Doctor Who_ The Myth Makers - Donald Cotton [6]
‘I beg your pardon. I do nothing of the sort...’
‘But still your glory shines through!’
‘So I should hope indeed...’
Yes, but obviously such conversations cannot continue indefinitely, and the Doctor was aware of it. He began to shuffle, with dawning social embarrassment.
‘Well, my dear Achilles, it has been most interesting to meet you... but now, if you will excuse me, I really must return to my
– er – my temple here. The others will be wondering about me.’
‘The others?’
‘Er – yes – the other gods, you understand? I have to be there to keep an eye on things, so I really should be getting back’
And he turned to go.
With one of those leaps which I always think can do ballet-dancers no good at all, Achilles barred his way. ‘No,’ he barked, drawing his sword. The Doctor quailed, and one couldn’t blame him. Gods don’t expect that kind of thing.
‘Eh?’ he enquired, ‘do you realize who you are addressing?
Kindly let me pass. Before I – er, strike you with a thunderbolt!’
Achilles quailed in his turn. He didn’t fancy that.
‘Forgive me – but I must brave even the wrath of Zeus, and implore you to remain.’
Well, ‘implore’ yes – but still difficult, of course.
‘I really don’t see why I should. I have many other commitments, as I am sure you will appreciate...’
‘And one of them lies here – in the, camp of Agamemnon, our general! Hear me out, I pray: for ten long years we have laid siege to Troy, and still they defy us.’
‘Well, surely, Achilles, now that Hector is dead...’
‘What of that? Oh, they will be jubilant enough for a while, my comrades. Menelaus will drink too much, and songs will be sung in my honour. But our ranks have been thinned by pestilence, and the Trojan archers. There they sit, secure behind their walls, whilst we rot in their summers and starve in their crack-bone winters.’
All good stuff you see?
‘Many of the Greeks will count the death of Hector enough.
Honour is satisfied, they will say, and sail for home!’
Ever the pacifist the Doctor interrupted; ‘Well, would that be such a bad idea?’
He wished he hadn’t. Always a splashy speaker, Achilles now grew as sibilant as a snake...
‘Lord Zeus, we fight in your name! Would you have the Trojan minstrels sing of how we fled before their pagan gods?’
The Doctor smiled patiently, wiping his face. ‘Oh – I think you’ll find Olympus can look after itself for a good many years yet...’
‘Then come with me in triumph to the camp, and give my friends that message.’
Well, reasonable enough, you know, under the circumstances.
And how the Doctor would have talked himself out of that one, we shall never know. Because just then the bushes behind them parted in a brisk manner, and out stepped a barrel-chested, piratical character, whose twinkling eyes and their sardonic accessories belied a battle-scarred and weather-beaten body –
which advanced with what I believe is called a nautical roll. He was followed by a band of obvious cut-throats, whom any sensible time traveller would have done well to avoid.
I suppose, at that time Odysseus would have been about forty-five.
4
Enter Odysseus
He and Achilles were technically on the same side, of course, but you could tell that neither of them was too happy about it.
Different types of chap altogether. Achilles groaned inwardly; rather like Job, on learning that Jehovah’s had another idea.
‘What’s this, Achilles?’ Odysseus enquired, offensively. ‘So far from camp, and all unprotected from a prisoner?’
Achilles made shushing gestures. ‘This isn’t a prisoner, Odysseus,’ he said in tones of awestruck reverence.
‘Certainly not,’ contributed the Doctor, hastily.
‘Not yet a prisoner? Then you should have screamed for assistance, lad; we wouldn’t want to lose you. Come, let us see you home... Night may fall, and find thee from thy tent!’
‘I’d resent his attitude, if I were you,’ said the Doctor.
Odysseus spared him a scornful, cursory glance. ‘Ah, but then, old fellow, you were not the Lord Achilles. He is not one to tempt