Doctor Who and the Empire of Glass | Page 9

too hard to get the
words out.
"Yes, put your back into it, my boy,' the Doctor said. 'I want to make landfall before

breakfast, you know."
Steven had been rowing the inflatable dinghy for what seemed like hours, and he was
tired. No, he was worse than tired: he was exhausted. Bone-wearingly, mind-achingly
exhausted. His arms had progressed from fatigue through burning pain to a distant
numbness, and his mind had become fixated on details like the texture of the material that
the dinghy was made out of, and the way the Doctor's ring glowed in the darkness.
The sun had set some time ago, and the moon hung overhead like a tossed coin frozen at
its apogee. The distant lights of Venice glimmering on the water had seemed to Steven to
be receding just as fast as he rowed, but now, as he looked over his shoulder he saw a
long stone embankment with low wooden piers projecting from it into the water. Flaming
torches on poles lit up a large square, thronged with people. He was too tired to care.
"What is this place, Doctor?" Vicki asked. "A strange little republic," the Doctor replied,
"that lasted for several thousand years with little more than superficial change. The city
was originally founded by refugees from the Roman mainland who were fleeing the
various and frequent invasions by Goths, Huns, Avars, Herulians and Lombards -"
"I didn't know that there were any attempted alien invasions this early in Earth's history,"
Vicki said, frowning.
"They weren't aliens, child," the Doctor said reprovingly, "they were tribes. Dear, dear;
your knowledge of your own history is sadly lacking! They were savage, rapacious tribes.
The refugees fled their depredations and settled here in the lagoon, on the many islands
and sandbanks. They built houses on wooden piles driven deep into the mud of the
lagoon. Gradually they linked those houses by paths and by bridges. That was over a
thousand years ago. Now they have a city built on wood and mud. Just wood and mud.
Imagine that!" he cackled.
Steven found that he could. Only too well, in fact. He had just spent a chunk of his life
imprisoned in one city on stilts, and the last thing he wanted to do was visit another. He
still had nightmares about the Mechanoid city crashing in flames to the jungle floor, the
sound of its supporting struts snapping echoing like cannon fire through the night air.
And what had the Doctor said earlier on about Venice sinking some time in the future?
Just how far in the future? he wondered.
He glanced again over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the entire city slide beneath the
waters of the lagoon, then he shrugged. If it happened, it happened. There was nothing he
could do about it. Turning his back on the city, he continued rowing.
The Doctor was still telling Vicki about the history of Venice, and how the city had made
itself into the most important trading centre in Europe, but Steven found his attention
slipping. The island behind them had long since vanished into the mist and the darkness,
and the moon glittered on their wake like a thousand watching eyes. The noise of
shouting and laughter from Venice itself, somewhere just over Steven's shoulder, blended
into a hypnotic murmur, and Steven realized that for several minutes his eyes had been
fixed on a log, drifting along behind the dinghy. It was just a darker spot against the

waves, but it was the only point of interest in the ever-changing, ever-similar backdrop of
the waves. In his half-hypnotized state, he could almost imagine that it was the head of
something swimming behind them, following them from island to island.
And then it vanished abruptly beneath the waves, almost as if it had realized Steven had
seen it.
The hubbub in the Tavern of St Theodore and of the Crocodile almost deafened Galileo
as he carried his flagon of Bardolino wine away from the bar and towards an unoccupied
bench. The place was large and sprawled over several rooms connected by low doorways.
It was popular with the local gondoliers, and he had to detour around large groups of
them as they argued raucously, scuffled affably, fell over drunkenly and generally
comported themselves in the ebullient Venetian manner that he had come to know well.
Venice, city of opposites: mystery and misery; excess and penury; hard marble and soft
water. No matter how often he visited, he was never sure whether he loved it or hated it.
Galileo took a long swig from the flagon, and almost choked. The wine was sour and left
a bitter aftertaste in his mouth; he kept forgetting how bad the wine was here compared to
home. It was evidence