Doctor Who: The Myth Makers (15 page)

The general opinion seemed to be that she had somehow conjured this loathsome ancestral god of theirs out of thin air; and it was this macabre manifestation which had finally persuaded the superstitious, Olympus--orientated Greeks that the game was up. So the least the Trojans could do under the circumstances was to invite the faithful old horse in for a bundle of hay and a bit of a sing-song. Churlish not to, in fact. Quite.

So there Vicki was; guest of honour at the victory banquet –

and how she was ever going to find an excuse for slipping away to the TARDIS for a moment, I couldn’t imagine. Not that she showed any sign of wanting to. The silly, infatuated child was so enraptured with young Troilus, that I honestly believe that during my absence, she’d contrived to forget the ghastly danger they were in. Women!

Even Steven appeared to be having the time of his life: because the real Diomede had been quite a fellow, it seemed.

Not perhaps in the very first rank of heroes, like Ajax and Achilles; but still a likely contender for second place in the hierarchy. And now that the war was over, and he’d been captured, they couldn’t wait to say what a splendid chap they’d always thought him – our very gallant enemy, and so forth. I’ll swear, they were even arranging to hold anniversary reunions, when the veterans could all swap reminiscences, and get drunk together!

Well, I hated to drag them both away to disillusion, but the job had to be done somehow – only the trouble was, they were so busy being lionised, I couldn’t see how I was going to get near them.

And then, amidst the general brouha-ha and rejoicing, I noticed a rather striking looking girl called Katarina, who was crying conspicuously to herself in a corner, and looking rather left out of things. I’d had occasion to notice her before: one of Cassandra’s accolytes, she seemed to be, and although that certainly wasn’t a job calculated to cheer anyone up a great deal, nevertheless I thought she was rather overdoing the soul-sick lamentation business. So I buck and winged my way over to her through the merry throng, and, sensing a possible ally, asked her what was the matter.

She took one look at me, and screamed. I kept forgetting that, since my injury, mine wasn’t the sort of face you’d be happy to use as a model for the bedroom frescos – but I managed to calm her down eventually.

Whereupon she gave me some rigmarole about one of the sacred doves, for which she was responsible, having died, regretted by all; and that the subsequent post-mortem had revealed its liver was all to blazes. Which meant, apparently, that doom and disaster must surely follow – particularly when Cassandra got to hear about it: and not only a general cataclysm would there be, but a more personalized version, closely involving herself and Nemesis.

Well, I couldn’t give her an argument about the first; because round about now the cheers of the populace out in the square reached a crescendo, and a quick glance through the window revealed that super-horse was negotiating the home straight. But as to the second, it seemed to me that her extremity might be my opportunity – for getting both her and Vicki out of harm’s way, that is. For I knew my young friend fairly well by now: and whereas she wasn’t likely to leave Troilus for the purpose of saving her own skin – lovers frown on that sort of thing, for some reason – she might very well do so to save someone else’s. Or so I reasoned.

So, ‘Listen, pretty child,’ I said to Katarina, ‘your uncle Cyclops has the cure for what ails you! Or rather, Cressida has; being altogether more of a force to be reckoned with than your superior as events have shown. So go and tell her from me, that if she’ll take you at once to that portable temple of hers, she’ll find the necessary on the bottom shelf of the altar; filed under antidotes, panaceas, and elixirs, doom-struck for the use of. Say that the Doctor will be there in no time, and then everything will be roses and ambrosia for both of you. If she gives you an argument, tell her it’s a special favour to me, in return for past services.’

Well, she looked rather surprised – as well she might – but sensible girls don’t argue with men who look like I did at the time; and off she went – to find a happy deliverance, or so I sincerely hoped.

At any rate, I could hardly do more in that direction; and so I made a circuitous way towards Steven, the well-known and popular Diomede, who was attempting a trick with two chairs, to general acclamation; and I gambled on the possibility that he would shortly appeal for an assistant. Because I knew the trick, but did be? I doubted it.

And it also occured to me that I really ought to have a shot at removing Troilus, at least, from the disaster area; and I’d thought of a plan. Oh, ingenuity was positively bursting out of my ears, that Apocalyptic evening!

Abandon Ship!

I’d told Katarina to pile on the agony a bit; because it was going to take more than a sick headache to prize Vicki away from the proceedings – I could tell that. So I watched with some concern as she listened to the tale of woe; and such an interesting blend of expressions flitted anxiously about her face that it fairly broke my heart to see it.

Her first reaction, of course, was to consult Troilus in the matter: but fortunately he’d chosen that moment to step out onto the balcony with Paris and their father, to acknowledge the vox of the populi.

Then the poor tortured child, so happy a moment ago, but now torn by divided loyalties, seemed to come to a decision –

and not before time! She looked across the crowded room, that disenchanted evening, and caught my remaining eye; then she nodded gloomily, gave me a pathetic wave, brushed away a tear or two – and, having dealt with these formalities, slipped silently out into the night with Katarina. Well done, that girl!

Relieved, I turned to the next item on my agenda, and tapped Steven on the shoulder – by bad luck choosing rather a crucial moment in his routine, and causing him to drop one of the chairs on his toe.

‘What in Hades are you doing back here?’ he snarled, in welcome.

‘I was too late,’ I told him. ‘And if you’ll stop showing off for a moment, and give your attention to the speciality act at the top of the bill, you’ll see that the horse is waiting in the wings with fun and massacre for all, regardless of expense. Vicki has therefore gone to wait for the Doctor in the TARDIS. Go and do thou likewise!’

To do him credit, he got my drift at once; and pausing only to say he thought it a bit thick that I hadn’t managed to hold up the invading force on my own, he handed me his remaining chair, and set off after the others.

So that was that. Except for Troilus, of course.

I had toyed with the idea of sending him to the TARDIS as well, so that he could live happily ever after with Vicki; but on second thoughts, I realized that wouldn’t do at all. Apart from my not knowing how many passengers the thing was licensed for, I wasn’t, on reflection, at all sure how he would react. Even though he was in love with his Cressida, he was still a loyal Trojan – and might even decide to arrest the whole boiling of them, when he discovered what he would take to be their treachery.

That’s the trouble with these clean-limbed, clear-eyed types, with determined jaws: they’re liable to put Country before Love, and Honour before either of them, if you catch them in the wrong mood. So you have to be a bit careful and sound the ground.

Another thing was that the Doctor was unlikely to find a chance of making his excuses to his new cronies, and sprinting for the TARDIS, until after the battle had commenced, and they were busy with other matters; so it was going to be a close-run thing anyway, without his having jealous young princes arguing the toss about the rights and wrongs of the proceedings.

No – I did what I hoped was the next best thing – and never mind having to live with myself afterwards; I’d got used to that over the years, and you can’t always choose the company you’d like.

‘Dear young Prince of the blood,’ I said; ‘am I right in supposing that my friend Cressida is dearer to you than all the jewels of the Orient, and sweeter than Springtime, to boot?’

He thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that myself,’ he mused, ‘but the supposition is sound in essentials.’

‘Then,’ I said, treacherously, but meaning well, ‘I think you should know that she and Diomede have just strolled outside for a moment. They spoke of a short walk in the moonlight – out in the countryside...’

He sagged at the knees, as well he might, poor boy. ‘Thank you, Cyclops,’ he said, ‘I shan’t forget this.’ I knew
I
wouldn’t, either;
or
forgive myself, come to that. But it was in a good cause.

I watched him from the balcony, as he elbowed his way through the crowd in the square; then, once clear, he sprinted like a cheetah who’s just remembered an appointment, out through the gates, and into the darkness of the plain – where, Zeus willing, he would be safe from the wrath to come. And –

who knows? – it was even possible that Vicki might get to hear about it one day, wherever she was going; and perhaps she might thank me.

Well, I could do no more. I looked round at all the happy, pleasant, and – yes – civilized people I had learnt to be fond of but, of course, there was no way of saving them. In fact, I had probably interfered too much already.

Paris was a charming, intelligent man; but he really
did
deserve what was coming to him – as don’t we all, when you think about it? Priam was a fairly benevolent old despot, but he’d perpetrated an outrage or two in his time –
must
have done, to get where he was! And although even Cassandra probably had a point or so in her favour if you looked closely – never mind, she was about to be proved right about most things, which is more comfort that most of us get, in the end.

And, Hades, nobody lives forever, do they? I mean, what do you want – miracles?

So I didn’t say ‘goodbye’ to anyone – but, rather sadly, made my way out into the square. Did I only fancy I saw the Doctor’s wise and worried old face, looking out from one of the horse’s eye-holes as I passed? ‘
Is
there a doctor in the horse?’ I wondered, without much humour. Well, I couldn’t be sure – but I waved anyway. And then I wandered slowly out through the gates, and turned my back on Troy for the last time.

Or rather, such had been my intention; but a couple of leagues from the doomed walls, I thought I might as well see the end of the affair from a safe distance – so I sat down on a hillock in the moonlight, and awaited developments. After all, if you remember, that’s what I’d come for. I was a writer – and it would all make good copy one day, wouldn’t it?

And so that was the last of the mistakes I was to make in this whole sorry saga. Because I’d forgotten about Achilles, hadn’t I?

The scruff of my neck was seized in what is known as a vice-like grip; and I was flung, struggling and spitting like a kitten, into the heart of a gorse-bush.

‘Well, little Cyclops,’ he enquired, ‘whose side are you on
this
time?’

And, under all the circumstances, I found it very difficult to say.

27

Achilles wasn’t in the best of moods anyway – you could see that.

No doubt he felt he’d been passed over in favour of an older man; and furthermore, an older man he heartily disliked. Why, he wondered, should Odysseus get all the glory; while he, Achilles, the best damn’ warrior in the regiment, had to skulk about away from the action, in charge of the reinforcements? So he took it out on me.

‘We quite thought you were dead, you know,’ he remarked pleasantly. ‘Odysseus thought he’d killed you the other evening: then apparently your body disappeared, and he began to wonder. That’s the trouble with Odysseus; the poor old boy gets delusions – half the time he doesn’t know his breakfast from Wednesday! Well, as usual, I suppose I shall have to finish the job off properly for him. We don’t want to leave any loose ends, do we?’

He didn’t bother with blank verse for me, you notice? Oh no

– they save that sort of courtesy for each other. A class thing really, I take it. But it’s the sort of slight which hurts.

‘Now then,’ he continued, ‘any last requests, before I see the colour of your tripes?’

I couldn’t think of any; and after waiting patiently for a bored second or so, he drew his sword. ‘Well then, we’d better get on with it. No point in hanging about, is there, when a thing’s got to be done?’

The blade glinted in the moonlight – Damascus steel, I noticed; very smart! – as he raised his arm for the thrust. I mean, you don’t expect steel in the bronze age, do you? And I would like to say that my whole past flashed before me – but it didn’t.

In fact, I wouldn’t let it – I wanted no part of my past, since it had brought me to this! No, I just had time to think that, after all, I’d be seeing Priam and the boys in Hades any moment now, when there came one of those unexpected interruptions, the gods are fortunately so good at.

‘Diomede!’ called Troilus, approaching at a gallop. ‘You and I are going to settle this Cressida business, once and for all!’

With a muttered apology to me for the delay, Achilles turned to face him, smiling like a scimitar. ‘Wrong hero, I’m afraid, my little cadet! Diomede is dead – so perhaps Achilles can oblige you?’

For a moment Troilus looked a bit like a very young terrier who’s stumbled on a tiger, sleeping it off in a fox-hole. But only for a moment. He was made of good stuff, that boy!

‘My brother Hector’s murderer? Well, it seems you feared to face Paris’ – loyal to the last, you see? – ‘but I thank Zeus for setting you before me! Now, go to seek your friend Patroclus...’

And he flew at the sneering muscle-man like a falcon on a good day.

Well, a falcon he may have been – but Achilles was an eagle, make no mistake about that! And it seemed to me there could be only one end to this ill-advised encounter, as they whirled and pirouetted about the plain, swapping insults and carving the occasional slice out of each other. Troilus was game, all right, but he wasn’t an Odysseus by any means, and that was the sort of solid oak article the situation called for. He was also inexperienced at this sort of thing, while Achilles was the best the Greeks had to offer. Even Hector hadn’t found him a walk-over, if you remember? No – I had grown fond of Troilus, and I didn’t think I could bear to watch.