The Corn King and the Spring Queen (51 page)

He leant his arm slantwise against one of the pillars of the house and dropped his face upon his forearm and began to think. Before he could solve Sparta's problems he had to solve his own. The army had been defeated. Most of the citizens, old and new, between twenty and forty, had been killed, and he himself was alive. His revolution was defeated. In a few weeks, perhaps in a few days, everything would be undone in Sparta. There would be rich and poor again, great estates, luxury, usury and mortgage, free citizens working for less than a living wage, boy babies exposed. His new citizens would have the thing they cared for most in the world taken away by the ephors under Antigonos. Sparta was defeated. For the first time in history there would be conquerors in the market-place of Sparta! Before, in the old wars, things had never gone so far. At the last moment the Spartan lion had recovered and sprung. Now after six hundred years it was too late. The barbarians had taken the pass. Leonidas had died at Thermopylae.

Glorious was the fate and noble the doom

Of those who died at Thermopylae.

Their tomb shall be an altar.

Instead of lamentation they shall have remembrance,

And instead of pity, praise ….

Their witness shall be Leonidas, King of Sparta….

Ah, ah, and he, Kleomenes, was witness of those that live on after the defeat!

Yet he had been no coward. He had led that first spear-down charge of the Spartiate phalanx, as was the King's pride and due. He had taken the charge of the Macedonians. He had staggered and stood under the shock of their spears breaking against his shield. He had not been afraid. It was not likely that he would have been more of a coward than his brother. And no one could dare to say that of Eukleidas now. Eukleidas was safe from tongues. When he had seen that thing happen on Euas he had known intellectually that the battle was lost. When his own phalanx at last broke, speared down and killed and forced apart by sheer weight of numbers, he knew it deep in his heart. But no spear or sword had got past his skill and armour, and he could not deliberately go and get himself killed. Some men can. He was not that kind of man. On Euas they had been taken in front and rear with no escape. But on little Olympos there had been a way of retreat. It would have been fantastic not to take it. Why should he be fantastic, like someone in a poem simply because he was king?

Yet being King of Sparta was a special thing. He was not a tyrant nor master of courtiers and soldiers. He was only a kind of eidolon, a kind of dream the people had. Without the people there was no king. If the people died the king must die. Yes, yes; but behind and apart from that he was a man and a father of children, a living being with arms and legs and blood and brain! He had not ended.

They had not ended either. Even defeated there was still Sparta, still the Spartan people, the people of the revolution. Certain things were possible. He would go to Egypt and show King Ptolemy, who was, after all, a Macedonian too, to start with, that the balance of power had gone over too much, and now he must restore Sparta against the Achaean League and King Antigonos. He would be able to do that. Leonidas at Thermopylae had done the only possible thing for his time.
Kleomenes would do something harder and more modern. He would live.

Panteus came into the King's house. The King did not see him. The King leant against the column and the flies settled on the cut across his cheek and round the rims of his eyes. At his feet, with her long hair loose and her dress hanging from one shoulder, was the woman of Megalopolis. Before the King moved or spoke that picture had gone very deep into Panteus' mind.

The King did not move yet from the column, but he opened his mouth and said: ‘We are going to live. I have come to that decision. It will be bitter, Panteus, very bitter; you do not know yet how bitter people will make it for us that we can be alive. You will think often before the end that it would be easier and more honourable to be dead. It is a bitter cup I am giving you to drink of. We must go to Egypt and be cunning as snakes and foxes for the sake of Sparta. There are ships at Gytheum. We will start in ten minutes.'

‘And your brother's body?'

‘I will leave that to the people of Sparta. Go out into the market-place and tell them. They will not dishonour glory of that kind. They understand it. Not even those who hated me most will hurt him. They will go through the rites of mourning for their King. The women will do that. So. Then get the others. By the way, where is Sphaeros?'

‘I saw him just now.'

‘Tell him I want him. He is to come with us. In ten minutes, Panteus.'

Panteus went out. After a time the King heard Archiroë sobbing and felt her hands crawling up his legs. ‘My King, my King, my King!' she said. He said: ‘Stop it, my dear.' His arms slid down the smooth marble; he stroked her head, the bright chestnut waves; he was going to leave her behind, and his horses, and the dogs. ‘What shall I do?' she sobbed. ‘You've got the deeds for that farm in Messenia? Good. I didn't think you'd need them so soon. Go there. Be there before your brothers and cousins from Megalopolis come and grab you here, and don't go back to them till you've forgotten me. Oh yes, you will! I know what you're thinking now, but it doesn't last, Archiroë. You've given me some good times, you pretty thing. Give them to someone else in a year or two. If Nikagoras the Messenian comes and worries you for the
money, tell him I'll pay—oh, when I can. No, I don't suppose I shall ever see you again. Don't think about it. Still more, don't remind me, don't speak to me! Don't touch me now!' ‘Take me with you!' ‘No.' She sank down, sobbing. He touched her shoulder. ‘Get up. There are some things I must take. Go and see to the spare horses, my dear.'

He went through into the inner court of the house, intent on what he had to get. Not much. He must ride light. Nikomedes would be glad to see him in Egypt.

T
HEY SAILED A LITTLE
after midnight from Gytheum. They put in first at Kythera, then at Aigalia. They were bound for Kyrene; from there it would be an easy journey overland to Alexandria, and they could wait to hear what kind of a reception they were likely to get from King Ptolemy. It was now two days and a few hours since the battle of Sellasia.

Aigialia was a very small island, the back of a brown hill pushed up accidentally through the flat blue sea. A long way off, on the horizon, were the blue peaks of the mainland, Tainaron perhaps. There were small beaches of coarse sand, and large rocks, and pools full of black and spiky sea-urchins, which the sailors cut open and ate. Kleomenes walked about on the beach with his long legs; his head was a little bent, he dangled his arms, his face was bandaged. Therykion came up to him, and glanced about, but there was no one near. The others were busy, or resting, or on the ship. Neolaidas lay on deck trying to control himself among the coloured flashes of pain that came from the place where his eye used to be. Sphaeros was composing a letter to someone he knew, one of the head librarians at Alexandria. Panteus and the captain were looking at their course on a chart and talking it over. Therykion said: ‘Here we go wandering into foreign countries. Only the Gods know what will happen to us. I think, myself, that things will go on getting worse and worse.'

‘You would, wouldn't you, Therykion,' said the King, rather absently still.

‘I promised myself that the barbarians would not get Sparta except over my dead body. I believe you did too. We made no vows, but that was in all our hearts. It would have been good
to die in battle. We would have had songs made about us, as they will be made now for your brother Eukleidas. The boys would remember us. We would have become part of the glory of Sparta.'

‘Very likely,' said Kleomenes, ‘very likely. I told you all it would be bitter to live.'

‘That's gone. But—Kleomenes, supposing we kill ourselves now, here, all of us on this one little island—or if not all, at least you and me!—we get something back, don't we?'

Kleomenes sat down on the sand; it was hot against his legs. For a moment it ran and trickled busily where he had disturbed it. ‘Why?' he said.

Therykion sat down beside him. ‘There's no point in sailing on,' he said. He looked round at the quiet brown island, the deep colour of the sea and sky, the red sails of the ship making a square, cool shadow. Kleomenes followed his look and tacitly agreed that it was all in itself very pleasant, but for them Therykion was right, and there was no point at all in any of it. A gull rose from among the rocks. Therykion went on: ‘What are you going to do in Egypt? It won't be pleasant for your mother to see you as you are now. Kratesikleia is used to death by this time, but she is not used to dishonour. The children will not be glad either, when they are old enough to understand. If you had been going to surrender to any king it would have been better to do it to Antigonos, who is at least a good fighter and a man who keeps his promises. Or is it because Ptolemy put up a statue to you? I wouldn't trust him a yard. Him or Sosibios. But we can trust our own swords, Kleomenes, and our own hearts. Can't we? I can see over to Lakonia from here: our own hills. If we died looking at them it is possible that our souls might go there.'

‘Because you are as unhappy as I am,' said Kleomenes, ‘there is no need to imagine things that you know are impossible. If we die, we die and are ended: as far as the sun and rivers and hills of Lakonia go, anyhow. If we die we shall never see our friends and children again. That's clear, I think. It is also clear that the easiest possible thing would be just to kill ourselves here and now, and never have to lift up again this intolerable burden of planning and hoping and dealing with strangers and enemies. For one thing, this cut on my face is itching quite devilishly, Therykion. I didn't
sleep all last night because of it. I assure you, I should be glad to get rid of it! But I am not going to. I am going to do something much harder. I have run away once; I am not going to run away again.'

Therykion answered slowly: ‘That is all more or less what Sphaeros said yesterday to Neolaidas when he was in great pain and asking his servant for his dagger, but I wish you would think of something that is not a Stoic idea, Kleomenes. I know very well that Sphaeros says it is giving up the fight worse now to kill ourselves because we are afraid of hardships and dishonour and what people will say of us, but that is only partly true. It is only the outside, the mere surface and appearance of reality.'

‘What is the deep thing, then, that Sphaeros did not see? What do you see as the kataleptike phantasia, Therykion?'

Therykion bent nearer: ‘I am not sure if I can explain it. I think—I think there is a kind of beauty which is utterly lost in living and being rational and making plans and having material hopes: even for one's country, even for the New Times, even for Sparta. I think that is at the back of what Zeno and Iambulos say when they write down their dreams of what a state should be. You will not get this beauty for yourself by dying. I know you are right to say that even if we die looking on those hills, they will fade out for ever at the moment of death. But I think that your people and your revolution will get the beauty. I think your dying will put a bloom on them, Kleomenes.'

The King stayed very still. ‘You think my blood can buy something, Therykion, that my life and my work and my reason will not be able to buy?'

‘Yes,' said Therykion.

There was a very long silence. Then the King said: ‘I understand, Therykion. I agree with you in a way. But I am not going to do it. Not yet, anyhow. You see, it is not natural for me to look at things in that way. I can do it for a time through your eyes; but when a man kills himself, then above all is the time he should see clearly and through his own eyes. I have a different idea of Sparta and a different idea of the world. A plain idea with no bloom on it. Only, I think, a good idea. At any rate, the one I have lived for and the one I mean to go on living for. Each man, after all, must do the thing that is right for himself, not the
thing that other people say is right for him. You agree with that?'

‘Certainly.'

‘Very well. I believe I can help my idea best by living, and just plain contriving and scheming. Like a farmer in a difficult year, not like a priest with a sacrifice to make. If ever I come to hold your ideas I will act on them, Therykion. I think, perhaps, you are more like the men of old days, more like Leonidas. In their name, forgive me, Therykion, because I did not die in the battle.'

‘If the dead know anything of the living,' Therykion said, ‘they see and understand. But, my King, I must act on the way I see life myself. Will you and Sphaeros understand that?'

‘I am not trying to stop you if you must, Therykion. This is an odd little island. I shall remember it all my life. This is an odd day. It is like a cover on something. If I only knew how, I could put my finger through it all and tear the sunlight across like a piece of painted paper! Therykion, am I right in thinking that when you were quite a young man you were initiated into one of the Mysteries?'

‘Yes. It was altogether satisfying for a time.'

‘And this thing you are going to do now will be altogether satisfying for ever.'

For some time neither of the two said anything more. Then Therykion got up very quietly and the King made no movement to stop him. He went a little way along the beach and climbed over a spur of rocks that stood between it and the next beach. Then he was out of sight. In about half an hour the King got up and went over to see. Therykion had fixed his sword firmly between two rocks and fallen on to it. Now he was dead. It seemed to the King simplest and least violently painful to the others to wrap Therykion in his own cloak and put him into a hollow of warm sand and then cover him with more sand. Over it all he made a pile of stones like a small cairn. Then he wiped Therykion's sword clean and fitted it into his cairn, blade upward, and he jammed the stones carefully round the hilt so that it would not fall down for a long time.

After that they sailed again and made Kyrene, and so went along by horse and camel until they got to the boundaries of Egypt. Here they were met by the royal officials of King
Ptolemy. Those of them who were native Egyptians tried to hide the fact under plain Greek dress and a very Greek manner and accent, talking a great deal about Corinth and Athens, where they had seen all the sights and been to the best lectures. But those who were Greek or Macedonian wore Egyptian ornaments and head-dresses, and straight wrapped tunics of yellow Egyptian muslin, and swore a great deal by Serapis and Osiris. They brought embroidered cloaks and bed-hangings for the King, and a set of silver plate for his table, fine horses with gilded bridles, and a leash of the lovely, long-legged Persian hounds to course gazelles for the amusement of the Spartans in the fringes of the desert. They also read to him a long and only slightly patronising letter from King Ptolemy. He listened in silence.

After that they gave him two private letters. One was from his mother, who had just heard the news of the disaster. She wrote very proudly and almost happily about her younger son Eukleidas, who had fallen in all honour on the field of Sellasia. She wrote about her eldest in a kind of hurt bewilderment. She supposed that what he had done was for the best. It was terrible for her to think of the Macedonians in Sparta, swaggering about in the King's house, in her own rooms even! The worst of the women would like them. If she had been there she would have armed and encouraged the best of the women to defiance or death, as Archidamia, the grandmother of Agis, had done when Sparta was in danger once before—but that time they had beaten back the barbarian, the wicked Pyrrhus! Was this generation of Spartans worse than those which had gone before? Yes, she would have fought the Macedonians with roof tiles! He put the letter down. She did not understand yet.

The other letter was from his son Nikomedes, a formal letter of sorrow and welcome, only sometimes showing through love and a great puzzlement. The boy's tutor must have supervised it. He was past thirteen now, able to see things with a man's vision. Yes, a reasonable being, at the age when, in Sparta, a boy would be likely to be singled out from among the rest by his grown lover, perhaps taken up into the hills for love and hunting and teaching and much talk. If he was intelligent and beautiful and gentle to his friends; surely Nikomedes the son of Agiatis would be all that! Kleomenes had been the same age himself when he and Xenares, whose
body must, he thought, have been found and brought back from the field of Sellasia, had first met and loved one another. It would be different in Egypt. No hills to go up among, no empty heights full of clear air to run and shout in. So he would have his boy to himself, unshared. Nikomedes would be able to understand what had happened. He would be able to tell his father that he had done right. Yes, he would be old enough to take a hand in it himself, perhaps to advise, to help.

By autumn they were all settled in Alexandria. The boys went on with their lessons. Kratesikleia spent much time with the palace women trying to make opportunities for her son to meet King Ptolemy. And Kleomenes began to get letters from home.