The Corn King and the Spring Queen (65 page)

Ptolemy blushed and said violently: ‘I will have Kleomenes if I choose!'

‘Naturally,' said Sosibios, ‘if and when you choose. But there are ways and ways of possession. In the meantime, Palestine is perfectly safe and nothing can be done until, first, the elephants arrive, and secondly, we get out a plan of recruiting. We shall have to consider the Treasury. Armies, unfortunately, cost money, which has to be saved from other objects.' He looked round the room and caught sight of a crumpled design of grapes for the new shrine. ‘Your Majesty has certain rather expensive projects in hand at the moment. It would be more than sad if they had to be ended at once. The great ship, for instance. No, I am afraid you will have to put up with my advice and allow a month or two for revising the taxes, and so on.' He ended deferentially with his head bowed, but the bald patch seemed to twinkle with triumph. Ptolemy sulked and picked up a poem and pretended to read it. While he did this, Sosibios made up his mind quite definitely that, Peloponnesian mercenaries or not (for he was well aware of the position the Spartan King held among them), it was time Kleomenes of Sparta was got out of the way, before he either interfered dangerously with the King and his chief minister, or else became exasperated to the point at which he might—what? Perhaps go tale-bearing to Antiochos. Or lead a revolt of the mercenaries. Run amok somehow, as the elephants sometimes did: and had to be killed.

Kleomenes duly gave the toy to Nikomedes, who said he supposed it was really for Nikolaos and Gorgo, and gave it to them, to their great satisfaction. Secretly, Kleomenes was glad. Agesipolis had come to him that evening and
strongly advised him not to take Nikomedes to the palace. ‘Why?' asked Kleomenes. ‘I think, my uncle,' said Agesipolis slowly, ‘that it is a bad place for a boy to see or hear in, and if anything bad happened to this boy I think I would die.' ‘Ah,' said Kleomenes, and looked at him with raised eyebrows and queer wide-open eyes, the flecked brown irises and contracted pupils, but did not seem to see him at all.

For several days after this Kleomenes and Panteus and the rest of the twelve waited eagerly for a summons from Ptolemy. It was the same wretched old game, played on them this much more cruelly. They dropped into bitter gloom and depression and did not go near the palace often. But all the same, a curious feeling of danger, made up of tiny incidents, began to grow on some of them, though not yet on Kleomenes himself. Philylla got this through Panteus, who was even more worried than usual and felt he was being spied upon, and she told Erif Der, hoping Erif would say it was all nonsense. But Erif had heard from Metrotimé that Sosibios was black angry against the Spartans, and no one now spoke of them in his hearing, and the King, though rather differently, had almost snapped off her head when she had happened to mention one of them.

Erif had been to see one of her friends of Vintage Night. He had been non-committal, and she was rather angry with him, but did not show it much, in case she might need him again later. She comforted Philylla as best she could, unable to suggest why danger had suddenly taken a step nearer. She supposed somebody had offended somehow; probably it would blow over. There was nothing for the Spartans to do until spring except keep quiet.

A month or so later Berris came back from the elephant-hunt, brown and lean, with a dimpled scar on one arm where some cat-beast had clawed him. The first evening he and Erif lay on their elbows on the floor, looking at all his drawings and laughing, while he told her one adventure after another. But the next day he wanted Philylla.

He wanted her, not so much to lie with her as to make certain of her continuous and constant kindness and faith. He wanted to tell her about himself and the things he had thought about his work, and he wanted very much to look at her so as to know whether he had her as completely as
he believed in his mind, for he had an idea for a great carving and she was part of it. He went to Panteus' house and told him about the hunting, which interested Panteus very much. Philylla came in and listened too, only looking at Berris when she was fairly sure he was not looking at her. After a little time she found herself becoming desperately impatient; he went on telling Panteus—and her too, of course; and something important was being left out, some unasked and unanswered question. She did not know what it was. Only, as she sat there quietly, keeping her fingers to their sewing, this impatience began to bubble and burst in her like a boiling pot; abruptly, she got up and left them, with some kitchen excuse.

She waited four days, trying violently to suppress whatever she did not choose to have in her. Berris had begged his sister to wait too, and not go to her, and Erif did as he asked, though half-heartedly. Then Philylla came to see them, and to ask Berris whether he still thought of her—to ask that and go. Yet it was so lovely to be there, to have the other world again, the warm gold colour over the hard shapes of life, so perfect to have Berris added to Erif, that she stayed. That afternoon and evening after she was gone, and until the light was too bad, Berris was making his scale drawing of the statue of Love and Philylla, a thing from behind and above holding Philylla with hands across the shoulders, across the mounds of her breasts, which her own hands reached up to touch, a thing Philylla was accepting without expression except for the loving-kindness of her body.

He had bought a block of limestone from Carthage, beautiful close-grained stuff which would take a polish almost like alabaster. There were weeks of work to be done on it, but all the time he could be thinking out the final shapes. He could not decide yet what form to give to Love; he only saw him as curved and intersecting planes of the limestone, polished to a smoothness, an apparent tenderness, in some way cousin to flesh, but not remote from stone. He would not make a man's head on Love, for what man could stand as model for Eros? Not himself, and surely not Panteus. Not even Erif, hardened and thinned to a boy. He drew many strange heads, influenced by the sculpture he had seen lately, especially some of the ancient temples he had passed coming back up the
Nile from his hunt. He tried the tremendous heads of jungle beasts, and cat and bull-heads. The head which satisfied him best was a mixed one, a bird to start with, the curious, unhuman calm of a hawk watching and knowing its moment, the hawk of the soul, perhaps—what was it the priests said?—and then, branching down and away from it, the northern elk's horns, knotted and stiff and enduring, and in a strange way like a double branch of some northern tree in the cold months before the buds break on it.

For weeks Berris was absorbed in this, and in the presence and kindness of Philylla. He had brought a beautiful tusk back with him and liked to handle the ivory, but had not yet decided what to do with it. One day Agathokles came to ask him for a design for the Dionysos shrine in the ship, and after at first refusing to be bothered, he did three days' hard work on it. Erif tried very cautiously to find out from Agathokles how the wind lay now in regard to the Spartans, but got little out of the wriggling mask of his face as he looked from her to the new, linen-wrapped statue, and the stone dust all about the place.

The sense of danger grew and grew, but no one knew whether it was at all real or whether it was perhaps something in their minds which had not been removed, and so was going on growing there by itself. Erif had this to keep her awake at night, and also the puzzle of the relationship between her brother and her best friend, which must, she supposed, end somehow. If only she could make it end well!—or, for that matter, see any way in which it could possibly end well. She could not even tell for certain whether Philylla was more or less happy because of it. She was not happy herself.

In Marob now it was after the feast of the winter solstice and before Plowing Eve. The snow would be thick, caked crisply solid in the sledge-ways, wonderful echo-land for sledge-bells or bells on saplings or shouting, ringing voices of hunters and dancers. Berris had bought an Egyptian flute because it was beautifully carved. He played the beginnings of dance tunes, and the tunes they played in Marob at the end of a feast when the apples were thrown about the tables.

A
BOUT THE TIME
of the royal blessing of the crops, ships began to come into Alexandria again, and Kleomenes and his friends began to hang about the quays, waiting for them. A big-bottomed merchant ship moved round the corner of the island, shipped oars, made fast and let down her gang-plank. In the hold were a dozen beautiful horses. Phoebis beckoned Kleomenes over to look, thinking it would please him to see the fine creatures stepping on to the quay and snuffing about them, then suddenly realising the air and space and whinnying and rearing and stretching themselves horse-fashion. One could tell they were Messenian horses, the small, flat-backed, wiry creatures they bred in those plains. The King and his friends stood watching them, going over their points, frankly envious. The owner of the horses came up and began giving orders to the grooms. Kleomenes did not pay much attention for a moment, then recognised him as Nikagoras the Messenian, to whom he still owed the price of a good farm and live-stock.

They met, however, with great affability, and no trace of this. The King commended the horses. Nikagoras pointed out the best six. ‘They're for King Ptolemy,' he said. Then the rest are bound to go well! And I've other cargo I mean to get a good price for.' He slapped the flank of one of the horses. ‘You don't happen to want one for yourself, King Kleomenes? I'd make you a special price for old sakes. Now here's a chap who'd gallop ten miles without turning a hair, and a heart like a lion—like a Spartan, what!'

Kleomenes laid one arm longingly along the tough, silky back, fingering the warm base of the mane, breathing in the smell of horse; but he shook his head. ‘In a year or two, Nikagoras—perhaps. But not now.'

‘Well, he'd be a bargain—to you. But I've no doubt I'll find a good market in Alexandria.' He looked at them proudly. ‘Not a bad present, even for King Ptolemy!'

Kleomenes thought of the lovely, strong little Greek horses going to Ptolemy, and said with a quick bitterness: ‘You'd have done better with a bunch of tarts: both kinds. That's the kind of riding King Ptolemy likes best!'

Nikagoras raised his eyebrows. ‘So! I've not been here since the old man's time. He'd have liked my horses. Well, I must chance it now. Whoa there! See you again, King Kleomenes.'

Hippitas had overheard and was troubled. ‘That was a stupid thing to say about Ptolemy,' he said low to Phoebis.

Phoebis nodded. ‘It's hard to keep one's tongue off him.'

‘Or one's hands. But we've got to. How's the boy, Phoebis?'

‘Having a regular go of fever, poor kid,' said Phoebis. ‘He'll just need to go through with it. We're not anxious now, but they say he'll be a two-three weeks longer at it. Then I'll get him out of the town if I can. Neareta's made friends with a woman who's got a farm by the river over Canopus way. She'll take him and feed him up. I wish the old Queen'd let those boys go too. This town's no good to man or beast.' He looked all round him, taking in warehouses and palace and lighthouse with equal and extreme distaste. ‘Nowhere to stretch oneself!' he said.

Five days later Nikagoras called on the King at his house and went fairly straight to the point about the money which
was owing. He took out the farm deeds and laid them flat on the table, and there, with a certain horror, Kleomenes saw his own name where he had written it. He remembered the occasion very well. He tapped with his fingers on the parchment: ‘Who's on the farm now?'

‘Why, your pretty lady, Kleomenes, or rather her husband. An oldish man,' said Nikagoras, with a trace of a grin and keeping firm hold of his deed. ‘But they've got a fine boy.' He added: ‘I shall be glad of the money because business hasn't turned out so well as I'd hoped. No. It would come in handy. Not much for a farm like that.'

‘Maybe,' said the King, ‘but I've not got the money to pay you, Nikagoras, and that's that.'

He and Nikagoras faced one another across the table and the deeds. ‘It's a pity,' said Nikagoras slowly. ‘It is sometimes—very awkward when debts are not paid.'

‘You know as well as I do, Nikagoras,' the King said, ‘that I haven't got the money now. If you choose to wait for a year, I may have it.'

‘Or you may not.'

‘As you say. In the meantime, there's nothing doing. I'm sorry, but I can't pay you.'

Nikagoras rolled up the parchment deliberately, the signature showing to the last. ‘Kings' names—!' he said ‘They're going cheap these days.' And he turned quickly and went out.

Kleomenes went out too, by the other door. He did not want to remember any part of this interview, either his debts unpaid or Archiroë married.

Nikagoras went straight through Alexandria to the palace without speaking to anyone. He asked for Sosibios and was admitted. He said nothing till Sosibios had sent away every one else; he supposed, and rightly, that there was a confidential secretary hidden behind a curtain taking notes, but he did not care about that. He told Sosibios the exact words which Kleomenes had used about King Ptolemy on the quay.

‘Excellent, as far as it goes,' said Sosibios, ‘but I must have a little something more. Let us consider.' He stared fixedly at a ring on his forefinger, then looked up, pinkish with pleasure. ‘Supposing, now, that you were to find out
that Kleomenes had a neat little Spartan plan cut and dried to get hold of the Peloponnesian mercenaries, and—yes, he will find transport ships essential—supposing, my Nikagoras, he had approached you about your ship, but of course you would have nothing to do with it and loyally informed me—and all this (here's what needs making quite, quite clear!) has an object: yes. Instead of trotting quietly home to talk to his friends, he plans to make a raid on our Kyrene. That would be effective. But I shall want it in writing, so that his Divine Majesty, who is occasionally a little obstinate, may be convinced.'

‘Letters are nasty things,' said Nikagoras. ‘One signs one's name—and it comes up against one afterwards.'

‘Nothing shall be done until the day after you leave Alexandria. By the way, I am distressed that you have not found a better market here. Now I feel sure you will allow me to do my best to induce you to visit us again. And of course any information I get will have a certain value.'

Deliberately Nikagoras drew up a chair and sat down. He took out his pen-case and ink and a square of paper. ‘How much?' he said.

Three days later Nikagoras left Egypt, and at the same time Sosibios gave orders that any Peloponnesian mercenary troops still in Alexandria were to be sent at once to the great camp which was forming east of the delta, ready to move up into Palestine. The next day Sosibios brought the letter and the remark to Ptolemy, who grew scarlet with anger and stuck out his lip. ‘Kleomenes must go! Not a day more—him or his brats.'

‘Go?' said Sosibios. ‘No, seriously, I don't think he can quite go. No, it would hardly be pleasant for us if he were to go—for instance, to King Antiochos.'

‘Not to King Antiochos,' said Ptolemy, ‘but to King Serapis.' He stared past Sosibios at a growing lily in the sunlight of the balcony. ‘A dark journey for this time of the year.' And he laughed. ‘A dark journey for a young boy!'

Sosibios said: ‘I doubt if we can be too precipitate. One might create rather too much feeling among certain fairly influential Greek communities in the city. No, if we start with a modified imprisonment—oh, every comfort, nothing to complain of, a mere misunderstanding—that
will allow me time to explain to the Greeks. Then it should pass off in the end—a month or so perhaps—without any unpleasantness at all.'

Ptolemy nodded. His heart was thumping at him heavily and thickly. He wanted Sosibios to go, and Agathoklea to come, and not make any fuss, or require any effort, but put his disturbed body right for him again.

All these days Berris was working on his statue of Love and Philylla. Waking in the morning he was often troubled, or going to bed unless he was properly tired out, or going out to buy things unless he kept completely overshadowed by his half-made shapes. But while he was at work he could see himself quite contentedly, watch his own fingers and his own mind, and he could watch with the same placidity the outside world and its joys or troubles. He remembered once in Athens seeing an old red-figured cup in somebody's house. He had not regarded it much at the time, but now he recollected that it was painted with a Komos scene, gay and frank young men and women with torches and branches and flutes, half or thoroughly naked, following and dancing and making love round and round the cup; but under each handle, sitting with his hands clasped over his knees, there was a little man who was watching it all quite calmly, and who would have watched in just the same way if the cup had been painted with battle or murder or witchcraft, not moved or shocked or excited, but just pleasantly influenced. Thinking back to that, two things occurred to Berris. One was that the little man under the handle was the real Greek doing for once the essentially Greek thing; and the other was that he himself, while he was at work and essentially occupying his body most fully, was also that same little man. So that he, Berris Der, the sculptor and painter, in spite of Epigethes and all of them, he was the Greek!

That made him laugh, and standing back from his statue, he noticed that the process of recollection and comparison had taken him the time of deepening to its full sharpness the groove between Philylla's arm and the Thing at her back, which was yet inchoate, only vaguely shaped into a great bird's head, and on one side the elk horns drawn on the surface with charcoal. He was puzzled as to how to make Love tender and gay while yet keeping the severe and unbroken lines. Philylla herself—the flesh Philylla, not
the stone one—was a little frightened of this Love; she wanted him to give it a human head and attributes, garlands and doves and what-not. That was silly of her. He wondered what was to happen to the statue. He had seldom done anything big before which was not an order for a definite place in house or temple or market-colonnade, indoors or out; and since he had been in Egypt all his carved work had sold very quickly. Sometimes he had thought of taking in one or two apprentices to quicken up his output, but was bored with the prospect of training them. Then the outer door banged and there were feet running up the stairs, and his sister burst in, white and wild-looking. ‘It's happened!' she cried. ‘Oh, we knew it would!'

‘What?' said Berris, turning quickly from his work to her, ceasing to be the little man on the vase, and snatching with his heart at Philylla.

Erif was sobbing with breathlessness and distress. ‘King Ptolemy has imprisoned Kleomenes, and we don't know what to do!'

‘Where?'

‘In a house.'

‘Are you sure he's alive?'

‘Oh yes! But it's the beginning.'

‘Very likely. Where's Philylla?'

‘With the old Queen and the children. Sphaeros is there too.'

‘Much good he is! Let me think. Do you know what they've charged Kleomenes with?' He began to wipe his tools and put them away. Work had been interrupted rather thoroughly by this time.

‘It's all uncertain. Every one's trying to find out. Shall we ask Metrotimé? Oh, Berris, I'm afraid of something happening to Philylla! Berris, I do love her so.'

Berris at that produced a jerky laugh. ‘So do I! Is Kleomenes imprisoned alone?'

‘Just with a few servants. Of course, it may be the others any moment. Some of them are trying to get at Ptolemy and some have gone to Sosibios. The poor old Queen's terribly upset; most of the women are with her. Philylla was afraid she might try to do something stupid and violent, which would only make things worse. Berris, who's going to help?'

The last remains of the statue-as-it-was-going-to-be let go their hold and slipped out of Berris' mind. He said: ‘We'd better find Metrotimé.'

‘I suppose'—Erif hesitated—‘Berris, I suppose you trust her still?'

‘I've got to suppose so,' said Berris.

‘We'll go to the palace, then. There'll be one or two others. What about that man—oh, what is his name?—yes, Ptolemy, the son of Chrysermas? He and Kleomenes have always been very friendly.'

‘You go,' said Berris. ‘I must wait in case Philylla comes.'

Erif said slowly: ‘I saw her with the Queen. She didn't say she was coming.'

‘What did she say?'

‘Oh, Berris, she didn't speak about you! And she only told me to find out what was happening to the King. I think she's altogether back with Sparta. She was only thinking about Panteus and her own first friends. We're out of it now.'

Berris said nothing. He stood tapping with his fingers against the statue; then he picked up his cloak. ‘Come on, Erif; we'll both go. The streets mayn't be too safe. Though I doubt if many people in Alexandria care. If she comes—'

‘Berris darling, she won't. The old Queen needs her, and the children. At least, she thinks so.'

There was very little to be discovered at the palace. Metrotimé kept them waiting for some time, and then came in hurriedly and told them that Sosibios had found out that a plot was being hatched against the Divine King. She did not know, but Kleomenes might be implicated. ‘You keep out of it,' she advised the two. ‘Don't get muddled up with these Spartans, who've got no ideas beyond their own grievances. Make us something splendid again, Berris. We all believe in you. I hear from dear Agathokles that there's a new statue coming, and we're all longing to peep. I wonder if I can guess why it's kept secret?' But Berris was as dumb and unsatisfactory as ever.

Coming out from Metrotimé, they found old Sphaeros, also trying to get information at the palace and rather ashamed of feeling so much concern. He kept on repeating: ‘He was my pupil,' as though it would be justified by that.