The Corn King and the Spring Queen (67 page)

It was then that the two helots came in to say that the guards were asleep, and looked like sleeping till evening. The men stirred and glanced at one another. Another hour and they would start. Best not to do it too early, when most of Alexandria would be sleeping out the hot hours too. Spasmodically, they spoke of details of their plans, possible meeting-places if they got scattered, verifying objectives and catchwords. But there was nothing new to be thought of; it had all been talked out already. Then an impulse seemed to come to them all to talk about Sparta. They began to describe it in detail, places, the shapes of small hills, the springs among the rocks, the kind of crops, the very texture of the earth grown through with fibres of roots. They spoke of being young and in love, of racing and wrestling and hunting, of friends alive or dead. They spoke of the past, trying to tie the future down with it. They leant forward and
moved eagerly; the coloured robes of rejoicing slipped off them, leaving half their bodies bare and strong and cool. Of these thirteen, there were several couples whose friendship was very deep-rooted. They were too old now to play the love-game as the boys and young men did, but however the thing had begun, it had left behind it now a most sweet and comforting comradeship. Those lovers turned to each other for strength and reassurance and perhaps remembered days they had not thought of for a long time. They looked in one another's eyes and touched one another tenderly. While the body yet lived, it served to show their love. A man, thinking of his friend as beautiful, could keep a beauty in him that would have gone otherwise. Yet the looks and words of these couples did not break through the closeness and community of the feast. They were completely included in it.

Kleomenes and Panteus turned towards one another, and it was as if they were alone in an island, and yet among friends so kind and so trusted, that it was no matter what they spoke of or who overheard. The King said: ‘Do you remember the first time?'

‘Yes,' said Panteus, ‘I remember. It was during that early fighting towards Megalopolis. You'd praised me then, and given me the little dagger I lost afterwards at Argos. Then at Mess you bade me sit next to you.'

‘Go on, go on,' said the King. He wanted strength and reassurance as much as anyone; his eyes were hungry. He trusted to his beloved to give it to him.

Panteus went on. ‘You told me then for the first time the story of Agis. Simply what had happened, for those were the days when you could not trust even your friends to understand. As you talked I thought about what Agis had wanted, not very deeply, but yet I got a picture of that Sparta—ah, the Sparta we have had!—and I said suddenly: “I wish it could come real!” And when you spoke of his death I was angry not to have been there to stop it.'

‘Will anyone be angry about our deaths, Panteus?'

‘I am talking of then, Kleomenes. Listen. You said a little about Agiatis. I was very sorry for her, and for you both. I saw you as a young boy being forced into marriage. I know I put my hand on yours for a moment and then felt ashamed of myself and thought you'd hate it. After
that there was music. In those days you still used to have somebody to come in and amuse us.'

‘It was the custom. There were two Syrian jugglers. And acrobats; I enjoyed that. Those flute-girls! How many years since I've thought of them: good, honest girls. But that evening it was the old man who recited. What was it? Can you remember, Panteus?'

‘I can remember. It was the sailing for Troy. Dull and lovely! Most people were talking in whispers, but I didn't dare, to you. I sat still, and sometimes I looked at you, and sometimes, when I looked, you were looking at me. When it was over you did not seem to want to break up the drinking. You said: “Will anyone sing?” Hierax sang first, something funny. We all laughed. Then Hippitas said: “My cousin can sing.” You nodded to me and I stood up, very shy and rather angry with Hippitas. I tried to think of something funny too, but nothing came into my head. He said. “Sing: You Go my Way,” and I was glad, because what I wanted to sing was a love song. Yet somehow I cannot remember that I looked at you while I was singing.'

‘You put your hands up over your eyes and sang so, with your head thrown back. Didn't you know?'

‘When it was over I walked back, being very gay, ready to laugh with anyone if they wanted to laugh at my song. And then you stood up. You put your hands on my shoulders and I hoped you were going to say I had sung well. But you said nothing. Only you looked at me and looked at me, and after a time you bowed your head against my shoulder. I saw you were shaking a little but I did not dare to touch you with my hands. I said your name in a whisper, “Kleomenes”.'

‘Go on, go on; let us remember. Ah, what is it?'

‘It is very bitter to think now of all that sweet!' Suddenly it was Panteus who had lost grip, who had given strength to the King, so that his own was for the moment shattered.

But the King took it up, smiling at him, seeing him as he had been then. ‘Not for us two, not bitter. Give me your hands, Panteus, and I will tell you the rest. Every one went away, and I back to my tent. I tried to read. It was a book of Zeno's, but there was no sense in it that night. I wanted poetry; but I had none. I went to Hippitas and asked him if he had. He was in bed already. “Not a thing!” he said. I
almost asked him which your tent was, for I did not know. But then I wasn't bold enough. I went on to Therykion and asked him if he had any poetry. He had: old poets. He offered me Tyrtaeus, “War songs out of old days, King,” he said, and I took the book and unrolled it, thinking this should have been what I wanted. I stayed and talked to him for a time. Queer creature, he was most nearly the one who might have understood me if he had chosen. I looked through his poets and at last found the Ionians I needed. I took Alkaeus and laughed and said he should have it back in the morning. I went to my tent and read, and then put it by and sat with my head in my hands. I took up my tablets and began to write myself. I tried again and again. “Dear, I would say you a word, Be gentle and stay and listen—” Oh, just echoes of Alkaeus, not my own love! And suddenly you came in, armed, and saluted me, with a message from the outposts which needed an answer. I took it out of your hands and tried to look at it. It was five minutes before I could see that it was just a simple question of communications the next day. I looked up and you were staring at me. I smoothed out the wax to write my answer, and doing that I made up my mind to speak. I said: “I have been trying to write a poem all this evening.” You did not answer. I said: “It would have been to you.” Then I shut the tablets and twisted the string round them, taking a long time, for I hoped you would speak. I had not the courage, myself, to say anything more. I handed you the tablets, not touching your fingers. You said: “I will take the message and then I will come back and we will speak more about this, Kleomenes.” And you turned and bounded out.'

‘I ran all the way there and back. I did not want to think, but my whole body was glad.'

‘It seemed long enough to me. The lamp began to burn down and I poured in fresh oil. I wondered if you had been kept by anything. I thought there might have been a night raid from Megalopolis. I began to listen for it. And I heard your feet running, coming back to me. You came in, panting. I did not think I had ever seen your eyes as blue before as they were then in my tent in the lamp-light. I said: “Let us talk about this now.” You came in and knelt beside me quickly on one knee and your right hand dropped and touched my foot; I felt it grip round my ankle. But
your face was hidden, your head was against my thigh. I took your helmet off and laid it down on the bench beside me and I began to feel your head with my hands, tangling my fingers in your hair, pulling your hair, I think. I felt the bones of it under my hands, the way it juts out at the base of the skull. There were light hairs like fur on your neck, lighter than your skin. I pulled your head round to look at your face and I saw you were laughing. Why were you laughing, Panteus?'

‘With delight, my King.'

‘I did not know that. I thought you were perhaps laughing at me. Yet I thought that was better than anger or shame. You ducked a little as I lifted the sword sling over your head. I undid the straps of your breastplate. You kept very still all the time. I laid it by. I undid your shoulder brooches, pricking myself. You had a shirt of some very fine, soft, blue stuff—better than we've worn since! I pushed you away from me to arm's length, so that I could look at you. I thought then for the first time that you were square and balanced, like a statue by Polykleitos. You still said nothing, but your hands went up to me, and I knew what you wanted and took the brooches out of my own tunic. We must have seen one another often before, naked, but we had never looked so close. You took your tunic right off and laid it by the sword. I saw no blemish on you, Panteus.'

‘Nor I on you. And I was glad that my body was strong and hard and clean. You were very brown all over, more than I'd thought. I put my hands on to you, on to your chest, and stroked down over your flanks and thighs. I stood up and we kissed one another. You said: “Tomorrow there will be fighting again. Stay with me now.” So I said I would stay.'

‘I think,' Kleomenes said, ‘that after this we stood for some time only looking and being glad. I sat down on my bed and you sat beside me. Then I said: “What now? For we are neither of us boys, but grown men.” Then you began to laugh. I had never seen anyone laugh so, your low and delightful laughter filling my tent. After a time you said, still with your mouth full of laughing, but very gently: “Now we will go to sleep, Kleomenes, and speak of these things again in the morning.” So we lay down and I spread my cloak over both of us. We were close enough
for each to lay his head on the other's arm. And it was a most sweet sleep we had.'

‘Yes,' said Panteus, ‘I remember that. A very sweet and deep sleep for both of us.' He sat half up on the couch beside the King, leaning rather forward on both hands, dropping his head between his shoulders, his eyes half shut in the thick tension of remembrance. The blue fringes of the Egyptian stuff lapped round his stiffened fingers. The others, who had been listening or half-listening, understood how he was thinking back to this thing which was within their own experience too. The King looked round at the twelve, calmer and happier than they had seen him for a long time.

Neolaidas was whispering to the helot servant. He looked up and spoke anxiously: ‘Monimos has gone to his mistress. Are we sure that's safe?' The other helot assured him that it was, but Phoebis was doubtful and so was the King.

‘I think we should get ready, my friends,' Kleomenes said. ‘If the Alexandrians are not awake we shall wake them very soon.' Then he stood up and every one else stood up. In a way they were glad to have the time of waiting and remembrance cut short, the time for action come.

As they got up they shook those gaily woven Egyptian things off their bodies. They kicked them on to a heap on the floor, and while they stood naked, stretching themselves, someone in angry mockery threw a cup of wine over them to soak and blemish the fabrics of rejoicing. They could not come in armour to a sacrifice and feast of gladness, but they had brought their swords, and Panteus had brought a sword for the King under his cloak. The King's own sword had been taken, and nobody knew where it was.

Then they took up their ordinary town tunics, made, Alexandrian fashion, with short sleeves, but the King took his new sword and slit along the seam of his so as to lay his right shoulder bare, and the others did the same, in silence, with their swords. This was for two things. It would be a sign and mark to one another supposing they got separated, and a sign for those who joined them. And also it left the sword-arm and shoulder, for which anyhow the tunic was no protection, as free as possible. Then they went out into the courtyard. The guards were still sound
and hoggishly asleep. They did not hear the bolts being slipped. Kleomenes and the twelve were out in the streets of Alexandria.

S
EVERAL OF THEM
were moving still. Idaios opened and closed his eyes slowly. There was nobody anywhere near. The Alexandrians had not dared to stay and look. Panteus shifted a little in the dust, sitting there waiting with his drawn sword over his knees, his sword, his sword waiting—So he shut his eyes again and counted steadily to two hundred. His wounds and bruises were too sore to let him think of much while he was counting. He looked up again. Idaios seemed to be dead now; his eyes stayed wide open and had begun to film over. There were one or two dogs slinking about, not daring to come near yet. Panteus was too hoarse to shout, but he threw stones at them and they disappeared again. He stared into the sky. Very high up still, a kite circled blackly against the dazzling blue; another joined it. The flies had come already.

The shuttle began to click in his brain again; the hours he had just been through began to repeat themselves. Three hours—two hours ago, there had been hope. Now he could not remember what hope was like. They had all gone charging down the street away from that house where the King had been a prisoner, shouting through Sun and Moon Street, calling on the Alexandrians to remember they were Greeks and join them for freedom! Hippitas could not keep it up—he had begged them to kill him and keep the pace. But they had found a man riding and thrown him off and put Hippitas up on the colt, and then they all went storming again through Alexandria towards the palace, shouting: ‘Liberty,' and ‘Down with the tyrants, down with Ptolemy and Sosibios, down with Agathokles and Agathoklea and Oenanthe!' It had even seemed as though that were going to work. They had looked round at the growing crowd, coming along with them, keeping up, shouting: ‘Down with Agathokles, down with the palace!' They caught the traitor, Ptolemy the son of Chrysermas, coming out of the palace, and killed him. They broke up the city guard and killed their officer with his fine chariot and fine clothes. Every one cheered and shouted luck to them.

They got their first set-back at the prison. The keepers had been too quick for them; it was all hopelessly barred against them. And after that, when they turned back to the city, to try for one of the gates, or the docks, they began to see that it was all no good. They'd tried to organise this mob who ran with them, cheering and making a kind of triumph feeling for them, but it melted under their hands almost. None of the Alexandrians would help. Sphaeros was not in his house; they could not find him. They'd tried to get hold of the men they thought were friendly. Yes, they were friendly still, in a way, but there was nothing doing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. No use shouting: ‘Liberty!' to men who didn't want it. The Alexandrians stuck to Ptolemy and Sosibios and Agathoklea. The cheering crowd dwindled, and they found themselves almost alone, then quite alone, in this little square, a deserted winter-market place with nothing in it now but the skeletons of booths, and broken baskets and crocks. It became obvious what they had to do.

They had risked and lost. But they were still, perhaps for an hour, free. There was one more action, and only one, which they could take. Hippitas had smiled a little and said he was the eldest and ought, by Spartan custom, to be allowed a privilege. He asked that one of the younger men should do it for him. Agesipolis did it; Hippitas had always been kind to him. And before they had quite understood that Hippitas was really dead, Agesipolis had killed himself too, falling forward cleverly on to his own sword, like a diver taking off. It was then that the King had moved a few steps aside with Panteus and told him to be guardian of their honour and to wait till they were all dead before he, finally, killed himself. Panteus had said yes, he would do that. He had not known it was going to be so difficult. He had not known how the thin icicle of loneliness was going to spike him through.

He remembered how he had felt sick with apprehension that Kleomenes would ask him to do it for him. He would have had to. But none of the lovers did that. They loved one another too well. Kleomenes had loved him too well to make him. They had fallen on their own swords, and most of them had lain doubled up on them, so that there was no need to look at their faces again. They could have been
asleep. Only one or two had done it clumsily and struggled and flopped over.

He got up. Suddenly he found his head swimming. He put his hands up to his forehead. For a moment he got the odd idea that each one of these events had knocked away a piece of his skull, and now the whole thing lay open to the sun and vultures. Then he went round, doing what he had done once already. He pricked them each with his dagger to see if they were alive. This time none of them stirred. Then he went to the King. Kleomenes lay quite still on his face, his knees and elbows rather bent under him. He
must
be asleep. Otherwise. Otherwise. It was all impossible.

I would have supposed I had faced this. Faced it at the feast. Or before Sellasia. Sellasia was different. Different because I wasn't killed, because he wasn't killed. But I thought I had faced it first then, or earlier. First before this. Or not. Faced first at the feast. The blood has stopped creeping out from under him. It did at first. Crept first at the feast. No, there was no blood then. We were talking to one another. He won't ever speak to me again. He is not asleep.

At first Panteus could not do it at all, though he had his dagger ready. Then he bent and pricked Kleomenes with it at the back of the ankle. He could not help being certain that Kleomenes would wake up then. But instead something rather horrible happened. The thing jerked and heaved over and lay on its back. Kleomenes lay on his back. He was still doubled up over the red, slimy sword-hilt. His hands were clenched on it. Panteus looked away from that, at his face. His eyes were half shut, a line of white between the lids. His mouth was open and there was blood on his teeth; he had bitten his under-lip to stop himself groaning. Panteus leant over, closer and lower, staring and feeling; there was a faint breath in the mouth, a faint throb of some kind at the base of the throat. He crouched down till their cheeks touched; he murmured ‘Kleomenes, Kleomenes.' But there was no recognition anywhere. He tried to take one hand, but they were clenched tight and slippery with blood. So he sat down on the ground again and waited.

He waited and counted and cried a good deal and called out people's names sharply, because he was alone and the flies were buzzing so. The kites and the dogs came nearer.
When he looked up next Kleomenes was quite dead. It was easier after that. He pulled the King's tunic straight so as to cover him partly from the flies. He began to do the same for some of the others, but a kind of blackness had begun to come down on him, a shutter of weariness. It was not worth while. He went back to Kleomenes and knelt over him and put the point of his sword against his stomach, just under the base of the breastbone, pointing up and to the left. He held it firm with both hands. He fell forward onto it, over the King's body.

By and bye some of the Alexandrians came tiptoeing out of the back streets to look.