Doctor Who_ The Myth Makers - Donald Cotton [47]
Even Steven appeared to be having the time of his life: because the real Diomede had been quite a fellow, it seemed.
Not perhaps in the very first rank of heroes, like Ajax and Achilles; but still a likely contender for second place in the hierarchy. And now that the war was over, and he’d been captured, they couldn’t wait to say what a splendid chap they’d always thought him – our very gallant enemy, and so forth. I’ll swear, they were even arranging to hold anniversary reunions, when the veterans could all swap reminiscences, and get drunk together!
Well, I hated to drag them both away to disillusion, but the job had to be done somehow – only the trouble was, they were so busy being lionised, I couldn’t see how I was going to get near them.
And then, amidst the general brouha-ha and rejoicing, I noticed a rather striking looking girl called Katarina, who was crying conspicuously to herself in a corner, and looking rather left out of things. I’d had occasion to notice her before: one of Cassandra’s accolytes, she seemed to be, and although that certainly wasn’t a job calculated to cheer anyone up a great deal, nevertheless I thought she was rather overdoing the soul-sick lamentation business. So I buck and winged my way over to her through the merry throng, and, sensing a possible ally, asked her what was the matter.
She took one look at me, and screamed. I kept forgetting that, since my injury, mine wasn’t the sort of face you’d be happy to use as a model for the bedroom frescos – but I managed to calm her down eventually.
Whereupon she gave me some rigmarole about one of the sacred doves, for which she was responsible, having died, regretted by all; and that the subsequent post-mortem had revealed its liver was all to blazes. Which meant, apparently, that doom and disaster must surely follow – particularly when Cassandra got to hear about it: and not only a general cataclysm would there be, but a more personalized version, closely involving herself and Nemesis.
Well, I couldn’t give her an argument about the first; because round about now the cheers of the populace out in the square reached a crescendo, and a quick glance through the window revealed that super-horse was negotiating the home straight. But as to the second, it seemed to me that her extremity might be my opportunity – for getting both her and Vicki out of harm’s way, that is. For I knew my young friend fairly well by now: and whereas she wasn’t likely to leave Troilus for the purpose of saving her own skin – lovers frown on that sort of thing, for some reason – she might very well do so to save someone else’s. Or so I reasoned.
So, ‘Listen, pretty child,’ I said to Katarina, ‘your uncle Cyclops has the cure for what ails you! Or rather, Cressida has; being altogether more of a force to be reckoned with than your superior as events have shown. So go and tell her from me, that if she’ll take you at once to that portable temple of hers, she’ll find the necessary on the bottom shelf of the altar; filed under antidotes, panaceas, and elixirs, doom-struck for the use of. Say that the Doctor will be there in no time, and then everything will be roses and ambrosia for both of you. If she gives you an argument, tell her it’s a special favour to me, in return for past services.’
Well, she looked rather surprised – as well she might – but sensible girls don’t argue with men who look like I did at the time; and off she went – to find a happy deliverance, or so I sincerely hoped.
At any rate, I could hardly do more in that direction; and so I made a circuitous way towards Steven, the well-known and popular Diomede, who was attempting a trick with two chairs, to general acclamation; and I gambled on the possibility that he would shortly appeal for an assistant. Because I knew the trick, but did be? I doubted it.
And it also occured to me that