The Corn King and the Spring Queen

by Naomi Mitchison

  One leaf of the temple door had been thrown back for him. The spear of the guard slanted across it. He had enough light to see by. The statues behind the altars were plated with gold: Fortune and the North Wind. He knew what north wind it was, in spite of the lies some of the prisoners had told him: the north wind that had blown a sudden hurricane and beaten down the great siege tower that Agis of Sparta had brought up against them. Lydiades had bidden make the statue in gratitude for the saving of his city. There was a shrine to Lydiades too, outside the temple, with Lydiades painted as a hero with an eagle behind him and a snake at his side. There were flowers on the edge of the stone now. No one had ever made a shrine in Sparta for Agis, though many went to pray at his tomb. He himself had done that. Supposing he took Fortune and the North Wind back with him to Sparta, turned them over to his own uses, made slave-statues of them? It would be pleasing. Yet perhaps that was one of the things it was better not to do, even in anger.

  He looked about him for a minute or two, and then saw the girl sitting with her back to a column, her long legs doubled up under her. He walked over, stepping carefully across a sleeping child, and took her wrist and jerked her on to her feet. She did not understand at once. Then she cried out: ‘I am a free woman, a citizen’s daughter—’ By that time he had pulled her over to the door; she beat and clawed with her free hand at his fist clenched like iron over her other wrist, which only closed that much tighter, as though it could and would easily crush through skin into flesh and bone. She cried once: ‘Father!’ But there was nothing to help her; the other women did not dare; they clutched their children tighter and hid their faces and called in whispers on the gods. Then he got hold of her other hand too; he held them both in his left hand. He looked more closely at her face; it was longish, with high cheek-bones, a sword of a face. Her eyes were grey-green with very thick, brown eyelashes; her hair had a sharp, bright wave in it, glossy like a young horse; her mouth shut tight as she struggled with him. He thought she was extremely beautiful and told her so. She threw back her head wildly, tossing up the bright waves of hair; her long neck fitted square on to the collar-bones. ‘You know who I am?’ he said. ‘You do? Good. You remember what Antigonos did to Mantinea this spring? Do you? Answer me.’

  She managed at last to gasp out yes, her hands helpless and limp now from his crushing fingers.

  He said: ‘Antigonos sold them all for slaves, men one way, women another. I tried to save your city from that. But Philopoemen didn’t trust a Spartan. So you can thank him if you don’t like everything that happens to you now.’

  She said: ‘Don’t hold me so tight.’ Her eyes were bigger and more dizzying to look at when they were full of tears; her cheeks were flaming.

  His grip relaxed a little. He passed his own right arm across her quivering shoulders. She seemed more slender and delicately made than—than anybody. He let one hand go. ‘Come,’ he said.

  She followed him, almost unresisting. Half-way down the steps she lifted her eyes to him and whispered: ‘Where?’

  ‘To my bed,’ he said, and again, very contentedly: ‘You are so beautiful.’

  The Spartans marched away from Megalopolis as soon as they had destroyed it. The Achaean League was very much disheartened over this, hearing of it suddenly when the generals were all together at a council of war. They gathered so slowly and unwillingly to the summons from Antigonos that he thought it best not to try too much during winter, but stayed in Argos with only a few troops. Kleomenes at once began to harass him there, making constant small raids, with little loss to himself, plundering and spoiling the Argive land with much pleasure and excitement for his own people, especially the new troops, who were greatly encouraged by it all, and shame and anger for his enemies. He hoped to force Antigonos out to fight with him before his Macedonians were back. But the Macedonian king, supported with a curious loyalty by Aratos, would not be taunted out of safety. The longer he waited, the better for him; he had all the moral security of the man with money. Let Kleomenes go on till he grew hollow-hearted with the thought of the empty treasury behind him! Antigonos was carrying on transactions with Egypt. He had made some conquests in Asia Minor, certain towns that went naturally into Ptolemy’s sphere of influence. They could be returned—if Ptolemy would contrive to drop those anyhow not very considerable subsidies to Sparta? That would work itself out nicely, between real kings of something more than a stony valley and a few old songs and a hill or two!

  Philocharidas was wounded in one of these raids and came back to Deinicha to get well. Philylla rode over to see them both. Ianthemis, bored at home, wanted to come too; she wanted to look at a man a little younger than her father and a little older than her small brother! But Philylla was so rough and cross with her that she went back from the stables crying; she was not allowed to go to her mother’s room either, for there were some ladies there and they were talking about something important—ladies who did not like the King’s Times. Ianthemis wasn’t sure; it didn’t seem quite fair to go against the King now; father grumbled at him, of course, but said he’d got the genius of a leader. No, it wasn’t fair. If only Philylla had been a little bit nice to her, Ianthemis would have known which side to be on. But Philylla didn’t understand that, so she was not nice. Ianthemis sat on the step and cried till Tiasa found her and said she could come and see the new calf.

  Deinicha was going to have a baby at the end of winter; she looked wise and secret. Chrysa had come over too; she was married now and living on her husband’s lot. She and Deinicha talked in an almost showing-off way about crops and beasts, and how to get the helots to do what they ought to do. Philylla waited, soreish, and shut them up when they began to turn this domestic talk towards her; whatever had gone wrong she could bear it best if she wasn’t interfered with. Suddenly she reminded Deinicha of the small, fierce little girl that their Philylla used to be—and with no Agiatis to make her gentle and happy again.

  Philocharidas came in with his arm in a sling. Deinicha made a delighted fussing over him, with cushions and a little charcoal stove—yes, Chrysa could carry it: she knew our men were worth looking after!—and a plate of pomegranate seeds with honey over them and some late winter apples, all the sweeter for keeping. Yes, and Philocharidas could talk just as well if she put one arm round his neck. They kept on seeing one another and smiling, he and she, keeping Chrysa and Philylla out. But Chrysa had her own seeing and smiling to compare it with. She smiled too, in sympathy and as if hearing some note in the chord of her own pleasure. And sometimes Deinicha looked away from her man to Chrysa, and then they were both eyeing and smiling. Abruptly Philylla asked for news of the war.

  ‘It’s been great, this show round Argos!’ said Philocharidas, willing enough to talk. ‘We don’t often get near them now, they run so! Last time we took the hill road from Tegea—a stiff road if you’ve no mule to carry your shield!—and took a short cut into Hysiae before dawn. Not much of a town, but it’s less of one now. Beyond that the valley widens out and we had a gay time stalking the villages. One gets supplies. We came down on foot, but by the end of the day we were all on horseback driving in the cattle. We got as far as Lerna, not six miles from Argos, keeping clear of Demeter’s Grove. We didn’t do much there, for they’d been warned we were coming, and the whole place was as bristly as a hedgehog. We laughed at them a lot and someone spotted a thatched roof, so we shot in some burning tow-arrows. Oh, I think the Lerneans are sure to tell Antigonos that we were naughty boys!’

  ‘Who was leading?’ Philylla asked.

  ‘The King’s there mostly himself, though Hippitas took the last raiding party—he knows a good cow when he sees her! I expect, though, we shan’t be able to go on much longer. There was snow on all the tops last time; it’ll be down on to the passes by now. Yes, I suppose the King will want his house put in order pretty soon.’ Philocharidas stopped talking then, suddenly. His wife, to whom his voice was, at the moment anyhow, a mere airy continuation of his near body, did not notice, bu
t went on exploring his neck and cheek with her fingers.

  But Chrysa and Philylla both did notice. They stared at him, and he made it odder by blushing. ‘What’s the matter?’ said Chrysa boldly.

  Philocharidas approached it. ‘Will you be going to the King’s house now?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Chrysa.

  Philocharidas turned to Philylla. ‘Hasn’t your father said anything? Hasn’t—hasn’t Panteus? I thought—Philylla—I mean: it’s Archiroë, the woman of Megalo polis.’

  ‘What woman?’ said Philylla stonily. Chrysa had jumped up from her stool, and even Deinicha had stopped fingering him and was breathing quicker.

  Philocharidas said: ‘Don’t be unkind to her. It was no doing of hers. The King took her out of the Temple of the North Wind. And it’s no fault of his either. She’s—very beautiful.’

  The Queen’s girls stiffened. It was Deinicha who said: ‘Don’t talk to me about beauty!—after Agiatis. What was he thinking of?’

  ‘He wasn’t thinking,’ said Philocharidas, suddenly annoyed with them and particularly his own wife. ‘He was doing something much better!’ And he gave Deinicha a squeeze.

  But she pushed him away. ‘At least he hasn’t married her?’

  ‘No, poor thing. She’s really his slave. She does everything for him now.’

  Another wave of anger went over the three. Philylla said slowly: ‘And the King—loves her?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Philocharidas, fidgeting, ‘but she really is beautiful. And so young! She loves him. At least she sits in the dark at the other side of the tent and keeps her eyes on him, and the moment he thinks of wanting a thing, she gets it for him. No one else can so much as touch her little finger without her turning on them.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve tried!’ said Deinicha with a sharp laugh, something he had never met in her before.

  ‘No. Little fool!’ And Deinicha shifted and cowered under his frown as though it had really been a slap on her mouth. ‘No. Archiroë is the King’s. She was a free woman, a maid, daughter of a master builder in Megalopolis.’

  ‘And he raped her and she loves him for it. That sort of woman!’ It was Philylla who spoke, savagely. She looked at the other two women in turn, slowly, holding their eyes. ‘And we—we are expected to be friends (I understand you, don’t I, Philocharidas, son of Milon?) with this creature. This once-upon-a-time virgin of Megalopolis! We are to spread the sheets for her. Oh, that will be delightful for us.’ Her mouth drooped into a heavy fierceness, as her father’s or grandfather’s might have, swinging an arm up to lash a crouching, dribbling slave.

  Deinicha stood up. ‘How could he—so soon!’ she said. ‘Openly. Were we all wrong to think Agiatis was more loved than most women?’

  Philocharidas said, angry and surprised: ‘It’s nothing to do with that! Why have you got to drag in Agiatis?’ Then, seeing himself outnumbered and his own Deinicha become a part, not of the lovely couple of marriage, but of that group of the Queen’s girls—cows with their horns down!—he flung out of the room, his wounded arm as obvious as possible.

  Almost immediately Deinicha began to soften. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘it mayn’t be as bad as we think. Men do these things, after all, so lightly. In spite of what Philocharidas says, I don’t think we need take any notice of the girl.’

  ‘No,’ said Chrysa, ‘no. Why should we? She is nothing to do with Sparta. She will live in the back rooms and not show herself. If we are firm to begin with it will be all right.’

  ‘Besides, he’s sure to get tired of her,’ Deinicha said. ‘And then he will let her be ransomed. So long as she doesn’t forget she’s only a slave!’

  They breathed easily again. It was, after all, nothing. No menace to the lovely things they remembered. Philylla got up and said she must go. She kept on lifting her hands to her face and hair. She was not disturbed about this any longer; she did not quite know why she was uneasy. But no, she would not stay to eat or drink. She must ride.

  All along the path between the rocks winter anemones were holding up to her small stars, blue and scarlet. She looked at them fiercely and turned her face into the wind, the snow-flavoured wind off the hills. It blew through her hair and her dress, cold on her scalp and arms and the front of her thighs as she rode. Not having eaten with Deinicha, she was rather hungry now. Why not? Ianthemis came running out of the house to meet her. ‘Oh, Philylla,’ she cried, catching at the bridle, ‘he’s here!’

  ‘Who? Father?’

  ‘He’s home too, but—Oh, Philylla, it’s Panteus!’ She was pink and panting with excitement. She tried to shove a little bunch of welcoming sweet flowers into her sister’s hand.

  Philylla dismounted slowly. She looked at her sister across the horse’s back, leaning against the saddle. Ianthemis had been smiling but now it died out. ‘What does he want?’ said Philylla, at last taking the flowers, but crushingly, never lifting them to her face.

  ‘He and father came together. About your marriage. I heard them say tomorrow. I thought you’d like to know, Philylla; I’ve been looking out for you the whole afternoon! But if you don’t want to know—!’ Ianthemis recovered herself and tossed her head, grinning, showing her teeth a little at her sister.

  Philylla moved round to her horse’s head and led him in. As she came out of the stall, rubbing her hands clean on a wisp of straw, Tiasa met her. ‘Tomorrow!’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, my pretty!’ Her arms were warm and freckled over Philylla’s wind-blown arms; her eyes gloated lovingly into Philylla’s, that slid sideways, looking down, staring at a lump in the clay floor. ‘We aren’t so ready as we thought,’ said the foster-mother, ‘not to be clipped and stripped this cold weather. But you’ll be warm, sweeting—’

  But Philylla pushed her away and went in. Her mother was giving orders to one of the women, whom she dismissed. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I see you’ve heard, Philylla. Your father is pleased. I am seeing about the sacrifice to Aphrodite-Hera: be sure I shall do my best for you. And your hair: I suppose you will want that cut? Answer me, child.’

  ‘I—I think so,’ said Philylla.

  Eupolia looked at her more gently. ‘It has come suddenly at the end. But—as you know, Philylla, he was none of my choice, but it is a good family. They do not all share his extreme views. If it had been five years ago—My dear, it’s too late to change your mind now, but you will always have your own home to come back to.’

  ‘I don’t change my mind,’ said Philylla. ‘It’s all right, mother. Can I see him?’

  ‘No, Philylla, it would not be suitable now. Your father would not like it at all. Tomorrow will be soon enough.’

  ‘Very well, mother,’ said Philylla gently, and stood quiet for a moment, as though she were listening to the sound of her own heart.

  Sacrifices were made for Philylla, as was customary, and her hair was cut in the fashion of old Sparta. No, she would not think all the time about Agiatis. It was a fine evening, scarcely cold in the courtyard of the house of Themisteas. She waited, with her clipped head and white short dress, and now, oddly, she could only think of the stupidest things: whether she had remembered to speak about her horse’s loose shoe; whether she had put back a book in the chest of book rolls; whether there were black or green grapes on the vine at the left side of the second court of the King’s house; whether this Archiroë had been told about her. It was curious to stay so calm after a day and night of anger. So calm! When Panteus came she would look him in the eye, out of her calm anger. He would not be able to read there that she hated him for marrying her only when the King had a new mistress and was tired of him. No, he would only be puzzled and worried. But, a few hours later, she would tell him very clearly.

  The sun set and the evening star came out, the lovers’ star. Let it! She would tell him just like that, out of her cold anger. To hurt his pride. Hurt him as he had hurt her. Panteus, son of Menedaios. Philylla, daughter of Themisteas. He would take her maidenhead; she would take his p
ride. In a struggle the cold one was always the winner. How cold she was now!

  The knock came on the door of the house and she stiffened. The women’s voices all round her jumped and throbbed. She raised her eyes to give him that stare. But before it came she suddenly realised that it was quite impossible for her to hurt him, even to try to while he still had those eyes and that smile. She had not remembered what a complete defence they were. She could no more hurt him than she could have hurt a baby of her own! He came towards her and in the meeting of their eyes there was no cold anger but a marriage. As he swung her up in his arms it was as if they had arranged all that, a long time ago. There appeared after all to be no need for blame or anger or explanation. She put both arms round his neck to make herself lighter to carry. But he did not seem to find her heavy; it might have been a thing he was perfectly and beautifully used to. She kissed him where she could reach most easily, just behind the ear on the line of neck and hair, smelling his skin there. As the gate shut behind them and they were out together in the evening, he rubbed his cheek sideways against hers. ‘Philylla,’ he said. It had all come right.

  Towards the middle of the night she woke again, turning herself over slackly, feeling her whole body swayed by this new rhythm of a man’s breathing beside hers, slower than hers. The lamp was still burning. This room that she had never been in before, but now whose shadows and angles were all her own for ever! He woke, too, and sat half up, so that his flanks drew level with her head. She slid an arm slowly round him, feeling one set of muscles after another start a little under the soft excitement of her touch; she laid her face close over the hollow of his side between ribs and hip, her lips moving a little against his smoothness and male youth. His hand strayed over towards her head. At last she said: ‘Why did you choose just now for our wedding?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but we were always going to be married some time. I wanted to now. It was right now. I can be away from my brigade now.’