Doctor Who: The Myth Makers (3 page)

– er – my temple here. The others will be wondering about me.’

‘The others?’

‘Er – yes – the other gods, you understand? I have to be there to keep an eye on things, so I really should be getting back’

And he turned to go.

With one of those leaps which I always think can do ballet-dancers no good at all, Achilles barred his way. ‘No,’ he barked, drawing his sword. The Doctor quailed, and one couldn’t blame him. Gods don’t expect that kind of thing.

‘Eh?’ he enquired, ‘do you realize who you are addressing?

Kindly let me pass. Before I – er, strike you with a thunderbolt!’

Achilles quailed in his turn. He didn’t fancy that.

‘Forgive me – but I must brave even the wrath of Zeus, and implore you to remain.’

Well, ‘implore’ yes – but still difficult, of course.

‘I really don’t see why I should. I have many other commitments, as I am sure you will appreciate...’

‘And one of them lies here – in the, camp of Agamemnon, our general! Hear me out, I pray: for ten long years we have laid siege to Troy, and still they defy us.’

‘Well, surely, Achilles, now that Hector is dead...’

‘What of that? Oh, they will be jubilant enough for a while, my comrades. Menelaus will drink too much, and songs will be sung in my honour. But our ranks have been thinned by pestilence, and the Trojan archers. There they sit, secure behind their walls, whilst we rot in their summers and starve in their crack-bone winters.’

All good stuff you see?

‘Many of the Greeks will count the death of Hector enough.

Honour is satisfied, they will say, and sail for home!’

Ever the pacifist the Doctor interrupted; ‘Well, would that be such a bad idea?’

He wished he hadn’t. Always a splashy speaker, Achilles now grew as sibilant as a snake...

‘Lord Zeus, we fight in your name! Would you have the Trojan minstrels sing of how we fled before their pagan gods?’

The Doctor smiled patiently, wiping his face. ‘Oh – I think you’ll find Olympus can look after itself for a good many years yet...’

‘Then come with me in triumph to the camp, and give my friends that message.’

Well, reasonable enough, you know, under the circumstances.

And how the Doctor would have talked himself out of that one, we shall never know. Because just then the bushes behind them parted in a brisk manner, and out stepped a barrel-chested, piratical character, whose twinkling eyes and their sardonic accessories belied a battle-scarred and weather-beaten body –

which advanced with what I believe is called a nautical roll. He was followed by a band of obvious cut-throats, whom any sensible time traveller would have done well to avoid.

I suppose, at that time Odysseus would have been about forty-five.

4

He and Achilles were technically on the same side, of course, but you could tell that neither of them was too happy about it.

Different types of chap altogether. Achilles groaned inwardly; rather like Job, on learning that Jehovah’s had another idea.

‘What’s this, Achilles?’ Odysseus enquired, offensively. ‘So far from camp, and all unprotected from a prisoner?’

Achilles made shushing gestures. ‘This isn’t a prisoner, Odysseus,’ he said in tones of awestruck reverence.

‘Certainly not,’ contributed the Doctor, hastily.

‘Not yet a prisoner? Then you should have screamed for assistance, lad; we wouldn’t want to lose you. Come, let us see you home... Night may fall, and find thee from thy tent!’

‘I’d resent his attitude, if I were you,’ said the Doctor.

Odysseus spared him a scornful, cursory glance. ‘Ah, but then, old fellow, you were
not
the Lord Achilles. He is not one to tempt providence, are you, boy?’

‘Have a care, pirate!’ warned Achilles, ‘Are there no Trojan throats to slit, that you dare to tempt my sword?’

Odysseus considered the question, and came up with an undebatable answer. ‘Throats enough, I grant you. A half score Trojans will not whistle easily tonight. We found ‘em laughing by the ramparts, now they smile with their bellies. And what of you?’ He wiped the evidence from his cutlass. ‘Been busy have you?’

Achilles played his ace. ‘Nothing to speak of,’ he said modestly, ‘I met Prince Hector. There he lies.’

Astonished for once in his life, Odysseus noted the bleeding remains – and you could tell he was impressed. ‘Zeus,’ he exclaimed.

‘Zeus
was
instrumental,’ acknowledged Achilles gracefully, with a bow to the Doctor. Perhaps not surprisingly, the significance of this escaped Odysseus.

‘No doubt,’ he said, ‘no doubt he was. But what a year this is for plague! The strongest must fall... Prince Hector, eh? Well, that he should come to this! You stumbled on him here, you say, as he lay dying?’

‘I met him here in single combat, Odysseus.’

‘The deuce you did? And fled him round the walls, till down he fell exhausted? A famous victory!’

‘I met him face to face, I say,’ scowled Achilles, stamping. ‘I battled with him for an hour or more, until my greater skill o’ercame him! Beaten to his knees, he cried for mercy. Whereat I was almost moved to spare him...’

‘Oh, bravo,’ rumbled his appreciative audience.

Well, I could have said what really happened, of course, but I didn’t like to interrupt – Achilles was all too obviously getting intoxicated by his talent for embroidery...

‘But, mark this, Odysseus; as I was about to sheathe my sword in pity, there was a flash of lightning – and Lord Zeus appeared, who urged me on to strike.’

‘And so, of course, you struck – like lightning? Well, boy –

there, as you say, Prince Hector lies, and there your lance remains in seeming proof of it! I must ask your pardon...’

‘So I should think,’ hissed Achilles through pursed lips.

‘But tell me, Lightfoot, what of Zeus? He intervened, I think you said? And then?’

‘Why there he stands – and listens to your mockery.’

‘Yes indeed, I’ve been most interested,’ said the Doctor, getting a word in edgewise.

I wouldn’t have advised it myself. A cut-throat or two did look vaguely apprehensive, but their leader rocked with the sort of laughter you hear in Athenian taverns at closing time.

‘What, that old man? That thread-bare grey pate? Now, come, Achilles.’

‘Odysseus, your blasphemy and laughter at the gods is very well in Ithaca. Think, though, before you dare indulge it here!

Forgive him, Father Zeus – he is but a rough and simple sailor, who joined our holy cause for booty.’

‘Aye, very rough, but scarce as simple as you seem to think!’

growled the gallant captain, snapping a spear between his nerveless fingers.

‘Oh, but there’s nothing at all to forgive,’ the Doctor hastened to assure him, ‘I’ve no doubt he means well.’

‘Then will you not come with us?’ begged Achilles. Abject now, he was.

‘Well, no – I hardly think... thank you, all the same...’

Useless. Odysseus stumped forward, and siezed him by the scruff.

‘What’s that. You
will
come with us, man – or god, as I should say! If you indeed be Zeus, we have much need of your assistance! Don’t cower there, lads. Zeus is on our side – or so Agamemnon keeps insisting. And since he has been so condescending as to visit us, bear him up, and carry him in triumph to the camp!’

The Doctor struggled, of course; but it was plainly no use. A bunch of tattooed ruffians tossed him aloft like a teetotum in a tantrum, and set him on their sweating shoulders. To do him credit, Achilles at least
objected
. ‘Odysseus, I claim the honour to escort him! Let him walk to the camp with me!’

But not a bit of good did it do. Odysseus glowered like the Rock of Gibralter on a dull day. ‘You shall have honour enough, lad, before the night’s out. And, who knows? maybe we shall have a little of the truth as well. Father Zeus, we crave the pleasure of your company at supper. And perhaps a tale or two of Aphrodite, eh?’

The Doctor spluttered with indignation: ‘Nothing would induce me to indulge in vulgar bawdy!’

‘Well then,’ said Odysseus, reasonably, ‘you will explain why you are lurking near the Graecian lines – and how you practised on the slender wits of young Achilles. That should prove equally entertaining.’

Rather foolishly, in my opinion, Achilles drew his sword.

‘You will pay for this, Odysseus!’ he shouted. The latter was unimpressed.

‘Will I, Achilles? Well, we shall see... But meanwhile, lads, do some of you take up that royal carrion yonder. At least so much must we do for Lord Achilles, lest none believe his story. Nay, put up your sword, boy! We comrades should not quarrel in the sight of Zeus.’

And they marched away over the sky-line, carrying with them the helpless Doctor, and the mortal remains of Hector, Prince of Troy; while the echoes of Odysseus’s laughter reverberated round the distant ramparts.

Achilles, for his part, looked – and, no doubt, felt –

extremely foolish. At length, when the war-party was out of earshot, he spat after them: ‘You will not laugh so loud, I think, when Agamemnon hears of this!’

Well, you have to say
something
don’t you? Then he sprang nimbly off towards the Graecian lines by an alternative route.

And, always having a nose for a good story, I followed at a more leisurely pace.

5

Meanwhile, as they say, back in the TARDIS, the Doctor’s situation was giving rise – as again they say – to serious concern.

For, as they told me later, Vicki and Steven, his two companions, had been watching the progress, or rather, the retreat of events on the scanner, and they were pardonably worried. After all, he had only stepped out for a moment to enquire the way; and now, here he suddenly wasn’t! You can imagine the conversation...

‘They didn’t look like aboriginal bushmen, Steven,’ mused Vicki. ‘Do you think this
is
the Kalahari Desert – or has he got it wrong again?’

‘Of course he has!’ snapped the irritated ex-astronaut.

Sometimes he found Vicki almost as tiresome as the Doctor.

After all, he hadn’t joined the Space-Research Project to play the giddy-goat with Time as well! And if he didn’t get back to base soon, awkward questions were gong to be asked. I mean, compassionate leave is one thing, but this was becoming ridiculous.

‘If only,’ he said, ‘the Doctor would stop trying to pretend he’s in control of events we might get somewhere! Why isn’t he honest enough to admit that he has no idea how this thing operates? Then perhaps we could work out the basic principles of it together – after all, I do have a degree in science! But no –

he’s always got to know best, hasn’t he?
Now
look at him –

trussed like a chicken and being taken to God knows where!’

‘Well, if they are bushmen,’ said Vicki, looking on the bright side, ‘perhaps they’ve taken him to see their cave drawings?’

Steven regarded her with the sort of explosive pity one does well to avoid. ‘Oh, do use what little sense I’ve tried to teach you!

Those men were Ancient Greeks – that’s who they were. Don’t you remember
anything
from school? Its my belief we’ve gatecrashed into the middle of the Trojan War – and, if so, Heaven help us! Ten years that little episode lasted as I recall!’

‘Well, whoever they were, they seemed to treat him with great respect...’

‘Don’t be silly, Vicki, they were laughing at him!’

‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘perhaps he made a joke?’

‘If so, let’s hope it was a practical one for a change! They didn’t look as if they’d appreciate subtle humour...’

‘I don’t know, Steven... I thought the Greeks were civilized?’

‘Only the later ones. I imagine these sort of people were little better than barbarians!’

‘But I’ve always been told they were heroes. Magnificent men who had marvellous adventures. You know, like Jason and the Argonauts.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve been reading too much mythology, Vicki

– real life was never like that. But I suppose, in a sense, these characters would have been the original myth makers...’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean the ruffians whose rather shady little exploits were magnified by later generations, until they came to
seem
like heroes. But they were certainly nothing of the sort – and that’s why I’m worried about the Doctor.’

‘All right then, Steven. Have it your way. So, what can we do?’

‘I know what I’m going to
have
to do, darn it, if we’re ever to get out of this; follow them, and see if I can’t rescue him before he gets his brilliant head cut off! Not that it wouldn’t serve him right.’

‘Well, can’t I come too? If this
is
the Trojan War, I’d hate to miss it, and I’d love to see the real Agamemnon...’

Steven sighed. ‘Yes – and no doubt he’d love to see you. You still don’t understand, do you? Vicki, these people weren’t gentlemen – and they certainy didn’t treat women – even young girls – like ladies! No, you must stay here till I get back!’

‘And what if you don’t get back?’

‘Thank you, Vicki – nice of you to think of that. Well, in that case, whatever you do, don’t let yourself get taken prisoner. Just stay inside the TARDIS – and no one can get at you. You should be quite safe!’

‘Yes, but supposing...’

‘Look here, I haven’t time to argue – just do as you’re told for once!’

She watched him rebelliously, as he opened the double doors, her brain seething with mental reservations. But she said no more.

And Steven stepped out on to the plain of Scamander, took his bearings, and loped off after the rest of us.

6

For some reason – not intentional, I assure you, – I contrived to arrive at the Greek camp before the others. Possibly Odysseus and his men had got themselves involved in some more mayhem and casual butchery on the way home – it would have been like them. And as for Achilles, it may have been time for his evening press-ups or something – but I really don’t know. And it really doesn’t matter. At all events, I found it easy enough to avoid the sentries, who didn’t seem to be a very smart body of men –