Doctor Who: The Myth Makers (2 page)

Because they don’t care, these sort of people, who they involve, once they get going. Blind anger, I think it’s called. So I got up cautiously, well-hidden behind a clump of papyrus, or something – you can be sure of that. And having nothing to do and being thoroughly awake now – damn it! – I watched and listened, as is my professional habit...

They were both big men; but one was enormous with muscles queuing up behind each other, begging to be given a chance. This whole, boiling-over physique was restrained, somewhat inadequately, by bronze-studded, sweat-stained leather armour, which, no doubt, smelled abominable, and which creaked and groaned with his every action-packed movement. One could hardly blame it! To confine, even partially, such bursting physical extravagance, was – the leather probably felt – far beyond the call of duty, or of what the tanners had led it to expect.

Seams stretched and gussets gaped. On his head was a towering, beplumed horse’s head helmet, which he wore as casually as if it were a shepherd’s sheepskin cap: and this, of course, meant that he was a horse-worshipping Trojan, not a Greek. Furthermore, in view of everything else about him, he could only be the renowned Hector, King Priam’s eldest son, and war-lord of Troy.

His opponent was a different matter; younger by some ten years, I would say, and with the grace of a dancer. Which he certainly needed, as he spun and pirouetted to avoid the great bronze, two-handed sword which Hector wielded – in
one
hand –

as casually as though it was a carving knife in the hands of a demented chef.

He was more lightly armoured than Hector: but I couldn’t help feeling that this was not so much a matter of military requirement, as of pride in the displaying of his perfectly proportioned body. He had that look of Narcissistic petulance one so often sees on the faces of health fanatics, or on male models who pose for morally suspect sculptors. I believe the Greeks have a word for it nowadays.

So, although I felt a certain sympathy for him at being so obviously out of his league, I must confess I didn’t like him. I wondered who he could be. Hector was so notoriously invincible, that during the course of this ridiculous war he had been avoided by the Greeks as scrupulously as tax-inspectors are shunned by writers. Even the mighty Ajax, I had heard, had pleaded a migraine on being invited to indulge in single combat with him; and yet here was this slender, skipping, ballet-boy, obviously intent on pursuing the matter to the foregone conclusion of his being sliced into more easily disposable sections, and fed to the jackals. Who, I may say, were even now circling the improvized arena with an eye to business.

But the question of his identity was soon solved, as the two heroes paused for a gulp of dust...

‘Out of breath so soon, Achilles, my lightfoot princeling?’

inquired the giant politely. ‘Your friend, Patroclus fled me further, and made better sport.’

So there I had it. Achilles and Patroclus: their relationship was well-known – and it explained everything.

‘Murderer!’, spat Achilles, without wit, ‘Patroclus was a boy.’

A boy? Quite so. To understand is not necessarily to approve.

‘A boy, you say?’ said Hector warming to his theme: ‘Well he died most like a dog, whimpering for his master. Did you not hear him? He feared the dark, and was loth to enter it without you! Come – let me send you to him, where he waits in Hades!

Let me throw him a bone or two!’

Well, what
can
you say to a remark like that? But after a moment’s thought Achilles achieved the following:

‘Your bones would be the meatier, Trojan, though meat a trifle run to fat. Well all’s one... they will whiten well enough in the sun –

They may foul the air a little, but the world will be the sweeter for it.’

Not bad, really, on the spur of the moment: especially if you have to speak in that approximation to blank verse, which for some reason, heroes always adopt at times like these. (We shall notice the phenomenon again and it is as well to be prepared.) But Hector was not to be discouraged by such rudimentary rodomantade, and chose to ignore it.

‘Run, Achilles, run! Run just a little more, before you die!

What, don’t you
want
to leave a legend? Wouldn’t you like the poets to sing of you, eh? Not even to be the swiftest of the Greeks? Must I rob you of even that small distinction?’

Achilles was noticably piqued... after all he’d won prizes...

‘Hector, by all the gods, I swear...’ he said, and subsided, speechless.

Hector knew he’d made a good debating point, and sneered triumphantly. ‘The gods? What gods? Do you dare to swear by
your
petty pantheology? That ragbag of squabbling, hobble-de-hoy Olympians – those little gods to frighten children? What sort of gods are those for a man to worship?’

And now, by a curious coincidence, there came a rumble of thunder, as one of those summer storms that pester the Aegean came flickering up from the South... and Achilles could take a cue when he heard one...

‘Beware the voice of Zeus, Hector! Beware the rage of Olympus!’ The remark didn’t go down at all well.

‘Ha! Who am I to fear the thunder, you superstitious, dart-dodging decadent? Hear me, Zeus: accept from me the life of your craven servant, Achilles! Or else, I challenge you: descend to earth and save him.’

And, at that moment, the most extraordinary thing happened: even now, I can hardly believe my memory, or find words to describe it. But I swear there came a noise reminiscent of a camel in the last stages of dementia praecox; and, out of nowhere, there appeared on the plains beside us a small dark blue building of indeterminate architecture! It was certainly nothing of Greek or Asiatic origin; it was like nothing I had ever seen in all my travels; and, as I know now, it was the TARDIS...!

3

You, of course, whoever you are, will probably have heard of the TARDIS. There has certainly been enough talk about it since! At the time, however, I had not, and you may well imagine the effect that its sudden appearance produced – not only upon my apprehensive self – but upon the two posturing fighting-cocks before me. To say we were all flabbergasted is scarcely adequate... but perhaps it will serve for the moment?

Mind you, we Greeks are constantly expecting the materialisation of some god or other, agog to intervene in human affairs. Well, no – to be honest – not really
expecting
. Put it this way, our religious education has prepared us to accept it,
should
it occur. But that is by no means to say we anticipate it as a common phenomenon. It’s the sort of thing that happens to
other
people, perhaps; but hardly before one’s own eyes in the middle of everyday affairs, such as the present formalistic blood-letting. Certainly not. No – but, as I say, the church has warned us of the possibility, however remote.

The Trojans, on the other hand, as you will have gathered from Hector’s nihilistic comments, have no such uncomfortable superstitions to support them in their hour of need.

Oh, they will read entrails with the best of them, and try to probe the future as one does; but as far as basic theology is concerned, they begin and end with the horse. That surprises you? Well, it’s not a bad idea, when you think about it: after all, it was their cavalry that put them where they are today... or rather where they were yesterday. They’d come riding out of their distant nomadic past to found the greatest city in the world; and they were properly grateful to the bloodstock for making it possible. They even had some legend, I believe, about a mythical Great Horse of Asia, which would return to save them in time of peril. But apart from that, they had nothing that you or I would recognize as a god, within the meaning of the act.

So, when the TARDIS came groaning out of nowhere, of the three of us it was Hector who was the most put out; quite literally, in fact.

As he fell to his knees, dumbfounded by this immediate, unforseen acceptance of his challenge to Zeus, Achilles rallied sufficiently to run him through with a lance, or whatever. Very nasty, it was!

The thing pierced Hector’s body in the region of the clavicle, I would imagine, and emerged, festooned with his internal arrangements, somewhere in the lumbar district. Blood and stuff everywhere, you know! I don’t like to think of it.

Well, there’s not a lot you can do about a wound like that –

and Hector didn’t. With a look of pained astonishment at being knocked out in the preliminaries by a despised and out-classed adversary, he subsided reluctantly into the dust, and packed it in for the duration.

A great pity; because, by all accounts, he was an uncommonly decent chap at heart – fond of his dogs and children, and all that sort of thing. But there it is – you can’t go barn-storming around, looking for trouble, and not expect to find it occasionally, that’s what I say! Always taken very good care to avoid it myself... or at least, I had up till then. But I mustn’t anticipate.

So – there lay Hector, his golden blood lacing his silver skin (and that’s a phrase someone will pick up one day, I’ll wager; but it was nothing like the foul reality, of course) when suddenly the door of the TARDIS opened and a little old man stepped out into the afternoon, blinking in the sunshine. And now it was Achilles’ turn to fall to his knees...

At this point I must digress for a moment to explain that I have met the Doctor on several occasions since, and find him a most impressive character. But he didn’t look so then, my word! I believe he has grown a great deal younger since, but at the time he looked – I hope he’ll forgive me if he ever hears about this –

he looked, I say, like the harassed captain of a coaster who can’t remember his port from his starboard. A sort of superannuated Flying Dutchman, in fact: and not far out, at that, when you think about it.

I gathered later, that for some time the TARDIS had been tumbling origin over terminus through eternity, ricochetting from one more or less disastrous planetary landfall to another; when all the poor old chap wanted to do was get back to earth and put his feet up for a bit!

Well, he’d found the Earth all right, but unfortunately, several thousand miles and as many years from where he really wanted to be: which was, I gather, some place called London in the nineteen-sixties – if that means anything to you? He’d promised to give his friends, Vicki and Steven, a lift there, you see; because they thought it was somewhere they might be happy and
belong
for once. All very well for him, because
he
didn’t truly belong anywhere – or, rather, he belonged everywhere; being a Time Lord, he claimed, or some such nonsense!

But the trouble was, he couldn’t navigate, bless him! Oh, brilliant as the devil in his time, no doubt – whenever that
was
–

but just a shade past it, if you ask me!

He blamed the mechanism of course – claimed it was faulty; but then don’t they always? We’ve all heard it before – ‘Damned sprockets on the blink!’ or something; when all the time, if they’re honest, they’ve completely forgotten what a sprocket is!

At all events, he was apparently under the impression that he’d landed in the Kalahari Desert, and he was having a bit of trouble with the crew in consequence. So you can imagine his confusion when, expecting to be able to ask his way to the nearest water-hole from a passing bush-man, he found himself being worshipped by a classical Greek hero, with, moreover, a Trojan warrior bleeding to death at his feet.

Achilles didn’t help matters much by immediately addressing him as ‘Father!’ Disconcerting, to say the least.

‘Eh? What’s that? I’m not your father, my boy! Certainly not!’ objected the Doctor, lustily. After all, Vicki and Steven were probably listening... ‘This won’t do at all – get up at once!’

Achilles was glad about that, you could tell. Sand burning his cuirasses, no doubt.

‘If Zeus bids me rise, then must I do so...’ He lumbered to his feet, rubbing his knees.

‘Zeus?’ enquired the Doctor, surprised. (And I must say he didn’t look a lot like him.) ‘What’s this? Who do you take me for?’

‘The father of the gods, and ruler of the world!’ announced Achilles, clearing the matter up rather neatly.

‘Dear me! Do you really? And may I ask, who you are?’

‘I am Achilles – mightiest of warriors!’ Yes, he could say that
now
. ‘Greatest in battle, humblest of your servants.’

‘I must say, you don’t
sound
particularly humble! Achilles, eh? Yes, I’ve heard of you...’

Achilles looked pleased. ‘Has my fame then spread even to Olympus? Tell me, I pray, what you have heard of me...?’

Not an easy question to answer truthfully, but the Doctor did his best. ‘Why, that you are rather... well, sensitive, shall we say? Or, perhaps, yes, well, never mind...’ He gave up and changed the subject. ‘And this poor fellow must be... ?’

‘Hector, prince of Troy – sent to Hades for blasphemy against the gods of Greece!’

‘Blasphemy? Oh, really, Achilles – I’m sure he meant no particular harm by it!’

‘Did he not? He threatened to trim your beard should you descend to earth!’ He’d done nothing of the sort of course.

Unpardonable.

‘Did he indeed? But, as you see, I have no beard,’ said the Doctor, putting his finger on the flaw in the argument.

‘Oh, if you had appeared in your true form, I would have been blinded by your radiance! It is well known that when you come amongst us you adopt many different shapes. To Europa, you appeared as a bull, to Leda, as a swan; to me, you come in the guise of an old beggar...!’

‘I beg your pardon. I do nothing of the sort...’

‘But still your glory shines through!’

‘So I should hope indeed...’

Yes, but obviously such conversations cannot continue indefinitely, and the Doctor was aware of it. He began to shuffle, with dawning social embarrassment.

‘Well, my dear Achilles, it has been most interesting to meet you... but now, if you will excuse me, I really must return to my