The victorious Macedonians and Illyrians poured down off Euas on to the centre in the river-bed. Panteus got his men together, retreating in knots from one rock and ravine to another, trying to keep touch. In one of those ravines some of the Illyrians found Philopoemen with a javelin right through both his thighs. They told him to lie still, he would be taken back to the rear and the surgeons, the battle was won already. But Philopoemen made them haul him up on to his feet and in a horrible bloody struggle with his own legs broke the javelin shaft; the pieces were pulled out, someone bound up both the wounds; he grabbed his sword and went on, gloriously, painfully, on to victory for Megalopolis and the end of Sparta!
Antigonos was going to charge now. Keep close, the phalanx! Keep close, hold them. Yes, there are more of them; yes, ten times more; yes, but we’re Spartans, we can take it! Don’t look at the spears. We’ve taken spears before. Keep the shield wall locked. Steady! Another two minutes. Who was that man with the cut face who said good-bye to me just now? Damn him, saying good-bye. I am going to live, I am going to live. I knew his voice—well. Who in hell’s name was it? Oh, of course, Xenares. Odd. Here they come.
Most of the mercenaries were deciding that they had done quite as much as they had contracted to do. A great many of them had been killed and they had all behaved very well. Now it was time to stop. Those who were left had mostly retreated up the hill. King Kleomenes, if not dead yet, probably would be in a few minutes. He was a fine commander and a gallant man, but they would be getting no more pay from him. Someone else would want them.
Phoebis found his eldest son, the sixteen-year-old, dying, doubled up in the sun, clutching at his wide, slimy wound. A spear had got in under his breastplate, and, dragged out for the next kill, had pulled most of the boy’s inside out with it. Phoebis tried to move his son into the shadow of a rock, but he screamed so when he was straightened out at all that Phoebis had to give it up. Failing that, Phoebis gave him water, which would have been a bad thing to do with a stomach wound if there had been any chance of recovery. There was, of course, none. The boy lay very still and looked at his father; he could not smile, but at least he was quiet. Phoebis had to go on. When he came back his eldest son was dead and there were ants on him.
Mnasippos was killed near the King in the second charge. Chrysa’s man, Milon, was killed. Themisteas was badly wounded with a spear through his thigh and another through his right shoulder, just clearing the lung. Panitas was killed rather comically by an arrow going through his throat as he was jumping off a rock. Neolaidas had an arrow wound too; the thing shot out his left eye and he spent the next few days alternately getting conscious and then fainting with the pain. However, that was not enough to kill him, though it disfigured him very thoroughly for the rest of his life. Philocharidas was with the centre; he was knocked down and trampled on in the cavalry charge, and left for dead; but he was found later and recovered more or less, except that he could never use his right arm properly again. Leumas was killed. Mikon broke his leg in a narrow ravine and shammed dead when the Megalopolitans came and stripped off his helmet and breastplate. But he managed to crawl away the next night, and escaped. None of the Achaeans were taking prisoners much during this battle. Most of the wounded in the centre, at any rate, were finished off, though when the Illyrians got there anyone who could promise a sufficiently large ransom was quite likely to be able to save his life.
The Macedonian army did not pursue for two reasons. One was that their own losses, especially in the phalanx itself, were very heavy. They had to get into some sort of formation again. The doctors were very anxious that King Antigonos should rest, after the riding and shouting and danger, but it was difficult to insist. The other reason that there was no pursuit was that there was no need for it. There would be nobody, nothing, to stand between them and Sparta now. The thing was final.
A man was kneeling on the top of a rock of the far side of little Olympos, signalling back with a waved cloak. This signal was taken up from beyond Sellasia and passed on to Sparta. There were strict orders that no signals were to be sent down to the city unless for victory. Therykion stabbed the intent signaller in the back and he died at once. Therykion was ahead; the others were following him. Why was he alive after this battle?
The King pulled his horse up sharply to look south into the plain of Sparta. There was blood dripping still from a cut on his cheek. He jerked and twitched every time a fresh drop crawled down his neck. He put out his hand, trying to check Agesipolis, who was crying out now that he must go back and hunt for his brother. But the boy was too badly hurt by a javelin wound to be able to do more than cling on to his own horse’s mane; sometimes the pain of the wound stopped him speaking altogether, but more often it sent him rocketing on about young Kleomenes who might be worse wounded—killed. ‘Can none of you tell him what happened to his brother?’ said the King, suddenly at the limit of endurance. ‘For God’s sake stop, Agesipolis! If he’s dead, he’s dead, and that’s that.’
Who was coming now? ‘Idaios! You’ve got through! Good. No news of Panteus, I suppose? No. Or young Kleomenes?’ ‘Wounded and taken prisoner,’ said Idaios shortly. Agesipolis cried out: ‘How wounded? Where? Who took him? What will they do to him?’ But someone snatched at his bridle and held him as he tottered and sobbed and felt the stabbing of his own wound jerking deeper in with the trotting downhill. Kleomenes dropped behind to speak to Neolaidas. He could not help seeing Phoebis riding a little apart and somehow like someone blind.
They came down on to the road and after a time they found that Panteus and a few others had joined them. That was at a short halt at a roadside spring, where they all drank, and Neolaidas was passed over to someone fresh and carried swaying and sobbing in front of the saddle. Panteus said: ‘I got them to let me go up Euas under a flag of truce. Demetrios of Pharos was there; his staff helped me. I brought down your brother’s body, Kleomenes. There it is.’ He pointed over his shoulder to a cloaked bundle tied on to a horse. Kleomenes looked once, then looked away. ‘What was it like?’ he said. ‘Pretty bad,’ said Panteus. Then: ‘Our people had been killed—in heaps. When the last square on the top of Euas broke. Eukleidas had a sword-cut half through his neck. He must have died at once.’ ‘And the boy?’ said Kleomenes, trying to think calmly, remembering very vividly how it had been the last time he had seen his brother Eukleidas, with one arm across his boy-love’s shoulders. Panteus hesitated and then said: ‘He was dead over him with several very bad wounds, dead with the most awful face of pain and despair that I have ever seen. I’m sorry, Kleomenes—’ He was quite unable for the moment to say anything more. They had lost the battle.
Nearly a hundred of them got back to Sparta that day. The King and two or three others were a little way ahead. It was the hottest part of the day; the heat brought out the smells of tiredness and drying blood. The lips of all wounds cracked and itched. The flies buzzed round them, keeping up with them as they rode. It was still impossible to think. Kleomenes rode without stopping into the market-place. There were a good many men, mostly oldish; many of them, he knew, were the ephors ‘party, the enemies of his revolution. There were young boys too, and a great many women, pressing their way through. He spoke quickly, before they could begin questioning him. He said: ‘One King of Sparta is dead.’ He heard the low, murmured wailing running like waves across the women. Then he said, speaking mostly to a group of half a dozen immediately in front of him—men he knew had worked against him lately, if not the whole time: ‘I advise you to do what you want to do. Receive Antigonos. Make him welcome. Show him he’s master! Yes, he’ll put you and your friends into power. You will be a good, little, dependent state—you Spartans!’ And suddenly he spurred his horse towards them so that they parted quickly.
Another man said to him: ‘And you yourself, Kleomenes?’ It was a magistrate, an old friend of his mother’s.
He answered: ‘I hope to do the best for Sparta.’
‘And that will be—what?’
The magistrate nodded towards the first group: ‘There are some who’d dare lay hands on you to make a present to the Macedonian and save their own skins.’
‘I know. But they won’t dare: not yet. Now, friend, you should leave me. You had better not let them think you wish me well—if you do. They’ll have the power.’
‘I wish you well from my heart, King Kleomenes, though you know I thought you unwise. Ah, Zeus, I don’t blame you now! Do your best for us, Kleomenes, if you decide to live and hope. We’ll wait for you.’
And a quite young boy, the magistrate’s grandson, cried out in a cracking voice: ‘We’ll wait for you years, our King, we’ll work for you! We’ll go on fighting—’ But the older man laid a hand quickly over his mouth. It was not safe.
Kleomenes looked round and saw that the women had come running up to the others, helping them off their horses, taking their heavy armour off and giving them drinks. Panteus was a long way behind still; the body of King Eukleidas was not yet come to Sparta. He dismounted and walked into his own house. Archiroë came to him tenderly—soft arms, soft breasts, and cool, little cool fingers. Curious that these things still existed. What did she want? To give him wine. To unbuckle his breastplate. To take his helmet off. To wash him. To give him food. To give him love. Why should he take it; why should he do what she wanted? He was too tired, too deep in what had been and what was going to be. He brushed her off. She was only a slave. She crouched and cried a little, came nearer and kissed the hand which had knocked her away as though she had been a dog. The hand did not feel the kisses. She longed bitterly to do something, to have the right to do something for him; it was terrible that he would not drink. She began to realise how complete the defeat had been. The Macedonians had won. The Macedonians would come to Sparta and carry her off! The Achaeans. The men of Megalopolis… But her man now for ever was Kleomenes.
He leant his arm slantwise against one of the pillars of the house and dropped his face upon his forearm and began to think. Before he could solve Sparta’s problems he had to solve his own. The army had been defeated. Most of the citizens, old and new, between twenty and forty, had been killed, and he himself was alive. His revolution was defeated. In a few weeks, perhaps in a few days, everything would be undone in Sparta. There would be rich and poor again, great estates, luxury, usury and mortgage, free citizens working for less than a living wage, boy babies exposed. His new citizens would have the thing they cared for most in the world taken away by the ephors under Antigonos. Sparta was defeated. For the first time in history there would be conquerors in the market-place of Sparta! Before, in the old wars, things had never gone so far. At the last moment the Spartan lion had recovered and sprung. Now after six hundred years it was too late. The barbarians had taken the pass. Leonidas had died at Thermopylae.
Glorious was the fate and noble the doom
Of those who died at Thermopylae.
Their tomb shall be an altar.
Instead of lamentation they shall have remembrance,
And instead of pity, praise ….
Their witness shall be Leonidas, King of Sparta….
Ah, ah, and he, Kleomenes, was witness of those that live on after the defeat!
Yet he had been no coward. He had led that first spear-down charge of the Spartiate phalanx, as was the King’s pride and due. He had taken the charge of the Macedonians. He had staggered and stood under the shock of their spears breaking against his shield. He had not been afraid. It was not likely that he would have been more of a coward than his brother. And no one could dare to say that of Eukleidas now. Eukleidas was safe from tongues. When he had seen that thing happen on Euas he had known intellectually that the battle was lost. When his own phalanx at last broke, speared down and killed and forced apart by sheer weight of numbers, he knew it deep in his heart. But no spear or sword had got past his skill and armour, and he could not deliberately go and get himself killed. Some men can. He was not that kind of man. On Euas they had been taken in front and rear with no escape. But on little Olympos there had been a way of retreat. It would have been fantastic not to take it. Why should he be fantastic, like someone in a poem simply because he was king?
Yet being King of Sparta was a special thing. He was not a tyrant nor master of courtiers and soldiers. He was only a kind of eidolon, a kind of dream the people had. Without the people there was no king. If the people died the king must die. Yes, yes; but behind and apart from that he was a man and a father of children, a living being with arms and legs and blood and brain! He had not ended.
They had not ended either. Even defeated there was still Sparta, still the Spartan people, the people of the revolution. Certain things were possible. He would go to Egypt and show King Ptolemy, who was, after all, a Macedonian too, to start with, that the balance of power had gone over too much, and now he must restore Sparta against the Achaean League and King Antigonos. He would be able to do that. Leonidas at Thermopylae had done the only possible thing for his time. Kleomenes would do something harder and more modern. He would live.
Panteus came into the King’s house. The King did not see him. The King leant against the column and the flies settled on the cut across his cheek and round the rims of his eyes. At his feet, with her long hair loose and her dress hanging from one shoulder, was the woman of Megalopolis. Before the King moved or spoke that picture had gone very deep into Panteus’ mind.
The King did not move yet from the column, but he opened his mouth and said: ‘We are going to live. I have come to that decision. It will be bitter, Panteus, very bitter; you do not know yet how bitter people will make it for us that we can be alive. You will think often before the end that it would be easier and more honourable to be dead. It is a bitter cup I am giving you to drink of. We must go to Egypt and be cunning as snakes and foxes for the sake of Sparta. There are ships at Gytheum. We will start in ten minutes.’
‘And your brother’s body?’
‘I will leave that to the people of Sparta. Go out into the market-place and tell them. They will not dishonour glory of that kind. They understand it. Not even those who hated me most will hurt him. They will go through the rites of mourning for their King. The women will do that. So. Then get the others. By the way, where is Sphaeros?’
‘I saw him just now.’
‘Tell him I want him. He is to come with us. In ten minutes, Panteus.’
Panteus went out. After a time the King heard Archiroë sobbing and felt her hands crawling up his legs. ‘My King, my King, my King!’ she said. He said: ‘Stop it, my dear.’ His arms slid down the smooth marble; he stroked her head, the bright chestnut waves; he was going to leave her behind, and his horses, and the dogs. ‘What shall I do?’ she sobbed. ‘You’ve got the deeds for that farm in Messenia? Good. I didn’t think you’d need them so soon. Go there. Be there before your brothers and cousins from Megalopolis come and grab you here, and don’t go back to them till you’ve forgotten me. Oh yes, you will! I know what you’re thinking now, but it doesn’t last, Archiroë. You’ve given me some good times, you pretty thing. Give them to someone else in a year or two. If Nikagoras the Messenian comes and worries you for the money, tell him I’ll pay—oh, when I can. No, I don’t suppose I shall ever see you again. Don’t think about it. Still more, don’t remind me, don’t speak to me! Don’t touch me now!’ ‘Take me with you!’ ‘No.’ She sank down, sobbing. He touched her shoulder. ‘Get up. There are some things I must take. Go and see to the spare horses, my dear.’
He went through into the inner court of the house, intent on what he had to get. Not much. He must ride light. Nikomedes would be glad to see him in Egypt.
Chapter Three
THEY SAILED A LITTLE after midnight from Gytheum. They put in first at Kythera, then at Aigalia. They were bound for Kyrene; from there it would be an easy journey overland to Alexandria, and they could wait to hear what kind of a reception t
hey were likely to get from King Ptolemy. It was now two days and a few hours since the battle of Sellasia.
Aigialia was a very small island, the back of a brown hill pushed up accidentally through the flat blue sea. A long way off, on the horizon, were the blue peaks of the mainland, Tainaron perhaps. There were small beaches of coarse sand, and large rocks, and pools full of black and spiky sea-urchins, which the sailors cut open and ate. Kleomenes walked about on the beach with his long legs; his head was a little bent, he dangled his arms, his face was bandaged. Therykion came up to him, and glanced about, but there was no one near. The others were busy, or resting, or on the ship. Neolaidas lay on deck trying to control himself among the coloured flashes of pain that came from the place where his eye used to be. Sphaeros was composing a letter to someone he knew, one of the head librarians at Alexandria. Panteus and the captain were looking at their course on a chart and talking it over. Therykion said: ‘Here we go wandering into foreign countries. Only the Gods know what will happen to us. I think, myself, that things will go on getting worse and worse.’
‘You would, wouldn’t you, Therykion,’ said the King, rather absently still.
‘I promised myself that the barbarians would not get Sparta except over my dead body. I believe you did too. We made no vows, but that was in all our hearts. It would have been good to die in battle. We would have had songs made about us, as they will be made now for your brother Eukleidas. The boys would remember us. We would have become part of the glory of Sparta.’
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 53
