‘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.
Chapter 18
The Ultimate Weapon
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 o
x-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.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I should be extremely honoured, of course.’
‘I hoped you might be. You deserve it, after all the hard work you’ve put in.’
‘Yes. But, dear me – there’s a problem.’
‘Good thing you thought of it in time. What is it?’
‘The machine won’t work!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Yes, look here – I seem to have made a mistake in my calculations. The weight-volume ratio’s all wrong, do you see? Silly of me!’
‘Very.’
‘No, we’ll just have to face it, I’m afraid: man was never meant to fly!’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I mean, if your machine won’t work, you’ll just have to fly without it, won’t you?’
‘What... what do you mean?’
‘Well, surely the catapult will work all right. I think that’s a very good idea of yours – and it seems such a pity to waste it, that I propose to fire you over the walls of Troy. Then you can help them for a change. That’ll teach ‘em!’
‘But I should be killed!’
‘You must do as you think best. But since you have failed me, you are now expendable.’
‘Wait! I haven’t failed you yet!’
‘You mean, there’s more ?’
‘Oh, a very great deal! Yes, I’ve just had a far better idea!’
‘Nothing like the prospect of death to concentrate the mind, is there? Go on!’
The Doctor took a deep breath, and sentenced the world to Greek civilization.
‘What would you say to a horse?’ he asked.
‘Is it a riddle?’
‘No, no – of course not! I mean, a huge wooden horse – Oh, about forty feet high, I should think. Look. I’ll do you a drawing.’
‘Don’t bother – I know perfectly well what a horse looks like.’
‘Good. Then that’s the first half of the battle.’
‘I can’t wait for the second. What on earth are you rambling on about now?’
‘I’m trying to tell you, aren’t I? Listen – you make the body of the horse hollow; then you fill it with your picked warriors; and you leave it on the plain for the Trojans to capture! How about that?’
‘It would be one way of solving our food shortage, I suppose. Got any more ideas?’
‘I do wish you’d pay attention! Can’t you see – they’ll drag it into the city?’
‘It’s my belief you’re demented! Why on earth would they do a silly thing like that?’
‘Because,’ said the Doctor triumphantly, ‘they’ll think it’s the Great Horse of Asia, come down to save them!’ There was a long pause.
‘And just how would they expect it to do that?’ asked Odysseus, having looked at the plan from every angle.
‘By frightening away the Greek army. Because that’s what it would seem to have done, wouldn’t it? Everyone of you not required for horse-construction duty, would sail away over the horizon.’
‘And only come back once the horse is inside the gates?’
‘Precisely! Splendid! I knew you’d see it! Well, how does it strike you?’ asked the Doctor, excited as if he’d thought of it himself. What we writers really need is absolutely water-tight copyright laws; but I don’t suppose we’ll ever get ’em.
‘I must think it over,’ said Odysseus, cautiously. ‘At least, I don’t think its ever been done before,’ he admitted. ‘On the other hand, that might be against it, in certain quarters... Tell you what, give me half an hour to work out a few details.’
‘To quantify the project,’ murmured the Doctor, beaming like Archimedes on a good day.
‘If you prefer it. And if I can’t find a flaw, we’ll ask Agamemnon over for a drink, and put it to him.’
Well, of course, I couldn’t wait half an hour to tell the Doctor the bad news about Steven and Vicki; because, if they weren’t already dead, they were bound to be in prison, waiting to be executed by the due process of law; so there wouldn’t be all that long for him to hang about congratulating himself, if he was going to get them out of it: certainly not long enough for him to build a damn’ great wooden horse, I wouldn’t have thought.
The snag was that Odysseus showed no signs of being about to retire to his cabin to do his thinking, no, he kept pacing the deck, growling to himself, and occasionally giving one of those great diabolical laughs of his. So there was obviously going to be no chance of getting the Doctor alone for a moment.
But Odysseus did seem to be in a good enough mood, judging by the sound effects: so I thought I’d better risk it, and gamble on the possibility of his not killing me before good faith could be established.
I therefore stepped confidently out of the shadows, and – probably the bravest thing I’ve ever done – hopped buoyantly over the gunnels to deliver my message.
‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘you don’t know me, but I assure you I’m a friend: and I have to tell you that Steven and Vicki have both been captured, and sentenced to death by the Trojans. Mind you the Trojans don’t seem to be at all bad chaps on the whole; and I’m sure a word in the right quarter, possibly from you, Lord Odysseus – would resolve the matter of their identity in no time. But something’s got to be done – because it’s that Cassandra, you see? She’s the one who wants them to die; for various reasons which I won’t bother you with now, because there isn’t a lot of time.’
Well, I thought that wrapped the whole thing up rather neatly, considering I hadn’t done a lot of this exhausted messenger gasping out the tidings business before. I had considered clutching one of them by the arm for support; but decided against it, as being a touch too melodramatic. No – I was relying on the element of surprise, you see; the theory being that if you don’t give anyone else a chance to say anything, there’s not a lot they can do about it till you’ve finished. I’ve often noticed that chaps don’t seem a
ble to kill other chaps to their faces, until they’ve told them that that’s what they’re going to do. A sort of convention, I suppose it is.
And, do you know, it more or less worked? Because Odysseus didn’t actually kill me: he put out my right eye with a marlin-spike, instead! And then he laughed – just to show that everything was all right, really.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘my hand slipped. So you like the Trojans, do you? Well now, my little Cyclops, you’ll just have to learn to take a more one-sided view of things, won’t you?’
And then, I’m afraid, I fainted.
Chapter 19
A Council of War
Of course, after the lapse of forty-odd years, I can afford to take a rather less jaundiced view of the matter than I did at the time. Now, I suppose I must admit that the whole thing was largely my own fault: I should never have said that I quite liked the Trojans! Simply asking for it. Because one of the traditions of war is that you have to believe the enemy are fiends incarnate. And anyone who takes the opposite view is not only on their side, but a bounder and a cad into the bargain. In fact, why Odysseus didn’t kill me I shall never know: but perhaps he thought he had. After all, that sort of wound can often be fatal – especially when delivered without proper surgical care.
I like to think that the Doctor made some sort of protest, however ineffectual; and no doubt he did. But there wasn’t a lot he could actually do , without getting the chop himself. Quite! Yes, I can understand that – now . But at the time I was... well, sour, about the whole episode.
‘That’s what you get for trying to do someone a good turn!’ I thought, as I came to, some hours later. I was lying in the scuppers, where Odysseus had obviously kicked me, not wanting bleeding corpses cluttering up the deck. To add to my pleasure, I was covered in fish-scales and crabs’ legs, and other marine bric-a-brac of a more or less noisome nature; and I suppose I should mention in passing that I was in the most excruciating pain I had ever known – or had believed was generally available outside the nethermost circle of Hades! No point in going on about it: but I tell you, I wanted to die, and was very sorry to find I hadn’t. That’s what it was like – so I’ll trouble you to bear the fact in mind, if you think I’m being altogether too flippant. In any case, as I say, it was all a very long time ago.
Doctor Who: The Myth Makers Page 8
