Читать книгу The Corn King and the Spring Queen - Naomi Mitchison - Страница 17

Chapter Two

THEY 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.

‘I have come hoping to see the King,’ said Sphaeros.

‘Who are you? Strangers?’ the man said, looking from Sphaeros to the barbarians and back again.

‘I am a philosopher. I was the King’s friend—once.’ After another long look, the man led them along into the outer hall and left them there with a couple of strong-looking armed helots on guard.

It was a square, darkish room with four doors, and not too clean. In each corner there was a large bronze vase, cast and rather badly finished, with jagged-looking holes for the rings to go through, and a stupid and very much elaborated egg and dart pattern round the bulge; one of them had dried bulrushes in it. There were also two or three glazed pottery lamps, shaped into fattish sphinxes, and a trophy of arms, not very interesting. The walls were more pink than red, with a black stripe near the bottom, and imitation pillars painted at each side of the doors. Berris grew more and more depressed; he thought of home, of his own forge, and the clear live shapes of his own things, fire and anvil waiting for him, and the little girl Sardu sorting his tools and putting them away in their leather roll. He thought of Erif Der, her pale face and grey eyes between the plaits. He thought of the harvest—the heavy, gentle heads of the garlanded cows; the little fir trees stuck about with apples and coloured knots; the striped reeds of the flax-pickers; the thick blue and scarlet dresses of young girls running on the snow of Marob. His eyes wandered round the room again, and at last caught Tarrik’s and stayed there. Tarrik was laughing, but that made it no better. The helot guards looked at them suspiciously, their hands on their sword hilts.

After about ten minutes, when still nothing had happened, Tarrik began to fidget and suggested to Sphaeros that kings were sometimes difficult to see and he had plenty of Greek money with him. But Sphaeros shook his head, beginning to be rather unhappy. Then, after another time of waiting, a girl came into the room from one of the side doors, with a great bundle of folded linen across her arms. She looked at them over the top of it, hesitated and stopped.

‘Is it the King you wish to see?’ she said with some dignity. They were so pleased at anything happening that they all said ‘Yes!’ in the same breath. A little confused herself, she smiled at them, prettily, mostly at Berris, who seemed to be more her own age. And suddenly Berris knew that everything was all right, and he had come this long way to Hellas for no vain hope.

As he realised this, he heard Sphaeros speaking, and saying who he was. The girl hugged the bundle of linen tight against her; her eyes were big and bright; she spoke in a whispered cry: ‘Oh, you’re Sphaeros at last! You’ve come to make us good again and bring the King’s time! Come—come to Agiatis.’ Berris, watching every least movement, saw her try to get one arm away from the bundle, and jumped forward himself and caught the linen as it slipped. She thanked him with a word and half a stare at his funny clothes, and took Sphaeros by the hand and led him through. The guards saluted her. They went down the passage and into a light, open court. Tarrik was the one of the three who looked about him now.

By and bye Kleomenes came, grave and hurrying, and took Sphaeros by both hands, then quickly bent and kissed him.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I shall know what I am doing. Oh, Sphaeros, I see so crookedly sometimes!’ Then he became aware of the other two and frowned terribly. ‘Why are these barbarians here?’ he asked.

Sphaeros, seeing Tarrik elaborately pretending not to hear, stood back so that the two faced one another across his shadow: ‘This is Tarrik, King of Marob, Corn King of the Marob Harvest, who is also called Charmantides. Without him you would not see me here. I was wrecked on his coast, and he took me into his house and was my pupil as you were once. He brought me here in all honour and knowing that King Kleomenes of Sparta would use him and his men no worse than he used me.’ He laid some emphasis on ‘knowing’ because it was something real to him, an idea and a word not to be used lightly.

Kleomenes saw this, and for a moment he hated Sphaeros, first for bringing this barbarian and complicating what he had thought of as clear, and second for doubting him and his behaviour. His neck swelled, and the veins on his forehead; his eyes seemed to darken. Tarrik kept quite still, measuring his own height and strength against the other king’s. But suddenly the Spartan’s head jerked back, his hand out. ‘Welcome to my house, King of Marob!’ he said, with something surprisingly near sincerity.

Tarrik answered quickly: ‘Good words, King of Sparta. I take your welcome—I and my men—to a well-heard-of house! And if you need help, money, or swords, we will be your friends and allies.’

Kleomenes looked sharply at him: ‘How many are you?’

‘Twenty, and all free; some are my cousins. All young too.’

‘Mm,’ said the other king, ‘I might find a use …’ Then suddenly: ‘Where is Marob?’

Tarrik found it hard to explain; he had never exactly thought of this; Marob had always been, as it were, here, in the middle: other places, somewhere away north or south. Besides, if he knew about Sparta, then this other king ought to know about his country! But Sphaeros began to tell the whole story; it was better to have it clear. The three of them drifted off, Tarrik apparently admitted. But Berris had not been quick enough, nor for that matter quite bold enough, to follow his Chief. He stayed where he was, looking about him, enjoying the sunshine on his face and hands. The girl he had seen came up quietly from behind and made him jump when she spoke.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

He assembled his Greek as quickly as he could under the child’s disquieting eyes; he saw now that she was younger than he had thought at first. ‘I am Berris Der,’ he said. ‘I came from Marob with my king and Sphaeros.’

‘Is that your king?’ She pointed. ‘I see. He looks very fine. Are you his friend?’

‘Yes,’ said Berris.

Philylla nodded sympathetically. ‘What kind of man is he?’ she asked. Berris was not at all sure how he ought to answer. He began tentatively: ‘He can kill bulls and shoot through a man’s eye a hundred paces off. And— oh,‘—seeing this was the wrong thing—‘Sphaeros has been teaching him all the winter, and they read a great many Greek books! He is called Charmantides sometimes— his great-grandfather was a real Hellene from Olbia!’ Philylla was too polite to laugh outright, but she grinned a little, and he grinned back appealingly. ‘Words mean such different things!’ he said. ‘What kind of man is your king?’

Philylla looked at him hard and took a breath and said solemnly: ‘He is going to make our country great and wise and free. He never thinks of his own pleasure, only of that. And the Queen is the same, only more.’ Suddenly she remembered that he could not know who she was. ‘And I am Philylla, daughter of Themisteas. I am maid of honour to the Queen. Till she comes I am your hostess.’

She stopped short; it seemed to be Berris’s turn. He would have liked to say something impressive. ‘My father is one of the Chief’s councillors at Marob,’ he began, ‘and no one can give him orders but the Chief, the King, that is.’

‘Yes,’ said Philylla, ‘foreigners always have to obey their kings. We are free in Hellas.’

‘But your king—’

‘Oh, that’s different. Our king is a citizen like the rest of us under the ephors. If he told us to do something that was bad for the State, or unworthy, we would not obey him. But that won’t happen with King Kleomenes!’

Berris tried to think of something comparable to say about Tarrik, but couldn’t manage it. He said: ‘I’m a metal-worker. I make things out of brass and gold.’

Philylla drew back a step: ‘You said you were a noble!’

‘But I am! I work because I choose. I draw beasts and trees, and sometimes I carve, and sometimes I model in clay.’

‘Oh, then you’re an artist!’ said Philylla, slightly mollified, but still looking down on him.

‘I’ll make you a gold bracelet if you like,’ said Berris, ‘with any pattern you say! Shall I?’

She blushed, not sure for one thing whether he was asking for an order or suggesting a present. ‘The Queen doesn’t want us to wear many ornaments,’ she said. ‘Besides—oh—do you like being in Hellas?’

‘I came here because I was an artist,’ said Berris, finding the Greek came easier, ‘to see everything. People always told me that there was no art outside Hellas, so I had to know.’

Philylla had not considered art much yet; she looked quickly all round the courtyard and for the first time really noticed the marble groups of Laughter and War—coloured marble they were, and very expressive, given to Kleomenes by his father and much admired. These, of course, must be art. ‘Yes,’ she said proudly, ‘everything pretty comes here. I expect you’d like to look at the statues and things. They’re very beautiful, aren’t they?’

‘I am sure I shall find some beauty.’

‘But haven’t you yet?’

‘Well—not much. Not made beauty, anyhow.’

Philylla led him squarely in front of the war group, which was particularly tangled. ‘There! Now, what do you think of that?’

Berris looked at it and wanted violently to be truthful—and then smash it. It had no centre and no balance; it was all twisted and none of the twists were in the right place. There was no sense of marble about it, no sense even of the original clay it was modelled in. Berris felt himself getting swollen with annoyance and the inability to express it properly. At last he muttered: ‘It’s very nearly perfectly ugly,’ and left it at that.

Philylla stared at him, hardly able to believe her ears, but his clenched fists and scowling eyes told her the same thing. She chucked back her head, saying indignantly: ‘I think you’re mad!’

Berris had a moment of wondering guiltily whether Tarrik would have allowed him to be so truthful on the first day, then he looked from the statue to Philylla and didn’t care. ‘I will make you see for yourself,’ he said; ‘you know, you don’t really like it either.’

‘I don’t think it’s important enough to like or not to like! It’s only silly made-up stuff. But if I chose to, of course I’d like it. It belongs to the King and it cost as much as hundreds of barbarians!’

Berris was so anxious to justify himself that he hardly noticed that. ‘It is important!’ he said. ‘What is the good of anything else if there’s no beauty? Philylla, what can there be to like about that ugliness?’

‘It’s about war, it makes me think of soldiers and swords and victories. They are the things that matter. We only make statues of them just to be reminded. The statues aren’t anything by themselves. Of course they aren’t!’

‘But—but—is that all the praise your artists get?’

‘Artists!’ said Philylla, with incredible contempt. She could not at the moment think of anything scathing enough to say. At last she said: ‘You haven’t even got a sword!’

‘I thought strangers did not need to go armed in your State,’ said Berris bitterly, wishing he could knock her on the head, make her understand somehow! ‘See this, Philylla, daughter of Themisteas—I’m a better artist than the man who made that statue. You set me anything to do, with sword or bow, on foot or riding, and I’ll show you you’re wrong!’

It was quite a minute before Philylla answered. ‘You are going to war under the King,’ she said very seriously. ‘You are to kill one of the generals of the Achaean League. You are to bring me back proof that you have done it.’

‘And then?’

‘Then I’ll believe everything you tell me about your silly statues.’

‘Very well,’ said Berris, quite happy again, ‘that’s agreed, isn’t it, Philylla?’

‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly nervous. ‘Oh yes! But I had better bring you in now. The Queen will want to see you. Are you—are you going to tell your king what you’ve promised?’

‘Of course.’

‘And if he forbids you?’

‘He won’t.’

‘But he may. And he will be very angry with me. But I don’t mind. You are going to do it, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’

‘Then we’re friends?’

‘Yes,’ said Berris. And then all at once: ‘I’ve got two sisters at home, one older than you, I think, and one younger.’

‘I’m going to be fourteen. How old are your sisters?’

‘One’s seventeen. She’s the Chief’s wife, and she can work magic.’

Philylla stopped and turned round: ‘Magic! Oh, how lovely! Can she make charms to get people to do what she wants? Oh, can she tell fortunes?’

‘She can make stones dance, and men and women invisible. She can make the waves follow her along the beach, and the sky change colour.’

‘I don’t believe you. No one can do that, not even the priests in Egypt. Can you make charms yourself too?’

‘No, but my chief can. Only not here. He’s Corn King in Marob. He makes the flax grow and the corn. Whatever he does, happens to the crops. So he has to do special things sometimes.’

‘Sacrifices? Our kings have to do them. But it’s for war and good laws. The slaves do them for the crops here!’

‘Yes, but—’ said Berris, wanting to explain fifty things at once, and then they came through into another court. And there was Tarrik, who had found a convenient pillar to lean against while he listened and smiled; and Sphaeros explaining and asking questions and walking about as he did it, unconsciously gone back to childhood, making patterns with his feet on the marble chequer of the paved floor; and the King and Queen of Sparta, hand in hand, standing beside the round raised basin of clear water that reflected that bright, almost spring-like sky.