Doctor Who: The Myth Makers
Long, long ago on the great plains of Asia Minor, two mighty
armies faced each other in mortal combat. The armies were
the Greeks and the Trojans and the prize they were fighting
for was Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world.
To the Greeks it seemed that the city of Troy was
impregnable and only a miracle could bring them success.
And then help comes to them in a most unexpected way as a
strange blue box materialises close to their camp, bringing
with it the Doctor, Steven and Vicki, who soon find
themselves caught up in the irreversible tide of history and
legend...
THE MYTH-MAKERS
Based on the BBC television serial by Donald Cotton by arrangement with the British Broadcasting Corporation
DONALD COTTON
Number 97
in the
Doctor Who Library
published by
The Paperback Division of
W. H. Allen & Co. PLC
A Target Book
Published in 1985
by the Paperback Division of W. H. Allen & Co. PLC
44 Hill Street, London W1X 8LB
First published in Great Britain by
W.H. Allen and Co. PLC in 1985
Novelisation copyright © Donald Cotton 1985
Original script copyright © Donald Cotton 1965
‘Doctor Who’ series copyright © British Broadcasting Corporation 1965, 1985
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Anchor Brendon Ltd, Tiptree, Essex
The BBC producer of
The Myth Makers
was John Wiles the director was Micheal Leeston-Smith
ISBN 0 426 20170 1
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
To Humphrey Searle,
who wrote the music
12 Small Prophet, Quick Return
1
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 properly, 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.
2
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.’