Doctor Who_ The Myth Makers - Donald Cotton [27]
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...
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