Читать книгу The Corn King and the Spring Queen - Naomi Mitchison - Страница 19

Chapter Four

AT THE END OF the battle of Leuctrum, the Marob people went back to their own quarters, half a dozen tents in a little walled enclosure of fruit trees. The green almonds were swelling already, beginning to weight the twigs; Berris had never seen them before. He was dazed and very unhappy. It had all only just happened.

He had shut his imagination and gone among the spears. Tarrik enjoyed that, but he didn’t. It had been a muddling, scrambling sort of fight, in and out of ditches, putting one’s horse at loose stone walls—then who was quickest at the far side, you or the other man—losing touch with one’s friends in back gardens with ridiculous smug rows of cabbages and beans or sunk lanes between the stony little cornfields, not sure till the last moment whether the man galloping towards you was friend or enemy. Then he and the Chief, and perhaps a dozen others from Marob, collected in a patch of waste ground where the garden rubbish was dumped; there was a shed for a wine-press at the far end. One of the others had a helmet full of water, and they all drank. The place was covered with some sort of vetch, pink and white. There was a great noise and they got their horses in hand and a bit of the battle came at them, a sort of ragged cavalry charge. They shot off arrow after arrow at the horses, brought down three or four who broke up the line behind them, and then met the rest on their spears. As it happened, Berris was opposite the leader, and quite by accident managed to kill him, he was not very sure how. And then a prisoner, a man from Megalopolis, told them that it was Lydiades, their own leader and one of the two most important generals of the League. Immediately Berris remembered his promise to Philylla.

He had dismounted to look. Lydiades was not quite dead, just moving a little all over, but unconscious and beyond speech. The spear had gone through his chest, but he did not seem to be bleeding much, outside at least. He was a noble-looking man, with clear skin and his neck set rather beautifully on to his shoulders. Suddenly Berris became dreadfully sorry; he had spoilt something irreplaceable. He knelt beside Lydiades and looked at the horrid smashed hole his spear had made. He tried to close it up, to make it seem as if it hadn’t been done. That was no use. Lydiades died. Over the body he found himself looking across at one of the prisoners, who was kneeling too, his face so twisted with misery and anger that Berris found his own face was twisting in sympathy. ‘Tell me,’ said Berris.

The man said: ‘He was the best—the best of us all! He had power over us for a year; if he had chosen to stay tyrant he could have, for no one else loved glory and splendid things as he did. But he did not choose! He threw off the tyranny of his own free will, gave us back our liberty, let us join freely the free Achaean League. He was braver and more generous and higher hearted than anyone else, and now the old dog Aratos, the son of Klinias, has let him be killed.’ The man broke down into fits of weeping. Berris looked once more at Lydiades, noticing the beautiful proportions of his arms and legs and the way he lay tangled up with his splendid armour. The shield and helmet were heavily and tortuously inlaid with golden comets and gorgons. In the near presence of that dead man, their owner, Berris did not quite like even to think his inevitable opinion of them.

King Kleomenes was told. He was angry and upset for two reasons: first, because Lydiades, though his enemy, had also been the great influence against Aratos in the councils of the League, and Aratos was the only part of the League he really feared; also he had always thought of Lydiades as being in some way and in some future a possible ally, and Sphaeros had thought the same. This was part of the second reason too, and the rest was simply violent regret that a man like Lydiades who had also been influenced by the Stoic philosophy and had at least done one action worthy of a philosopher king, should be dead like this in a skirmish. He bade them bring the body over to his quarters, and put on it a purple cloak of his own, and so sent it back in all honour to Megalopolis, whose tyrant it had been once and since then the first of the citizens. He sent with it an escort of half a dozen citizen prisoners; they had seen his grief and the gesture of the cloak, sincere enough too. Things like this were as good for Kleomenes in the eyes of men as many gifts would have been.

It was Hippitas who came limping over to the Scythians’ tents and told them all this. They were angry, and Tarrik made up his mind to go straight home, not stay any longer in this Sparta, where nothing was happening the way he had meant it to. Hippitas soothed them down; his own opinion of them had got much higher from what he had seen himself during the fighting. He did not think the King really blamed them, and a good many of the Spartiates, including Therykion, had a quite different idea and were delighted at the death of one of the two great leaders of the League. Tarrik was partly appeased, but not altogether; Hippitas went to find Sphaeros and ask him to go and see his former pupil.

Sphaeros was with the King, so Hippitas waited in the sun. He had taken off his armour and washed after the fighting, and now he had nothing on but a loose linen tunic; under it he could feel the good sweat that the heat brought out trickling freely down his body. He was glad the battle was won; he was glad he was not too old to like his own body. When the King’s time came and Sparta was itself once more, everything would be better still. It would be a good thing if Sphaeros went rather soon to see the barbarians and tell them to be sensible; he himself was not clever at that kind of talking. He went over to the King’s tent. There were two of the large, common water-jugs standing in the shade of it; he drew his hand caressingly across their cool, damp flanks. He could hear the King’s voice inside the tent, but did not distinguish any words. Panteus was on guard at the tent door with a long spear, Macedonian fashion; he frowned and motioned Hippitas away with his left hand. Hippitas went back past the jars, where he drank, and sat down again on a stone a little way from the tent, so that he would see Sphaeros coming out; he found a fresh clove of garlic in his belt and began to chew it.

Inside the tent there was a mattress covered in the daytime with fine fox furs; it had a couple of rolled-up blankets and some cushions, not very clean. There were three carved oak chests, bound and hinged with bronze, and two bronze rings at each end for carrying them. There were a few folding chairs, bronze and painted leather, and a trestle table with the top inlaid for playing various games. On the table were a set of tablets, as well as a roll of Egyptian paper with pen and ink beside it. Sphaeros sat at one end of the table and King Kleomenes at the other. Panteus at the door could hear everything they said.

Sphaeros looked unhappy and old and puzzled. Kleomenes was staring at him with a small, fierce smile that showed his very white teeth. ‘Well?’ he said.

Sphaeros began fingering the ends of the pens. ‘I must ask you this,’ he said. ‘After Archidamos came home to take his place as your fellow king, what happened?’

‘What have you been told happened?’

Sphaeros sighed. ‘You know as well as I do, Kleomenes. Have you got to be mocking me all the time?’

‘Very well,’ said Kleomenes, ‘if you want it you shall have it. I think I know what you have heard. It’s mostly true. I knew he was going to be killed, and I could have stopped it, but I didn’t. You might just as well say straight off that I killed him myself. There you are, Sphaeros, there’s your pupil.’

‘How do you justify yourself for that, Kleomenes?’

‘Have I got to justify myself? Well, if you wish it—I wouldn’t for most people. I asked him, then, to come back from Messene after the child died; I thought we might even work together. But when he came and I saw him I found he was frightened. Agis let himself be killed because he was too gentle and good. This brother of his was gentle, but he was not much else. He would have hampered me, whether he wanted to or not; he would have asked for mercy and compromise when there is no time for them; when they have been tried already and failed. It was a pity to have to kill him; he would have done plenty of things well, but being King of Sparta—just now—was not one of them.’

‘So you are King alone. The two lines ruling side by side have come to an end after six hundred years.’

‘Have I got to tell my teacher not to think he is sorry for a thing he doesn’t really mind about in the least? As if it matters that the double kingship is old! You’ll tell me next that the Twins have put a curse on me! I am King alone and perhaps my son will be that. Or perhaps it may seem better to go back to what used to be. It is wiser not to be too sure of one’s wishes, and above all not to put them into words.’

‘If the baby had lived?’

‘I suppose you are asking me if I would have killed him, Sphaeros? You may even think I did. No. He would not have hampered me; he would have worked with me. He was the son not only of Agis but of my Agiatis. That last day I stayed with her by the cot till he died.’

‘I see,’ said Sphaeros, and stayed silent and greyish for a time.

The King beckoned Panteus over from the door of the tent. He came and stood by the table, trailing his spear a little so that it should not touch the linen roof. The King took his other hand and swung it a moment, mockingly. ‘Sphaeros thinks I’m a bad pupil. We oughtn’t to have done it!’

‘Sphaeros has only been here a few months,’ said Panteus, more gently and seriously. ‘He does not believe enough in the New Time—his own time, really.’

Sphaeros looked at them both and spoke to Panteus. ‘You, his lover, do you think this was a good deed?’

Panteus did not answer for a moment; he looked down along his spear. Then he said: ‘I will try and tell you how it all seems to me, though I am not sure if Kleomenes agrees. At least I know he doesn’t, because we have often talked together of just this. I believe that a man must think a great deal about what is good, by himself walking in the hills and with friends in the long nights of talk when it seems only an hour between midnight and dawn. When he has thought and talked much and has a plan in his head for the Good Life, then he can act, and if he has thought rightly, his action will be right. And it seems to me also that Kleomenes is this man.’

Sphaeros said: ‘I do not think it is possible for a man with a life so full, with a wife and children whom he loves and spends himself for, yes, and armies and a kingdom, to stay still and think enough to be sure of rightness. Even Zeno my master was not sure.’

Kleomenes said nothing; his eyebrows moved on the steep bony ledge of his forehead, his face twitched between laughing and frowning. Panteus went on: ‘It seems to me as well that two actions may be different, though both, in appearance and outward circumstances, are alike, according to the mind of the man who does them. A thing that is bad if it is done with great care and forethought, yet out of a mind that is unsure of its rightness, may be good if it is done simply and calmly out of a sure and calm mind. Just as, if one’s body is well trained and good in its own bodily way of awareness and strength, one can trust it to move as it should. I see where my spear should go, and there it goes: simply. And Kleomenes has his mind at ease like that because he knows the good he wants. Archidamos had to be killed. But it was done simply: just that nothing else was possible.’

Sphaeros said: ‘It would have been terrible for you, loving him, if you had thought he had done a really wrong thing.’

‘We could not have gone on loving each other then.’

‘And because that is impossible you must find for yourself some way of being certain that what he does is not wrong.’

Panteus looked at the King, not even touching him. ‘I do not think it is that,’ he said.

Suddenly Kleomenes pounced like a fox on the first idea before it had trailed away out of the tent. ‘I do not myself consider that Panteus is right. He does not allow enough for the future. In his idea there is thought in the past and action in the present, but he does not show you the future pressing on me, on all of us more or less, like an unborn babe, forcing us to action for its sake, not for our own. Archidamos was a sacrifice for the future, as many others may be before I am done—as I may be myself.’ He shivered and sank into himself; Panteus’ hand went to his shoulder; the great spear shaft was a strong thing for him to gaze at.

Sphaeros got to his feet. ‘At least, I understand, for any use that may be. You have gone beyond my teaching, Kleomenes. I hope you have not gone beyond truth.’

Kleomenes said: ‘I am not as sure as I used to be that truth is so utterly the worthiest thing to seek, nor that it is only of one kind. All the same, I think I have been a goodish pupil in that sense. By the way, Sphaeros, I have not told Agiatis about this one thing. It would have hurt her unnecessarily, though I think she would have understood my reasons. And she has been over-much hurt already.’

He looked hard at Sphaeros, who nodded and went out. He was tired and would have liked to rest and think it all out, but Hippitas was waiting for him, and insisted that he should go over at once to see Tarrik of Marob and stop him from doing anything stupid.

Tarrik, however, had calmed down quite satisfactorily. His men had taken several fine horses with gilt saddles and scalloped and painted bridles, and now they were playing dice for them. Tarrik himself was eating pickled octopus, which he seemed to like very much, and a Spartiate captain—the son of one of the ephors—was sitting beside him. Sphaeros thought they must be talking about women. Berris was not there. When Sphaeros came in, Tarrik looked up, quite pleased, and shouted to them to bring another plate and olives; his Spartan friend grinned and said: ‘Well, how’s the philosopher cock and all the philosopher chickabiddies?’ Smiling, Sphaeros avoided answering him, refused a helping of octopus which in any case he did not much care for, and asked Tarrik if he was still angry. Tarrik shook his head: ‘My mind is back in its right place. They can say what they like now. But there was an hour or two when I didn’t do my teacher much credit!’ A quick spurt of laughter bubbled out of Sphaeros. He said: ‘My pupils are always so kind about blaming themselves, not me!’ And then he asked after Berris Der. The Chief said: ‘Oh, Berris! He’s in love. That makes everything worse. Who? It’s plain enough: that Philylla girl, one of the Queen’s maids. But he’ll get over it. We do!’ He sounded rather defiant. That was because it was still worrying him that the star on his breast was quite cold and he was a very long journey from Erif. Sphaeros nodded, but, in the presence of this other Spartan, made no comment.

After that battle nothing very much happened for some time. There was a great deal of feeling in the Achaean League that Aratos, with the main body of the army, had not supported Lydiades and the cavalry, and had consequently lost them the battle. Some said it was deliberate treachery, others that it was just his usual dislike of actual fighting. Finally, they said they would give him no more money, and if he wanted to go on with the war he could pay for it himself. And so, for a time, he did. He was an odd little man; he did not care much for other people, but he cared immensely for his rather unexciting political ideals, for the Achaean League of free cities—oligarchies, of course. He had read Aristotle. He saw that the only chance for the Greece of his time was for the cities to bind themselves together as securely as possible. All the little states had been romantic and inspiring in time past, but that was before the days when Alexander’s generals and their successors for nearly a hundred years had made rich and powerful kingdoms out of the barbarian nations: Egypt, Macedonia, Syria, Cappadocia, and so on. As it was, he had to get help, sell himself here and there, but never completely. He had very few friends, but he had one son and he kept a diary. Some day, it seemed to him, this would be published and read, and people would do justice to him, that is, if he was successful. He cared a good deal about the opinion of the world, but did not care whether it was to be his own world, or some future one. Again and again his feeling about Kleomenes was pure annoyed anger at this bad luck which had thrown up, after so many generations of mediocrity, a Spartan king who had to be reckoned with and to whom this future approval might go from those who did not understand. And all these revolutionary ideas of Kleomenes made him look like something very grand to that large number of men in every one of the free cities of the League, who, naturally, were not included in the oligarchy. All the same, thought Aratos, reason would win in the end and certainly reason was on his side.

Tarrik suddenly decided that he wanted to see Athens, and see Athens he did, with Berris and half a dozen others; they went round by sea. Athens had been under the Macedonians up to a few years ago, though not very painfully so. However, it was now free again; the foreign garrisons were gone and there was a fairly full democracy. It was Aratos who had bought off the Macedonian general, for he had a curious intellectual passion for the place, but somehow the Athenians had rather disregarded him and his League. Not that they had any sort of liking for Kleomenes of Sparta, but that was hardly to be expected.

Athens was perfectly accustomed to strangers. Tarrik and his friends found a whole programme of sight-seeing almost inevitably mapped out for them. The time before, when he had been to Greece as a boy with his Aunt Eurydice, they had lived in Corinth, a rather secluded life among oldish people, with a visiting tutor to give Charmantides a good Greek accent and a grounding in ancient history. He had visited Athens for a few days, but somehow the only impressions he had got of it were of his tutor taking him firmly to places of historical interest and making him stand still while he was being lectured to, or else of meeting some other old Scraggy and then the two of them would have endlessly dull conversations while the boy dawdled about and yawned and was not allowed out of sight. He still remembered a sweet-stall they used to pass—always so unkindly to pass! He tried to find it again now so as to buy masses of sweets, but it had disappeared and had to be left as part of the geography in the slowly enlarging Platonic Kingdom of the Unattainable.

There was no denying that they found it exciting. There was the sense of the sea all the time: it kept the mountains back, that had been walling them in all along the horizon, day after day, round Sparta and Megalopolis. And then there was so much actual beauty. At first they could hardly see the trees for the wood; it was difficult to get more than a tangle of impressions, and when it came to pictures and statuary, the guides who had been introduced to them were sometimes rather tryingly reminiscent of Epigethes. Berris was rude to them and was suitably snubbed, and finally he went off on his own and hunted down the things that pleased him and afterwards dragged Tarrik off to see as many as possible.

At first he had been distressed at finding nothing but a naturalistic convention, or at least one that tried to be. Marble and metal alike made soft and plastic, treated like flesh or as clay, not allowed to take their own proper forms. He had not discovered any of the cold, logical lines and masses that he looked for now. The only thing he liked for a long time was the brilliant colour, deep yellow and red and black caught up in the fierce light that came on to everything. If marble was to be treated as they seemed to enjoy treating it, the only thing to do was to pretend it was something else and cover it with paint—but even that was not done by the more modern sculptors.

The actual pictures amused him very much. He had seen very little of the sort before, and he loved finding out what could be done with perspective and grouping. There was one he particularly liked by Philoxenos of Eretria: a huge battle-piece, with Alexander and his generals, the whole background filled up with great pikes, straight and slanting, twenty feet of wall striped with these painted Macedonian sarissas. Another by the same painter had palm trees used as a background in much the same way. It was not more than a few days before he managed to make friends with a young painter, a pupil from one of the famous studios, who was doing the back wall of a colonnade that had been given to the city by a group of rich citizens; it was to go alongside the new fish market, and was being painted with groups of fisher boys pouring the catch out of nets. Then he had a delightful time learning the technicalities of design and material. Soon he was helping to mix the colours and clean the brushes. It all had to be done very rapidly before the plaster dried, and in the end several square feet of that Athenian colonnade were painted by Berris Der with the great sturgeon that they catch in the landward part of the marshes south of Marob.

He found his way about the older stuff too, and with his young painter friend rediscovered some of the archaic things which were just becoming fashionable again with the more advanced groups. There was plenty of three and four hundred year old sculpture stowed away in the backs of temples, too sacred to be destroyed though too old fashioned to be shown. They got leave to draw and measure it and then produced statues of their own with as much of the old conventions as could be worked in nicely. All this amused Berris; none of the Athenian artists whom he met seemed to him serious about their work, as he had been serious about his; but it was a good change for him and he learned all the time, for they were competent craftsmen. He had done hardly any work on marble or stone before and enjoyed finding out about it, watching the way it chipped, fascinated by the new surfaces he could make.

Once, rather cautiously, he had asked if anyone had known a man called Epigethes. The name seemed vaguely familiar to one or two, and at last someone thought he remembered a rather inferior person of that name, who had been turned out of one of the great bronze-casting studios for stealing another man’s savings without adequate excuse, and had then had to go and make his living among the barbarians. Berris said no more; he felt infinitely grown up now. He could not imagine how he could ever have been so silly and unsure of himself as to fall down and worship anything that smelt ever so little of Athens—now that he had seen the real thing! Now that he had seen hundreds and hundreds of Greek pictures, vases, sculpture and metal work, every form of art, and could compare, and say what was beautiful and what was a copy and bad at that. Now that he felt sure of his craft. Tarrik reminded him that this had happened before and that sooner or later he always became unsure and transitional again, but Berris did not think these precedents held any longer. Perhaps he had been like that as a boy, but he was a man now. Altogether he enjoyed himself very much for three weeks.

Tarrik had been less happy. He was looking for something, a wisdom, a way of life and action and government, and he did not find it in Athens, even though they were friendlier than in Sparta. He went to hear various philosophers, sometimes with introductions from Sphaeros, sometimes on his own, struck perhaps by something he had heard by chance in the street or theatre. But he never got much out of them. Instead, he would go off with the younger and sillier of his nobles, and such of the Athenian youth as were attracted, and spend a great deal of money and over-eat, and either go to expensive actresses or else make elaborate and giggling plans for climbing over garden walls and kissing respectable citizens’ wives. When Tarrik was being deliberately stupid, he was worse than anyone. And he did not make any friends. At last he said they must go back.

Between the battle of Leuctrum and their start for Athens, Berris had not managed to see Philylla and he had not liked to write to her. He was not sure how she would take the fact that he had killed Lydiades. But once they were back, he decided that he must see her and tell her all about Athens. It was a few days before they met; he was getting impatient. When he did see her, he stopped her and said: ‘You promised you’d let me talk to you about beauty if I killed a general of the League. You know I’ve done that for you, and now you’re trying to hide!’

‘I know,’ said Philylla, ‘that in a way I am to blame for Lydiades of Megalopolis being killed. But I haven’t been hiding, and I keep my promises. I can’t stop now, because we are all going to put down the linen for bleaching. But I’ll meet you this evening when the others are singing.’

‘But don’t you want to sing?’ asked Berris, suddenly quite shy and afraid he was being a nuisance.

‘No,’ said Philylla definitely. She did not want to say, least of all to a Scythian, that the others refused to have her when they were singing, because she would insist on trying to sing too, and there had been rather a fight about it, but there were more of them than there was of her. ‘At the top of the bleaching-ground,’ she said, ‘after supper.’

Before going, she told Agiatis, who was a little nervous. She said: ‘Beauty is a dangerous thing to talk about, a dangerous goddess—you know we kept her in chains in the old days?’ ‘Oh yes,’ said Philylla, ‘but you know, darling, I can look after myself. It’s not as if he was a man, he’s only a silly boy. And if he tries to kiss me I shall run down the bleaching-ground; I know where the pegs are and he doesn’t, so he’ll trip over them and come down on his nose.’

Berris, however, did not try to kiss her; all he did was to catch hold of her wrist and emphasise his points by hitting it against his knee. This embarrassed her a good deal, but as it would have embarrassed her still more to make him let go, she allowed him to keep it. She did not in the least understand most of what he said, although by now his Greek was quite good and very fluent. At first, while he was taking some trouble over making things clear and considering her rather than what he was talking about, it was easy enough; but then he began on technicalities and went on as if he were talking to himself, and when she tried to stop him and make him explain he got impatient. She did not much like it, either, that he was always talking about Athens. She tried to get him back on to subjects that she considered interesting, but it was no good. Just a little of what he said stuck, enough, she found afterwards, to make her uncomfortable, not sure whether after all she did really like any of the things she used to think were pretty, whether she had ever looked at them, really looked at them—what Berris Der called looking! Naturally, she wouldn’t admit it at first, but when she had to, that was what it came to.

As they sat there talking the sun dipped towards the level of the mountain tops; dimly peaked shadows spread all across the land and up towards them. They were sitting on the ground under a low pomegranate tree with the squares of bleaching linen wide out on the slope below them, held down with stones or pegs. Philylla’s magpie perched on a twig and sometimes whistled; she shook the branch and pomegranate flowers fell and lodged themselves a moment, brilliant scarlet, between its glossy shoulders. Berris began to talk about his sister, and now Philylla listened altogether. He told her about the women’s magic of Marob that was handed down from mother to daughter, how bad witches were drowned and even their babiest daughters were drowned with them in case the thing had been taught already, and he told how good witches were allowed to do all sorts of things just like men: could walk alone in the fields and carry knives, and if they chose to marry they made the best of wives, because they were too much interested in magic to want lovers. Suddenly he said: ‘If you were in my country, Philylla, you would be a witch.’

‘Would I?’ said Philylla inadequately, and blushed. Then she said: ‘It must be sad for your sister to be left alone now.’

‘Yes,’ said Berris, ‘I wish I knew what she was doing just this moment! She will have plenty to see to, because she is the Spring Queen and she has to make things start. She has to walk among the flax fields with the other chief women of Marob and all the witches that can be found. I don’t know what they do; it is a woman’s magic, but they make the flax grow long and tough.’

Philylla said: ‘Do you really believe that, Berris Der? I mean, of course, I know there is some magic, and people can tell fortunes, and I once saw an Egyptian myself who could swallow fire and pull live pigeons out of an empty bag, but all this about the flax! It’s the sort of thing the slaves believe in here, only of course all of us know that the seeds just spring when the time comes and there’s rain and sun for them. I wish you didn’t believe in that kind of magic, Berris!’

‘But I do,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen it happen. I know my sister and I know Tarrik, and they aren’t pretending about it. They are quite certain they do it with the magic that is in them, and I can feel it all about them too.’

‘But what happened before your sister was married to—to Tarrik? Who was Spring Queen then?’

‘Well,’ said Berris, ‘whatever girl the Corn King chooses to dance with at Plowing Eve is Spring Queen for that day—and it’s the most important day in the year. And then, for the other things, any girl he goes with has a little bit of the Spring Queen’s magic put into her with him, and that lasts for a month or till her child is born if she has one. So there’s always some woman who’s got enough of it to do the things.’

‘You are a set of savages,’ said Philylla, and got up and began talking to her magpie.

Berris was still thinking of his sister when he heard his name being called over and over again. For a moment he did not recognise the voice. He looked down the bleaching-ground; it was beginning to get dark. He saw Tarrik at the bottom of the slope with his arms spread out oddly, and called to him. Tarrik came stumbling up.

‘Oh,’ said Philylla, ‘he’s treading on the linen!’ But she said no more because almost at once she too saw that there was something wrong.

Berris began to run down to meet him and then checked and stood shivering. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Oh, Tarrik, what has come on you?’

And Tarrik said: ‘She’s dead!’

Berris started trembling from head to feet. ‘I was just talking about her,’ he said. ‘Oh, Tarrik, she can’t be! Oh, Tarrik, it’s not true! Who says so?’

‘Eurydice has come from Marob, my Aunt Eurydice. She says Erif is dead. My wife is dead.’

‘Oh, Tarrik,’ said Berris, ‘I did so want to see her again!’ And he stamped and choked and stuck his fists into his eyes. Tarrik looked at him blankly and said nothing. Berris said: ‘What are you going to do?’

Then Tarrik said: ‘Erif is dead and my magic has gone out of me.’ And he turned away from them and ran up a little winding, stony path that started between the pomegranate trees and went on towards the hills. Berris looked after him, getting smaller and smaller among the shaking bushes.

Philylla had been standing by, horrified and inadequate. She went over to Berris and touched his hand. At the touch he collapsed on to his knees at her feet and began sobbing and whispering frantically his sister’s name. She began to stroke his shoulder with little dry touches. ‘Poor Berris,’ she said. ‘Oh poor, poor Berris!’ But he did not notice her at all.

Then the Queen and Panteus came up towards them. They watched her for a moment, then Agiatis beckoned. She left Berris and went over to them. She came up to the Queen’s shoulder now, and she was still growing fast. Berris did not move. ‘Poor boy!’ said the Queen, and squeezed Philylla’s hand. Then she asked where the other had gone. Philylla pointed up the twisting path, and saw Panteus look quickly at the Queen. ‘Yes,’ she said, and then to Philylla, ‘that was the path King Agis took when he went up into the mountains and came down to me in the morning with the idea of the New Times in his head. That was the path.’