Doctor Who_ The Myth Makers - Donald Cotton [29]
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