible for a man some eight feet tall and broad with it, I at once began to pursue my enquiries, casually asking the passers-by if they happened to have encountered a pleasant-looking girl with a British accent, who when last seen was wearing a sort of crimson and gold toga with matching accessories.
In spite of my companion’s misgivings, I was myself quite satisfied that this course of action, pursued methodically and patiently, would eventually produce results; and indeed it did, although not the ones I had innocently anticipated. For amongst the very first of the persons I accosted in this manner was the slave-trader, Sevcheria; who informed me that by a curious coincidence he had sold someone answering to that description for a record price only yesterday; and that she was, to the best of his knowledge, not only more or less alive and moderately well, but living in jeopardy as personal hand-maiden to the Empress Poppea.
But what, might he make so bold as to ask, was I doing, so far away from the hellish hulk where he had confidently expected me to spend the rest of my natural, groaning under the lash, and occupied in the carrying far and near of fur and myrrh, and furthermore of apes and peacocks, which had always seemed to him to be remarkably unmarketable, and rather surprising? Never mind, however, for the question was clearly academic - at which he laughed. Why, I wonder? - and I really needn’t bother to reply at the moment, because I would presently be needing my breath for other matters of a more violent nature. He then summoned a passing platoon of Praetorians, informed them that Delos and I were two escaped galley-slaves, and asked if they didn’t think they ought to do something about it?
Early in the ensuing mêlée, I was perhaps fortunately knocked unconscious again. Delos, however, having apparently broken the arms, legs, and necks of several of our assailants, sustained several severe cuts and contusions; which he is now nursing whilst growling to himself and glaring at me. But I really do not see how I could have acted otherwise, and I have told him as much.
To little effect, however...
As to our forthcoming gladiatorial contest... Well, being, I confess, slightly surprised to find myself still alive, I asked the reason for this unexpected clemency of the guard who brought our breakfast. It seems that Delos has been recognised as a former athlete and very heavyweight contender (Really! And after I had made a particular point of asking him to remain incognito!); and apparently one of Nero’s favourite diversions is to watch two friends beat each other to a pulp in the arena - winner to go free. I assume that this latter provision is to ensure that they both give of their best, and pull no punches!
I hastened to point out that Delos and I were no longer particularly friendly for some reason; and since this might take the gilt off the gingerbread as far as Nero was concerned, wouldn’t it be better to dream up an alternative programme?
He informed me that the