The Corn King and the Spring Queen

by Naomi Mitchison

  The wind tore the handkerchief from Philylla’s head. She grabbed and lost it; it was torn out of her fingers. Erif’s hair-ribbons went too, and soon after that her plaits came undone. Then the wind got hold of her hair; it flapped the damp tangles with a noise like small thunder at her ears; it raised them off the scalp, sideways and forwards, with a tug like someone pulling; it stopped her from being tired and it was a flag. The same wind could make nothing of Philylla’s fair, close-cut head; it went straight through to the skin in a cold streaming, with a prickle of hair-roots as it brushed them across the way of growth. Berris’ felt hat was knotted firmly under his chin; it was still on. He watched his sister’s hair streaming out or standing away from her like wild dark flames as the wind caught it one way and another. When sometimes her horse drew level with his, a cold lock might flick stingingly across his mouth or eyes. But he did not look much at Philylla. All the same he was not unhappy; it was almost joy that filled him. The sense of action instead of creation excited him. He was going to Egypt; suddenly he found the idea of that wildly thrilling. He would see all manner of new things! He hoped he would never see Sparta again, the house where he had worked, the people he had worked for. He had done with Sparta finally. Unless—But a great cold gust booming down on to him swept the thought away.

  After the first half-hour Philylla’s thoughts were all extremely practical. The most important one was that if this gale went on blowing no ship would sail. Then she remembered Neareta’s cousins. Berris could ask for them. They could shelter there; though somehow she was quite doubtful whether she would be pursued—at once, anyhow. She was almost sure her father and mother would have an argument about it. Themisteas would like to think of his daughter riding out into the storm! She wondered if Ianthemis would miss her and be sorry at all. Yes, probably. And even Dontas. And certainly the puppies. She wished she could have taken one, but it would have been an extra complication, one too many. Her legs were chafing most damnably against the saddle; however tired she was by the end of the ride she must be sure to dab them with olive oil before she went to sleep. Her shoes must be greased too or they would dry stiff.

  But Erif was all tangled up with the weight of her wild, mocking, inconsequent hair. Whenever she tried to think it whirled her mind round and round. It got mixed up with the idea of Tarrik being right and his own self again and full of power. Tarrik leapt and charged like the wind. He was the wind, coming down, breaking the earth, breaking and tossing flowers and leaves and men and women! Once on a level piece of road she let go the reins a moment and tried to catch her hair and plait it up again, but that was no use; it danced and slid out of her hands up into the sky. The skin of her head was all alive and delicious because of the wind; the bright chill went down into her brain. It was wonderfully funny and delightful and splendid! She was not grown-up any more, not steady and responsible, and a person who had been hurt and might be hurt again. Oh for the time, for the time at least, she knew she was not unlucky! Tarrik and the wind and her hair. She laughed and laughed and laughed. The wind beat the breath out of her and stopped the others from hearing the loud laughter of the Spring Queen.

  Towards dawn the wind lulled suddenly, flattening out into a mere steady breeze; the sky was clear of clouds. But they heard the sea roaring ahead, and it was plain to all of them that no captain would sail that day. They stopped and consulted; Philylla explained about the helots, and Berris rode ahead to find out about them. It was not a big town, he would probably hit on them quite easily, and he himself would not be recognised.

  He cantered on and the two girls followed slowly with the baggage horse. Now Erif’s hair hung over her shoulders, almost calm and tamed, but wildly tangled all through, and curly on its outer surface like a fleece. Her mind, too, was apparently calm again. She leaned over and kissed Philylla, who was white and in some pain. They smiled at one another; they were sisters. But they were very tired, and very wet, and very cold. At last the sun rose and almost at once they felt warmer and gayer; then Berris came back to tell them he had found the house.

  They rode into the town and down two or three by-streets. It was too early for better class people to be about, but they went down to a poor quarter close to the sea. The man of the house opened the door and looked from Berris to the others, who dismounted stiffly and painfully, hardly able to stand. ‘The gentleman was saying you were friends with Neareta, my woman’s uncle’s wife’s niece!’ he said, rather defiantly, ‘but I don’t see—’ His wife came to the door and cried at them: ‘Who are you, fine folks and foreigners?’

  Philylla held on to the saddle and swayed. ‘I am a friend to Neareta and Phoebis,’ she said. ‘We go their way.’ She did not want to tell her name. But they still held the door. ‘How do I know?’ the man muttered, staring at her and from her to Erif with her trousers and loose hair. Berris came quickly to her side and held her up and whispered to her: ‘Tell them!’ She lifted her head and leaned back for support against Berris’ shoulder and said: ‘I am Philylla, wife of Panteus. Will you let us in?’ For one moment still the man and woman whispered together, then the man ran clumsily forward a few steps and seized her hand and kissed it. ‘I know you, I know you!’ he cried. ‘Neareta told us! Come in and welcome. You’ll be safe with us. I’ll take the horses round.’ Then his wife came talking excitedly and took Philylla away from Berris, who went with the horses to rub them down and feed them.

  While the woman of the house stirred up the fire and then gave them food and wine and put some special ointment of her own on Philylla’s legs, they took off their outer clothes and told their story. By the end of it Berris had come back and the room was filled with men and women and children, some half-dressed. They were pressing round, mostly to see and touch Philylla, and she could hardly keep from sobbing with exhaustion. They were good people, she knew, but she could not bear their hands on her any longer! Her eyes groped round for help and found Berris. He made a way through and said to the woman of the house: ‘Have you a bed for her?’ The woman nodded. ‘This way,’ she said, and opened a door into the other room of the house, where her own box bed was. She shook out the blankets, which were still warm from her own sleep. Berris picked Philylla up in his arm; she crooked a hand round his neck to make it easier, and whispered: ‘Thank you.’ He carried her carefully so as not to touch her sore legs, and laid her down in the bed. She shut her eyes and then opened them again and looked up at him like a small child. He bent down and kissed her and came away.

  After that Erif Der came in and took off her trousers and a great pile of necklaces, which she put underneath them in a corner, and she stood in the middle of the room in her long embroidered shirt, yawning and stretching. Then at last she plaited her hair again, and got into the bed with Philylla and curled up beside her. But Philylla was asleep already.

  PART VII

  Kings who die for the People

  I’m sailing for California,

  That far, foreign strand,

  And Pm hoping to set foot

  On some fair, fruitful land.

  And in the midst of the ocean

  Shall grow the green apple tree

  Before I prove false

  To the man that loves me.

  NEW PEOPLE IN THE SEVENTH PART

  Macedonians and Greeks

  King Ptolemy iv of Egypt

  His sister and future wife,

  Princess Arsinoë

  His mistress, Agathoklea

  Her brother, Agathokles

  Their mother, Oenanthe

  Sosibios, the King’s minister

  Metrotimé

  Ptolemy, the son of Chrysermas

  Leandris, a Spartiate girl

  Monimos, a helot

  Egyptians

  Ankhet

  Priestess of Isis

  Jews

  Simon and his friends

  Greeks, Macedonians, Egyptians,

  Nubians and others

  CHAPTER ONE

  KING PTOLEMY IV WA
S getting slowly and pleasantly ready for his morning’s official reception, and in the meantime enjoying the company of his friends. The room was painted a warm yellow, with a flat, light frieze of great lilies and sword-shaped leaves. One side lay open to a terrace, a short flight of steps, and then a walled garden with a square tank full of fishes and blue water flowers. Just now it was the end of the growing-season outside in Egypt, but here it was artificially prolonged, for the garden was kept constantly watered by a criss-cross of small brick channels and pipes, and it was all ramping with leaves and blossoms and sappy arms of creepers that flung themselves in a night from tree to tree. Agathoklea had just come up from it with a branch of some very sweet-smelling purplish flower, still wrapped about with the fat tendrils which had seized on it only the day before. Turning back her lips, she nibbled with her white teeth at a leaf with no vegetable chill but warm from its own sap. She stripped a head of blossom and ran it through her hand; it left faint purple stains on her finger tips and the little rounded mounds on her palms.

  There were niches at both ends of the room. In one was a white marble bust of the young Alexander, with beautiful wild hair and lips half parted; in the other was a bust of the King’s lately deceased father, the divine Ptolemy III; this was in three different sorts of coloured marble, and had silver lips and eyes. Both busts were wreathed hieratically, though not with any formal laurel; they wore the Bacchic leaves, ivy and smilax and vine, and young tufts of the cone-bearing pine, rare enough in Egypt. On the terrace there was also a small bronze altar which could easily be carried about; satyrs and maenads and she-goats leapt and fell about its three sides, none too decently. In the room there were two or three light benches, gilt and polished, with pretty, inlaid legs worked into elongated oryx heads and horns, and large, painted cushions; besides these there was the King’s own lion-headed chair, and, of course, all the appurtenances of his preparation for the day.

  He sat back in the chair, stretching out a leg for Agathoklea to attend to. He was wearing a loose vest of transparent muslin, and his long brown hair was not yet tressed up under the fillet. He was rather a beautiful creature, and by this time his movements, once a conscious showing-off, had become quite natural. He looked down along his own body now, gently and, as it were, modestly, like a decent boy. Thanks to Agathoklea’s tickling and almost too pleasantly painful ministrations, he had no hair on his body-skin except such golden and attractive down as a child might have, and he was smoothly beardless. There was plenty of muscle everywhere, for he patronised the more exciting kinds of sport and exercise, and could dance as well as anyone in his Court, but in rest it was rather deliciously covered with a naïve layer of fat.

  He was a youth, a Kouros. He lived up to his idea of himself. But also he looked intelligent, not with a mocking wave-quick Attic intelligence, but with the heavier Macedonian thing, the hill tribesman thinking practically and solidly, and then sometimes suddenly overbrimmed with some one terrific idea of politics or religion or love or hate. There it was in his eyes and his soft, heavy, Alexander lips, and the nostrils quivering occasionally as Agathoklea touched and laughed and bent forward, so that he could see down into the hollow of her breasts.

  Agathokles was taller than the King, and fairer, with short hair and blue and shifty eyes. When no one was looking at him he made faces continuously; he could, if he chose, make such dreadful faces that small boys were terrified and ran away, or, if he held them, screamed and twitched and let him do whatever he felt inclined for. But when his face was still he was a beauty too. He had a light-blue tunic and a black cloak wrapped all round him. Just now he was standing in front of the bust of the divine Ptolemy III, screwing up his eyes and talking to himself, inaudibly to the rest.

  Two little Indian boys held Agathoklea’s perfume and ointment boxes, their dark, intent faces rigidly bent over the trays; they were naked except for tight jewelled collars and bracelets. They had been sold to her as kings ‘sons, and, as the price had been correspondingly high, she preferred to believe it was so, and took an extra pleasure in occasionally whipping them or setting her monkeys to pinch them. When asked whether it was true, they both said eagerly:’ Yes, yes,’ and told long and more and more fantastic stories of their lost kingdoms to whoever would listen.

  There was also a young friend of Agathoklea’s, an incredibly innocent-looking Ionian girl, suitable Koré to the King’s Kouros. Her great accomplishment was the discovery and reading aloud in the calmest possible voice, of all the most indecent books in Alexandria. She was standing now with her hands folded, gazing down into the garden. At the far end of the room were several young things, slaves and courtiers, it was not obvious which, but almost all Greeks or Macedonians, playing and talking and laughing discreetly.

  The King lifted his head. ‘Who is to be at the audience today?’ Agathokles turned and clapped his hands; two of his secretaries ran out from the group at the far end of the room, handsome and clever-looking Greek boys, who were constantly quarrelling with one another. One of them jostled and pinched the other as they ran across, but got a look from his master, fleeting but quite remarkably horrid, that took all the kick out of him at once. Agathokles took the tablets from them and bought them over to the King. They read the list of names over together, while Agathokles stroked Ptolemy’s loose tresses, feeling over his head a dozen times with hollowed palms. It seemed to soothe him entirely and his face went still and beautiful, while Ptolemy, cat-like, inclined his head into the caress of the long hands.

  They read out name after name, and occasionally Agathoklea’s girl-friend murmured some convulsing comment. Most were Greek, but three or four were Egyptian or Phoenician. ‘And our poor clipped lion, as usual!’ said Ptolemy, laughing a little as he came on the name of the King of Sparta. ‘How he does hate you, Agathokles!’ And then he checked at another name on the list, saying the syllables over with distaste, but holding up a hand to check Metrotimé the Ionian. Quintus Porcius. ‘This, I take it, is the Roman who has been sent to make friends with Our Divinity. I suppose he will be quite too ghastly. I should like to know if these Romans think they are ever going to be anything—serious—to us. Sometimes it appears rather a pity that Alexander didn’t have time to eat up Rome and Carthage in the same stew. However, they’ve never been anything but peaceable to me: stupid, flattering, peaceable, prize cows! Well, well, we’ll have a show for him; turn out the barges. Yes, it’s time I had the barges out again! Oh, Agathokles‘—he half turned and flung up an arm round Agathokles’ shoulders—‘we’ll have it at full moon, won’t we? We’ll go right up the river, a long, long way, with music, that marvellous, terrifying smell of the crocodiles—’

  ‘Hush, hush!’ said Agathokles, making his fingers strong and hard against the King’s half-pretence shivering. ‘You shall have all the barges. And the Roman shall see the crocodiles.’

  ‘And you will arrange that there will be—something to show them off?’ said the King.

  Agathokles laughed and his upper lip lifted and twisted. ‘Yes, yes; I’ll make a scene for you. I’ll find music that works in.’

  ‘But you must do it yourself, yourself!’ said Ptolemy. ‘Heave him out in your arms. Or a woman! There must be someone in the prisons, some woman who poisoned her husband, but her lover betrayed her to the law!—throw her out to them yourself, my own Agathokles, so that you can hold me afterwards in the same arms. Be priest, be sacrificer to the crocodiles—’

  ‘Do stop talking about crocodiles!’ said Agathoklea. ‘I don’t like it!’ And she spoke so exactly like a little girl, rather a darling pretty little girl, that Ptolemy was bound to turn round quick from her brother and give her a great smacking Macedonian kiss, as one would to a schoolgirl, and there were no more crocodiles for a time.

  Ptolemy’s body having been dealt with to his liking, there was a little to be done to his face, a heightening of colour, a smoothing out round the corners of the eyes. He held his mirror passionately in both hands, trying to stare right t
hrough it, to get closer to his own face, view it as close as a lover would. Could he be certain there was no sign of age? Sometimes it seemed to him possible that he might be one of the favoured, the ever-young. Through the grace of the slain and reborn god, the year-young, the life-giver, the northern Dionysos who had danced in the hills with Olympias, the mother of Alexander. Ever young and the King of Egypt! Agathokles had whispered to him in many close and lamplit nights that he did not age. They tied a diadem of linen sewn with golden lotuses round his head and looped the hair over it. Then very carefully they adjusted the Egyptian crown, the tall, swollen vase shape, a light framework of beaten gold fitting over the head, bulging at the top into a great round like sun or moon, and in front of it the darting head of the ruby-eyed cobra: symbols of Upper and Lower Egypt. His dress, on the other hand, was Greek, but in a wonderfully un-Greek material, something very thin and transparent, embroidered heavily with all kinds of snakes and birds. It tore if you looked at it almost, but what did that matter? Agathoklea saw that the royal wardrobe was always full.

  Then the young things at the far end of the room stopped talking suddenly, and parted, and Sosibios, the chief minister, came in, wearing his full official armour, a great weight of gold and turquoise and carbuncles, with a deep-red cloak flung over all. His helmet was worked gold with a plume of ostrich feathers, red and gilt; he took it off as soon as possible and handed it to one of his boys. He was sweating slightly, especially on his fat neck. The old King had not minded his being bald, but the young King made him wear a wig, about which he always had a slight nervous consciousness. He rubbed a corner of the cloak over his face and began talking at once, telling the King exactly what he ought to do and what orders he ought to give about various military points. It was all sound advice, though rather irritatingly given.