Doctor Who: The Myth Makers

by Donald Cotton

  Doctor Who

  The Myth-Makers

  By Donald Cotton

  Based on the BBC television serial by Donald Cotton by arrangement with the British Broadcasting Corporation

  Content

  Chapter 1 Homer Remembers

  Chapter 2 Zeus Ex Machina

  Chapter 3 Hector Forgets

  Chapter 4 Enter Odysseus

  Chapter 5 Exit the Doctor

  Chapter 6 A Rather High Tea

  Chapter 7 Agamemnon Arbitrates

  Chapter 8 An Execution is Arranged

  Chapter 9 Temple Fugit

  Chapter 10 The Doctor Draws a Graph

  Chapter 11 Paris Draws the Line

  Chapter 12 Small Prophet, Quick Return

  Chapter 13 War Games Compulsory

  Chapter 14 Single Combat

  Chapter 15 Speech! Speech!

  Chapter 16 The Trojans at Home

  Chapter 17 Cassandra Claims a Kill

  Chapter 18 The Ultimate Weapon

  Chapter 19 A Council of War

  Chapter 20 Paris Stands on Ceremony

  Chapter 21 Dungeon Party

  Chapter 22 Hull Low, Young Lovers

  Chapter 23 A Victory Celebration

  Chapter 24 Doctor in the Horse

  Chapter 25 A Little Touch of Hubris

  Chapter 26 Abandon Ship!

  Chapter 27 Armageddon and After

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Homer Remembers

  Look over here; here, under the olive-trees – that’s right, by the pile of broken stones and the cracked statues of old gods. What do you see?

  Why, nothing but an old man, sitting in the Autumn sunshine; and dreaming; and remembering. That is what old men do, having nothing better to occupy their time... and since that is what I have become, that is why I do it.

  I heard your footsteps when you first entered the grove; so sit down, whoever you are and have a slice of goat’s cheese with me. There – it’s rather good, you’ll find; I eat very little else these days. Teeth gone, of course...

  You think it’s sad to be old? Nonsense – it’s a triumph! An unexpected one, at that; because, I tell you, I never thought I’d make it past thirty! Men do not frequently survive to senility in these dangerous times. But then, being blind, I suppose I can hardly be considered much of a threat to anyone; so somehow I have been allowed to live... although probably more by negligence than by charity, or a proper concern for the elderly.

  And I am grateful; for I have a tale or two still to tell, and a song or two to compose and throw to posterity... before I pass Acheron, and meet my dead friends in the shadows of the nether world.

  I am, you see, a myth maker; and my name is Homer. I don’t know if that will mean anything to you. But it is a name once well considered in poetic circles. No matter... no reputation lasts forever.

  But that is why I sit here, in the stubble of the empty fields, and lean against the rubble of the fallen city which once was Troy; while the scavengers flap in the ruins, and the lizards run across my bare feet – at least, I hope they’re lizards! If they are scorpions, perhaps you would be so kind? Thank you! And I remember the beginning of it all, long ago when I was young. Listen...

  I was a wanderer then, as I am now – and so thoroughly undistinguished in appearance that I could pass unnoticed when men of greater consequence would, at the very least, be asked to give an account of themselves. But I was not blind in those days; and though I could do little to influence, I could at least observe the course of events; and to some extent – not being a complete fool – interpret them.

  And what events they were! Troy – this mound of masonry behind us – was then the greatest city in the world. Although I must admit, that wasn’t too difficult a trick, because the world then was not as it is known to be now.

  A rather small flat disc, it was considered to be; and the latest geographical thinking was that it balanced rather precariously on the back of an elephant, which, for some reason, was standing on a tortoise! All nonsense, of course; we know now that the disc is very much larger and floats on some kind of metaphysical river; although I must say, I don’t quite follow the argument myself.

  At all events, it was bounded to the East by the Ural Mountains, where the barbarians lived; and to the West, just beyond the Pillars of Hercules, it fell away to night and old chaos. And what happened to the North and South we didn’t like to enquire. All we were absolutely sure of was that the available space was a bit on the cramped side.

  And the Trojans appeared to have rather more than their fair share of it. In fact, they sat four-square on most of Asia Minor; and that, as I need hardly remind you, meant that they controlled the trade-routes through the Bosphorus. Which left my fellow-countrymen, the Greeks, with no elbow room at all to speak of; and they were, very naturally, mad as minotaurs about the whole situation.

  Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, was their war-leader; but the trouble was he couldn’t think of any excuse for starting a war, and that made things difficult for him. Men always need a cause before they embark on conquest, as is well known. Often it is some trifling difference of philosophy or religion; sometimes the revival of an ancient boundary dispute, the origins of which have long been forgotten by all sensible people. But no – in spite of sitting up nights and going through the old documents, and spending days bullying the historians, Agamemnon just couldn’t seem to find one.

  And then, just as it was beginning to look as if he’d have to let the whole thing slide, the Trojans themselves handed it to him on a platter! Well, one Trojan did, actually; and it was a beauty – adultery!

  The adulterer in question was Paris, second son of Priam, King of Troy. Perhaps you will have heard of La Vie Parisienne . Well then, I need hardly say more: except perhaps, in mitigation, that the second sons of Royal Houses – especially if they are handsome as the devil – have a lot of temptation to cope with. And then, the unlikelihood of their ever achieving the throne does seem to induce irresponsibility which – combined, of course, with an inflated income – how shall I put it? – well, it aggravates any amorous propensities they may have. And, by Zeus, Paris had them! In overabundance and to actionable excess! He was – not to put too fine a point upon it – both a spendthrift and a lecher. He also had the fiendishly dangerous quality of charm: a bad combination, as you’ll agree.

  Well, we all know about princes and their libidinous ways: their little frolics below stairs – their engaging stage-door haunting jaunting? Just so. And if we are charitable, we turn a blind eye. But apparently, this sort of permissible regal intrigue wasn’t enough for Paris. Listen – he first of all seduced, and then – Heaven help us all! – abducted the Queen of Sparta! Yes, I thought you’d sit up!

  Her name was Helen and she was the wife of his old friend Menelaus. And Menelaus – wait for it – just happened to be Agamemnon’s younger brother! So there you are!

  Leaning over backwards to find excuses for Paris, I suppose one should admit that Helen was the most beautiful woman in the world. Or so people said; although how one can possibly know without conducting the most exhausting research, I cannot imagine. Possibly, Paris had – but even so! And then, having abducted her, to bring her home to meet his parents! The mind reels!

  Anyway – while Menelaus himself was pardonably upset, his big brother, Agamemnon, was secretly delighted! Just the thing he’d been waiting for! Summoning a hasty conference of kings, at which he boiled with well-simulated apoplectic fury – the Honour of Greece at stake, et cetera – he roused their indignation to the pitch of a battle fleet; and they set sail for Troy on a just wave of retribution.

  But if Agamemnon had done his homework proper
ly, he’d have known that Troy was a very tough nut to crack – by no means the little mud-walled city-state he was used to. Impregnable is the word – although you might not think it now. And the Greeks seemed to have left their nut-crackers at home.

  So for ten long years – if you believe me – the Greek Heroes sat outside those enormous walls, quarrelling amongst themselves and feeling rather silly; while any virtuous anger they may once have felt evaporated in the heat of home-thoughts and of the girls they’d left behind them.

  And this was the stalemate situation when some trifling, forgotten business of a literary nature first brought me to the Plain of Scamander, where Troy’s topless towers sat like the very symbol of permanence, and the Greek camp faded and festered in the summer haze.

  Well, it had been a long journey: and, since nobody seemed to mind, I lay down on the river bank and went to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Zeus Ex Machina

  Two men were fighting in a field, and the sound of it woke me. The noise was excessive! There was, of course, the clash of sword on armour, and mace on helm – you will have read about such things – and these I might have tolerated, merely pulling my cloak over my head with a muttered groan, or a stifled sigh – it matters little which.

  But, for some reason, they had chosen to accompany their combat with an ear-splitting stream of bellowed imprecations and rhetorical insult, the like of which I had seldom heard outside that theatre – what’s its name? – in Athens. You know the one: big place – all right if it isn’t raining, and if you care for such things. Which I must say, I rather do! But not, thank you, in the middle of a summer siesta, on a baking hot Asiatic afternoon, when my feet hurt and my head aches! The dust, too – they were kicking up clouds of it, as they snarled and capered and gyrated! Made me sneeze...

  ‘In another moment,’ I thought, ‘somone will get hurt – and I hope it isn’t me.’

  Because they don’t care, these sort of people, who they involve, once they get going. Blind anger, I think it’s called. So I got up cautiously, well-hidden behind a clump of papyrus, or something – you can be sure of that. And having nothing to do and being thoroughly awake now – damn it! – I watched and listened, as is my professional habit...

  They were both big men; but one was enormous with muscles queuing up behind each other, begging to be given a chance. This whole, boiling-over physique was restrained, somewhat inadequately, by bronze-studded, sweat-stained leather armour, which, no doubt, smelled abominable, and which creaked and groaned with his every action-packed movement. One could hardly blame it! To confine, even partially, such bursting physical extravagance, was – the leather probably felt – far beyond the call of duty, or of what the tanners had led it to expect.

  Seams stretched and gussets gaped. On his head was a towering, beplumed horse’s head helmet, which he wore as casually as if it were a shepherd’s sheepskin cap: and this, of course, meant that he was a horse-worshipping Trojan, not a Greek. Furthermore, in view of everything else about him, he could only be the renowned Hector, King Priam’s eldest son, and war-lord of Troy.

  His opponent was a different matter; younger by some ten years, I would say, and with the grace of a dancer. Which he certainly needed, as he spun and pirouetted to avoid the great bronze, two-handed sword which Hector wielded – in one hand – as casually as though it was a carving knife in the hands of a demented chef.

  He was more lightly armoured than Hector: but I couldn’t help feeling that this was not so much a matter of military requirement, as of pride in the displaying of his perfectly proportioned body. He had that look of Narcissistic petulance one so often sees on the faces of health fanatics, or on male models who pose for morally suspect sculptors. I believe the Greeks have a word for it nowadays.

  So, although I felt a certain sympathy for him at being so obviously out of his league, I must confess I didn’t like him. I wondered who he could be. Hector was so notoriously invincible, that during the course of this ridiculous war he had been avoided by the Greeks as scrupulously as tax-inspectors are shunned by writers. Even the mighty Ajax, I had heard, had pleaded a migraine on being invited to indulge in single combat with him; and yet here was this slender, skipping, ballet-boy, obviously intent on pursuing the matter to the foregone conclusion of his being sliced into more easily disposable sections, and fed to the jackals. Who, I may say, were even now circling the improvized arena with an eye to business.

  But the question of his identity was soon solved, as the two heroes paused for a gulp of dust...

  ‘Out of breath so soon, Achilles, my lightfoot princeling?’ inquired the giant politely. ‘Your friend, Patroclus fled me further, and made better sport.’

  So there I had it. Achilles and Patroclus: their relationship was well-known – and it explained everything.

  ‘Murderer!’, spat Achilles, without wit, ‘Patroclus was a boy.’ A boy? Quite so. To understand is not necessarily to approve.

  ‘A boy, you say?’ said Hector warming to his theme: ‘Well he died most like a dog, whimpering for his master. Did you not hear him? He feared the dark, and was loth to enter it without you! Come – let me send you to him, where he waits in Hades! Let me throw him a bone or two!’

  Well, what can you say to a remark like that? But after a moment’s thought Achilles achieved the following:

  ‘Your bones would be the meatier, Trojan, though meat a trifle run to fat. Well all’s one... they will whiten well enough in the sun – They may foul the air a little, but the world will be the sweeter for it.’

  Not bad, really, on the spur of the moment: especially if you have to speak in that approximation to blank verse, which for some reason, heroes always adopt at times like these. (We shall notice the phenomenon again and it is as well to be prepared.)

  But Hector was not to be discouraged by such rudimentary rodomantade, and chose to ignore it.

  ‘Run, Achilles, run! Run just a little more, before you die! What, don’t you want to leave a legend? Wouldn’t you like the poets to sing of you, eh? Not even to be the swiftest of the Greeks? Must I rob you of even that small distinction?’

  Achilles was noticably piqued... after all he’d won prizes... ‘Hector, by all the gods, I swear...’ he said, and subsided, speechless.

  Hector knew he’d made a good debating point, and sneered triumphantly. ‘The gods? What gods? Do you dare to swear by your petty pantheology? That ragbag of squabbling, hobble-de-hoy Olympians – those little gods to frighten children? What sort of gods are those for a man to worship?’

  And now, by a curious coincidence, there came a rumble of thunder, as one of those summer storms that pester the Aegean came flickering up from the South... and Achilles could take a cue when he heard one...

  ‘Beware the voice of Zeus, Hector! Beware the rage of Olympus!’ The remark didn’t go down at all well.

  ‘Ha! Who am I to fear the thunder, you superstitious, dart-dodging decadent? Hear me, Zeus: accept from me the life of your craven servant, Achilles! Or else, I challenge you: descend to earth and save him.’

  And, at that moment, the most extraordinary thing happened: even now, I can hardly believe my memory, or find words to describe it. But I swear there came a noise reminiscent of a camel in the last stages of dementia praecox; and, out of nowhere, there appeared on the plains beside us a small dark blue building of indeterminate architecture! It was certainly nothing of Greek or Asiatic origin; it was like nothing I had ever seen in all my travels; and, as I know now, it was the TARDIS...!

  Chapter 3

  Hector Forgets

  You, of course, whoever you are, will probably have heard of the TARDIS. There has certainly been enough talk about it since! At the time, however, I had not, and you may well imagine the effect that its sudden appearance produced – not only upon my apprehensive self – but upon the two posturing fighting-cocks before me. To say we were all flabbergasted is scarcely adequate... but perhaps it will serve for the moment?

&n
bsp; Mind you, we Greeks are constantly expecting the materialisation of some god or other, agog to intervene in human affairs. Well, no – to be honest – not really expecting . Put it this way, our religious education has prepared us to accept it, should it occur. But that is by no means to say we anticipate it as a common phenomenon. It’s the sort of thing that happens to other people, perhaps; but hardly before one’s own eyes in the middle of everyday affairs, such as the present formalistic blood-letting. Certainly not. No – but, as I say, the church has warned us of the possibility, however remote.

  The Trojans, on the other hand, as you will have gathered from Hector’s nihilistic comments, have no such uncomfortable superstitions to support them in their hour of need.

  Oh, they will read entrails with the best of them, and try to probe the future as one does; but as far as basic theology is concerned, they begin and end with the horse. That surprises you? Well, it’s not a bad idea, when you think about it: after all, it was their cavalry that put them where they are today... or rather where they were yesterday. They’d come riding out of their distant nomadic past to found the greatest city in the world; and they were properly grateful to the bloodstock for making it possible. They even had some legend, I believe, about a mythical Great Horse of Asia, which would return to save them in time of peril. But apart from that, they had nothing that you or I would recognize as a god, within the meaning of the act.

  So, when the TARDIS came groaning out of nowhere, of the three of us it was Hector who was the most put out; quite literally, in fact.

  As he fell to his knees, dumbfounded by this immediate, unforseen acceptance of his challenge to Zeus, Achilles rallied sufficiently to run him through with a lance, or whatever. Very nasty, it was!

  The thing pierced Hector’s body in the region of the clavicle, I would imagine, and emerged, festooned with his internal arrangements, somewhere in the lumbar district. Blood and stuff everywhere, you know! I don’t like to think of it.