The Corn King and the Spring Queen

by Naomi Mitchison

  The man saluted again and sat down nervously on the edge of the fountain. Agathoklea went to help him to unbuckle his breastplate. ‘Your Divine Majesty wished to know—’ he began.

  But Ptolemy interrupted again: ‘You are sure you are comfortable there, Kottalos? How did you come, by horse or camel?’

  ‘On horseback, your Majesty. My report—’

  ‘And no accidents on the road? Nothing to be seen?’ The others stared and wondered what their Divine Ruler thought he was doing. Agathokles made faces vaguely in the direction of the officer.

  But Kottalos had a firm notion of his duty; Sosibios had given him his orders. He looked away from Agathoklea and Metrotimé, whose clothes embarrassed him, and went on sternly with his story. ‘I took my men to the house, your Divine Majesty. There was no opposition there, and there appeared to be no signs of discontent or hostility in the streets. I had arrested two of the women already, widows of the rebels, and brought them with me. I was met in the courtyard by one of the other women.’

  ‘Which one?’ said Metrotimé quickly.

  ‘The widow of Panteus, I was told.’

  ‘Ah, Philylla. Erif Der’s friend.’

  ‘There were also the philosopher Sphaeros, the Scythian sculptor and the Scythian woman.’

  ‘And what did you do to them?’ Metrotimé asked, leaning forward with a rather curious smile, and swilling the wine round in her cup.

  ‘Them? Oh, I—’ He hesitated, looking from Metrotimé to the others. ‘They—mm—went. It was no place for strangers. I had the house searched and the women and children brought out. They came quietly. I decided that the execution should take place in the furthest yard, beyond the store-houses and the vegetable plots, as it is more remote from the street, in case of any noise. This woman I mentioned, the widow of Panteus, helped the old Queen along and talked to her. A very fine-looking young woman, as these Dorian women go.’

  The King said suddenly: ‘And the children? My dear Kottalos, what we are hoping for is detail. Vivid detail.’

  Kottalos frowned. He was not at all a sensitive man, but he disliked thinking of that. However, kings must have what they want. ‘The smallest child of the lot did not, probably, quite realise, but she clung to her grandmother or to this other woman. The second boy tried to fight my soldiers and had to be tied up; after that he cried a good deal. It was an unpleasant duty. The eldest boy had to be helped along. He was too much hurt to go by himself.’

  ‘Hurt?’ said Ptolemy, with a queer sort of grunt, and he and the two women all stirred and moved their hands and feet a little.

  ‘Yes, your Divine Majesty,’ said Kottalos. ‘He had attempted to commit suicide by jumping off the roof earlier in the evening.’

  ‘I did not know that,’ said Ptolemy. ‘Sosibios had not thought it worth mentioning. No. Off the roof, you say. Walking on to a gulf of air. And he was hurt—where?’

  ‘His head mostly, your Divine Majesty. It had been bandaged up. He said nothing, I believe, or only in whispers. This woman I spoke of went to him once or twice. I allowed that. I am not sure how much he knew of what was happening. His eyes were blurred.’

  ‘His eyes, his eyes,’ said King Ptolemy, and for a few moments his body seemed to stretch and relax rhythmically, slower than breathing.

  Kottalos went on: ‘We came to the further yard, and I made my arrangements. The men with the swords came out of the ranks. Then the old Queen asked, with a certain dignity, to be killed first.’

  ‘And was she?’ said Metrotimé.

  ‘No. I had my orders. The children were killed first.’

  ‘The children first,’ said Ptolemy. ‘Tell me more about that. Did they struggle, Kottalos?’

  ‘Certainly not, your Divine Majesty. My executioners are too competent. Only one stroke was needed for each. Then we executed the Queen.’

  ‘But did no one say anything?’

  ‘Yes, your Divine Majesty. The Queen said: “Oh, children, where have you gone?” None of the women were violent. It was all—yes, if I may say so, it was a credit to every one concerned. One or two of them cried, especially a youngish woman with an infant, one of the widows; however, when it came to her turn there was no special unpleasantness. The infant was also despatched. That other woman, Panteus’ widow, was most helpful. She said nothing and did not appear disturbed, but she looked after the others one by one, laying them out decently, so that we had practically nothing to do afterwards. A great relief, when dealing with the other sex. After the rest were all executed, she asked permission to withdraw a little for her own execution. I saw no reason to refuse this, so they went rather further from the rest of the soldiers. She then smoothed out her dress and wrapped it tightly about her, so that she would be certain to fall with decency, thus giving no trouble to anyone after she was executed. A most helpful woman.’

  Kottalos ended there suddenly, with a definite and uncomfortable feeling that his account of yesterday evening had left out something important: for the life of him he could not tell what. But he was certain he would never be able to arrive at it, especially to the Divine King. Perhaps, he thought, one day later on, in a year or two, talking it over with some friend, or a sympathetic mistress—He had, as a matter of fact, been considerably disturbed and moved by one or two episodes. But these four only took it as so much juicy sausage-meat. He looked round. No! The Ionian was moved too. She was dabbing at her eyes.

  ‘But surely you have more to tell us, Kottalos? Drink and go on. I have been waiting for this all the morning.’

  ‘Well—’ said Kottalos, and wriggled uncomfortably. ‘Well, your Divine Majesty, I’ll try. It was almost dark before the thing was quite finished. Obeying instructions I had the bodies removed at night and burnt, decently but unobtrusively. There was only a very small crowd, and that not at all hostile, so I did not risk unpleasantness by dispersing it. The bodies of the other rebels are still awaiting your Divine Majesty’s orders.’

  ‘Are they?’ said Ptolemy slowly. ‘Are they indeed? But Nikomedes is dust and ashes now, dry ashes scattered on the wind. Unpossessed. Ungarlanded.’

  ‘If I had known you had wished—’ Kottalos began nervously, but Agathokles motioned him to silence.

  The King sank into a queer brooding; the fan-girls walked up and down outside on silent feet. At last Ptolemy raised his head and spoke again: ‘So it was Sosibios in the end who made the sacrifice. Not I. And I do not know what Sosibios had in his heart. I never know that. Perhaps he was not thinking of the God. Or did the boy sacrifice himself? Did he leap off the cliff of the house as Gods have leapt into the air and vanished in fire? There is nothing left for me to sacrifice.’ And tears began to roll out of his eyes and down his cheeks, down his chest and quivering, convulsed belly.

  Agathokles’ face twisted and he reached out a hand to the King and said softly: ‘There are always the other bodies. They are waiting for you to act. Waiting very quietly and obediently.’

  Ptolemy said ‘Yes,’ and his hands began to pull to pieces a slice of the new bread. He thought in violent flashes of Kleomenes; of the strength of his Spartan arms, which he had never felt crushing him; of the straight and wounded look in his eyes; of his voice which had not asked for mercy; the other King. He looked up at Kottalos and said sharply: ‘My orders are that the body of the rebel Kleomenes is flayed and impaled at the cross-roads beyond the Sun Gate on a stake of pine-wood. Dismiss.’

  Very hastily Kottalos saluted, picked up his helmet and breast-plate and disappeared out of the room. It would be capital to get back to Alexandria that same day, and, if possible, get drunk in the evening. One needed something to take the taste of the Divine King out of one’s mouth.

  Ptolemy smiled and looked round at his friends. ‘That will end it nicely,’ he said. ‘Dearest Metrotimé, what are you writing?’ For Metrotimé was scribbling something on tablets at her knee.

  ‘Do let me see, darling!’ said Agathoklea. ‘Or isn’t it proper?’ And she giggled with reli
ef.

  ‘It’s quite proper,’ said Metrotimé, ‘but I haven’t finished it. And I don’t think I ever shall.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not interesting or amusing. An old-fashioned kind of poem. Or might have been going to be. But this is all there is to it:

  As for thee, as for thee, child,

  With great joy begotten

  On the hills of Sparta:

  Thy name, thy name shall be forgotten,

  Thy beauty and thy wild

  Eyes. And no tears starting

  Shall ever—

  But I oughtn’t to write poems about rebels, even bad poems, ought I!’ She laughed and made one movement with her thumb and rubbed it all out.

  Ptolemy leaned forward and their eyes met, as they sometimes did, across the eyes of the other two. ‘When did you see him?’ asked Ptolemy.

  But Metrotimé only laughed again and began to tell a new story of marital tit-for-tat which she had heard from her Egyptian maid the day before. And they all started eating and drinking and being an amusing party.

  Later they had in a flute-player and two dancing dwarfs with fat childish noses and cheeks. They laughed and teased the dwarfs, especially Agathokles, who pinched and made faces at the male one till he screamed. And then the divine Princess Arsinoë was announced and came in, followed at a discreet distance by four of her ladies. She was a tall, rather fierce-looking girl with yellow hair under a fillet of silver leaves—a real Macedonian princess. They all rose to greet her, but she disregarded every one except her brother. She said: ‘I have heard the news from Alexandria. Now that those Spartan boys are dead, there is no reason why I should not have Sphaeros of Borysthenes for my tutor. When can he start?’

  Ptolemy looked at her with his usual dislike. She had no mysteries, nothing of the goddess; she was a tough mortal and there were freckles on her arms. However, there seemed no reason to refuse this. ‘He can come in a few days,’ Ptolemy said. ‘Make a note to send for him, Agathokles.’

  Metrotimé said: ‘I expect he will be in no mood to teach for a few days, divine Arsinoë. He is not so young as he was and all this will have—upset him.’

  ‘What’s the use of being a Stoic if he can’t stand that!’ said the princess. ‘Upset! If he is, I’ll tell him what I think of him and his philosophy.’ And then scornfully and bitterly at her brother: ‘He’s got to teach me to stand you!’ And she turned and went out.

  Ptolemy flushed deep red and then paled slowly. Agathokles licked his lips. ‘It will be extremely interesting for you, later on, taming our divine little scratch-cat. A husband—and his friends—is usually able to humble a wife who starts with her nose in the air. Yes, Arsinoë tamed will have quite a relish.’ And he laughed, and Agathoklea laughed, lying back, her breasts shaking merrily.

  The conversation turned again to this and that, the other news of Alexandria. An Indian priest had wandered there lately; he could stick knives into himself. They must have him over. Trade was at its best; the great harbour crammed and magnificent with shipping. Someone had said that one of the latest arrivals was a biggish boat from the north with rather curious painted sails. There were rumours of rare furs aboard—and how Agathoklea loved a nice fur!—and hemp tablets to smoulder on charcoal and make an atmosphere conducive to dreams, and smoked salmon and caviare, and pale northern amber. The ship had come from some place with a ridiculous name. No, not Olbia or Panticapaeum or Tyras. What was it? Oh yes, Marob.

  Chapter Three

  ALL THAT DAY BERRIS had gone on with his statue. He wouldn’t eat, though he drank a good deal, and by the late afternoon Erif could see what was happening to it. The thing behind had taken shape at last and it had the flat brainless head of a bird and eyes staring to its sides, and its beak was open to tear Philylla, and its wings were closing on her greedily. It had no elk horns; there was nothing northern left in it. It was the desolation of the south, the vulture of the sand, Love changed into Death. This was the Egyptian convention, the very forms of Egypt, dissolved and recrystallised into something more potent than Egypt had made for a long time. Looking at it, Erif began to cry again till Berris turned and glared at her with his red-rimmed savage eyes. He had not slept much the night before, either, not until dawn, when he found out for certain that he could not see the bodies, that he would never see even that still image of Philylla again. Then he had slept for an hour and woke screaming—that woke Erif, screaming too—and he had gone straight to work on the thing he had dreamt of. Erif had sat and watched him. The dress she had been sewing for Philylla lay on a chest where Ankhet had folded it; every now and then she could not help seeing it; equally she could not bear to touch it and put it away. A dull pulling seemed to be going on in her mind; it was the kind of pain of her twisted ankle that time Tarrik had raped her. She called to him softly: ‘Tarrik, Tarrik, Tarrik.’ But nothing happened. Perhaps he was dead too. He and Klint. Perhaps everything had stopped. She held her breath, listening to see if there was still any life. She heard the chisel tapping against the stone. She thought of cooking something, an egg. Berris might eat an egg. She did not move. She watched the pain in her mind going on, steadily increasing. No use, nothing would come to birth, not even a statue of Death and Philylla.

  In the evening, when it was beginning to get dark, exactly a day and a night after, Sphaeros came in. When she saw him, Erif screamed. There was no possible reason to; she could not have thought he was anyone else; he had not frightened her. But some tough layer had been stripped off her and under it she quivered like taut gut and screamed at a touch, as it does. She said she was sorry. Berris cursed her pretty foully and went on working. Sphaeros was kind and kissed her, a very odd thing for him to do. They sat together and watched Berris; he did not attempt consolation in words. Then something came into her mind. ‘Sphaeros,’ she said, ‘there’s just one thing we can do!’

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Phoebis’ boy. Don’t you remember? Gyridas is down on a farm, getting well after his fever. They forgot that. We can save him.’

  ‘We will,’ said Sphaeros.

  Then Erif said in a whisper which would not disturb Berris: ‘Oh, if only I’d thought of it when I saw Neareta with the soldiers! I might have said something and she’d have known it would be all right. But they killed her and she didn’t know.’

  ‘You couldn’t have spoken then,’ said Sphaeros. ‘It would have put the child in danger. I’ll get him. His father and mother and elder brother, his playmates—all taken. Yes, he has been stripped to the soul. I wonder how, being mostly helot, he will stand it.’

  ‘But oh,’ said Erif, ‘I might have made her a sign and I didn’t!’ And instead of being something saved from destruction, the thought of Gyridas turned in her mind into a new pain. She cried quite quietly, licking up the tears that ran into her mouth, as she had done when she was a child. Then she lighted the lamps, all of them, and the different light flickered and made queer shadows on the statue, and Berris had to stop with a grunt and a sigh. Then he lay down rather suddenly, giving from the knees upward, flat on the floor among the stone dust and his scattered tools, and for him everything dimmed out into a merciful swaying dullness of all the senses, and he rested for a long time.

  Quite late that evening Ankhet came into the room, bringing them food she had cooked herself. Berris did not move or speak. Nor did the other two, but she laid it out on a little table in front of them, with wine and a single lily flower in a tall glass and her best fringed napkins. Then she said: ‘There is an order from Canopus about—about one of the bodies.’

  ‘Kleomenes.’ Sphaeros seemed certain.

  She flushed and nodded. ‘It is to be flayed and impaled at the eastern cross-roads. That has not been done for a great many years.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sphaeros, and scarcely shuddered at all.

  Ankhet said suddenly: ‘It is like the thing that King Set did to King Osiris in the Mystery stories.’ And she went out of the ro
om and left them.

  They ate a little, and then Sphaeros said: ‘Now you must try to sleep, my dear. The worst is over. After this, we shall only have to accustom ourselves to accepting it. That is comparatively easy. I think I can show you some exercises for it tomorrow. In the meantime I will see about Gyridas. There is no more for you to do. Try to calm yourself. Try to stand apart from the agony. Let it alone, do not touch it. Do not think of her till you can do it without too great disturbance.’ And he kissed her again and went down the stairs by himself.

  But she did not sleep that night, even though she stayed in the big room and lit the lamps again so as not to wake up in the dark and see Philylla fading into it with the kind of look she had at the moment when the soldiers came into the Queen’s house. Every waking destroyed the rest and quiet she had perhaps been getting from the minutes of sleep. Her head and body ached, but not enough to stop her thoughts and imagination from racing. Towards midnight Berris began to talk in his sleep and that was very painful. He had not covered the statue, so when dawn began to seep into the room, she could not help looking at it. Without Berris to control it, the thing seemed to blur and waver in front of her eyes. The bird behind seemed to move closer with its tearing beak. She could not bear it, but she did not dare to wake Berris right up, even though she thought he must be having horrible dreams. She got up and dressed and tried to read, standing by one of the windows, where there was enough light already, but her eyes were too sore with tiredness, and none of the books made sense. If this kind of thing could happen, what was the good of the world, what was the good of magic, why go on at all, why think of going back to Tarrik or Marob or her son who would have forgotten her, whom she did not know now and therefore could not love? Why imagine there was any reality in having been Spring Queen?

  She looked from Berris to his statue, the god or devil he had made. For the moment he was lying very still. She stepped out quietly into the street. Very few people were up yet; during the night the lanes seemed to have emptied themselves of smells and hurry. They were fairly cool, but with odd pockets of undisturbed warm air, left over from the day before. She came into the main cross street and turned left towards the gate that led out to Lake Mareotis. It was very wearying even to walk when she was so tired already, but she had to do something. So she walked on. The sentries at the gate let her pass, and she went down to the shore of the lake and walked along it, first under the walls of Alexandria, then past market gardens and spaces of straggling tufts where goats grazed, east away from the town. The sun had risen almost straight ahead; the glare was beginning to make it difficult to see. She moved her head impatiently from side to side. Everywhere the lake had shrunk and dried away with summer, leaving a series of crusted curves of mud; beyond, it lay still and patient, waiting for rain. Quantities of birds were feeding out there, a good many ducks and moorfowl and cranes, but mostly the tall rosy birds, the flamingoes of the African marshes, great flocks of them the colour of the sunrise that had almost faded out of the eastern sky, that was giving place to the thick blue dazzle of day. The rosy birds stood on one leg, jutting their long necks and crooked beaks, fishing the muddy shallows. They paid no attention to Erif Der.