Doctor Who: Target - Novelisations [097] - The Myth Makers by Donald Cotton

Author:Donald Cotton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science-Fiction - Doctor Who
ISBN: 9780491035804
Publisher: Target Books
Published: 1985-08-14T22:00:00+00:00

15

Speech! Speech!

Paris must have been getting used to seeing me about the place by now – after all, I’d played ‘friendly voice in crowd’ only that morning – and stopped his valued trophy getting scorched, into the bargain. So when he noticed me floundering after them through the common asphodel and other drought-resistant flora, he seemed quite pleased: called a halt and waited for me; then, when I caught up, offered to let me carry the prisoner, as a reward. I declined the honour, pleading a slipped discus; and he quite understood, being a martyr to that sort of thing himself.

So we entered the city in close formation: Paris at point, chin in air; Steven centre, head bowed in shame, as was only fitting; and yours truly bringing up the rear, the very picture of loyal retainer – and murmuring, ‘Remember you are mortal, Commander’, whenever the conqueror looked like overdoing the clasped hands above the head business. Which was pretty often, I must say: because apparently Steven was the only prisoner he’d ever captured – and naturally he wanted to make the most of it.

I didn’t blame him in the least. A strange man, Paris; but one you couldn’t help liking. Obviously he loathed the war, and everything about it; so it was easy to underestimate him, on that account. But for all that, he’d just proved that he could use a sword as devastatingly as the best of them, if there were really no alternative.

He just didn’t fancy getting killed for no good reason, like Hector had been – and where’s the harm in that, I ask? I suppose when you come right down to it, the trouble was that he was an intellectual – which means, I take it, that you need to know the reason for everything, before not doing it. Well, even the best of military families is likely to throw up one of those every generation or so; and it probably explains why we got on so well – because I’m one myself in a quiet way, as you may have noticed.

Anyway, it was quite a decent little triumph, considering no one had had any time to prepare for it. A couple of trumpeters stopped larking about with their dice, as soon as they noticed us; and got fell in behind, as the expression is. After a brief discussion amongst themselves, they decided on a suitable programme; whereupon we were treated to a selection of gems from ‘The Fair Maid of Troy’ – and that soon brought the crowds out. Flags were waved in a desultory manner, and a startled cheer or two rang out; and as soon as he saw he’d got as much of their attention as was ever likely, Paris climbed on top of the TARDIS – which was still, thank Zeus, where he’d left it – and made a short speech.

‘My friends,’ he began, which was pushing it a bit, I thought, ‘nobody can deny that total war is an

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