Doctor Who_ The Myth Makers - Donald Cotton [49]
I watched him from the balcony, as he elbowed his way through the crowd in the square; then, once clear, he sprinted like a cheetah who’s just remembered an appointment, out through the gates, and into the darkness of the plain – where, Zeus willing, he would be safe from the wrath to come. And –
who knows? – it was even possible that Vicki might get to hear about it one day, wherever she was going; and perhaps she might thank me.
Well, I could do no more. I looked round at all the happy, pleasant, and – yes – civilized people I had learnt to be fond of but, of course, there was no way of saving them. In fact, I had probably interfered too much already.
Paris was a charming, intelligent man; but he really did deserve what was coming to him – as don’t we all, when you think about it? Priam was a fairly benevolent old despot, but he’d perpetrated an outrage or two in his time – must have done, to get where he was! And although even Cassandra probably had a point or so in her favour if you looked closely – never mind, she was about to be proved right about most things, which is more comfort that most of us get, in the end.
And, Hades, nobody lives forever, do they? I mean, what do you want – miracles?
So I didn’t say ‘goodbye’ to anyone – but, rather sadly, made my way out into the square. Did I only fancy I saw the Doctor’s wise and worried old face, looking out from one of the horse’s eye-holes as I passed? ‘ Is there a doctor in the horse?’ I wondered, without much humour. Well, I couldn’t be sure – but I waved anyway. And then I wandered slowly out through the gates, and turned my back on Troy for the last time.
Or rather, such had been my intention; but a couple of leagues from the doomed walls, I thought I might as well see the end of the affair from a safe distance – so I sat down on a hillock in the moonlight, and awaited developments. After all, if you remember, that’s what I’d come for. I was a writer – and it would all make good copy one day, wouldn’t it?
And so that was the last of the mistakes I was to make in this whole sorry saga. Because I’d forgotten about Achilles, hadn’t I?
The scruff of my neck was seized in what is known as a vice-like grip; and I was flung, struggling and spitting like a kitten, into the heart of a gorse-bush.
‘Well, little Cyclops,’ he enquired, ‘whose side are you on this time?’
And, under all the circumstances, I found it very difficult to say.
27
Armageddon and After
Achilles wasn’t in the best of moods anyway – you could see that.
No doubt he felt he’d been passed over in favour of an older man; and furthermore, an older man he heartily disliked. Why, he wondered, should Odysseus get all the glory; while he, Achilles, the best damn’ warrior in the regiment, had to skulk about away from the action, in charge of the reinforcements? So he took it out on me.
‘We quite thought you were dead, you know,’ he remarked pleasantly. ‘Odysseus thought he’d killed you the other evening: then apparently your body disappeared, and he began to wonder. That’s the trouble with Odysseus; the poor old boy gets delusions – half the time he doesn’t know his breakfast from Wednesday! Well, as usual, I suppose I shall have to finish the job off properly for him. We don’t want to leave any loose ends, do we?’
He didn’t bother with blank verse for me, you notice? Oh no
– they save that sort of courtesy for each other. A class thing really, I take it. But it’s the sort of slight which hurts.
‘Now then,’ he continued, ‘any last requests, before I see the colour of your tripes?’
I couldn’t think of any; and after waiting patiently for a bored second or so, he drew his sword. ‘Well then, we’d better get on with it. No point in hanging about, is there, when a thing’s got to be done?’
The blade glinted in the moonlight – Damascus steel, I noticed; very smart! – as he raised his arm for the thrust. I mean, you don’t expect steel in the bronze age, do you? And I would like to say that my whole past flashed before me – but it didn’t.
In fact, I wouldn’t let it