He painted what she told him to paint, first more scenes from the life of Agis, or the old ones done again, among them the death-scene, the hanged King; and after that scenes from the life of Kleomenes. He did these tentatively at first, choosing those which had happened before he knew Sparta. First the marriage of Kleomenes and Agiatis, the very young bridegroom and the pale, unbridal bride. Then the King bidding farewell to Xenares, his first love, since already it had taken shape in his mind that the man who was not with him was against him. There were legends with all the pictures, often just one thing said by Kleomenes himself, words fitted into a pattern round his head. Then the killing of the ephors: the King’s Times, which were to bring such strength and beauty, beginning not gradually or in peace, but suddenly and with a sword. Then the rich men casting away their goods and gold to follow the King, even the women plucking the jewels from their hair and breasts. For Philylla’s sake he put in Agiatis here, and Philylla herself peering from behind her. He made another after that, but an imaged one, in which Kleomenes, frowning and with mouth set, and a whip of knotted cords, drove out Luxury, Usury and Greed, in the shape of snarling and fat old traders, from the Temple of Sparta. At each side Apollo and Artemis smiled stiffly at him. Then Kleomenes’ good-bye to his mother before she went to Egypt.
By this time he had worked himself up into such an excitement that he did not need Philylla to talk to him. He wanted more subjects. He went himself to Panteus and asked him about Sellasia and afterwards. Philylla came home suddenly from her marketing and found them together. But she heard what they were talking about and then she was very glad. Panteus at first was embarrassed and did not want to tell anything, but Berris, with his new imagination spread wide to the Spartans and Panteus most of all, brought him at last to the point where he began abruptly to tell the thing which was still completely clear in his head, but which had never yet been put into words, not even to his wife. Kleomenes at the pillar, his utter silence and patience in the wrestling with bodily pain and still more painful decisions, and at his feet the beautiful woman with loose hair and weeping eyes. Berris went home and painted that on a great canvas, and all about in the background, among little houses and rocks and olive trees, he made the friends and followers of the King hurrying about their business or else snatching a little sleep. That was the best of the pictures so far.
Letters came from Marob again, and a drawing of Klint which startled Erif very much. She thought she had a baby at home, but the picture said she had a little boy. She rushed out—bought all sorts of the kind of toys which she saw little boys playing with and sent them back to him by a north-bound ship. Tarrik wrote very cheerfully and so did Hyperides who was still there. He said he thought he must go home the next year, and if so he would try and get Tarrik to leave Marob for a time and come with him. Every one there was now so well in awe of the Corn King that nothing would happen. That was exciting! Perhaps she could go to Greece next year and meet Tarrik there and they would go back together to Marob.
In summer again came the Falling of the Tear, and nearly at the same time another festival, though one the native Egyptians themselves did not care for much, the feast of Adonis, yet another Year King to be killed and mourned for and to rise again. It was impossible not to see the likeness between these Gods, and many people agreed that they were only forms of one another. This year the Adonis festival was held in great state at the palace, for the divine Ptolemy’s play was produced with intense enthusiasm and real wild boars. Two gods were honoured, for was not Dionysos Lord of the Theatre? Yet perhaps they both were one.
Metrotimé was surprised with Berris. He had stopped wanting her for anything, and his work had become dreadfully solid and unamusing again. She was hurt at first, but did not allow it to show, and consoled herself. After all, men were like that, Greeks or barbarians. Besides, she might easily have been the one to tire first! Though it had certainly been sudden. She still felt very friendly towards him.
That autumn Sosibios had arranged for a series of elephant hunts to take place in the far south. The beasts were needed for the army, and it would be just as well if Antiochos of Syria should get to know; he needed—discouraging. His spies were carefully allowed to find out about the magnitude of the elephant drives. And Berris Der, who was known to be fantastically interested in anything new, was asked whether he would care to go south and see the hunting.
The idea, of course, fascinated him. Real, untamed elephants among marvellously coloured flowers and butterflies and water-falls! He dreamt of them. But his love? He was torn between Philylla and the elephants. At last he asked her to decide for him. She looked down for a moment, steadying herself. One part of her was leaping with a queer relief that the moment had come; she could be done with this half-life and be fully truthful and herself again to Panteus; she would turn again and for certain make something good out of her marriage! But the other part was stunned and torn with the thought that Berris, her lover, was leaving her so easily and soon and seemed to care so little; and she shuddered away from the narrowness, the life without joy or colour that the Spartans led, against the whole spirit of Alexandria and the live, creating happiness of Berris! She looked up and smiled a little and said: ‘Go, my dear! If I were a man I’d not hesitate once. Wild elephants!’
‘But won’t you miss me?’ said Berris, suddenly not wanting it to be so easy.
She laughed as gaily as she could and said: ‘I shall have Erif still.’
‘I don’t know whether to go!’ said Berris. ‘I know I want to see everything, but I do know that when I’m there I shall miss you far, far more than even I think I’m going to now! Oh Philylla, if I go, promise to be the same when I come back! You mustn’t change. Dear love, whatever’s different or unkind, in the whole world, ever, it mustn’t be you!’
He went the next week on his expedition, and Philylla set about trying not to think of him. In the evenings, while Panteus and the King worked and worried over their plans, and wrote out lists of names, and talked themselves sick with their impotence against Sosibios and the Court, she would sew or weave, and deliberately not wonder whether Berris was at this moment in danger among horrible wild beasts. But when she and Erif were together, it seemed likely that things were all right. She could be certain for quite long spaces of time that Erif’s love was, after all, the whole thing beyond her marriage which she needed for happiness. So long as Erif stayed with her and did not go. As Agiatis had gone.
Chapter Six
THE PALACE WAS a small elaborate city. Jutting into the great city. The wings were separated by gardens and steps and marble tanks and runnels; there were overhead galleries and underground passages, and stone lions and cats and great beetles. Now there was a light, clear wintry sky over it all and clouds blowing and a scattering noise of waves.
In one wing of the palace, the divine Lady Arsinoë would not play ball nor embroider with her companions, but knelt up against the window, looking out to sea and the white-caps dancing in. She wanted to be a man. She wanted to be in a boat. She wanted to be in a battle. She wanted now at once to gallop on a white horse at the head of a galloping army and cut off the heads of the Syrian generals. She had managed to hear how Antiochos of Syria had invaded Northern Palestine and plundered some of the Ptolemaic towns. She stood up and stamped. If only they’d let her go out! She could be a princess like the old princesses of Macedon. She would change everything. Yes, she’d hang Agathokles over the palace wall and shoot him full of arrows and cut off Agathoklea’s nose! If only she ever got a chance. Perhaps it would be better after she was married to her horrid brother. They couldn’t stop her then. Or could they?
She walked up and down the room, frowning, twisting her long yellow hair. Even the head nurse knew it was best to leave her when she was like that. Suddenly she made up her mind to do one definite thing; she would send to her brother and ask him to let her have a tutor. She was old enough surely! And she’d see it wasn’t Agathokles!
This was th
e time of day for visitors. Sosibios received them and sorted out such as were to go further and actually see his royal and divine master. He had very definite views, and took care that Ptolemy should be sufficiently bored with the business of governing to allow his chief minister to do most of it. So now, for instance, a deputation of date-growers; it did not much matter what was said to them anyhow. A fantastic letter had come from the Roman envoy with the improbable name, saying that their Council of Elders would take Egypt under its protection—incredible what these barbarians thought of! Sosibios was composing in his head an equally fantastic letter back—perhaps even in rhyme?—which would leave them scratching their thick heads and mean absolutely nothing. Thinking of the letter he grinned; seeing one of the priests from the Serapeum, whom he disliked, the grin suddenly widened and turned itself down in disgust—and the divine Ptolemy too busy to see anyone. The priest bowed and left, without so much as a silver piece to the doorkeeper. Sosibios did not know why he disliked him and his slippers and his shaved head so much, but he did: it was his right to dislike people. It would, he thought, be pleasant to hire somebody to put a curse on to this priest. Yes, by and bye, when he had time; a pleasant evening’s occupation.
Another letter came with fresh and worse news from Palestine, yes, decidedly, not so pleasant, but then, it was almost winter and nothing more could be done until spring. It would be better if his Divinity did not hear of it yet, not at least until the new elephants were back. And even more essentially not Agathokles and Agathoklea. Interesting news was not for women and —s. A deputation from the Jews of Alexandria, sent for by his Divine Majesty to discuss religious affairs? Certainly, certainly. That was the right kind of nonsense for the King. He’d had the Jews up before, several times, to talk all this God-and-water. Words, words, words—puff!
The three Jews bowed sweepingly before Ptolemy; two were oldish, bearded men in robes, carrying great rolls, and one was younger, clean-shaven and elegant with a short tunic. The two elders eyed one another and the room, but the younger looked gaily and defiantly at the King. Ptolemy approached the matter, Agathokles assisting. It was certainly a very brilliant idea, worthy of the successor and spiritual descendant of Alexander, an idea for the peace of the world, nothing less. All Gods are found to be the same God! Nothing was needed for this discovery but a cultured mind, ready to admit historical and philosophical truth, a careful study, and—yes, Agathokles, a touch of that same flame which I know in my own heart! All Gods the same God. The Egyptians have allowed that. Their Gods mingle like clouds. Yet there is one form of the God which is more potent and powerful than the others. I name him: Dionysos the Conqueror! King Ptolemy threw his head back, a hand on the base of his throat to still the leap of the blood. Agathokles made a curious sign with his fingers, and his face twitched. The three Jews were silent, waiting for the next step.
‘The unity of the world under Dionysos Sabazios and me his chosen!’ whispered King Ptolemy, staring at the younger man, who stared back with contracted pupils and a hardening mouth. He had been here before. ‘You must give me your God too,’ said the King, ‘for he is the same. Acknowledge him as Dionysos, the ever young, the ever renewed. Even his name shows it. What is Sabaoth but Sabazios? You, my Jews, who have always been loyal citizens, more industrious than Greeks, more cultured than Egyptians, you who have had privileges in Alexandria. Yes, privileges—which can be increased—or taken away.’ He ended slowly, leaning forward in his ivory chair. There was a sense of power all about him, of orders written very quickly and sealed by grinning Agathokles.
But the two old Jews would not heed it. One of them pulled open his roll and began to read aloud, boomingly, in words which seemed as though they must mean something terrible. The younger Jew spoke with a peculiar, gentle restraint, as though he too were conscious of power, but his own: ‘What is laid upon the followers of Dionysos, King Ptolemy?’
‘I will show you, Simon,’ said the King, at the same time loosening his belt clasp, while Agathokles, stooping over, unpinned the tunic. The King laid bare on his body the brand of the Ivy Leaf, pricked in and coloured. He looked down at it for a time, but Agathokles, watching, saw the shiver of horror on all three of the Jews. ‘It was pain,’ said the King softly. ‘Yes, Simon, a burning pain, but now I am Ptolemy-Dionysos, and the pain has become a fire within me. He has been marked too’—the King nodded back to Agathokles—‘and all those I love. Come, Simon, come and be marked with the Ivy Leaf and let me love you.’ He laid a hand on Simon’s arm, closing and clasping. ‘You are marked already, Simon,’ he said, ‘for your own God. I know. Be marked for mine.’ He pulled the hand forward till it rested on his own flesh, on the Ivy Leaf.
The two old men whispered to one another, glaring. Abruptly Ptolemy let the hand go and Simon fell back a pace, expressionless. After a time he moved his hand behind his back and rubbed the palm against his tunic.
‘You are hard, Simon, hard as stone!’ said the King, ‘why do you go hard against Dionysos? He can be hard too. Dionysos-Ptolemy can be hard.’ He fastened his tunic again, and his face changed alarmingly.
The young man said, speaking rather into the air: ‘We are part of the greatness of Alexandria, the tall ships and the warehouses. You would not hurt your greatness, King Ptolemy.’
‘Not yet,’ said Ptolemy. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps Dionysos will lay it on me to hurt—even my own greatness as my own flesh!’
From behind, Agathokles mouthed at the deputation to go. They bowed again with the suitable formulae of leave-taking. The curtains parted and then swung to behind them. Suddenly the King snatched up a full gold cup from beside him and flung it after them. It tumbled and rolled, dinted; the wine dripped down the curtains. King Ptolemy yelped once with anger and began to cry like a raging child. Agathokles comforted him. ‘You shall have them all in a net one day, my master, my beautiful. Sabaoth will die in Sabazios. Their temples shall be our temples. Before that—we shall frighten them.’ The names and powers of Dionysos twirled and shone in Agathokles, and through them tinkled a waterfall of gold, which was also power, out of the hands of the Jews who had been made afraid. A double music in his mind while King Ptolemy’s rage burst and passed like a mid-summer storm.
After that there was something pleasanter to see. The design of the great Dionysos ship, which was to be ready in spring, to float the King and his Court, worshipping, along canals or coast, a marvel of lamps and flute song. Deep-nested in it was the shrine, the gold and jewelled bower of grapes where the fire of the God should light on his worshippers. Yet the designs for this were dullish; the King fretted and tossed them to one side. Agathokles had the good idea of getting the young Scythian, when he came back from the elephant-hunt, to design something newer—elephants among the grapes perhaps!
‘Agathokles,’ said the King abruptly, ‘go down and see who there is waiting for me. Sosibios will send me stupid and ugly people. I can’t bear that after the Jews! No, it would be too much. Send me someone young and new.’ It suddenly came to him, if only Nikomedes would come again. Ah, he must come. He must come to his Ptolemy. Ptolemy would not be angry and cruel, would not try to hurt him. He would be kind; oh, oh, so kind and soft! How to get Nikomedes back? He called after Agathokles: ‘If the Spartans are there, I will see them—whatever our dear Sosibios advises!’ He leant across to the table beside him and began playing with an ingenious toy that was standing there, a thing that you twirled and little carved painted horses shot out and raced—absorbing!
After a time Agathokles came back, and, just as it was meant to be, King Kleomenes of Sparta and two of his friends with him. Ptolemy rose quickly, smiling, anticipating the moment when Kleomenes took his hand, the strong, slow grip on him. They began to talk, Kleomenes extremely glad that for once he had got beyond Sosibios and remembering the adder-flash in the fat man’s eyes as Agathokles announced the King’s pleasure. King Ptolemy asked most graciously about their comfort—the whole family, his mother and children. Would he not bring t
he boy to Court again one day? The eldest, Nikomedes, such a fine lad, a true Spartiate. His father must be proud of him. Why, yes, he should come again one day, said Kleomenes carelessly—oh, as if it did not matter at all!—and laughed. ‘But the lad’s no courtier.’
Then he began on what he meant to say, the thing which surely must move even Ptolemy! This fresh piece of bad news from Syria. Most fortunately Panteus had got wind of it that same morning and told him at once. He urged the King to act, to lead his armies against Antiochos and the invaders before they came any further. And he, Kleomenes, he would put his life and his skill—yes, and the life and skill of all the Spartans in Alexandria—at Ptolemy’s service. They could drill the Egyptians. Yes, Kleomenes seriously thought that with Greek officers whom he trusted, Ptolemy could dare to enlist the natives, a thing which had not been done for three generations. Agesipolis joined in. Surely it was an offer worth taking! Surely King Ptolemy remembered still that Kleomenes of Sparta had been the terror and wonder of Greece, the one general whom the mercenaries wished to serve—yes, they had stayed with him even to the end when he could pay them nothing! Was not this worth something to Egypt? Even among the mercenaries they already had in pay, there were many Peloponnesians who would be worth twice their wages led by their own Kleomenes. He knew most of the captains already; they were fast friends of his. Yes, he could do almost anything with the mercenaries!
But Kleomenes, afraid of what effect even this slight shadow of a threat might have on Ptolemy, frowned at his nephew to stop. ‘Let me help you against the Syrians, King Ptolemy!’ he said. ‘For no bargain, only for the hope of a little trust afterwards. I cannot stay here rotting like an old dog in the sun!’
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 66
