Doctor Who_ The Myth Makers - Donald Cotton [31]
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