‘I must go!’ said Neareta eagerly. ‘The boys will be glad to see their father. Come over and eat bread and honey with us again, my dearie. I always keep the best of the combs for you.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I will. Perhaps father’s coming back too. Listen, Neareta, aren’t they happy!’—there was a great noise of cheering from the farm, and suddenly a light in the window—‘I do love them. And I mightn’t have known them at all but for the King and his Times. Oh, Neareta, it is terrible to think how I might have been looking at them!’ She shook herself and ran out of the yard again, homewards, delighted to have dodged Tiasa, delighted to have been with those friendly people, delighted to have been admired, and then—how exactly was it Neareta had spoken—about Panteus?
Where the path to the farm joined the main cart-track there was a dark hollow between boulders. Somebody was sitting in the thick shadow at the side of the road; he rose at Philylla and she snatched out her knife. But it was Berris Der. ‘I’m back from the army,’ he said. ‘Your King’s doing what he likes everywhere. I’ve been with him. I’ve been fighting, Philylla, up in the oak woods in Arkadia. Whenever there was any fighting I was in it. Oh, don’t stand like that; say something, Philylla! Do you think I want to spend my life fighting?’
‘I wish I could!’ said Philylla stubbornly. ‘Nobody’s made you do it, Berris. Don’t let’s stand about here; it’s dark. Let’s go home. Every one will be glad to see you.’
‘Are you glad?’
‘Of course I am. Have you been making anything?’
‘No, how could I? Except some bronze things for the King. Oh, nothing really. Bridle and saddle pieces. But they might as well be good as bad. He said he liked them, but I don’t suppose he did. He doesn’t really notice.’
‘Well, he hasn’t time, has he? But I’d like to have seen. What were they like, Berris?—queer beasts still?’
‘No. More—patterns. I’ll draw them for you tomorrow. Shall I?’
‘Yes, do! I like it when you come back and start talking about that kind of thing. No one else does. Will you go on with the statue, Berris? It’s still up in the barn. One day when you were away I unwrapped it and looked, but nobody except me has.’
‘You dear!’ said Berris. ‘No, Philylla, don’t hurry. Smell the dust. There’s no smell to compare with it in my country, so alive and sharp as it is. And that apple blossom. I was afraid I’d not get back to you till it was all over.’
‘It’s going to be a good fruit year,’ said Philylla. ‘Oh, Berris! You know when you talked about lines crossing one another last time? Well, I tried to make that on a dress in different colours.’
‘May I see?’
‘Well, I suppose so. But I’m very bad at embroidery. Mother always says so. Have you heard from your home at all?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been having some very queer dreams about it and about my sister. I believe she must be thinking about me. Can I tell you some time?’
‘Tell me now.’
‘But we’re almost at the house. Oh, Philylla, why mayn’t I kiss your hand?’
She stood still for a minute, then said: ‘Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t. There it is, Berris. But I don’t think you ought to stay in Greece all your life, even for the sake of the King and his Times.’ She ran quickly up to the door, looking round for him to follow, but he would not yet. He seemed to prefer the night outside. ‘Do come!’ she said. ‘It’s stupid to stay out.’
But he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’d rather walk about first,’ he said, ‘and shake it off.’
‘Shake what?’ she said; and then: ‘Aren’t you happy?’ But he had run down and into the olive grove below the house. She frowned a little and pushed at the ring in the door till she got it open. He might have helped her! It seemed very warm indoors, though she had not noticed that it was cold out. But when she stooped she saw that the bottom of her dress was wet and heavy with dew off the grass. She wrung it out and stood on one leg, feeling up it with the other foot, which touched the warm inside of her knee so coldly and clammily that she squeaked, then laughed and took off her wet sandals and ran through barefoot.
Just as she thought, her father was home and quite as full of the King and all the exciting things that were happening as every one else. ‘Where’s Tiasa?’ said her mother sharply. ‘Oh, she saw me back,’ said Philylla, saying to herself that even if she did sometimes fight with her foster-mother she wasn’t going to get her a scolding over this.
Themisteas was making an excellent supper, as unlike the Mess food as could be contrived with the resources of the house. He leant back on his cushions and dug into a steaming hot stuffed cabbage with slices of bacon all round it; then there was a goat cheese, sweet and brown, cut into the thinnest possible slices, and he still had some reasonable wine left. Philylla was sitting at his feet, sewing up the side of a woollen dress. Her magpie sat sleepily hunched up on the back of the couch. Eupolia had gone away for the moment to see that they weren’t wasting charcoal in the kitchen, and then perhaps to sing one song to Ianthemis before she went to sleep.
Philylla passed the bread over to her father. He was not in the least doubtful about anything. ‘Sparta’s going to come out on top of the world again,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll be able to say that all this has been worth doing. And then the King can stop some of the nonsense.’
‘What nonsense, father?’
‘He’s carrying this equality business of his too far. All very well when it was decent folk who’d come down in the world; all very well for men like Phoebis, who’ve done something to deserve it. But he’s been freeing out-and-out helots, giving some of our land to them!’
‘Father, he’s come to help the poor and unhappy, the hurt people. He’s making them into fine soldiers and citizens.’ How it helped her to think and speak calmly, having something to do with her hands, this long row of even stitches.
‘My dear, what was good enough for Lycurgos is good enough for me and ought to be good enough for Kleomenes. And he didn’t have any truck with helots.’
She pricked herself with the needle. ‘But the New Times are going beyond Lycurgos!’
‘My dear, if I thought so—sit up straight, Philylla, you’re sprawling like a baby!—if I thought so for one moment, I’d give him a piece of my mind. No, all he’s doing, in spite of what some idiots say, is bringing back the good old Sparta that made us what we are. Time and again he’s said so, and so has his brother, a good lad, Eukleidas, though I don’t much care to have both kings of the same house. And that’s proved by the way the Gods are helping us now, just as they did in old days. Why, he’s half promised not to free any more of these slaves if things go well. But he’s got bad advisers as well as good. Still, he listens to me.’
Philylla, carefully sitting up straight and keeping the little bead of blood on her pricked thumb from getting on to the dress, looked at her father; he had a bit of cabbage sticking in his beard. She thought of Leumas and her friends at the farm, and the next list. She said to herself that of course it was only father, then aloud: ‘But the other cities think he’s going to help the poor and put down the rich. Cynaetha, for instance. That’s why they’re coming to him.’
‘Let them!’ said Themisteas, and laughed and drank. ‘They can do what they like so long as they don’t interfere with us. I tell you, my girl, I like Sparta as it is. So long as your mother isn’t fussing.’ He leant over: ‘Just tell me, child, how’s she been lately? Not so bad, what?’
‘Oh well,’ said Philylla, ‘when Ianthemis got that chill and a fever after it, she was terribly worried, poor dear, because she couldn’t get the Egyptian doctor we used to have.’
‘That’s all nonsense, of course,’ said Themisteas. ‘Children always get chills, always get fevers, always did! She’s as right as rain now. Women ought to know how to look after these things themselves without running after foreigners. Anything else?’
‘Oh, she’s been talking at me since I’
ve been back. Father, can’t I go to Agiatis again soon?’
Themisteas scratched his head. ‘You and Agiatis! What’ll you do when you’re married, child? You won’t be able to run to her every ten minutes then.’ Philylla said nothing. After a time Themisteas laughed. ‘But, by God, if it’s Panteus, I suppose you’ll be able! Clever little hussy, aren’t you! Yes, the King’s spoken to me about that. But mind you, I’ve not made up my mind. There’s time enough.’
‘And—has he spoken, father?’
Themisteas sat up straight and looked at her. ‘Well, I suppose you know how things are with him and the King? You must, living so close to them all, unless you’re more of a fool than I take you for. Well, he’ll have to get free of the King first.’
Philylla said very low: ‘But I don’t want that. I don’t want to take him from Kleomenes.’
‘It won’t be taking him. But he’s got to grow up, hasn’t he? Though the gods know he’s a good enough soldier now, and clever enough with men, and the quickest of all to see the right plan when we’re going to attack. Why, my dear, Agiatis didn’t take the King himself away from anyone, not even that poor creature Xenares, who looks like an old man now.’
‘But Agiatis was different. She had Agis in her heart. She didn’t want Kleomenes when they were married, and she’s never wanted the whole of him.’
‘Well, well, no doubt you know something about it! It’s a woman’s game, and you’re nearly a woman. But Panteus can throw a spear further than most—there’s your mother coming!—and he’d get a nice couple of boys on you, my dear.’ He turned on the cushions and took a good mouthful of cake as Eupolia came in.
She said: ‘The young Scythian has come. Shall he have supper with you, Themisteas? Not that I can give him very much. Bread and cheese, and a mattress for the night. Fine hospitality!’
‘He gets no better with the King,’ said Themisteas, ‘and asks no better, I’ll say that for him. A good lad. Send him in.’
Philylla bent over her sewing. How lovely, how exciting, how complicated life was! She turned the dress right side out and looked critically at her seam. Eupolia went out slowly; she was wearing her best dress of old days, but the colours had washed out and she had no jewels. Sometimes the girls used to get their mother to wear flowers, but it was never very successful. Eupolia thought flowers should stay in their proper place: for young girls, for men at banquets and supper parties, since they did at least cover up coarser smells, and at processions and such, though artificial flowers were better than real ones and lasted longer. They were not in place on a wife and mother, a Spartiate woman whose jewels had been taken from her by a pack of fools and dreamers and perhaps worse!
Themisteas nodded at Philylla. ‘Time you went to bed, my dear. Young Berris will want to talk to me.’
‘What do you want to talk about that I can’t hear, father? Other girls?’
‘Sst, you little vixen! But he’s not one for girls, this barbarian. Odd, that! I thought they all were. Nor boys for that matter. Keeps himself to himself and plays about in the forges. A good craftsman. No, Philylla, it’s not suitable that you should sit with men at supper. You’re not a baby any longer. How would you like it if he began to stare at you? Ah, that wouldn’t be so pleasant. I give you far too much liberty as it is.’
‘More than Lycurgos would have, father?’
‘Nonsense! Go to bed, and take that bird of yours with you. If you meet him in the hall with your mother, curtsey and bid him welcome and don’t stare, and then go straight on. Good dreams to you.’
Chapter Two
A FEW DAYS LATER Philylla rode back to the city to be with Agiatis again, and Berris rode with her. She was laughing a good deal because the path went through what had almost all been her father’s land before the dividing up, but mostly they talked about the things Berris was making and going to make. He had seen the embroidery; it was clumsy in a way, but more in the carrying of it out than in the idea. It was odd, he thought, to have been able to put his forms so much into someone else’s mind that they must come out through her fingers, through her own kind of craft. To put his ideas into her head and nothing else! For a time he rode a few paces ahead; he could not bear to look at her, so trusting, so kind—up to a point, so kind. He had not spoken to her ever directly, but she should know; he was almost sure she did know how deeply he loved her, though perhaps it had never come up to the surface of her thought. No one else knew, though, above all not her father or the King. Did Sphaeros know? Perhaps. In some ways he would be glad if Sphaeros knew.
Philylla did not like him to ride ahead when there was room on the path for both. She called to him: ‘You’re knocking up the dust into my eyes!’ She bent and rubbed them on the skirt of her dress, lifting it so that her knee showed.
She’s only a child yet, after all, thought Berris. Then, aloud: ‘You’ve changed since I saw you first, Philylla.’
‘How?’ She was interested.
‘Your eyes have got more transparent, not just grey and friendly, but the colour of water over round stones reflecting the sky. Your hair’s darker, but it’s more alive; there are all sorts of colours in it. Your mind’s grown too, Philylla; it’s open to more things.’
‘I suppose so.’ She considered her mind. ‘Yes, your sort of things. It’s open to you, Berris.’
She smiled at him very beautifully. Behind her head the slope of the land was in full sun; beyond—beyond was it the sea he saw, that small dazzle? She reached a hand to him; he took it and swung it for a moment in the space between the horses, a firm, square little hand. Dare he risk losing that?
They were fairly near the city now; they had passed several people they both knew, and exchanged news. It was all good. The Achaean League was frightened; they had been beaten everywhere, either by Kleomenes or from within their own cities. Surely Aratos could not keep his power over them much longer, even with his snake’s tongue and the money he had! Was it true that he had written to Antigonos? The dirty dog, trying to betray Greece to the Macedonian! It was said that one of the chief men in Argos—Aristomachos, who had been a general of the League once, but Aratos of course had been jealous of him, as he had been of Lydiades: it was always the same!—this man had written to Kleomenes. Megistonous had had a hand in it, perhaps; he had always been planning things about Argos. But it would be a queer thing if Sparta and Argos were to be friends again after all the time-old wars there had been between them. That would be a mark of greatness in the King!
Berris turned with a start to the sound of his own name, and Philylla turned, too, with a strong pull at her horse’s mouth. It was Sphaeros in a brown tunic, standing at the side of the road and beckoning. Philylla called to him with pleasure, but he did not speak to her, only to Berris. He said: ‘Your sister is here. She came to me hoping I could help her, but I cannot, and I doubt if anyone can. At least you can understand what has happened to her. She is lodging here outside the city with people I know. You had better go straight to her, Berris. She is very unhappy and entangled in her mind.’
Berris was very white; he did not seem to be able to move for a moment. Philylla looked at him and then over to Sphaeros. ‘Shall I go too?’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Not yet. Later. I will take you back to the King’s house.’ He signed to her to go on. Then Berris Der recovered and went to the house where his sister, Erif Der, was waiting for whatever or whomever should come to her.
Philylla dismounted, for she would not have Sphaeros walking in the dust while she rode, though he himself would not have minded it. Almost at once she said: ‘Is the King going to free any more helots?’
‘He has not spoken to me—either way,’ said Sphaeros. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It has been promised them,’ she said. ‘It will make terrible unhappiness if the promise is broken.’
‘The worst of making promises is that they may go different ways; then one must be broken. People should be able to learn not to be hurt for this kind of good
.’
‘We’ve never been slaves, you and I, Sphaeros. (May I put myself with you for a moment?) Freedom might seem so great a good that suddenly it would change over from seeming into reality. Or have I got it all wrong? But, to own oneself! After a whole life of being another man’s.’
‘Slaves can own themselves.’
‘It depends on their masters. If they feel the thing all the time pressing down on them? Oh, Sphaeros, they’re so different now! Do you ever go among them?’
‘A little.’ He smiled and coughed and patted her on the shoulder. ‘But some of the masters, as you call them, are not very good at owning themselves either.’
She walked on for a little saying nothing, sometimes kicking the dust out of her sandal. Then she said: ‘Do you think Kleomenes will conquer the world?’
‘No. That is neither right nor possible. Let him conquer himself. He has not done that yet. Let him, if he can, make Sparta an island where the order of Nature comes not too badly into conflict with the rest of Hellas. Sometimes it almost seems as if that were happening. When I see other cities suddenly deciding to do something wise and rational. But it is and must be slow, and it cannot be helped by violence. You ask if he will conquer the world. Philylla, my child, try to grow up, face things themselves and not their images in your own pretty mirror.’
She could not answer, looked at the ground. At last: ‘But I have grown up. I am a woman now.’
‘Well,’ said Sphaeros, ‘you should know what you are doing if that is so. Do you understand, Philylla, that you have tangled Berris Der, taken him away from doing the things he can do, that are right for him? You are pulling him out of the balance that he might just hold.’
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 36
