The Corn King and the Spring Queen

by Naomi Mitchison

  ‘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 t
oo?’

  ‘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.

  Chapter Three

  THE CHIEF OF MAROB and his people were housed in some of the very large and much decorated guest-rooms that King Leonidas had once ordered to be made, round an old court at the back of the King’s house: that was years ago when there had been some very particular visitors from Macedonia to receive and impress. By now the plaster and paint showed signs of wear and decay, though Agiatis had seen to it that there should be enough cleaning and touching up to keep them very magnificent. Nothing of the sort would be made nowadays, of course, but still she and her husband thought of it all—when such things occurred to them—as very fine and adequate for the guests of the Spartan State.

  She had given Sphaeros an even better room, close to their own. It had a vine painted all over it, with red grapes and yellow baskets in low relief, and winged babies, grape gathering or asleep. There was one that always reminded her of her own dead baby. Philylla, spreading a coloured quilt on the bed, looked round and saw Agiatis staring at the wall quietly and solemnly, with her lips a little parted, and knew what it was, and wondered for the hundredth time which of the two kings whose children she had borne, Agiatis had loved best. And then suddenly she found that old wonder changing into a new one, about the barbarian who had spoken to her so oddly about beauty: because, of course, the babies and the grapes were ever so pretty, and she’d always liked them and always would, and anyhow what he said hadn’t meant anything, couldn’t have, only she’d have to try and believe him—if he kept his promise.