The Corn King and the Spring Queen

by Naomi Mitchison

  Sosibios was an ugly man, with thick fingers and small bright blue eyes behind pale lashes, but not without charm of a kind, especially for those who thought him large and male and dependable, for when he was not telling people what they ought to do and why, with so many admirable reasons that contradiction was impossible, he could talk equally fluently about his many adventures in all parts of the Mediterranean world. They were actually quite numerous, and they developed still more in conversation, especially with women or young people. From time to time he turned on this talk to keep his hold over young Ptolemy, who was rather fascinated and flattered at the implied equality of erotic and political experience which Sosibios put in. It was also convenient to be told in detail how to deal with the duller part of his administration, or to have it done for him. Otherwise what was the good of being a king? Ptolemy did not, however, think that Sosibios’ largeness implied that he was a great, strong male. He had done so at one time, when he was several years younger, but found, on experiment, that it was lamentably not so. His thin and comparatively frail-looking Agathokles was in every way far more competent.

  The conversation went on to Kleomenes. ‘He bores me,’ said Sosibios, ‘and, naturally, you. However, I think we shall do better to keep him with us for the time being. His tastes are not expensive, and it looks well, I assure you, as between kings. It is quite doubtful whether our friends in Macedonia mind either way, and we have, of course, to consider your divine father’s late views on the matter. One has, unfortunately, also to consider the opinions, if one can call them that, of the mercenaries, of whom a growing number are Peloponnesians and ridiculously devoted, though one is not sure how permanently. Naturally, we shall take great care to be on the watch, and you can rest assured, sir—yes, absolutely assured—that the moment there is the least sign of danger, he will be dealt with. Yes, on the whole, my advice certainly is to allow things to rest as they are.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling,’ said Ptolemy, ‘that I shall be able to make use of him some day. If I go east.’ His eyes flickered towards the bust of Alexander and he sat more upright.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Sosibios. ‘But you would be rash to assume that merely because Kleomenes was once King of Sparta he would necessarily be of use to you in a completely different type of warfare. If we go east, as I trust we may sooner or later, when everything is settled, everything is as it should be here; if we go east, it will, I think you are bound to discover, be very largely a matter of diplomacy and out-manœuvring, possibly of protracted sieges at which these Peloponnesians are notoriously unskilled, and I think—naturally, I only say I think—that you might find Kleomenes and his Spartans not so very helpful.’ He smiled in an elder-brotherly kind of way at the King; only suddenly, for a flash, the corners of the smile turned down into a horrid and devilish mark of disgust. Sosibios did not make such comprehensively nasty faces as Agathokles, but this changing grin was his special mark; any woman whom he had been jealous of knew it well, and Metrotimé could imitate it beautifully.

  Ptolemy shut his eyes for a moment, and had a clear vision of Kleomenes and the Spartans, those outwardly calm, desperately earnest, bearded men. He suspected that below the calm and courtesy, Kleomenes was really a burning, raging creature. He suspected that if this King of Sparta chose to let go of his Laconic manner, really to appeal to him, Ptolemy the man—the boy—to appeal not with reason, but with deeper, violenter forces, he would be more likely—perhaps!—to get what he wanted. Or one of the younger men. What were their names? Panteus, that square, blue-eyed one by the King’s shoulder. They were fiery too. They would have arms like steel, a grip you could not break.

  Several more people had come into the room, among them the head nurse of his twelve-year-old sister, the divine Arsinoë, a tall, grey-haired woman with a strong Macedonian accent. She walked up to the King with an admirable disregard of Agathoklea and every one else except Sosibios, for whom she produced a stiff curtsey. ‘Her Divine Highness, the Lady Arsinoë, asks permission to leave the royal city and go with her ladies to one of the summer palaces. And it’s my belief,’ she went on, ‘that the poor little dear has been quite long enough cramped up in her rooms all this winter. She needs air—and riding. She’s not looked herself since that nasty chill she got at New Year. If it please your Divine Majesty.’

  Ptolemy had withdrawn into his chair, a peculiar look on his face; he did not answer. But Sosibios said: ‘Of course I will see to that. The simplest thing in the world, certainly she shall have it. You see no reason against it, sir? No, quite. Well, she shall have which ever palace she likes. There, that’s settled. She’ll enjoy the country, of course she will.’ He bowed the nurse out, with another exhibition of his special grin.

  Ptolemy gripped the lion-heads on his chair and said low and harshly: ‘In three years I shall have to marry that! That poor little dear with a nasty chill! That sister-brat of mine. To please these filthy Egyptians.’

  Sosibios had turned away and was talking hard to a youngish soldier, who attended to him meticulously. It was Agathokles who answered the King. ‘She’ll not be a child when the time comes. But a woman. Like other women.’

  ‘That’s what’s so terrible,’ said Ptolemy, staring across the room. ‘Two children can play at King and Queen. A little straight she-child. But not a woman with breasts and—That bridal night! Mother bending over us both; straddling across us; naked. No shame. That place we’ve both been!’

  ‘Why,’ said Agathoklea, ‘she’ll be all dolled up, you won’t know her. Besides, she’s a sensible little thing; she won’t expect much.’

  ‘How can I ever get far enough away from her,’ said the King. ‘How can I ever separate my flesh enough from hers? I shall be tearing myself and my mother!’

  ‘Why not?’ said Agathoklea quickly. ‘Why not, my King? Won’t that be subtle enough? Won’t that be a sacrifice? The god in his two halves reunited and spilling his own blood. Isis and Osiris.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ptolemy eagerly. ‘Oh yes! The two hawks. Dionysos torn and gleaming. If only I can in time get to think of Arsinoë as Isis. But she’s not, she’s only a stupid little girl.’

  It was Sosibios now who had picked up the conversation, and interrupted briskly. ‘Nonsense, she’s no worse than any other woman. A little boring perhaps, but then they all are, even the most charming.’ And he bowed to Agathoklea, who smiled back, hearing behind her a fairy giggle from her friend Metrotimé. ‘Besides,’ Sosibios went on, ‘you Ptolemys are undoubtedly luckier than most kings: no embassies and treaties and fathers and brothers to be got round and given presents and all that. Why, my dear boy, think of the hold you have on her. Get just one divine son—a night’s work, what, for a young man like you—and then the thing’s done and you can live like the King you are. It will be time for the audience in half an hour, and then for tomorrow we are arranging a lion-hunt. You had better, don’t you think, ask this Roman, he is sure to be afraid of lions; I shall see that one is killed immediately in front of him. You are certain that I am doing exactly what you prefer, sir?’

  Ptolemy nodded a little gloomily, and got up and walked over to Metrotimé. ‘You are finding the maenads for my feast?’ he said, catching her round the shoulders and looking suddenly, deeply, into her eyes.

  She leant away from him stiffly, her weight on one foot that slid against his, so that from one open sandal to the other, their toes touched. She nodded abruptly, once.

  ‘And they are to be real,’ he said, ‘real! And believing. No actresses. No flute-girls. No paint. Only that colour of cheeks hot with wine—and him. His madness. Maddened virgins.’

  Her eyelids flickered. She said: ‘You shall have virgins. If we have to hunt Alexandria for them. I’ll be your huntress. I’ll be Artemis for Dionysos!’ Her darkened eyes blazed at him with some momentary god-like quality and he felt himself divine enough not to need to kiss her. A warm wave of gratitude to that dear Agathoklea for her friend flowed and passed. He went on to speak to a
nother friend, a poet. He had an idea for a marvellous play. Yes, he was demanding from the God inspiration as well as youth!

  There was Agathokles over in an empty corner of the room; his black mantle flapped suddenly, like a wing. He had a young man pinned in the corner, a handsome, soft creature in a three-coloured tunic, his underlip sticking out between surliness and tears. ‘I won’t!’ said the young man passionately. 'I won't!"

  ‘Yes, you will,’ said Agathokles. ‘You will go back now, this minute, to my mother’s room and you will beg her pardon on your knees and promise never to leave her till she sends you away.’

  ‘But I can’t!’ said the young man, holding up his hands almost in prayer. ‘I beg you, sir, as a man, listen. There’s young women—there’s one girl—oh sir, you don’t know what the lady Oenanthe is! She wears a man out, she does truly. I’m all spent, I can’t sleep, I can’t live! Make her let me go for a week!’

  Agathoklea came lightly over and joined her brother. ‘What’s this?’ she said. ‘One of poor mother’s boys being silly? Buy her another and sell this.’ And she flicked it with infinite contempt across the nose.

  ‘This is the one she wants,’ said Agathokles. ‘God knows why!’

  ‘Well, poor darling, she must have what she wants! Isn’t she our own, only motherkin! He’s being silly, is he? Well, if he doesn’t stop, he’ll do as well for mother like that, won’t he!’ And she made a downward gesture with her wrist, like an expert making some special cut.

  The man looked piteously from brother to sister. ‘I’m a Greek—’ he said faltering. And then: ‘Ai! I’ll go back to her.’

  He slipped past them, and Agathokles nodded and turned to his sister with a twitching screw round of his face which subsided while she spoke. ‘We mustn’t grudge mother boys or money,’ she said. ‘Where should we be without her! She brought us here first. And she’s still useful, old sweet. She finds me little girls, little slave-girls that neither of us would have time to notice. She notices things, mother does.’

  Agathokles assented, and then his eyes slid round towards young Ptolemy. ‘Since he’s been King I’ve felt differently about him. About being his friend. It seems a limitless thing. What I can do. Power!’ His tongue tip flickered out and in.

  ‘Yes,’ said Agathoklea happily. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it!’

  Then the King called over to them; he seemed excited. ‘Agathokles!’ he said, ‘here’s this good Battaros telling me of a young artist who’s come to the city. What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Berris—something!’ said the courtier. ‘A Scythian or God knows what, but, they say, talented. A quite young man who has been in Greece long enough to be civilised and learn his art, Athens, I believe. I’m told he does portraits.’

  ‘One might at least see,’ said Ptolemy. ‘If I could get someone to do me some frescoes with enough life in them to stir me! Does he know Dionysos? But if he is an artist, he must. Under one shape or another.’

  Agathokles beckoned over a secretary to note it down, then asked: ‘Is he just over from Greece, Battaros?’

  ‘Yes, he only landed a week or two ago. From Sparta, I’m told; at least there were one or two more of these refugees on the same ship.’

  ‘Kleomenes and his friends seem very certain of us! However, I shan’t complain—yet! But supposing we suggest to this artist that he would be received at an audience?’

  ‘I’ll see his work first!’ said Agathokles. ‘After all—Scythians! Does he wear skins?’

  ‘Only his own, I gather,’ said Battaros. ‘But I refuse responsibility! Still, if we could get a portrait of our divine King for the new coinage—But perhaps that’s being in too much of a hurry.’

  ‘Invite him, invite him!’ said Ptolemy. ‘Perhaps he can tell me of a new, a Scythian Dionysos. Perhaps he is beautiful. Perhaps—as he’s an artist—perhaps he will think me beautiful. Invite him tomorrow!’

  Now two Egyptian slaves came in carrying gongs, which they sounded relentlessly. The King lifted his hands, stayed still one moment, and then reached them down again slowly into a calmed hieratic pose. Six tall negroes had followed the gong ringer, and now they formed themselves up behind the King, a perpetually unused and grinning bodyguard, with enormous axes and jutting short gold petticoats, and iron rings between knee and ankle. They rolled their eyes at the women, and there was a general fluttering and heaving of breasts and thighs under thin muslin. Even Agathoklea giggled a little, but her friend Metrotimé most unfashionably found them not interesting. After the bodyguard went Sosibios, with his helmet on again, and his rather rapid short steps that would start him sweating before he got to the audience-chamber. Then the others, men and women courtiers, with Agathokles rather behind, whispering notes to one of the secretaries while the other one glowered.

  They went along a cool, darkish corridor, painted with beneficent gods, labelled with their Greek names, so that no one should mistake them for Egyptians, in spite of their flat, expressionless profiles and tight draperies, and the curious beasts that followed them. Only at one the King hesitated, as he always did, and bowed his head slightly before going on. The bodyguard continued in step, but all the Court checked and bowed too, with the utmost solemnity. This particular flat god was labelled Dionysos. He held out a cup on the end of one stiff arm and he was followed by a pair of stalking panthers, and for some reason, perhaps merely to fill the space, three frogs.

  The audience-hall was already full. As King Ptolemy came in every one rose and bowed, and such Egyptians as were there prostrated themselves completely, palms on the floor as for a god. The King bowed right and left and sat down on his throne, which was made like a Macedonian general’s chair, but in ivory and zebra skin. The ceremonies of presentation began. The conversation was usually three-sided, including Sosibios. One of the earliest to be received was the Roman, very much muffled up in his long, thick, uncomfortable-looking robe with amusing purple edges. He spoke Greek passably, but was rather comically much on his dignity, and mentioned a number of persons and institutions with odd names, apparently of importance in his native town, but which neither Ptolemy nor Sosibios had ever heard of. He seemed delighted at the prospect of a lion-hunt.

  Then there was the high priest of Bes, with whom the King was rather short, for he considered Bes a disagreeable and unimportant god who had better be got rid of as soon as possible. There were Alexandrians with petitions and thanks and demands for justice, and officers wanting promotion for themselves or friends and insisting on being fellow-Macedonians, which Ptolemy rather liked. There was a ship’s captain just back from the Gulf of Arabia with gifts out of his cargo, spices and a cage full of whistling green birds, and something else which he whispered; if he pleased the King he could double his prices to commoners. There was a deputation from Aethiopia speaking through interpreters, which Sosibios took on. They were told to come back the next day for a private audience; it was something that would have to be attended to.

  Among the petitioners there were several women, landowners, or in business, but none of them were sufficiently young to be of interest. They were treated with as much or as little courtesy and justice as the men. There was a poor cultivator whose child was sick, and who was certain that if the divine King Ptolemy-Osiris, would touch and give back a piece of bread which he had brought, the child could eat it and live. He had spent all his money and wits on doorkeepers, and when he actually reached the King he fell flat with terror and wonder and excitement. Ptolemy raised him with his own hand: this man’s faith had given him a sudden, wonderful feeling of security. He broke the bread and put into it several gold pieces from the purse Agathokles always carried for him.

  Then there were more Alexandrians, a complicated divorce case, and a quarrel between inheritors over a big estate. There was a poet, a young protégé of one of the librarians, who humbly implored that the divine King would accept the dedication of his long poem about the phases of the moon. And there was, as usual, Kleomenes of Sparta,
half a head taller than most of the Alexandrians, and with quite different eyes. He had that lame one with him this time, and the one-eyed man, ugh! But Kleomenes himself, yes, he was rather magnificent; he lifted his head and looked at one like some splendid beast that one had caught and caged. Not really a lion, not a cat-beast at all. Some antelopes have those proud eyes.

  King Ptolemy was most courteous to King Kleomenes, rose from his seat and embraced him, spoke sympathetically of all the news. King Kleomenes must certainly join the lion-hunt!—and any of his friends, of course. As to anything else, anything about lending him money to encourage the revolutionary party in Sparta, anything about promises for the future, well, he shrugged his shoulders. There was time. King Kleomenes had surely not found Alexandria dull! There were difficulties—yes, difficulties which even such an honoured foreigner could scarcely understand. King Ptolemy was, after all, only at the beginning of his reign. A little patience—Sosibios took the conversation over; he was still less encouraging, though even more polite.

  After a time the audience broke up into informality, and King Ptolemy beckoned Agathokles over; he had another idea for his play; he wanted it written down before it escaped. The play was to be called Adonis. The little scarlet anemones, the blood-drops on the hills. Someone would have to see to the lyrics. A poet. Poets are easy to find. He held Agathokles by the arm, feeling the arm, smoothing it, reaching up under the black cloak towards the elbow, the armpit. What was the use of being a King if he could not be and do what he chose, and when and where he chose? Kleomenes and the Spartans had gone away again.