There is a destiny now possible to us — the highest ever set before a nation to be accepted or refused. We are still undegenerate in race; a race mingled of the best northern blood. We are not yet dissolute in temper, but still have the firmness to govern, and the grace to obey. We have been taught a religion of pure mercy, which we must either now betray, or learn to defend by fulfilling…
John Ruskin - Lectures on Art, 1870
The Doctor listened to Quinn’s story grim-faced. ‘I knew it!’ he exclaimed when the soldier finished. ‘This has his fingerprints all over it!’
Quinn said nothing, staring at his feet, strangely silent now. Lawrence studied the fellow’s face, his fingers absently probing the dressing on his wound. They were both lucky. Quinn’s bullet had missed Lawrence’s vitals by scant inches, passing harmlessly through his shoulder and out of his back. It stung like the very devil, of course, but pain Lawrence could handle. In the desert one soon learned to approach things as the Arab does: reject soft luxuries and easy comforts; find delight in abnegation, abstention and yes, even agony. He had learned to relish it, to take pleasure in its countless exquisite varieties.
The wound would trouble him; he would likely get little sleep tonight. But it was, in the end, no more than an irritation. He had more pressing concerns.
He considered Quinn. He’d known countless men like him. At Oxford first, and then in the army. Second or third sons of minor aristocracy. Reared in the bosom of privilege, the world beyond came as something as a shock for them. He was used to their barely-concealed sneers and disdain. His name was not a good one. Not by a long chalk. El-Aurens was better.
The thing was, priggish, aloof and haughty as Quinn’s sort often were, they were still English soldiers and an English soldier is nothing if not brave and loyal and true. While he might consider them personally fools, Lawrence had had little occasion to doubt their abilities or motives professionally. Perhaps that was what had prompted him to save the man’s life.
The gunshot had brought the Bedouin running. A couple of Beni Sakhr were first, waving their rifles around as they burst into the tent, thirsty for blood. Auda must have been nearby as he arrived only seconds later. He’d drawn the viciously-curved jambiya dagger from his waistband. He grabbed Quinn and would have slit the man’s throat there and then, had some sudden instinct not compelled Lawrence to gasp ‘Wait!’
The Doctor seemed to have been taken by surprise by the suddenness of the whole incident. He made amends by leaping to take charge now. His first action, for which Lawrence was grateful, was to check the wound. When he had swiftly satisfied himself that it was not immediately life-threatening, he ceded Lawrence’s care to an Arab who came scurrying in with a medical kit. The Doctor strode over to the would-be assassin, gripped still in Auda’s unwavering arms.
The man didn’t struggle; he looked almost as dazed and shaken as Lawrence felt.
‘Who are you?’ the Doctor asked him. ‘Why did you try to kill Lawrence?’
The man swayed and murmured incoherently.
‘I’m talking to you, man!’ the Doctor said, snapping his fingers a few times in front of his face. He didn’t respond.
‘Why waste time?’ demanded Auda angrily. ‘We should gut him where he stands!’
‘We’re not liable to learn much about who sent him if we do that, are we?’ the Doctor replied dryly. ‘Though I suspect I’ve got a fairly good idea. This man’s been hypnotised.’
‘Hypnotised?’
‘Mesmerised, ensorcelled, bewitched. Don’t strain too hard trying to understand it, my dear chap, you’ll do yourself a mischief. I doubt you’ll have come across anything similar.’
Auda went red with fury but the Doctor either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He pulled a fob-watch from his trouser pockets and began to swing it slowly this way and that in front of the English soldier’s eyes.
‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve had plenty of practice doing this by now. I’ll get him to tell us who sent him, then I can unhypnotise him.’
‘Wouldn’t the other way round make more sense?’
‘Not unless you want to wait till morning. Sleep and temporary memory loss are side-effects of the deconditioning.’
‘I see,’ said Auda. Plainly he did not.
And so Quinn had told his story, or as much of it as he could remember. The Turkish bey had done quite a number on him.
‘He’s getting more accomplished,’ the Doctor commented, almost admiringly. ‘It seems you might be right, Auda. Some of Captain Quinn’s memories we’ll just have to wait to return on their own.’
‘You know this Turk?’ asked Lawrence.
The Doctor nodded. ‘Oh yes, we’re firm friends.’ The tone of his voice made clear they were anything but. ‘I’m afraid he’s not a Turk, though.’
‘Then who is he? And why would he want me dead? There’s more to it than just wanting the bounty on my head, I take it?’
‘Money doesn’t interest him. He’s got no use for the stuff. Whatever he’s up to, he’s doing it for his own reasons. He lives to cause trouble, Lawrence. As if there isn’t enough of it in the world right now.’
‘His name?’ Lawrence pressed.
To his surprise, the Doctor smiled. As if he relished the confrontation to come. ‘Another thing he has no use for. He likes to call himself the Master.’
~~~
When Jo had first met the Doctor she’d idolised him. The dashing, kind man of science who could save the world with little more than a ball of twine and a hopeful smile. A hero who never resorted to violence – well, not serious violence, and not unless the villains were really asking for it – and who could somehow combine a burning, irreverent anarchism with the kind of clubbable geniality that had him forever being invited to London’s swankiest clubs. It didn’t seem to matter how often he cheerfully explained to his distinguished hosts how small-minded and wrong they were, the invitations never seemed to dry up. Maybe they just appreciated his help with the crossword.
Ever since she’d walked into that lab, Jo had pretty much just wanted to be the Doctor. This had come as a bit of a surprise, she had to admit. Ageing men with prodigious bouffants had not figured highly in her list of role-models previously, although she had spent three weeks in her early teens desperately wishing she could grow up to be John Noakes. By the time she got to UNIT, she’d more or less settled on the idea that she was basically going to be Emma Peel but with even better dress sense. But the Doctor had a charisma which was impossible to ignore. Even after a first day on the job which was, by anyone’s standards, more than a little trying, there’d been absolutely no doubt in her mind that the Doctor was, in almost every conceivable way, the bee’s knees.
That was not to say, however, that she’d ever been under any illusions about his singing ability.
Unlike him.
His resonant, fruity tones filled the camp as dawn broke, much to the evident confusion of several of the Arabs, who were regarding his tent with expressions of mild alarm.
It was almost enough to make her forget about the Letter.
‘Very dapper,’ Jo remarked.
‘I try, Jo. And a very good morning to you too.’ He resumed humming as he towelled down his bouffant. That too, she had to acknowledge, looked particularly fine this morning. She didn’t enquire as to where he’d found the water to wash it. There were some things a girl simply wasn’t meant to know.
‘You’re cheerful this morning,’ she observed. ‘Some of the men about were saying there was trouble last night…’
‘Mm? Oh, yes. That British chap they brought in yesterday? Came to and tried shoot old Lawrence.’
‘Lummy! That makes you happy? Is he all right?’
‘He’ll be fine. Fit young fellow like him. Aren’t you going to ask why he did it?’
She frowned. ‘Doctor, there’s something I need to talk to you about. About the British and the Arabs.’
‘Well it’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. You see, that assassin didn’t know what he was doing. He’d been hypnotised.’
Jo’s heart sank. ‘Oh no.’
‘Quite.’
‘But why would the Master want to hurt Lawrence?’
‘I’m not sure,’ the Doctor admitted. ‘But our first priority has to be to find out. Lawrence is the centre of all this, I’m sure of it. He’s the pivot on which this part of history turns. Kill him now and the Arabs won’t unite; the Revolt will fail. The Turks could keep hold of their southern Empire. The Ottoman Empire might not collapse when it should. The whole history of the Middle East could change irrevocably.’ The scratched at his chin. ‘The more I think about it, the less I like it.’
‘We’ve got to stop him!’
‘Don’t worry, Jo. We will. Fortunately we know exactly where he is – Mada’in Saleh.’
‘So he’s the one who wanted us there? He’s working with the Turks?’
‘Doing his usual party piece of throwing in his lot with the most morally disreputable people around. But yes, he seems to have convinced them he’s on their side. Enough for them to send him the TARDIS, anyway.’
‘It’s there? How do you know?’
‘Captain Quinn gave a very passable description of the old girl, considering the police box won’t be invented for another ten years or so.’
Jo felt herself brightening. After weeks of uncertainty as to where – or even if – they would find their way out of this time, sometimes in the dead of night she had begun to find herself contemplating what life would be like stuck here. The twenties wouldn’t be too bad, she’d reckoned. She’d make quite a good flapper. But the thirties – depression, and then being middle-aged during the Second World War. Not the most enticing prospect. The knowledge that the TARDIS was within reach was a huge relief. Even knowing the Master was around no longer troubled her as much as it once had. Last time they’d met she had proven she could hold her own against him; she’d forced him to recognise that she was no longer the little girl he’d so easily brainwashed a few years ago. With the Master to fight, she and the Doctor were no longer lost and adrift in one of the most violent times in human history; it was business as usual. The Doctor versus his nemesis.
There was only ever one winner. No wonder the Doctor seemed so jolly.
‘So d’you think you can convince Lawrence to let us go to Mada’in Saleh then?’ she asked.
‘No need,’ said a voice behind her. Lawrence stood in the entrance to the tent. He looked a bit stiff – he was evidently in some discomfort – but not at all bad for a man who’d been shot only a few hours before. Suddenly he reminded her less of Mike and more of the Brig. ‘We’re all going,’ Lawrence continued. ‘I mean to take Mada’in Saleh for the British.’
~~~