The Corn King and the Spring Queen (63 page)

After a little silence Erif said: ‘You haven't wanted me much this last year.'

‘No,' said Philylla. ‘I thought I could make my own life. I was hoping it would all happen right. Erif, it hasn't! What shall I do?'

‘Where is he just now?'

‘At a council. The King sent for the twelve of them. But there'll be nothing new and he'll come back to me unhappier and further than ever!'

‘Is that the trouble always?'

‘That he's so far? Yes. It should have been a flame—it was, yes, truly, at the beginning, that would hold us both in its heart. But it never is now. Though I try so hard!'

‘Marriage is the oddest thing in the world,' said Erif, playing for time, trying to decide what to say. ‘I nearly killed Tarrik when we were first married. I wonder what would have happened to me. But I thought it always came righter and righter as people got deeper into one another's kindness, and now I see it doesn't. I suppose you know that Berris loves you still?'

‘Does he?' said Philylla nervously. ‘He shouldn't. Does it make him unhappy?'

‘Yes,' said Erif Der.

Unreasonably, Philylla choked and began to cry. ‘I do wish he wouldn't!' she said. ‘It makes him make these stiff, unkind things.' And she hit out, bruising her hand, but shocking herself into tearlessness again.

Erif agreed. ‘I wish he wouldn't either,' she said. ‘But there it is. I believe he would flame with you, Philylla.' And after Philylla went home, Erif was occupied with this, almost to the exclusion of Marob. She wondered if her brother could give Philylla a child. But she doubted it; she had a theory that north and south did not mix well in these matters, so she had not been at all anxious about the result of her Vintage night. Not that it would have signified much; it might have been an interest and a pleasure, and she trusted Tarrik very completely to understand her now. She had sent back on an autumn ship letters and a sealed chestful of stuffs for her cousin Linit.

Philylla went home across the Jewish quarter. Some of the young men were beautiful copies of Greeks, regular at gymnasium and baths, admired musicians. But they seemed to get fat rather early in middle life. She thought some of the veiled women were probably beautiful too, but she had never been inside a Jewish house. They worshipped a God with many names, she had heard. He must have taken on the names of other Gods as they came to an end; some Gods seemed to live on the deaths of other Gods. She had been told a few of the names one time when Kleomenes had a scheme for interesting the Alexandrian Jews in Sparta. Adonai: that was Adonis. Sabaoth: that was Sabazios. So their God was Dionysos too; and Serapis was Dionysos. After Agiatis died nobody had the heart to dance for Artemis again. All the Gods were equally distant from men, equally unmoved by prayer or offering. She would not even have sacrificed a puppy to Orthia now. Sphaeros taught the boys that there were Gods, but they spent their divine eternity in understanding the universe. They could understand the growth of a grass blade or the workings of the human heart. And, understanding, they were without pity; they would not alter the tiniest part of their universe against the way of nature, which, supremely, they understood. What was the use of Gods like that to children? No wonder poor little Gorgo said prayers to the lighthouse. Well, let her, let her for a few
years if it was any help to her! The old Queen did not know.

Panteus came home a little after she did. He was kind and unhappy and did not answer her questions at all at first. Then after a time he said that he and Kleomenes and Idaios had been to see various Alexandrians, to point out how the glory of Alexander's town was decaying under—well, not Ptolemy perhaps, but Sosibios and Agathokles. If an army could be got together privately and practised in a Spartan war under Spartan officers, with victory assured, how splendid it would be for the city to have later! The mercenaries could just as well be paid by private persons as by the Court. But the Alexandrians were not interested in armies. They had ink instead of blood in their veins. Or worse. It was horrible, horrible, to go tagging round the town, waiting in these rich stinking houses for the gentleman's leisure to see them! Kleomenes of Sparta doing that. The kin of Herakles. He beat with his fist once on the table and then fell silent. He never sang to her nowadays; it was as though the bird, the shepherd in him, had been killed at Sellasia.

She told him that she had been to see Erif Der. He said he was glad, but she must be careful going through the streets. Then he said that Berris Der was going with the Alexandrians; he had taken to the Court like a fish to water and they to him; he would be a rich man now if he were not spending it all on women. Barbarians went that way when they came in sight of gold.

After that Philylla went fairly often to see Erif, and once or twice Berris was there. He said very little, but kept on working and used that as a covert to watch her from. Towards the end of March there was a ceremony of blessing the land. The divine Ptolemy himself appeared in the crown of Egypt, and most of his Court in semi-Egyptian clothes and postures, except for Sosibios, who had a new and even more elaborate set of armour. The land was very beautiful about then, full of flowers of all kinds, and the corn was high and already ripening. Ankhet and Erif went out into the fields and brought in baskets of flowers and put them in jars all about the house.

One day Philylla came, but before she and Erif had time even to greet one another, Berris dropped his tools with a clang and clatter that stilled them both, and walked over
to Philylla and threw himself on his knees in front of her and caught her wrists as she tried to push him away, and held them down to her sides. As he held her so she began to tremble; she felt his head jerking against her; she felt his tears coming wet and hot on to her skin; it was as if his open eyeballs were pressing against her thighs. She stooped over him; she loosed a hand gently and laid it on his head, trying to calm him. ‘Don't!' she said. ‘Don't cry, Berris. Berris, my dear, don't cry, I can't bear it!' It tore at her; he was like her child, the child she had neither conceived nor borne. Both hands were now cupped over his head, and his hands grasped, felt at her, pressed heavily like heavy birds on to her flesh. She was sobbing too, a little. Erif moved nearer to them; they did not notice her; she did not know what to say. She saw Philylla bending over him more, going slacker at the joints, and then suddenly springing away, tearing herself out of his arms. He slipped and fell forward, one knuckle on the floor. Erif put an arm round her. ‘I didn't know,' said Philylla. ‘Oh I didn't know I was really hurting him still! Oh my poor Berris!' And she turned and snatched up her cloak and went.

Erif looked at her brother. He was still on the floor, muttering to himself; he was suddenly very like Murr in the boat. ‘You shall have her, Berris,' she said, ‘only be kind to her.' He did not answer and she went on speaking, over his head, defiantly, at a squarish hound's muzzle, still unpolished: ‘I won't make things worse for her than they are!' And at the same time she made up her mind that she must not go back to Marob yet.

Philylla was frightened at first, badly frightened for weeks, and mostly of herself; she had been so near doing whatever he wanted. A whole sleeping part of her had awoke; now she was Philylla who had embroidered the sort of patterns she thought Berris would like. She began to see a different side of life, something outside the hard, narrow pattern of lessening hope in which all the Spartiates moved stiffly. It disturbed her; it made everything else worse. And she was sorry, oh so sorry for Berris! Almost as sorry as she was for Panteus and Kleomenes. For them and their sorrow she could apparently do nothing; but she knew she could put Berris right. Her rational, woman's mind was haunted and teased by that. But at least she did not seem to be considering any
possible good for himself. There was no one she could talk to; Leandris was too young and Kratesikleia far too old. She knew they would both be horrified at the mere possibility, though for different reasons. And Panteus had never liked Berris; even after they had helped her to Egypt, when he had been really grateful and sincerely offered his sword and friendship, he had never tried to have any understanding of Berris. So in the end it was Erif Der she talked to.

The barley was reaped and then the wheat and a little later the peasants' grain. The land lay half dead, veiled in dust and heat, waiting for Isis to weep her tear again and the Nile to begin rising. News came from Hellas, mostly of war between other states, with Sparta waiting and watching and patching up her wounds, and young Kleomenes gradually and cautiously gathering himself an adequate following and asking again why there was no help from Egypt. The Achaean League was helping Messenia against Aetolia, and old Aratos had been defeated but had talked it away. Antigonos' successor, the new Macedonian King, seventeen-year-old Philip, was going gently so far; no one knew what he was going to be like. It would be well not to delay action until the time when he was older. It all came in to the Council of Kleomenes and his twelve best friends, and was tossed and threshed round the table. Possibilities came up: Antiochos of Syria? So-and-so or So-and-so in Alexandria? Possible friends in Kyrene? No good. But what more could they do?

Philylla herself had one letter from Deinicha, a little hurt with her for not writing oftener, and one from Ianthemis, who had married her man that winter, a pleased and jerky letter with formal phrases and a good deal of small news. Her father was better and could ride, but was keeping out of politics. Dontas was as cross as ever and had taken to playing the flute; mother was well. She thought her own looks had improved since marriage; her complexion was better: didn't that sometimes happen? And how was Philylla and why didn't she write and had she got a son?

Philylla did not answer it yet, but one morning she went to Erif and did find Berris. He took her in his arms, and again pity overwhelmed her and she said she would do and be anything if only he would be happy again. She was almost as tall as he was; she did not flinch from his nakedness nor
turn her eyes away. Through the narrow window sunlight barred her body with a white sword. When it was over she lay with his head between her breasts like a child; she could see her breasts quiver and stiffen at his touch; he touched the substance of her as an expert touches wood or stone, getting at the essential grain. Yet she could not quite become one with her own substance. Her mind hovered over her body as she had seen the Kha hover in pictures. Was she sure it was her own? He brought her water that had stayed cool in a porous jug, and fruit; he murmured in delight over her. Yes, she said, she would come back if he wanted her still for his happiness: why not? He asked her if she had been happy, if he had given her the pleasure he had taken. But yes, surely he had known how her body had answered to his! But happy, happy, happy? Philylla, are you happy? Are you all eaten up by a flaming softness as I am? Has the world suddenly grown bright, bright to you? Have you got peace at last? Philylla, my own, only love, tell me. Ah, Berris, don't ask these things. Be content with what I give you. Be content, my dear.

And when she came back again she would not speak of herself. Only, she drank in his happiness; she made him speak of it to her over and over again. He could not in any way find out just what he had done to her; always she evaded him, yet she would not ever let him think that he had done her harm. He was her child; how could he, how should he know just what was happening to her?

She wanted to tell Panteus; she wanted that more than
anything. But she could not do it because it would hurt him. She must not hurt her man. It could all be utterly secret. She trusted Berris over that; if he could keep the idea of a statue or a picture in his head, secretly for months until it ripened, he could and would keep this secret. And she trusted Erif. Now that the barrier between them was down the friendship between the two women quickened and firmed; one looking across to the other would make her friend smile and rouse a happiness in her heart that did not go completely into words. The touch of the one was very pleasant to the other; in the heat of the day they would undo each other's hot piles of hair and comb it coolly through; they needed to see one another every day. Philylla found now that she could remember Agiatis with less pain.

Berris understood that Philylla wanted to tell Panteus. He became full of the same kind of imaginative goodwill towards the Spartans as his sister had towards her cousin Linit. He worked hard and well. Suddenly he thought he would do some more pictures for Philylla, and he did them with a simplicity and clarity of colour and form that were far from Egyptian. They were lucid story pictures, and as he painted them, often with her beside him, it gave him a feeling of childish and delicious calm. He did not have to think, because there was no problem; he had solved it long ago. He was not even interested in the form; it was almost sleep-working.

He painted what she told him to paint, first more scenes from the life of Agis, or the old ones done again, among them the death-scene, the hanged King; and after that scenes from the life of Kleomenes. He did these tentatively at first, choosing those which had happened before he knew Sparta. First the marriage of Kleomenes and Agiatis, the very young bridegroom and the pale, unbridal bride. Then the King bidding farewell to Xenares, his first love, since already it had taken shape in his mind that the man who was not with him was against him. There were legends with all the pictures, often just one thing said by Kleomenes himself, words fitted into a pattern round his head. Then the killing of the ephors: the King's Times, which were to bring such strength and beauty, beginning not gradually or in peace, but suddenly and with a sword. Then the rich men
casting away their goods and gold to follow the King, even the women plucking the jewels from their hair and breasts. For Philylla's sake he put in Agiatis here, and Philylla herself peering from behind her. He made another after that, but an imaged one, in which Kleomenes, frowning and with mouth set, and a whip of knotted cords, drove out Luxury, Usury and Greed, in the shape of snarling and fat old traders, from the Temple of Sparta. At each side Apollo and Artemis smiled stiffly at him. Then Kleomenes' good-bye to his mother before she went to Egypt.