At first they were keeping themselves firmly into a group of planning and hoping, looking forward to material and solid things, the New Times again, the kingdom—in Sparta. Hippitas was best at this because he was the eldest and had seen many very unlikely things happen, and anyhow took the future lightly, as a good campaigner should. Idaios was hopeful because he was bound to have a very strong and sharp vision of the time when he and Leandris and his baby son were at last going to be home. Agesipolis said it was going to come right because he was the youngest, young enough to believe in the almost impossible. And Phoebis sometimes said the same thing, but there was a bitter taste of country irony perceptible behind the words, the mocking of the harvest people at the Spartiates, the mocking at death. The others were not hoping so well.
The King had seen Nikomedes the day before, but he had not told him or Sphaeros what was going to happen. He knew Sphaeros would discourage it, would say it was not only folly and violence and an animal struggle against Fate, but also impossible! And he did not tell Nikomedes because—if it was impossible, if all he was doing was going to his death a few weeks sooner than Ptolemy had meant—the less the boy knew about it the better. If he was not involved in the plot there was no reason why he should be involved in his father’s death either. So young a boy. A child almost. A child he had looked that day, puzzled and kept out and terribly attentive to every word his father had said. No, no, think on across to the time when Nikomedes should be full grown, a young man, a kouros, running over the hills with a spear, the next King of Sparta.
As they ate and drank, helping themselves from the small tables set close to the couches, there were odd, sudden silences and then bursts of speech. There were curtains drawn across the windows, a half light. Their garlands smelt strongly, and so did the flowers strewn across the room; they were all still in the many-coloured garments of rejoicing that they had put on to show the guards. It was curious, but as the time went on, the same idea would seem to come into the minds of two or three of them at once, almost in the same words. They were being drawn closer and closer together. There were few enough of them for that to be possible, twelve and the King. They were all ages of strong manhood; they had known all kinds of different experience. Half of them were married or had been. Whatever happened, this meal, this meat and bread and wine, was the last of some series; either the last of shame and imprisonment and waiting—or the last of life.
Most likely the latter, Hippitas said to himself, passing a handful of olives to his neighbour, a scarred, grizzled man nearly his own age, and calculating their chances to himself. Well, so long as there was one chance in a hundred, it was better than leaving the King in prison to be butchered at leisure by Ptolemy and Sosibios. And, suddenly, that was just what his neighbour was saying to him, in a low voice, his mouth half full of olives. If one liked olives, one might as well eat them now, get the full flavour of them while the tongue could taste still. ‘I’ve seen life,’ said Hippitas, ‘a good share of it, more than most. The thing’s got to end some time. Whatever happens, we cheat Ptolemy out of getting the King.’
His neighbour nodded, bit on an olive stone and spat it out. ‘It was the only thing to do.’
And at the same time, at the far side of the room, Neolaidas’ neighbour was saying: ‘It’s the only thing we can do.’ He looked down at his hands, spreading and clenching them. ‘In a way,’ he said, ‘a pity to have to get killed yet. But we obviously must.’
Neolaidas nodded. ‘Probably less painful than when I was wounded at Sellasia and lost my eye.’
‘Yes, but—Here one is. A bore to be killed.’
‘Perhaps. It will all be over before tonight.’
‘Yes. And then—?’
‘No more decisions to make. No more waiting. Responsibilities. Pain. This anxiousness all day and all night, what was it about? Life or death mostly. Odd and quiet it will be when that’s settled for good.’
‘Yet perhaps it won’t be settled. Perhaps we shall succeed.’
‘And have to face death thirty years on instead. Perhaps. Yet, of course, if we could get one of the gates or even part of the harbour and send to the mercenaries—’
‘Yes,’ said Phoebis, his neighbour on the other side, ‘I was just thinking of the mercenaries. If only we’d got to them before. The bad business is that Ptolemy at Canopus will get the news before the camp does. Well, if so, we’re done, even if we last out tonight. Unless, by some amazing piece of good luck we get Sosibios.’
‘I’d sooner die now than in a week,’ said Neolaidas.
‘Die like a Spartan!’ said Phoebis, with a queer little laugh. And then: ‘My boy’s down in the country getting well. He won’t hear for a day or two that his dad’s—dead like a Spartan!’
‘You told Neareta?’
‘Oh yes, she knows. She knows! Twenty years we’ve been man and wife. My eldest boy, who was killed at Sellasia—he’d have been almost nineteen now.’
‘Mnasippos was a good chap,’ said one of the others, thinking of the friends who had been killed at Sellasia.
‘So was Hierax.’
‘Odd, Xenares getting killed in the charge.’
‘When we’re cleared off, there won’t be so many Spartans left.’
Phoebis was frowning. He said slowly: ‘This is the Spartan thing, the Phiditia, this last thing, this last eating together. And I am only half Spartan.’
The King heard that; he said across the room, which was not after all, so big, and all held together by the smell of flowers and wine: ‘You, my foster-brother, Phoebis?’
Phoebis looked at the King, who leaned on the edge of his couch with both elbows, Panteus behind him smiling at Phoebis too. It was Kleomenes, who had been a littler boy when Phoebis was a little boy, fantastically, incredibly grown up. For a moment Phoebis was busy with the flashing-by of thirty-five years. That image of childhood had persisted in his mind, in its old colours and proportions, and in the meantime this thing had happened! Then the room swung back, closed on him with the present. Panteus had walked across and taken him by the hands and held his eyes steady and restored the community. With a queer little grunt of relaxation Phoebis admitted it. Whatever he had been, he was a Spartan now. Panteus went back across the room to the King. He still walked with that peculiar springiness of his as though there were turf under his feet, and his hair was still thick and curly, but some of the colour was gone from it, as though promising that some day, in a few years, someone would look at him and suddenly see that it was all grey. He settled himself down beside Kleomenes and put one arm round his neck, and the King shifted his head imperceptibly into the strong crook of his love’s elbow.
Three beyond Phoebis was Idaios. He said: ‘This is the eating together, Phoebis, I know what you mean; this is the love feast. It is like something in a temple.’
And the man next him said: ‘Yes, it is like something in one of the Mysteries. I was thinking of that.’
‘It is one of the Mysteries.’
‘Is it going to carry us on then? On across any threshold?’ That was Agesipolis, three away from Idaios, ‘for I had been wondering when I had felt like this before, and now I know.’ He was one of the Spartiates who had been most deeply caught by the Gods of Egypt. He said: ‘There is a feast before the rising of Osiris. I am not sure whether I should speak of it. No. I am sure. The God becomes corn, becomes bread. He is taken and eaten by the Initiates. They become one, through him. It was like this.’
Another man said: ‘Some Gods become the beast that is sacrificed, the Bull. It is the same thing.’
Idaios said: ‘But why is it like that now? Where is the God?’ And nobody answered for a moment, but then, in that part of the room, they found that they were all looking rather intently at Kleomenes. He was the King. He was the focus of the feast. Idaios said sharply: ‘But that’s stupid. How can one think that? These things are not so.’ And he began quickly to remember, first Sphaeros and the good, solid Stoicism which he had learnt, and the
n Leandris and his marriage, and the fact which he insisted on in his mind, that this was not the last eating together, because he and his bride were going to go home.
But Agesipolis only said: ‘I wish Nikomedes were here.’
The King said quickly to Agesipolis: ‘You did not tell Nikomedes anything?’
‘No,’ said Agesipolis, ‘though I wanted to. I wanted him to wish me luck. I wanted something—something special to be said.’
‘So did I,’ said the King slowly. ‘But we couldn’t take that. If we fail, we will not drag him after us. Or the others.’
Idaios got up and came over to the King and knelt on the floor beside him. ‘You are sure of that, Kleomenes? The women will come to no harm, whatever happens?’
‘As far as one can tell, no,’ said the King. ‘Unless perhaps my mother, because she is Queen and because she is sure to say things to anger the Egyptians. I think she knew that when she saw me last. She is old, you see, and there is not much difference between an old man and an old woman; she would want the things that happen to a man.’
‘But the others—but Leandris—’
The King said: ‘If we fail the women and children will be able to live on as ordinary people, to live ordinary life for its own sweet immediacy, and not be harassed as we have been by greatness. Our deaths will at least take off them the intolerable burden of kingliness.’
‘But you will not die!’ said Panteus, suddenly gripping and shaking him.
‘No!’ said Idaios. ‘No, we shall do it; none of us will die.’ And then he looked strangely round the room. ‘How can we—after this?’ And he leant back for a breath or two against the edge of the King’s couch.
Kleomenes picked up a fold of the beautiful Egyptian mantle from his shoulder and fingered it and then let it fall, sliding from his bare shoulder and chest. He asked: ‘What did Leandris say to you, Idaios?’
‘She was making vows for me,’ said Idaios softly. ‘For me and for you, Kleomenes. To Isis and Serapis and Any who are powerful. The baby is—is very nice now. He always wants me to pick him up and play with him. He’ll grow up. There’ll be the classes again for him. Leandris—oh, it wasn’t good-bye we said!’ He got up quickly and went back to his place and drank a cupful of wine.
Phoebis said: ‘Neareta and I said good-bye. We’ve done that before. We did it before Sellasia. She thinks it is—lucky. We shall need all the luck we can get.’
One or two others spoke of their wives, to whom they had told much or little, and then Agesipolis suddenly thought of his own wife, that rather stupid girl whom he had not seen for nearly six years, and the baby he had been so bored with, but who must now be quite a nice little boy. Kleomenes thought of Agiatis, how he would have told her everything, and how she would have made him see all the good or luck there was in it. Someone said to Panteus: ‘And you?’
But Panteus shook his head. There had been something queer and shadowy about his good-byes to Philylla. She had known everything, the plans and the chances. She said she would stay with the old Queen and especially the children, especially Nikomedes, till it was over—either way. They might need her. And he had talked to her about the King and how it had been driving him mad not to be able to help, but now at last he and Kleomenes would be doing something together again. She had understood and kissed him wisely and calmly, standing in front of him, a wise, strong woman, not a girl any more, but a comforter and helper of men. But neither of them had spoken of their own marriage, their own happiness or unhappiness, their own hopes and fears. It was as though that had been put aside to some later time when there would be infinite leisure, after all these serious things were past. But suppose that time never came. They had passed by some fundamental reality without looking at it. Because for now, he had to see all his realities in the King. And she? But he could trust Philylla. Even if he died with something unspoken, she would understand.
It was then that the two helots came in to say that the guards were asleep, and looked like sleeping till evening. The men stirred and glanced at one another. Another hour and they would start. Best not to do it too early, when most of Alexandria would be sleeping out the hot hours too. Spasmodically, they spoke of details of their plans, possible meeting-places if they got scattered, verifying objectives and catchwords. But there was nothing new to be thought of; it had all been talked out already. Then an impulse seemed to come to them all to talk about Sparta. They began to describe it in detail, places, the shapes of small hills, the springs among the rocks, the kind of crops, the very texture of the earth grown through with fibres of roots. They spoke of being young and in love, of racing and wrestling and hunting, of friends alive or dead. They spoke of the past, trying to tie the future down with it. They leant forward and moved eagerly; the coloured robes of rejoicing slipped off them, leaving half their bodies bare and strong and cool. Of these thirteen, there were several couples whose friendship was very deep-rooted. They were too old now to play the love-game as the boys and young men did, but however the thing had begun, it had left behind it now a most sweet and comforting comradeship. Those lovers turned to each other for strength and reassurance and perhaps remembered days they had not thought of for a long time. They looked in one another’s eyes and touched one another tenderly. While the body yet lived, it served to show their love. A man, thinking of his friend as beautiful, could keep a beauty in him that would have gone otherwise. Yet the looks and words of these couples did not break through the closeness and community of the feast. They were completely included in it.
Kleomenes and Panteus turned towards one another, and it was as if they were alone in an island, and yet among friends so kind and so trusted, that it was no matter what they spoke of or who overheard. The King said: ‘Do you remember the first time?’
‘Yes,’ said Panteus, ‘I remember. It was during that early fighting towards Megalopolis. You’d praised me then, and given me the little dagger I lost afterwards at Argos. Then at Mess you bade me sit next to you.’
‘Go on, go on,’ said the King. He wanted strength and reassurance as much as anyone; his eyes were hungry. He trusted to his beloved to give it to him.
Panteus went on. ‘You told me then for the first time the story of Agis. Simply what had happened, for those were the days when you could not trust even your friends to understand. As you talked I thought about what Agis had wanted, not very deeply, but yet I got a picture of that Sparta—ah, the Sparta we have had!—and I said suddenly: “I wish it could come real!” And when you spoke of his death I was angry not to have been there to stop it.’
‘Will anyone be angry about our deaths, Panteus?’
‘I am talking of then, Kleomenes. Listen. You said a little about Agiatis. I was very sorry for her, and for you both. I saw you as a young boy being forced into marriage. I know I put my hand on yours for a moment and then felt ashamed of myself and thought you’d hate it. After that there was music. In those days you still used to have somebody to come in and amuse us.’
‘It was the custom. There were two Syrian jugglers. And acrobats; I enjoyed that. Those flute-girls! How many years since I’ve thought of them: good, honest girls. But that evening it was the old man who recited. What was it? Can you remember, Panteus?’
‘I can remember. It was the sailing for Troy. Dull and lovely! Most people were talking in whispers, but I didn’t dare, to you. I sat still, and sometimes I looked at you, and sometimes, when I looked, you were looking at me. When it was over you did not seem to want to break up the drinking. You said: “Will anyone sing?” Hierax sang first, something funny. We all laughed. Then Hippitas said: “My cousin can sing.” You nodded to me and I stood up, very shy and rather angry with Hippitas. I tried to think of something funny too, but nothing came into my head. He said. “Sing: You Go my Way,” and I was glad, because what I wanted to sing was a love song. Yet somehow I cannot remember that I looked at you while I was singing.’
‘You put your hands up over your eyes and sang so, with your
head thrown back. Didn’t you know?’
‘When it was over I walked back, being very gay, ready to laugh with anyone if they wanted to laugh at my song. And then you stood up. You put your hands on my shoulders and I hoped you were going to say I had sung well. But you said nothing. Only you looked at me and looked at me, and after a time you bowed your head against my shoulder. I saw you were shaking a little but I did not dare to touch you with my hands. I said your name in a whisper, “Kleomenes”.’
‘Go on, go on; let us remember. Ah, what is it?’
‘It is very bitter to think now of all that sweet!’ Suddenly it was Panteus who had lost grip, who had given strength to the King, so that his own was for the moment shattered.
But the King took it up, smiling at him, seeing him as he had been then. ‘Not for us two, not bitter. Give me your hands, Panteus, and I will tell you the rest. Every one went away, and I back to my tent. I tried to read. It was a book of Zeno’s, but there was no sense in it that night. I wanted poetry; but I had none. I went to Hippitas and asked him if he had. He was in bed already. “Not a thing!” he said. I almost asked him which your tent was, for I did not know. But then I wasn’t bold enough. I went on to Therykion and asked him if he had any poetry. He had: old poets. He offered me Tyrtaeus, “War songs out of old days, King,” he said, and I took the book and unrolled it, thinking this should have been what I wanted. I stayed and talked to him for a time. Queer creature, he was most nearly the one who might have understood me if he had chosen. I looked through his poets and at last found the Ionians I needed. I took Alkaeus and laughed and said he should have it back in the morning. I went to my tent and read, and then put it by and sat with my head in my hands. I took up my tablets and began to write myself. I tried again and again. “Dear, I would say you a word, Be gentle and stay and listen—” Oh, just echoes of Alkaeus, not my own love! And suddenly you came in, armed, and saluted me, with a message from the outposts which needed an answer. I took it out of your hands and tried to look at it. It was five minutes before I could see that it was just a simple question of communications the next day. I looked up and you were staring at me. I smoothed out the wax to write my answer, and doing that I made up my mind to speak. I said: “I have been trying to write a poem all this evening.” You did not answer. I said: “It would have been to you.” Then I shut the tablets and twisted the string round them, taking a long time, for I hoped you would speak. I had not the courage, myself, to say anything more. I handed you the tablets, not touching your fingers. You said: “I will take the message and then I will come back and we will speak more about this, Kleomenes.” And you turned and bounded out.’
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 69
