Part 1 (1/2)

THE MYTH-MAKERS.

by Donald Cotton.

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 G.o.ds. What do you see?

Why, nothing but an old man, sitting in the Autumn suns.h.i.+ne; 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 doc.u.ments, 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 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 abducted the the Queen Queen of Sparta! Yes, I thought you'd sit up! 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 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! 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 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. 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 n.o.body seemed to mind, I lay down on the river bank and went to sleep.

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 d.a.m.n 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-wors.h.i.+pping 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 one hand 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.