Doctor Who: The Myth Makers (10 page)

But the third of the trio couldn’t have cared less what was going on as long as the rest of the men gave her their full and undivided attention. ‘What’s one adolescent princeling more or less?’ Helen seemed to be thinking; ‘there’s bound to be plenty more along in a moment.’

I suppose I should try to describe her – although it isn’t easy. Other – even, arguably better writers than I, have tried; and made a thoroughly inadequate mess of it. And I think I know the reason – or one of the reasons, anyway.

Helen, you see, was one of those women who are not only all things to all men; but who are different for each of those men –

that’s the point.

Do this now – as they say when they’re trying to sell you something: write down your own ideal of absolutely perfect, quintessential feminine beauty – why should I do all the work? –

and that would be Helen – for you. But for you, alone! Because I’ll bet if you showed that description of yours to someone else who’d seen or imagined her, he’d proceed to describe someone quite different – his own ideal, you see?

Why, even her hair seemed to change colour while you were actually looking at her: and her figure seemed to flow and mould itself from one sensuous shape to another, like an amoeba looking for a meal! It was quite uncanny. Was she tall or short, plump and voluptuous, or slim and athletic? Impossible to say.

All I do know, is that
whatever
she looked like in fact, the image of what you
thought
she was would be what you’d been looking for all your life; and what you wanted right now, thank you very much! And furthermore, what you wanted right now, would be what you’d always remember as long as you lived.
I’ve
never forgotten her, and I’m going on eighty – but damned if to this day I can tell you why. Just one of those things.

As to her voice... well, to be honest, I don’t recall her actually saying anything – but then, with her looks, whatever they were, she didn’t need to. Oh, no doubt she made the odd remark, like

‘Pass the Oriental spices, would you?’ – but if so, I don’t remember. No – a neat trick she had, and no mistake!

Menelaus must have been mad to let her go; but Paris would have been mad not to have taken her; and that of course, was the insoluble root of the whole stupid trouble. I’d have died for her, myself – and very nearly did, come to that.

Still, I don’t know... it would have been very tiring living with Helen; with everyone from milkman to tax-inspector trying to get her alone for a moment; so perhaps I’m well out of it? But you can’t help thinking – even now – can you? Well, at any rate.

I can’t!

But enough of maudlin fantasy and vain regrets. I have a story to tell, and must get on with it...

17

In spite of Paris understandably wanting to make the big entrance, nobody seemed to notice us much at first. Troilus, you see, was looking at his Cressida; Cassandra was glaring at the pair of them; and all the others were looking at Helen; who, in turn, was affectionately contemplating her reflection in a bowl of soup.

So for a while we hovered in the offing; while Priam did his best to ply Cressida with shrewd questions about the future. And he wasn’t getting very far, because she kept changing the subject.

No fool, that girl! In fact, as far as questions were concerned, she was making most of the running.

‘How on earth,’ she asked, helping herself to another slice of breast of peacock, ‘do you manage to live like this, when you’re under seige?’

‘Well,’ said Priam, modestly, ‘my nephew, Aeneas, brings us a little something from time to time. He’s in charge of our mobile force, d’you see? Raids the Greeks supply lines with his cavalry. They think it’s barbarian bandits,’ he chuckled; ‘but in fact, they do contrive to keep us in a certain style.’

As a grand inquisitor, he’d have been nowhere! All this would have been nuts and wine to Agamemnon, I couldn’t help thinking.

‘I didn’t know such a thing as cavalry existed yet,’ she said, reaching for the lotus sauce with a tablespoon. Still a child in many ways, in spite of everything.

‘Oh, bless my soul, yes,’ said Priam, ignoring the gaffe,

‘we’re all horsemen at heart, you know. The Greeks laugh at us for our horse-gods: but I sometimes think that if we’d kept all our strength in cavalry, we’d have done far better. Swept ‘em back into the sea where they belong, years ago. No, to be honest, I’m afraid we’ve gone rather soft in here, behind the walls.

There’s nothing like security, Cressida, to sap the initiative – so think of that, before you go looking for it. Take my advice,’ he said, glaring at Troilus, ‘and before you think of settling down, get yourself a horse. A horse is a fine animal; a good horse will carry the day every time. The very last word in warfare, a horse is! That’s why a Trojan will do anything for a horse!’

This, one might have thought, could well have exhausted the subject of horses; but Cressida paused with a forkful of imported Herperidean asparagus half-way to her lips. ‘It’s funny you should say that about horses...’ she reflected.

‘Funny? Why, what do you mean?’ said Priam, prepared to be offended. ‘What’s funny about a horse?’

‘Oh, nothing really... just reminded me of a story I read, a long time ago...’

The fork continued its interrupted journey, and Priam watched it with interest.

‘A story about this war, by any chance?’

‘Well, yes – but nothing of any importance, I’m sure. It’s just a silly legend...’

‘What sort of silly legend? Now look here, young Cressida, I’m relying on you to tell us everything you know, before you eat yourself to – I mean, if you really do come from the future, the smallest detail may be important!’

‘I suppose it may,’ acknowledged Vicki. ‘Troilus, you’re not eating anything. Aren’t you hungry?’

Troilus blushed, and admitted to having rather lost his appetite just lately.

‘But you must have something, you know, or you won’t keep your strength up.’

What a ridiculous remark! The boy was a rippling mass of muscle!

‘Go on, you must force yourself,’ she persevered, offering him her plate...

Greater love et cetera... But Priam interrupted. ‘Never mind Troilus and his anaemia! I want to hear this legend about a horse. I like a good horse story,’ he explained unnecessarily.

‘Oh, well,’ she began; ‘it’s just that the Greeks –’

But at this moment Paris coughed, and stepped forward to take his share of delayed limelight. On such trivial circumstances rest the destinies of nations!

‘Father,’ he announced, ‘I’ve captured a Greek!’ And like Achilles, not so many hours ago, he looked in vain for popular acclamation. It seemed to be the dawning of the age of the anti-hero. No one seemed in the least interested or impressed.

In fact, quite the contrary. ‘Confound you, Paris!’ exclaimed Priam. ‘When will you learn not to come bursting in here when I’m busy?’ The two faithful trumpeters took the hint, paused in mid-fanfare, and sidled back where they came from.

‘I’m sorry, father, I just thought you might want to question him...’

‘Well, so I may, in due course, but – Great Heavens – that isn’t
him
is it? What in Hades do you want to bring him into the banquetting hall for? Can’t you see we’re in the middle of dinner? Bringing in rotten prisoners, scattering mud and blood everywhere! Get him out of here!’

Paris took a deep breath, and squared, approximately, his shoulders: ‘He is
not
in the least rotten – he is an officer, and perfectly clean. In fact, he’s a hero, and one of their very best, so I think you should speak to the man, especially as he’s come all this way. Step forward, Diomede!’

As Steven obeyed, Cressida looked reluctantly away from Troilus for one moment – and choked over an olive the next.

‘Steven,’ she squeaked; ‘What on earth are you doing here –

dressed like that?’

Steven cast his eyes to heaven, as they say. ‘Please be quiet, Vicki,’ he hissed through the gritted teeth he kept at the corner of his mouth. But too late, of course: the damage was done.

Priam recoiled – the picture of a king who’s been put upon.

‘
What
was that he called her?’ he enquired icily.

Cassandra now took centre-stage; the picture of a prophetess who’d told everyone as much. ‘You heard, didn’t you?’ she asked, superfluously. ‘That was the name she called herself when we found her!
And
she recognized him, too! And since he’s a Greek, what more proof do you want that she’s a spy? Kill her! Kill both of them! Kill! Kill! Kill!’

Well, that seemed to sum up the general feeling of the meeting; and as Vicki ran idiotically to Steven for protection, instead of leaving things to Troilus and Paris to sort out, I sidled inconspicuously after the trumpeters. There didn’t seem to be anything further I could usefully do; but I thought it might be a good idea at this point, to let the Doctor know what was going on. I wanted to meet him anyway – and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

18

I was getting to know my way back and forth across the plain rather well by now; and keeping a weather-eye open, of course, for embattled heroes blaring iambics at each other, it didn’t take me too long to arrive back at Odysseus’ ship. Oh, the merest hour, I should think. After all, Scamander wasn’t a big plain as plains go – not your steppes of Asia by any means: and the only problem was, you had to keep fording that little river, which wandered about all over the place like a brook intoxicated. The Meander, I remember it was called; and it, well, it meandered to coin a phrase.

Anyway, I arrived, as I say, rather damp; but most fortunately, as it seemed at the time, just as Odysseus had dropped in for a routine check on the Doctor’s progress; and I must say, as far as I could see from my hiding place in a thicket of sea-holly, he didn’t seem to have made much. Nevertheless...

‘I think this may interest you,’ said the Doctor, without much confidence. He produced an armful of drawings, and spread them out on the hatch way in the evening sun. ‘You were asking me about flying machines, I believe?’

‘No, I wasn’t – you were telling me about them. Well?’

rumbled Odysseus, discouragingly.

‘Well, this is one of them...’ And to my horrified amazement, he had the gall to produce a paper dart from amongst the documents, and fling it over the side of the boat; where it nose-dived into a decomposing starfish.

Odysseus noted the fact without enthusiasm. ‘What did you say it was?’ he enquired – with admirable self control, I thought.

‘A flying machine,’ repeated the Doctor, proudly.

‘It looks more like a parchment dart, to me. My son, Telemachus, used to make them to annoy his tutors. So did I, come to that!’

‘Oh, did you, indeed?’ said the Doctor, somewhat taken aback.

‘Yes. And rather better ones, if you must know.’

But the Doctor was nothing if not resilient. ‘Excellent,’ he cried; ‘Capital! If you’re already familiar with the basic principles, it makes it very much easier to explain. That dart is merely the prototype of a very simple aerial conveyance!’

‘What are you talking about now?’

‘Don’t you see, it would be possible to build a very much larger one, capable of carrying a man?’

‘And what earthly good would that do?’

‘Think, my dear Odysseus: a whole fleet of them could carry a company of your men over the walls, and into Troy!’

‘Oh could they now? And how would we get them into the air?’

‘Catapults!’ said the Doctor, producing his fatuous master-stroke. ‘Ping!’ he illustrated.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Catapults. I thought you’d have heard of them.’

‘No, I can’t say I have. Catapults, d’you say? Sounds like a rather vulgar barbarian oath to me. Yes, I must try it out on Agamemnon – Catapults to you, my lord! And very many of them! Yes...’

The Doctor grew impatient: ‘Nonsense, Odysseus! A catapult is... well, look here, you could easily make one out of strips of ox-hide. I’ve made a drawing of one. First, you twist the strips together – so. Then you fasten the two ends securely.

Next, you take up the slack in the middle, and you stretch it like a bow string.’

‘Go on – what do I do then. Use it as a hammock?’

‘Nothing of the sort! You pour water over it, and leave it to dry in the sun. Now, tell me Odysseus; what happens then, eh?’

‘It begins to smell, I should think.’

‘Never mind that, for the moment. It also shrinks, doesn’t it?

Thereby producing the most colossal tension between the two points here. So, now you place your flying-machine at the point of maximum strain... C.’

‘Like an arrow in a bow?’

‘Precisely! And then, you let go!’

‘Always as well to remember to do that!’

‘And Eureka! It flies up into the air, with a soldier clinging to its back – and it glides, following a curvilinear trajectory, over the wall, and into the very heart of Troy! Nothing could be simpler!’

A passing seagull made a harsh comment, as Odysseus considered the matter ‘I see...’ he said at length; ‘Well, for your information, Doctor, here’s one soldier who’s doing nothing of the sort!’

The Doctor looked caring and compassionate: he had every sympathy with human frailty, and said so. ‘Well, perhaps Agamemnon, then – if you’re afraid?’

‘Now
that
might be quite an idea!’ mused Odysseus, cheering up somewhat. ‘But no – he wouldn’t go along with it...’

‘Whyever not? It would be a privilege.’

‘I know – but he wouldn’t see it that way. Fellows a fool! No

– we’ll have to think of someone else.’

‘Well, anyone would do: a child could operate it!’ ‘Really?

Or an old man?’

‘Oh yes, of course he could. Old Nestor would do admirably.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of Nestor!’

‘You weren’t?’

‘No. Tell me, Doctor – how would you feel about being the first man to fly?’

The Doctor’s brain raced in ever-diminishing circles. I could tell. by his ears which went puce.