The Corn King and the Spring Queen (14 page)

It was not every day she could go out into the fields and be a Spartan in her own way. The next morning she had to be indoors, with the others, weaving. She did not like this much; for one thing Agiatis always wanted them all to sing the old weaving-songs while they worked, but none of them liked to except Philylla, and she had an uncertain ear and more uncertain voice; so she was never allowed to sing. They talked instead, the elder ones about love and clothes, and occasionally politics, the younger ones about food and lessons and games and one another. And both the sets had, of course, that particular source of interest or annoyance, Agiatis, the Queen. The thing she was trying to do now was to train them for the dances again: as if anyone wanted even to think about those horrible, dim gods now! Two or three of the older girls were talking about that now, under cover of their looms, all rather horrified. ‘What does she think the good of them is if they aren't real!' That was
Deinicha, a pretty, spoilt girl of sixteen, with fluffy hair and her finger-nails pink and polished. ‘It's not right. If she goes on, she may make them come real. And Artemis—' ‘I know. Some of the little ones like pretending they're doves or bears; they may make up some goddess of their own to fit the songs to, nothing like the old ones anyhow! But I can't bear playing with these things. They've had too much power. And besides, if—if one has any feeling—one doesn't look there for help!' The other nodded and made a sign with her hand, something un-Greek enough. The Spartiate women imported their gods in the same ship with fine muslins from Egypt, or scents and hair-wash from Syria. At home in Hellas there were only charms, and little godlings for luck in love or housekeeping.

They went on to talk of their perennial grievance, the clothes Queen Agiatis made the girls about her wear, their own weaving even, as if there were no such things as trade and good money in Sparta and lovely stuff over-seas, patterned and delicate, for soft skins and subtle colouring. But she wouldn't even let them have powder, let alone all the possible small hints they knew they could use so cleverly, the lengthened line, the different tinting, that gave mere nature the mystery and attraction of art. It was all very well for her, with her husband and children and no one daring to laugh at her whatever she chose to look like. But her poor maids of honour, wasting all their best years at this extraordinary Court, while their sisters and cousins were enjoying themselves, and getting lovers, and living a life that you could call life! Well, the only comfort was, it couldn't last. Or … could it? One of the helot women came in, with a huge grin and her arms full. The girls all stopped and ran up to her or looked round the corners of their looms. ‘Who's the lucky one?' they said, and one or two blushed and giggled self-consciously. But the woman, with as nearly a wink as was consistent with their dignity as the Queen's girls, went over to the little ones and dumped her things on the bench beside Philylla, who was so really surprised that some of the others thought she must be acting. ‘Oh!' she said, ‘are you sure? It's not my birthday! Did mother send them?' ‘Oh yes!' said the woman, chuckling, and nudged her. ‘There you are, my lamb!'—it was a tablet, stringed, and sealed with red—‘now you write
something pretty back.' But Philylla was more interested in the presents than the letter. There was a great bunch of violets, sweet ones, blue and white, mixed with pink sprigs of daphne, and a rush box of honey-cakes sprinkled with cinnamon, and a bunch of arrows. She looked at them for a minute—they were light, but real grown-up ones with bone points; and last of all, in a cage of withies, a smart and glossy magpie, long-tailed and bright-eyed, that hopped towards her. Now the point of this, as all the older girls knew, but Philylla didn't, was that a magpie was the one fashionable present just now from admirer to admired. They were usually taught to say some special phrase, not always very proper. The others all crowded round. ‘Take him out, Philylla! What does he say? Pretty bird, then, pretty bird!' The magpie was very tame and friendly and sat on Philylla's shoulder as she stood there, stiff and pink with pleasure and some pride, but he didn't say anything, only whistled, cocking his jolly head at them. ‘But who's it from?' they clamoured. ‘Who is he? Why haven't you told us, sly thing?' ‘But I don't know,' said Philylla, dreadfully confused, fingering the tablet. ‘Read it then,' said Deinicha. ‘Read it aloud, there's a love.' They all tried to peep over her shoulder, and she couldn't bear to open it there in the middle of them; she wanted to run away by herself. ‘But read it!' they cried at her, so excited that they were nearly pulling it out of her hand. She wriggled up to the wall and jerked at the seal; it was quite easy to read—she had been rather afraid it might be difficult. It was quite short. ‘Panteus to Philylla, greeting! Here are four things. Tell me which you like best. I think it will be the one I hope.' She rubbed it out quickly with her finger; but still the others had seen it and repeated it to one another. They were more than a little surprised and jealous. ‘Panteus! Well, you're flying high! Lucky little minx! How did you get your claws into him? What does the King say? Panteus indeed, why didn't you tell us?' ‘But,' said Philylla, ‘I can't help it! I really and truly didn't know. I've only just seen him.' ‘You must write a letter back,' said Deinicha firmly, ‘and no baby nonsense, Philylla; you've got to do us credit—though you've done very well so far!' she added handsomely. Philylla looked at the things again. Clearly it wasn't the flowers or the cakes—though they were very nice!—it must be the
arrows: because of what he had said about her own. And they were lovely arrows, a whole dozen of them, with stiff goose-feathers to make them fly. She would be able to shoot all sorts of big beasts now, deer even. But all the same she did love the magpie.

She took the tablets and began to write slowly. ‘Philylla, daughter of Themisteas, to Panteus, son of Menedaios (she was going to do it properly!), greeting. I thank you with all my heart for the four things. I think you want me to like the arrows best. They are beautiful and straight and I will shoot with them. But I do like the magpie too.' She thought a moment, then decided to be really truthful, and made the last sentence into ‘I like the magpie best.'

Deinicha took the tablet and read it, then shrieked with laughter and fluttered her hands. ‘Philylla, you baby, you weren't going to send that! Do remember you're thirteen years old and one of us! Rub it all out—we'll tell you what to say.'

‘I won't,' said Philylla solidly.

‘But—my dear child—what will he think of it? You'll never keep him! You must put something in— well, a little pretty. This is the sort of letter you'd write to a brother. Poor things, one must give them a little encouragement!'

Philylla hugged the tablets to her, very red and uncomfortable, feeling partly that Deinicha must know what one ought to do, and partly that, after all, if it was really true that Panteus liked her, it was her own affair. ‘He doesn't want to be encouraged.'

‘Oh, is it as bad as all that—?' They all giggled.

‘I hate encouraging people!' said Philylla, stamping. ‘You're making it all horrid. Take this and go!' She turned and half shouted at the helot woman, shoving her out. Then she ran to the bench and her things. ‘If you talk about it any more, you shan't have any of my cakes!' The rest subsided laughing at her behind the looms, and whispering to one another. She was fondling the magpie, and talking low to it, soothing her hot cheeks with the cold black and white of its wing feathers, offering it a bit of her cake; and the tame bird flirted with her, hopping from her shoulder to its own cage-top, and back, whistling its odd, half-human tune over and over again.

That evening she came to the Queen with a thick garland of violets on her own head, and two in her hand, one for Nikomedes, the eldest child, who could scarcely keep it on his head for wanting to take it off and smell it, and the other—if she would!—for the Queen.

‘Where did you get them, lamb?' said Agiatis, surprised, stooping her head to be crowned.

Philylla explained. ‘And I may keep the magpie, mayn't I? I do love him! I'm afraid we ate all the cakes; there were just enough to go round.'

‘Yes, of course keep him. But—sweetheart—are you old enough for all this?'

‘All what?'

‘Well,' said the Queen, smoothing Philylla's hair between her finger-tips, wondering how much to say or leave unsaid, ‘why did Panteus send you the presents?'

Philylla frowned and tried to get it clear to herself. ‘Because he wanted to show me he really thinks I'm grown up, in spite of having talked to me in the field as if I was a cry-baby!'

‘You haven't spoken to him before?'

Philylla shook her head. ‘I've seen him often, of course—with the King.' Then, suddenly bold: ‘Do you love him too?'

Agiatis sat down on one end of the bench, clasping her knee and leaning forward, suddenly very young looking, so much so that Philylla felt, quite rightly, that for all intents they were the same age, and sat down too, quite close to the Queen, so that she could reach over and stroke her arm. Agiatis said suddenly, ‘I do love him. You see, Kleomenes has been very unhappy—I'm telling you this just for yourself—first when he was a boy, with that horrible father, and afterwards too. I couldn't make him happy at first, because my heart was shut up with the dead ones, my baby, and Agis. That's all come straight now, but it meant that when he was just growing up I didn't help him. At first he had Xenares—you've seen him, haven't you?—I never liked him much, he hadn't the fire, the courage, he tried to hold back the future. That came to an end, as it was bound to, and then he'd only got me; and I had the children, I couldn't give him what he needed, could I, Philylla?'

‘Yes,' said Philylla, a little uncomfortably, wriggling her feet together, ‘I mean, no.'

‘Then, when things were just starting, last year, Panteus was brought to us by that lame cousin of his. He hadn't ever done anything but games and hunting, but all the rest was in him, waiting. Kleomenes talked to him, and he came alive. That was just before the beginning of the war, and once they were out, facing the League, Panteus showed he was a born soldier. So then, he and Kleomenes fell in love with each other and he's made Kleomenes happy at last, and so I love him too.'

‘And so do I,' said Philylla, ‘and I'm glad—oh I'm very glad he sent me the arrows and the magpie!'

T
HEY WERE SITTING
round the mess-table, King Kleomenes at the head, his friends and officers at each side. They had been speaking of the war with the League, and plans for the spring, a month ahead, when roads would be good for marching again. ‘If I knew what Aratos would do next,' Kleomenes said, for the third time, nursing his head, crouching angularly forward against the table, ‘if I could make sure I had no enemies but him and his Achaeans! But supposing he were to get help from somewhere else—from Egypt—or Macedon.'

‘We've got to leave that out for now,' said Therykion, from two down the bench, a tall, nervous man with a short beard. ‘Aratos has nothing to offer them. They don't look his way—or ours. Take it in Hellas alone. That's what counts.'

‘That's what's real. The other places are only—appearances. Yet perhaps appearances will kill us all before we're ten years older!'

Therykion shook his head gloomily, and drank, out of old habit, though this rough wine they had at the mess was very different from what he had been used to a year ago. None of them spoke for a time; all had enough to think of these days.

Then Hippitas, who was sitting at the King's right hand, looked up. He was rather older than the others, and lame from an old wound, but he was always one of the happiest of them, and extraordinarily gentle, with blue eyes that
he blinked a great deal and a country burr in his voice. It was he who had first brought Panteus, his first cousin, to see the King and hear about the new things. ‘But look,' he said, ‘everything is very different from last year. We never thought it would be so simple. Three-quarters of the country will be for us whatever we do. You can go as fast as you like, Kleomenes.'

‘Yes!' said a fair, rough-looking man from the far end of the table. ‘I speak for my people, Kleomenes. Get on with it!' This was Phoebis, half-helot and not a citizen—yet. But he was the son of the King's old nurse; they had been brought up together as young boys. He was as brave as any of them, and, if possible, even more anxious for the change in Sparta.

Gradually the King unstiffened; he began to poke the dry walnuts in front of him more hopefully. ‘Well,' he said, ‘this much for tonight. Now—a song before we go.' His eyes travelled round the table till they lighted on Panteus, and stayed. ‘You,' he said, very tenderly, so that every one looked up, smiling at one another, because this love of the King's was, as it were, their own Spartan flower, the sign of the new times, and every one cherished it and watched it grow.

Panteus stood up and came slowly over towards the King, who took off his own garland and crowned him with it. All shifted a little towards the song, except Therykion, who was afraid of music or anything beautiful, anything that might possibly tempt him out of the straight path. Panteus picked up the small lyre and rubbed the strings of it softly, thinking what the King would like from him. He was three years younger than Kleomenes, and not so tall, with blue eyes and rough, light-brown hair that grew low on the middle of his forehead and curled and tangled over his ears. He had an extraordinarily compact, strong body, that seemed of itself to know the way of things, to run and jump and wrestle without his mind being quite aware of it. Like the rest of the younger men, he wore the short tunic, one loom's-width of wool doubled, pinned at the shoulders, and belted with the edges loose and open at the left, hanging forward from the brooch as he stooped to the lyre, so that the skin of his side and thigh looked wonderfully pale and beautiful against the deep red of the stuff. He sang them
old songs, in the mode they knew and liked and thrilled to now, ‘Swords Tomorrow,' ‘The Barberry Bush,' ‘You go my Way,' and so on, then a very early thing, ten lines by Tyrtaeus, that had become less a song than a symbol of past turning future, and then a last, even shorter one, of soldiers waiting before a charge, as they themselves might be soon. His voice just filled the room, very sweet, and unelaborate as a shepherd on the hills.

Then suddenly the King stood up, tall and thin, with his long neck and jutting brows, and the frown that stayed as part of him, even when he was smiling. ‘Good night,' he said, ‘good night, friends.' They went out by twos and threes; as they pushed back the leather curtain from the door, great waves of frosty air blew in and shook the flame of the lamps and chilled the room. Outside it was starry—a calm, deeply arched sky with that familiar closing inward and upward of mountains on each horizon, the valley of Sparta like a cup to hold so many stars. The King's brother, that much younger and less assured, less complicated, stopped a moment. ‘Are you sure the ephors are going to send you, Kleomenes? Suppose they don't want the war?'

‘That will be all right, Eukleidas,' said the King.

‘But—' the brother began. And then, ‘Well, I suppose it's got to be your way, Kleomenes,' and he went out too, after a worried and questioning kiss.

Panteus waited easily, as if his body were asleep and his mind only half awake. Suddenly both came alive, his eyelids lifted, his hands turned inwards towards the King.

‘Look!' he said, ‘I wanted to show you this.' It was the letter from Philylla.

Kleomenes read it laughing. ‘Well,' he said, ‘you've got your answer!'

‘But she didn't mind, did she?—about the arrows?'

‘Dear, you'll have her falling in love with you if you don't take care. Don't you see from her letter? She's got as far as speaking truth to you, and that's a long way for a woman.'

‘She's not a woman, she's a child.'

‘She's a little bit of a faun. Hadn't she got prick ears, Panteus? No, but truly, Agiatis loves her, and I trust Agiatis to see into people's hearts. Why don't you take Philylla out and teach her to shoot properly? Teach her to throw a spear and ride.'

‘Kleomenes, is she as much of a boy as all that?'

‘You would teach my girl if she were older, Panteus. Perhaps you will if—if things go right. And I know Agiatis thinks Philylla could do all this, if she had the chance. But her own father and mother—well, we know Themisteas. Catch him and Eupolia having their daughter taught to be anything but a pretty softy!'

‘But they let her come to Agiatis?'

‘Yes, but they didn't know what Agiatis is like. People don't. You do, Panteus.' He took hold of the other's shoulder and pressed it gently.

‘Yes,' said Panteus. ‘Shall I ever have the luck to marry someone like her, Kleomenes?'

‘There aren't two of her, any more than there are two of you. Your wife will be the lucky one, Panteus.'

‘I don't think so,' said Panteus seriously, sure to the bottom of his soul, as is perhaps right in love, how much less good he was than his lover. ‘Besides, that's a long way off.'

‘Yes,' said the King looking deeply at him, and seeing after a time that he was shivering, partly with cold, took half of his cloak and wrapped it round, over his friend's shoulders and bare arms.

It was three days later that a Hellespontine merchant ship put into harbour at Gytheum, after a long and anxious but not very adventurous voyage. Tarrik and his Scythians had stayed at Byzantium for the worst weeks of mid-winter and there changed ship. Even on the way south, after that, they had delayed at a dozen small ports, kept in by contrary winds or the fear of them, often turning back maddeningly at the harbour mouth. Their captain had attended to every possible omen! But here at last they were. Before it was light enough even to guess at the coast-line, Sphaeros had been on deck, standing with his books and change of clothes all done up in a bundle under his arm. By dawn they were fairly near in with Kythera behind them and the two sides of the great bay gradually closing in on them and the great ridge of Tainaron rising to the left and Taygetos far and high ahead of them, misted and silvery in the first light; it was not different from ten years ago. The Scythians were all dressing up, putting on armour and swords and elaborate bows and quivers and necklaces and bracelets and fur-cloaks, and
their best coats and breeches sewn with gold and silver, so that they jingled proudly and fantastically about the ship. Only Tarrik, who had been there before and remembered or guessed a little about it, had put on nothing but a plain shirt and trousers and coat, white linen bordered with white fox fur; the only gold about him was a belt-clasp in branching leafwork that Berris had made on the voyage, and a narrow circlet of gold on his head. He was not armed either, except for a small hunting-knife insignificantly tucked into the side of his belt.

He had told the others that this was the best thing to do, but none of them chose to follow his advice, and after all, they were free nobles and could dress as they wanted. Only Berris was much as usual. He had been so thrilled for the last few days, while they were touching at one after another of the Greek Islands and getting nearer and nearer to the country of his dreams, that he had not thought about things like clothes; as far as he considered them he felt ashamed and inappropriate with his barbarian things—the solid stuff of coat and trousers, the thick boots and childish ornaments. He wanted to slip quietly ashore and creep into the heart of Hellas unobserved.

They had to wait about by the harbour for the best part of that day while their things were being unloaded; a good deal stared at, but still, nowadays there were so many odd foreigners going to Hellas that no one was really surprised. Probably they had come to hire officers for some infinitely remote war of their own. In the meantime the only problem was how much money was to be extracted from them here at Gytheum—before these robbers of inlanders could get at the pickings! Sphaeros managed to look after them to some extent, but a few insisted on making purchases. All of them could speak Greek fairly fluently and they liked showing it off. Two of the most sensible were sent off to hire riding and pack-horses.

That day they got about five miles, and filled the whole of the country inn. They were all excited about different things—the heat in the middle of the day already, the clothes, the food, the women, and the fact, which is always, somehow, so surprising in a foreign country, that even the smallest children could speak this difficult language. Berris had seen odd and brilliant flowers growing by the
roadside—crocuses and irises and cyclamen—and the air had been intensely clear between him and the purple hills. These were the first really jagged and violent hills he had ever seen: the ranges west of Marob were low and thickly wooded all over.

It seemed to Sphaeros that Sparta was unchanged, so far. It was just as he remembered it—a rather disgusting place where wealth was the one real standard. Gloomily he thought that it would take more than one man, even Agis returned from death, to move this mass of a population gone bad. But as they got nearer the city of Sparta itself, things began to look better. He had seen one or two young men going about with a certain proud simplicity of dress and bearing, carrying spears. Perhaps he could ask one of the mule-drivers who they were.

‘Oh, the King's friends!' said the man, adding rather resentfully, ‘When you're rich enough you can afford to pretend there's not a penny in your purse!' But all the same, there was something in his manner, Sphaeros thought—a touch of hope or pride, or nothing more than respect, but at least as if something was happening in Sparta.

When they were within sight of the Brazen House, Sphaeros asked Tarrik and Berris to go on with him dismounted, leaving the rest by the roadside with their horses and baggage. Before they had walked half a mile, they were all three violently nervous. With Sphaeros it was mostly physical; his mind was almost calm, and so was his outward appearance; he could notice with amusement the thick beating of his heart and the curious spasmodic contractions of his bowels, but except for an occasional deep sigh, he was in complete control of his breathing. The other two kept on looking at each other. Tarrik had been very reluctant to come, dismounted, without any armed following: how would this king know he was a king too? But still—if Sphaeros said it was the best way, well, he would be a Stoic and walk! So long as Sphaeros was quite right about Kleomenes being a philosopher too. But clearly, Sphaeros could not be quite sure. It was a comfort to be armed. He tried to make up his mind what to say to the Spartan King, something that would show who he was, short and decisive, but it was very difficult. He frowned and smiled, and frowned again, turning over the words,
and stared stiffly ahead of him when children called after him in the roads, and did not really see any of the things Sphaeros pointed out to him.

Berris, on the other hand, was seeing everything, with a terrific hunger for detail and colour; he was full of a confusion of images, whirling round with them, only one still and central point of criticism saying: ‘So this is Hellas; now—is it as good as all that?' This was worrying him desperately; he wanted to lose himself among fulfilled hopes, to find what had led him so far; and here was the clear air, here the beautiful outlines of mountains in an afternoon of winter sunshine. Here were a few at least of the Hellenes, the people living under Grace, the strong unhampered bodies, poised so after centuries of war and games and delight in all loveliness. But—Berris Der had not found it yet. And this King would perhaps talk to him and he would not be able to answer him properly. He wanted to be let alone and allowed to be clear water, for this dust of appearances to fall through and settle. Only kings were dangerous cattle, one had to answer them the way they wanted to be answered; he would have to wake up and think about that, or else Tarrik might be the sufferer. He pulled himself together, and said something in Greek to the Chief.

At the door of the King's house, Sphaeros stopped for a couple of minutes, making sure that his mind was prepared for anything. Tarrik stood beside him saying nothing: he thought this was probably some ritual. Berris looked at the bronze knocker, which was very large and much worn, so that he could hardly make out the design, but it seemed to be a lizard with all its lines hardened into a form for metal. For all its age and roughness, he thought it was one of the best bits of work he had seen in Greece. Sphaeros, noticing him, smiled and said: ‘That belongs to the King's house; it has always been there.' And he lifted it to knock, shouting for someone at the same time. They stood back for the door to open.