Well, he could have his people, and welcome, as far as Paris was concerned – he wasn’t going to stand in anyone’s way, that was quite obvious. But rallying swiftly, he put his finger on the flaw in Steven’s suggestion. ‘Ah,’ he said, wagging a fore-finger, ‘but then you are not Achilles, are you?’
‘I am Diomede,’ said Steven, ‘friend of Odysseus,’ he added, to establish his credentials.
Paris smiled with relief, and took the way out so kindly offered. ‘Diomede, I do not seek your blood – I seek Achilles!’
He turned to continue the search; but Steven tapped him on the shoulder. ‘And must Achilles, then, be roused, to undertake the death of such as you, adulterer?’
I must say he’d hit off the style to the very last alpha and delta – most impressive! You’d have thought he’d been talking like that ever since drama school. But Paris took the question as being rhetorical – and never mind the insult: ‘I... er... I’m prepared to let that pass, for the moment. I assure you, I have no quarrel with you, Diomede!’
Not what Steven wanted at all. He resorted to out-dated patriotism. ‘I am a Greek, and you a Trojan! Is that not quarrel enough?’
‘Well, perhaps, in a general way,’ conceded Paris, gracefully, ‘but personally I think this whole thing has been carried a great deal too far. I mean, they should have let Menelaus and me settle it by the toss of a coin, like gentlemen...’
This was becoming far more difficult than Steven had anticipated. He tried again. ‘You are no gentleman, Paris! I’ve never thought so, and now I’m sure of it. Neither is Menelaus, come to that...’ he added, letting the style slip a little. Never mind – it worked: Paris stiffened indignantly.
‘Now be very careful! You’re taking everything far too seriously. Besides, are you aware you’re speaking of one of your commanding officers? And one of my oldest friends, come to that? The Helen business was just a misunderstanding.’
‘Which I now propose to resolve,’ parried Steven, neatly. ‘Draw thy sword, I say!’
To my astonishment, Paris began to do just that – although, as if he’d read somewhere that slow motion indicated menace. ‘Very well,’ he contrived to growl, ‘but you’ll be sorry for this, I promise you!’
‘That is a comfort, Trojan; I would not trust you to keep a promise!’
There was no stopping the boy: but I thought he might perhaps have overdone it now, because for the first time, Paris looked angry. A chap can only take so much, after all.
‘Now there,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve gone very much too far!’ And suddenly he was no longer the fool and coward he had looked and sounded; but a remarkably efficient swordsman, out for the kill.
Fortunately for Steven he was quick on his feet, and managed to dodge the first astonishing assault: but obviously you can’t keep that sort of thing up for ever, if you haven’t the remotest idea how to use a sword yourself. So he did the only thing possible under the circumstances; pretended to trip, fell on one knee, and – as Paris moved in triumphantly for the death blow, said ‘I yield!’
Paris was completely disconcerted. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he enquired.
‘I yield – I am your prisoner!’ added Steven, clarifying the position.
‘Oh, but, now, look here – that simply is not done... Surely you would rather die than be captured?’
‘Well, yes, of course, as a rule I would,’ admitted Steven; ‘but little did I know when I challenged you, that you were indeed the very lion of Troy! I am not worthy to be slain by you. I should have listened to my friends...’
‘Really?’ enquired Paris, interested; ‘Why, what do they say?’
‘That rather would they face Prince Hector – aye, and Troilus, too – than mighty Paris. You are said to be unconquerable.’
‘Well, you really do astonish me! They don’t say that in Troy...’
‘Then they must learn to! Oh, I could tell them tales about your valour which would make even grey-haired Priam blanch to hear them...’
Paris glowed. ‘I say, could you really?’
‘Aye – and will do! I pray Achilles may not meet you. Even now he prowls the plains – and what would happen to our cause, if he were vanquished?’
‘Yes, I take your point,’ said Paris, looking round apprehensively. ‘But if I have a prisoner, I hardly think I can oblige him at the moment, can I? There will come a day of reckoning, no doubt; but not just now, obviously.... On your feet, Diomede! If that’s your name? Now will I drive you like a Graecian cur into the city! Farewell, Achilles! For today, Paris, Prince of Troy, has other business.’
Well, of course, like a fool, I wasn’t going to miss a moment of this for anything; so off I trotted after them, back to the dear old impregnable fortress... just in time for a late tea, I hoped...
Chapter 15
Speech! Speech!
Paris must have been getting used to seeing me about the place by now – after all, I’d played ‘friendly voice in crowd’ only that morning – and stopped his valued trophy getting scorched, into the bargain. So when he noticed me floundering after them through the common asphodel and other drought-resistant flora, he seemed quite pleased: called a halt and waited for me; then, when I caught up, offered to let me carry the prisoner, as a reward. I declined the honour, pleading a slipped discus; and he quite understood, being a martyr to that sort of thing himself.
So we entered the city in close formation: Paris at point, chin in air; Steven centre, head bowed in shame, as was only fitting; and yours truly bringing up the rear, the very picture of loyal retainer – and murmuring, ‘Remember you are mortal, Commander’, whenever the conqueror looked like overdoing the clasped hands above the head business. Which was pretty often, I must say: because apparently Steven was the only prisoner he’d ever captured – and naturally he wanted to make the most of it.
I didn’t blame him in the least. A strange man, Paris; but one you couldn’t help liking. Obviously he loathed the war, and everything about it; so it was easy to underestimate him, on that account. But for all that, he’d just proved that he could use a sword as devastatingly as the best of them, if there were really no alternative.
He just didn’t fancy getting killed for no good reason, like Hector had been – and where’s the harm in that, I ask? I suppose when you come right down to it, the trouble was that he was an intellectual – which means, I take it, that you need to know the reason for everything, before not doing it. Well, even the best of military families is likely to throw up one of those every generation or so; and it probably explains why we got on so well – because I’m one myself in a quiet way, as you may have noticed.
Anyway, it was quite a decent little triumph, considering no one had had any time to prepare for it. A couple of trumpeters stopped larking about with their dice, as soon as they noticed us; and got fell in behind, as the expression is. After a brief discussion amongst themselves, they decided on a suitable programme; whereupon we were treated to a selection of gems from ‘The Fair Maid of Troy’ – and that soon brought the crowds out. Flags were waved in a desultory manner, and a startled cheer or two rang out; and as soon as he saw he’d got as much of their attention as was ever likely, Paris climbed on top of the TARDIS – which was still, thank Zeus, where he’d left it – and made a short speech.
‘My friends,’ he began, which was pushing it a bit, I thought, ‘nobody can deny that total war is an unpleasant pursuit – especially when fought under the present conditions; against enemies who refuse to come out and be defeated like gentlemen!
‘However, today I have met one honourable exception: my prisoner, the redoubtable and hitherto undefeated, deservedly popular hero, Diomede. Alone among the Greeks, he has dared to face me on the field of battle in single combat. So then; let’s hear it for Diomede!’
After the very briefest respectful silence, he proceeded. ‘Well, as you so rightly see, it did him no good; and that, in my opinion, makes his action all the more commendable, as he must ha
ve known from the outset how it would turn out! He had heard of my reputation, but nevertheless, he did not flinch from what he considered to be his duty. A strong man, you will notice – and as worthy an opponent as I am likely to find in a coon’s age!
‘And so I say this: it’s a start! If only some of his companions are emboldened by his example to face me – or perhaps, rather, to face my brother, Troilus, who really ought to be given more of a chance – then the war can be brought to a swift and victorious end.
‘So, in conclusion, let me remind you that we fight for the honour of the House of Priam, my well-known father; we fight for the honour of Troy itself; and lastly, we fight for the honour of Helen – as who has not, at some time or other?
‘Thank you for your loyal attention, my friends – and may the Great Horse of Asia be over you always!’
At least that’s what I think he said: and then sensing with his orator’s instinct that he’d just about covered everything, he slid painfully off the TARDIS; and Steven and I followed him in to the palace, beneath a loyal hail of well-meant vegetable offerings.
No – public life will never be for me.
Chapter 16
The Trojans at Home
I will say this for the Trojans: they did themselves uncommonly well when it came to the basic luxuries of life! It’s odd, you know – one gets so used to the idea that we Greeks were the ones who rocked the cradle of civilization, and all the rest of it, that it comes as something of a shock to realize that the Trojans were way ahead of us when it came to gracious living. You won’t find that in the history books, of course, because we wrote most of ’em ourselves; but I tell you, I was actually there , before the deluge, and I saw the whole thing: the cantilevered aqueducts, the under-floor heating, the splendid sanitary arrangements – the lot!
The architecture of the palace, for instance, was like nothing else I’d seen this side of Babylon – and I’ve been to most places, and beyond! Even from the outside, the building had been impressive; inside, it took your breath away – and a greater contrast to Agamemnon’s tent could scarcely be imagined. That took your breath away for quite different reasons.
Marble featured prominently – and where they’d got it from I can’t imagine! We Athenians have some in and around the Acropolis, of course – and long may it remain there – but then, we’re sitting on top of the stuff; whereas Troy was built on oil-bearing shale, which is no use to anybody. So presumably Priam’s ancestors must have hauled it with them from wherever they came from in the first place – which shows confidence, if nothing else! I mean, you can just imagine it, can’t you? ‘We are going to found a city, I tell you; so just get that Babylonian column back on your shoulders, and look pleasant!’ Otherwise mutter and grumble, all the way to the coast – with the Queen Mother saying she’d liked everything better where it was...
All idle speculation, of course – but anyway, there it was now; festooned here and there with silks and tapestries showing Hercules and people about their vainglorious business – and pictures of horses everywhere, with details of their track records and pedigrees worked in gold thread on a giant ivory stud-book. There was even a picture of Helen’s father – a swan, if you remember – which she must have brought with her from Sparta. Probably snatched it from her dressing table at the last minute, with Paris teetering on the ladder with the luggage, and saying, ‘For god’s sake, woman, we can’t take everything !’
Anyway, most of the Royal Household had assembled for refreshments in the dining-hall by the time we arrived; and very interesting it was to see them all together, for once. Most of the princes I didn’t know, naturally; but I’m not at all sure that Priam did either – there were so damn’ many of them! Deiphobus I’d heard of, and he must have been about somewhere, but I couldn’t place him.
That was the trouble, I suppose: the Trojans were just one big, happy, well-off and privileged family – which is decadent and reactionary. While the Greeks were a quarrelsome bunch of unscrupulous riff-raff without two morals to rub together – which is progressive; and meant that they had to win in the end, because of the inevitable tide of history, I’m told; although I don’t see it myself.
Anyway, at least young Troilus was unmistakeable – only about Vicki’s age, I would say, and absolutely the god Apollo to the life. Or possibly Hermes? One of those devilish good-looking ones, who zip about Olympus, you know.
And the nice thing was, he seemed to be completely unaware of it – just a pleasant, unspoilt, all-Trojan boy; with promise of being every bit as much a force to be reckoned with as his brother Hector – if he managed to live long enough, that is. And I wouldn’t have banked on that at the time, knowing as I did what the Doctor and Odysseus were cooking up for them beyond the city walls.
There were only three ladies present: and one of them was Vicki – or Cressida, as I suppose I should call her now – and she was obviously enjoying herself no end. She was sitting in the place of honour, at Priam’s right hand – dressed like a princess; and looking absolutely radiant, as princesses always do. My word – she had done well for herself since this morning, and no mistake! A complete transformation! No longer the lovable young tom-boy space-urchin; but a raving beauty, secure in the knowledge of her newly discovered devastating powers, which at the moment she was turning full blast on poor young Troilus, who sat at her feet looking as if he didn’t know his heart from tea-time – he was eating it out, anway; that much was quite clear!
‘Well, good luck to them both,’ I thought; ‘it had to happen sometime – and the sooner the better, the way things are!’
This view was obviously not favoured by the second lady present, whom we have met before. Cassandra, seething with ill-concealed malice, was toying absent-mindedly with a gem-encrusted goblet, as if trying to remember the exact formula for turning young lovers into frogs. What an unpleasant woman, to be sure!
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 hav
e 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...
Chapter 17
Cassandra Claims a Kill
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.
Doctor Who: The Myth Makers Page 7
