Ptolemy was interested; he was so much interested in the bad news itself that he paid less attention to what followed it. Why had he not been told? But neither he nor Agathokles betrayed themselves. He said he would think it over carefully. He realised to the full what the offer meant. King Kleomenes must come again—and bring his son. He picked up the elaborate and lovely toy, and gave it to Kleomenes ‘for Nikomedes from his friend Ptolemy.’ Kleomenes took it gingerly, for it looked as though it would break. He wondered whether to try to get a definite promise at once. There was a little more talk. But Ptolemy was elusive and troubled. Yes, he seemed to be thinking about it seriously this time!
After the Spartans had left, Ptolemy and Agathokles looked at one another. One of the secretaries ran like the wind with a polite message to Sosibios, who came, wondering whether Ptolemy had thought of some wild-cat scheme about the Jews; if so, it should be put into practice—reasonably. With all this fighting in Palestine he was not going to estrange the Jews! But Ptolemy, sitting back in his chair with his legs crossed, produced the news: ‘Now, what about it?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Sosibios, ‘that news. Quite. Yes, we are taking measures. No use doing anything in too much of a hurry. We shall have the new elephants up from the south in a month or so. Nothing to worry about, I assure you. I have my eye on it.’
‘Why was I not told?’ said Ptolemy. ‘Am I the King of Egypt, or not?’
Sosibios grinned once, in and out, as though to explain to the world that King Ptolemy must have his joke, then said: ‘Naturally I was merely waiting to tell you until the end of your Divine Majesty’s audience. I particularly did not wish to interfere with the flow of inspiration, yes, I insist, inspiration, while our friends the Jews were here. Naturally, I know my place.’
‘Hmm,’ said the King, dancing his foot a little. ‘So you say, Sosibios. Now there’s only one thing that seems quite simple and obvious, and easy enough for even me to understand, and that is, we should use the Spartans. They must teach, drill, get on with the job! We need an army, not just a palace guard.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Sosibios, ‘that’s one of King Kleomenes’ phrases, of course. Very neat, yes, very neat and laconic. How clever of him to get the news so soon. One would think he must be looking out for bad news about Egypt.’ He looked benevolently down on to Ptolemy, like teacher and child.
Ptolemy blushed and said violently: ‘I will have Kleomenes if I choose!’
‘Naturally,’ said Sosibios, ‘if and when you choose. But there are ways and ways of possession. In the meantime, Palestine is perfectly safe and nothing can be done until, first, the elephants arrive, and secondly, we get out a plan of recruiting. We shall have to consider the Treasury. Armies, unfortunately, cost money, which has to be saved from other objects.’ He looked round the room and caught sight of a crumpled design of grapes for the new shrine. ‘Your Majesty has certain rather expensive projects in hand at the moment. It would be more than sad if they had to be ended at once. The great ship, for instance. No, I am afraid you will have to put up with my advice and allow a month or two for revising the taxes, and so on.’ He ended deferentially with his head bowed, but the bald patch seemed to twinkle with triumph. Ptolemy sulked and picked up a poem and pretended to read it. While he did this, Sosibios made up his mind quite definitely that, Peloponnesian mercenaries or not (for he was well aware of the position the Spartan King held among them), it was time Kleomenes of Sparta was got out of the way, before he either interfered dangerously with the King and his chief minister, or else became exasperated to the point at which he might—what? Perhaps go tale-bearing to Antiochos. Or lead a revolt of the mercenaries. Run amok somehow, as the elephants sometimes did: and had to be killed.
Kleomenes duly gave the toy to Nikomedes, who said he supposed it was really for Nikolaos and Gorgo, and gave it to them, to their great satisfaction. Secretly, Kleomenes was glad. Agesipolis had come to him that evening and strongly advised him not to take Nikomedes to the palace. ‘Why?’ asked Kleomenes. ‘I think, my uncle,’ said Agesipolis slowly, ‘that it is a bad place for a boy to see or hear in, and if anything bad happened to this boy I think I would die.’ ‘Ah,’ said Kleomenes, and looked at him with raised eyebrows and queer wide-open eyes, the flecked brown irises and contracted pupils, but did not seem to see him at all.
For several days after this Kleomenes and Panteus and the rest of the twelve waited eagerly for a summons from Ptolemy. It was the same wretched old game, played on them this much more cruelly. They dropped into bitter gloom and depression and did not go near the palace often. But all the same, a curious feeling of danger, made up of tiny incidents, began to grow on some of them, though not yet on Kleomenes himself. Philylla got this through Panteus, who was even more worried than usual and felt he was being spied upon, and she told Erif Der, hoping Erif would say it was all nonsense. But Erif had heard from Metrotimé that Sosibios was black angry against the Spartans, and no one now spoke of them in his hearing, and the King, though rather differently, had almost snapped off her head when she had happened to mention one of them.
Erif had been to see one of her friends of Vintage Night. He had been non-committal, and she was rather angry with him, but did not show it much, in case she might need him again later. She comforted Philylla as best she could, unable to suggest why danger had suddenly taken a step nearer. She supposed somebody had offended somehow; probably it would blow over. There was nothing for the Spartans to do until spring except keep quiet.
A month or so later Berris came back from the elephant-hunt, brown and lean, with a dimpled scar on one arm where some cat-beast had clawed him. The first evening he and Erif lay on their elbows on the floor, looking at all his drawings and laughing, while he told her one adventure after another. But the next day he wanted Philylla.
He wanted her, not so much to lie with her as to make certain of her continuous and constant kindness and faith. He wanted to tell her about himself and the things he had thought about his work, and he wanted very much to look at her so as to know whether he had her as completely as he believed in his mind, for he had an idea for a great carving and she was part of it. He went to Panteus’ house and told him about the hunting, which interested Panteus very much. Philylla came in and listened too, only looking at Berris when she was fairly sure he was not looking at her. After a little time she found herself becoming desperately impatient; he went on telling Panteus—and her too, of course; and something important was being left out, some unasked and unanswered question. She did not know what it was. Only, as she sat there quietly, keeping her fingers to their sewing, this impatience began to bubble and burst in her like a boiling pot; abruptly, she got up and left them, with some kitchen excuse.
She waited four days, trying violently to suppress whatever she did not choose to have in her. Berris had begged his sister to wait too, and not go to her, and Erif did as he asked, though half-heartedly. Then Philylla came to see them, and to ask Berris whether he still thought of her—to ask that and go. Yet it was so lovely to be there, to have the other world again, the warm gold colour over the hard shapes of life, so perfect to have Berris added to Erif, that she stayed. That afternoon and evening after she was gone, and until the light was too bad, Berris was making his scale drawing of the statue of Love and Philylla, a thing from behind and above holding Philylla with hands across the shoulders, across the mounds of her breasts, which her own hands reached up to touch, a thing Philylla was accepting without expression except for the loving-kindness of her body.
He had bought a block of limestone from Carthage, beautiful close-grained stuff which would take a polish almost like alabaster. There were weeks of work to be done on it, but all the time he could be thinking out the final shapes. He could not decide yet what form to give to Love; he only saw him as curved and intersecting planes of the limestone, polished to a smoothness, an apparent tenderness, in some way cousin to flesh, but not remote from stone. He would not make a man’s head on Love, fo
r what man could stand as model for Eros? Not himself, and surely not Panteus. Not even Erif, hardened and thinned to a boy. He drew many strange heads, influenced by the sculpture he had seen lately, especially some of the ancient temples he had passed coming back up the Nile from his hunt. He tried the tremendous heads of jungle beasts, and cat and bull-heads. The head which satisfied him best was a mixed one, a bird to start with, the curious, unhuman calm of a hawk watching and knowing its moment, the hawk of the soul, perhaps—what was it the priests said?—and then, branching down and away from it, the northern elk’s horns, knotted and stiff and enduring, and in a strange way like a double branch of some northern tree in the cold months before the buds break on it.
For weeks Berris was absorbed in this, and in the presence and kindness of Philylla. He had brought a beautiful tusk back with him and liked to handle the ivory, but had not yet decided what to do with it. One day Agathokles came to ask him for a design for the Dionysos shrine in the ship, and after at first refusing to be bothered, he did three days’ hard work on it. Erif tried very cautiously to find out from Agathokles how the wind lay now in regard to the Spartans, but got little out of the wriggling mask of his face as he looked from her to the new, linen-wrapped statue, and the stone dust all about the place.
The sense of danger grew and grew, but no one knew whether it was at all real or whether it was perhaps something in their minds which had not been removed, and so was going on growing there by itself. Erif had this to keep her awake at night, and also the puzzle of the relationship between her brother and her best friend, which must, she supposed, end somehow. If only she could make it end well!—or, for that matter, see any way in which it could possibly end well. She could not even tell for certain whether Philylla was more or less happy because of it. She was not happy herself.
In Marob now it was after the feast of the winter solstice and before Plowing Eve. The snow would be thick, caked crisply solid in the sledge-ways, wonderful echo-land for sledge-bells or bells on saplings or shouting, ringing voices of hunters and dancers. Berris had bought an Egyptian flute because it was beautifully carved. He played the beginnings of dance tunes, and the tunes they played in Marob at the end of a feast when the apples were thrown about the tables.
Apples in winter,
Apples and honey;
A noise like honey.
A flute noise, a drum noise,
Feet on the snow,
Fire on the snow,
Fire and dancing.
The Marob women dance
In coats of fur and gold.
They stamp their leather shoes
And the snow is not cold.
And I wish I was with them dancing
And the thing were over, were over, were over,
A story told.
The Marob witches dance
With ribbons in their hair,
Their plaits and skirts go wide,
Their white knees are bare.
And I wish I was with the witches
And this thing were over, were over, were over,
Oh I wish I was there!
Chapter Seven
ABOUT THE TIME of the royal blessing of the crops, ships began to come into Alexandria again, and Kleomenes and his friends began to hang about the quays, waiting for them. A big-bottomed merchant ship moved round the corner of the island, shipped oars, made fast and let down her gang-plank. In the hold were a dozen beautiful horses. Phoebis beckoned Kleomenes over to look, thinking it would please him to see the fine creatures stepping on to the quay and snuffing about them, then suddenly realising the air and space and whinnying and rearing and stretching themselves horse-fashion. One could tell they were Messenian horses, the small, flat-backed, wiry creatures they bred in those plains. The King and his friends stood watching them, going over their points, frankly envious. The owner of the horses came up and began giving orders to the grooms. Kleomenes did not pay much attention for a moment, then recognised him as Nikagoras the Messenian, to whom he still owed the price of a good farm and live-stock.
They met, however, with great affability, and no trace of this. The King commended the horses. Nikagoras pointed out the best six. ‘They’re for King Ptolemy,’ he said. Then the rest are bound to go well! And I’ve other cargo I mean to get a good price for.’ He slapped the flank of one of the horses. ‘You don’t happen to want one for yourself, King Kleomenes? I’d make you a special price for old sakes. Now here’s a chap who’d gallop ten miles without turning a hair, and a heart like a lion—like a Spartan, what!’
Kleomenes laid one arm longingly along the tough, silky back, fingering the warm base of the mane, breathing in the smell of horse; but he shook his head. ‘In a year or two, Nikagoras—perhaps. But not now.’
‘Well, he’d be a bargain—to you. But I’ve no doubt I’ll find a good market in Alexandria.’ He looked at them proudly. ‘Not a bad present, even for King Ptolemy!’
Kleomenes thought of the lovely, strong little Greek horses going to Ptolemy, and said with a quick bitterness: ‘You’d have done better with a bunch of tarts: both kinds. That’s the kind of riding King Ptolemy likes best!’
Nikagoras raised his eyebrows. ‘So! I’ve not been here since the old man’s time. He’d have liked my horses. Well, I must chance it now. Whoa there! See you again, King Kleomenes.’
Hippitas had overheard and was troubled. ‘That was a stupid thing to say about Ptolemy,’ he said low to Phoebis.
Phoebis nodded. ‘It’s hard to keep one’s tongue off him.’
‘Or one’s hands. But we’ve got to. How’s the boy, Phoebis?’
‘Having a regular go of fever, poor kid,’ said Phoebis. ‘He’ll just need to go through with it. We’re not anxious now, but they say he’ll be a two-three weeks longer at it. Then I’ll get him out of the town if I can. Neareta’s made friends with a woman who’s got a farm by the river over Canopus way. She’ll take him and feed him up. I wish the old Queen’d let those boys go too. This town’s no good to man or beast.’ He looked all round him, taking in warehouses and palace and lighthouse with equal and extreme distaste. ‘Nowhere to stretch oneself!’ he said.
Five days later Nikagoras called on the King at his house and went fairly straight to the point about the money which was owing. He took out the farm deeds and laid them flat on the table, and there, with a certain horror, Kleomenes saw his own name where he had written it. He remembered the occasion very well. He tapped with his fingers on the parchment: ‘Who’s on the farm now?’
‘Why, your pretty lady, Kleomenes, or rather her husband. An oldish man,’ said Nikagoras, with a trace of a grin and keeping firm hold of his deed. ‘But they’ve got a fine boy.’ He added: ‘I shall be glad of the money because business hasn’t turned out so well as I’d hoped. No. It would come in handy. Not much for a farm like that.’
‘Maybe,’ said the King, ‘but I’ve not got the money to pay you, Nikagoras, and that’s that.’
He and Nikagoras faced one another across the table and the deeds. ‘It’s a pity,’ said Nikagoras slowly. ‘It is sometimes—very awkward when debts are not paid.’
‘You know as well as I do, Nikagoras,’ the King said, ‘that I haven’t got the money now. If you choose to wait for a year, I may have it.’
‘Or you may not.’
‘As you say. In the meantime, there’s nothing doing. I’m sorry, but I can’t pay you.’
Nikagoras rolled up the parchment deliberately, the signature showing to the last. ‘Kings’ names—!’ he said ‘They’re going cheap these days.’ And he turned quickly and went out.
Kleomenes went out too, by the other door. He did not want to remember any part of this interview, either his debts unpaid or Archiroë married.
Nikagoras went straight through Alexandria to the palace without speaking to anyone. He asked for Sosibios and was admitted. He said nothing till Sosibios had sent away every one else; he supposed, and rightly, that there was a confidential se
cretary hidden behind a curtain taking notes, but he did not care about that. He told Sosibios the exact words which Kleomenes had used about King Ptolemy on the quay.
‘Excellent, as far as it goes,’ said Sosibios, ‘but I must have a little something more. Let us consider.’ He stared fixedly at a ring on his forefinger, then looked up, pinkish with pleasure. ‘Supposing, now, that you were to find out that Kleomenes had a neat little Spartan plan cut and dried to get hold of the Peloponnesian mercenaries, and—yes, he will find transport ships essential—supposing, my Nikagoras, he had approached you about your ship, but of course you would have nothing to do with it and loyally informed me—and all this (here’s what needs making quite, quite clear!) has an object: yes. Instead of trotting quietly home to talk to his friends, he plans to make a raid on our Kyrene. That would be effective. But I shall want it in writing, so that his Divine Majesty, who is occasionally a little obstinate, may be convinced.’
‘Letters are nasty things,’ said Nikagoras. ‘One signs one’s name—and it comes up against one afterwards.’
‘Nothing shall be done until the day after you leave Alexandria. By the way, I am distressed that you have not found a better market here. Now I feel sure you will allow me to do my best to induce you to visit us again. And of course any information I get will have a certain value.’
Deliberately Nikagoras drew up a chair and sat down. He took out his pen-case and ink and a square of paper. ‘How much?’ he said.
Three days later Nikagoras left Egypt, and at the same time Sosibios gave orders that any Peloponnesian mercenary troops still in Alexandria were to be sent at once to the great camp which was forming east of the delta, ready to move up into Palestine. The next day Sosibios brought the letter and the remark to Ptolemy, who grew scarlet with anger and stuck out his lip. ‘Kleomenes must go! Not a day more—him or his brats.’
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 67
