‘Berris might some day,’ said Erif, ‘but he doesn’t feel like it now. He doesn’t want to think of Sparta.’
‘No,’ said Philylla. And then: ‘I hear he’s at the palace a great deal with King Ptolemy—and the others. He must amuse himself.’
‘He does in some ways.’
‘Is it bad for his work?’
‘Other things would be better. Philylla, are you happy?’
Firmly Philylla said: ‘Yes.’
‘We want you to be,’ said Erif, ‘as we brought you. Is it the same as you thought it would be?’
‘Not quite. What is?’
‘It will be for me when I see Tarrik again. Different outside, perhaps, but oh—deeply the same.’
‘After all, Erif dear, you’re a barbarian’—she put an arm round her friend’s neck, to soften the words, though as a matter of fact Erif smiled and didn’t mind—‘and it’s simpler for you. I’ve got to deal with something much more complicated.’
‘More complicated than being the Corn God? Tarrik does the things that these people are crying for now. Perhaps Osiris was a king like Tarrik once.’ She rubbed her head down along the circling arm: ‘But you’ll come to us if you want us ever? Promise, Philylla!’
After the Osiris festival all the crops were sown and the colder weather came, making everything brisker and more alive. Young Agesipolis, recovered from his wound, made love, more or less, to his cousin Nikomedes, and they went riding and hunting and to see the crocodiles. Agesipolis wondered very faintly and occasionally what his baby son was like now. He and his wife wrote to one another regularly twice a year, very short letters which neither of them liked getting. It appeared the child was well. Perhaps when he was older—seven or eight—Agesipolis would feel he must take an interest in him and get him trained. In the meantime he had a mother and two grandmothers to look after him. Gods forbid that Agesipolis should come near that little nest! He did not want a wife; he wanted his brother, little Kleomenes, the brother he had loved and left at Sellasia. Failing his brother, he wanted Nikomedes.
But Nikomedes was curiously awkward and uncomfortable about it, as though any love-making carried some different and disquieting thought with it, and after a time Agesipolis, who was a reasonable and gentle young man, stopped any advances, but stayed great friends with the boy, who was grateful and enjoyed the companionship. Agesipolis was an important person, for his brother was the leader of the Kleomenist party in Sparta, the one most likely to be successful in any blow at the ephors. It was perhaps this feeling of the importance of Agesipolis, as well as his own uncomfortable memories, which held Nikomedes back; he would not be even the faintest shadow of a bribe to anyone now! He explained this a little to his father, who was curiously sympathetic. They did things together that winter, but not the swimming in Eurotas, not the wild-cat hunting among the crags of Taygetus. Panteus taught him and the others some of the more formal exercises, like disc-throwing; he was a better sprinter than Gyridas, but had less staying power for a long distance. Sometimes Philylla and Leandris came to watch them at their games. There was a good gymnasium near the house, belonging to one of the Greek clubs in Alexandria, which was always glad to give its hospitality to any of the Spartans.
Just after the New Year came another Osiris festival, the setting up of the Zed pillar, which was, some said, the tree in which the God’s body had been confined, while others said more simply, ‘No, it was his backbone.’ The corn was springing now; they set up the pillar to show the corn how to grow. This was made into a great palace feast, and the Zed pillar was wreathed with plants of a different God—yet perhaps the same under another name! The divine Ptolemy and the enflamed Agathokles said it was that. They raised the pillar—and there were other things besides a backbone or a coffin which an erect pillar might signify!—for Dionysos-Osiris, and a song, written and composed by one of the poets from the Library, was chanted round it, in which a quantity of episodes in the lives of both gods were paralleled with great ingenuity, and sometimes with a certain tortuousness. It was a very esoteric, but a very decent song. Metrotimé wrote a much funnier version of it, which was neither.
A few weeks later, Philylla came one afternoon to visit Erif Der. That day Erif had been down to the harbour, asking about ships which would be likely to be sailing north for Byzantium that spring. She had a feeling that she was nearly free; she felt as though with all these festivals, she had taken over something from the Year Gods, Isis and Osiris. If they could do this strange thing in Egypt, every summer make the river to rise like a snake rising, surely she could do the easier thing in Marob! She could not be certain of having found Mother and Daughter yet, nor Dead and Snake, and she had not been five years—but supposing Hyperides were right about the Oracle, and she need not follow it? She told Philylla all this eagerly, wanting her to confirm those hopes. But Philylla only said: ‘Oh Erif, don’t go yet! I want you.’
After a little silence Erif said: ‘You haven’t wanted me much this last year.’
‘No,’ said Philylla. ‘I thought I could make my own life. I was hoping it would all happen right. Erif, it hasn’t! What shall I do?’
‘Where is he just now?’
‘At a council. The King sent for the twelve of them. But there’ll be nothing new and he’ll come back to me unhappier and further than ever!’
‘Is that the trouble always?’
‘That he’s so far? Yes. It should have been a flame—it was, yes, truly, at the beginning, that would hold us both in its heart. But it never is now. Though I try so hard!’
‘Marriage is the oddest thing in the world,’ said Erif, playing for time, trying to decide what to say. ‘I nearly killed Tarrik when we were first married. I wonder what would have happened to me. But I thought it always came righter and righter as people got deeper into one another’s kindness, and now I see it doesn’t. I suppose you know that Berris loves you still?’
‘Does he?’ said Philylla nervously. ‘He shouldn’t. Does it make him unhappy?’
‘Yes,’ said Erif Der.
Unreasonably, Philylla choked and began to cry. ‘I do wish he wouldn’t!’ she said. ‘It makes him make these stiff, unkind things.’ And she hit out, bruising her hand, but shocking herself into tearlessness again.
Erif agreed. ‘I wish he wouldn’t either,’ she said. ‘But there it is. I believe he would flame with you, Philylla.’ And after Philylla went home, Erif was occupied with this, almost to the exclusion of Marob. She wondered if her brother could give Philylla a child. But she doubted it; she had a theory that north and south did not mix well in these matters, so she had not been at all anxious about the result of her Vintage night. Not that it would have signified much; it might have been an interest and a pleasure, and she trusted Tarrik very completely to understand her now. She had sent back on an autumn ship letters and a sealed chestful of stuffs for her cousin Linit.
Philylla went home across the Jewish quarter. Some of the young men were beautiful copies of Greeks, regular at gymnasium and baths, admired musicians. But they seemed to get fat rather early in middle life. She thought some of the veiled women were probably beautiful too, but she had never been inside a Jewish house. They worshipped a God with many names, she had heard. He must have taken on the names of other Gods as they came to an end; some Gods seemed to live on the deaths of other Gods. She had been told a few of the names one time when Kleomenes had a scheme for interesting the Alexandrian Jews in Sparta. Adonai: that was Adonis. Sabaoth: that was Sabazios. So their God was Dionysos too; and Serapis was Dionysos. After Agiatis died nobody had the heart to dance for Artemis again. All the Gods were equally distant from men, equally unmoved by prayer or offering. She would not even have sacrificed a puppy to Orthia now. Sphaeros taught the boys that there were Gods, but they spent their divine eternity in understanding the universe. They could understand the growth of a grass blade or the workings of the human heart. And, understanding, they were without pity; they would not alter the tinie
st part of their universe against the way of nature, which, supremely, they understood. What was the use of Gods like that to children? No wonder poor little Gorgo said prayers to the lighthouse. Well, let her, let her for a few years if it was any help to her! The old Queen did not know.
Panteus came home a little after she did. He was kind and unhappy and did not answer her questions at all at first. Then after a time he said that he and Kleomenes and Idaios had been to see various Alexandrians, to point out how the glory of Alexander’s town was decaying under—well, not Ptolemy perhaps, but Sosibios and Agathokles. If an army could be got together privately and practised in a Spartan war under Spartan officers, with victory assured, how splendid it would be for the city to have later! The mercenaries could just as well be paid by private persons as by the Court. But the Alexandrians were not interested in armies. They had ink instead of blood in their veins. Or worse. It was horrible, horrible, to go tagging round the town, waiting in these rich stinking houses for the gentleman’s leisure to see them! Kleomenes of Sparta doing that. The kin of Herakles. He beat with his fist once on the table and then fell silent. He never sang to her nowadays; it was as though the bird, the shepherd in him, had been killed at Sellasia.
She told him that she had been to see Erif Der. He said he was glad, but she must be careful going through the streets. Then he said that Berris Der was going with the Alexandrians; he had taken to the Court like a fish to water and they to him; he would be a rich man now if he were not spending it all on women. Barbarians went that way when they came in sight of gold.
After that Philylla went fairly often to see Erif, and once or twice Berris was there. He said very little, but kept on working and used that as a covert to watch her from. Towards the end of March there was a ceremony of blessing the land. The divine Ptolemy himself appeared in the crown of Egypt, and most of his Court in semi-Egyptian clothes and postures, except for Sosibios, who had a new and even more elaborate set of armour. The land was very beautiful about then, full of flowers of all kinds, and the corn was high and already ripening. Ankhet and Erif went out into the fields and brought in baskets of flowers and put them in jars all about the house.
One day Philylla came, but before she and Erif had time even to greet one another, Berris dropped his tools with a clang and clatter that stilled them both, and walked over to Philylla and threw himself on his knees in front of her and caught her wrists as she tried to push him away, and held them down to her sides. As he held her so she began to tremble; she felt his head jerking against her; she felt his tears coming wet and hot on to her skin; it was as if his open eyeballs were pressing against her thighs. She stooped over him; she loosed a hand gently and laid it on his head, trying to calm him. ‘Don’t!’ she said. ‘Don’t cry, Berris. Berris, my dear, don’t cry, I can’t bear it!’ It tore at her; he was like her child, the child she had neither conceived nor borne. Both hands were now cupped over his head, and his hands grasped, felt at her, pressed heavily like heavy birds on to her flesh. She was sobbing too, a little. Erif moved nearer to them; they did not notice her; she did not know what to say. She saw Philylla bending over him more, going slacker at the joints, and then suddenly springing away, tearing herself out of his arms. He slipped and fell forward, one knuckle on the floor. Erif put an arm round her. ‘I didn’t know,’ said Philylla. ‘Oh I didn’t know I was really hurting him still! Oh my poor Berris!’ And she turned and snatched up her cloak and went.
Erif looked at her brother. He was still on the floor, muttering to himself; he was suddenly very like Murr in the boat. ‘You shall have her, Berris,’ she said, ‘only be kind to her.’ He did not answer and she went on speaking, over his head, defiantly, at a squarish hound’s muzzle, still unpolished: ‘I won’t make things worse for her than they are!’ And at the same time she made up her mind that she must not go back to Marob yet.
Philylla was frightened at first, badly frightened for weeks, and mostly of herself; she had been so near doing whatever he wanted. A whole sleeping part of her had awoke; now she was Philylla who had embroidered the sort of patterns she thought Berris would like. She began to see a different side of life, something outside the hard, narrow pattern of lessening hope in which all the Spartiates moved stiffly. It disturbed her; it made everything else worse. And she was sorry, oh so sorry for Berris! Almost as sorry as she was for Panteus and Kleomenes. For them and their sorrow she could apparently do nothing; but she knew she could put Berris right. Her rational, woman’s mind was haunted and teased by that. But at least she did not seem to be considering any possible good for himself. There was no one she could talk to; Leandris was too young and Kratesikleia far too old. She knew they would both be horrified at the mere possibility, though for different reasons. And Panteus had never liked Berris; even after they had helped her to Egypt, when he had been really grateful and sincerely offered his sword and friendship, he had never tried to have any understanding of Berris. So in the end it was Erif Der she talked to.
The barley was reaped and then the wheat and a little later the peasants’ grain. The land lay half dead, veiled in dust and heat, waiting for Isis to weep her tear again and the Nile to begin rising. News came from Hellas, mostly of war between other states, with Sparta waiting and watching and patching up her wounds, and young Kleomenes gradually and cautiously gathering himself an adequate following and asking again why there was no help from Egypt. The Achaean League was helping Messenia against Aetolia, and old Aratos had been defeated but had talked it away. Antigonos’ successor, the new Macedonian King, seventeen-year-old Philip, was going gently so far; no one knew what he was going to be like. It would be well not to delay action until the time when he was older. It all came in to the Council of Kleomenes and his twelve best friends, and was tossed and threshed round the table. Possibilities came up: Antiochos of Syria? So-and-so or So-and-so in Alexandria? Possible friends in Kyrene? No good. But what more could they do?
Philylla herself had one letter from Deinicha, a little hurt with her for not writing oftener, and one from Ianthemis, who had married her man that winter, a pleased and jerky letter with formal phrases and a good deal of small news. Her father was better and could ride, but was keeping out of politics. Dontas was as cross as ever and had taken to playing the flute; mother was well. She thought her own looks had improved since marriage; her complexion was better: didn’t that sometimes happen? And how was Philylla and why didn’t she write and had she got a son?
Philylla did not answer it yet, but one morning she went to Erif and did find Berris. He took her in his arms, and again pity overwhelmed her and she said she would do and be anything if only he would be happy again. She was almost as tall as he was; she did not flinch from his nakedness nor turn her eyes away. Through the narrow window sunlight barred her body with a white sword. When it was over she lay with his head between her breasts like a child; she could see her breasts quiver and stiffen at his touch; he touched the substance of her as an expert touches wood or stone, getting at the essential grain. Yet she could not quite become one with her own substance. Her mind hovered over her body as she had seen the Kha hover in pictures. Was she sure it was her own? He brought her water that had stayed cool in a porous jug, and fruit; he murmured in delight over her. Yes, she said, she would come back if he wanted her still for his happiness: why not? He asked her if she had been happy, if he had given her the pleasure he had taken. But yes, surely he had known how her body had answered to his! But happy, happy, happy? Philylla, are you happy? Are you all eaten up by a flaming softness as I am? Has the world suddenly grown bright, bright to you? Have you got peace at last? Philylla, my own, only love, tell me. Ah, Berris, don’t ask these things. Be content with what I give you. Be content, my dear.
And when she came back again she would not speak of herself. Only, she drank in his happiness; she made him speak of it to her over and over again. He could not in any way find out just what he had done to her; always she evaded him, yet she would not ever let him th
ink that he had done her harm. He was her child; how could he, how should he know just what was happening to her?
Not strong nor wise I, to support you
And you’ll not have me so.
I cannot tell if I have hurt you,
Though at last I shall know.
I cannot hold my gladness steady,
Giddy and mazed I find
Sweet the air and sweet my body
And sweet my mind.
Oh this bright air! And this still kinder
You, who would stop surmise
Of any pains drowned in the candour
Of your wide eyes.
She wanted to tell Panteus; she wanted that more than anything. But she could not do it because it would hurt him. She must not hurt her man. It could all be utterly secret. She trusted Berris over that; if he could keep the idea of a statue or a picture in his head, secretly for months until it ripened, he could and would keep this secret. And she trusted Erif. Now that the barrier between them was down the friendship between the two women quickened and firmed; one looking across to the other would make her friend smile and rouse a happiness in her heart that did not go completely into words. The touch of the one was very pleasant to the other; in the heat of the day they would undo each other’s hot piles of hair and comb it coolly through; they needed to see one another every day. Philylla found now that she could remember Agiatis with less pain.
Berris understood that Philylla wanted to tell Panteus. He became full of the same kind of imaginative goodwill towards the Spartans as his sister had towards her cousin Linit. He worked hard and well. Suddenly he thought he would do some more pictures for Philylla, and he did them with a simplicity and clarity of colour and form that were far from Egyptian. They were lucid story pictures, and as he painted them, often with her beside him, it gave him a feeling of childish and delicious calm. He did not have to think, because there was no problem; he had solved it long ago. He was not even interested in the form; it was almost sleep-working.
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 65
