The Corn King and the Spring Queen

by Naomi Mitchison

  Kotka was lying on a couch covered with rugs; he was dead-white and a sunken scar showed up like a streak of red paint across his cheek; it was scarcely healed. The whole room felt and smelt of illness. There seemed to me to be any amount of crocks full of old wives ‘brews on the table, and I’m almost sure some of the odd things which were lying about the room were meant for charms. The pregnant woman Link was sitting at the foot of the bed, and Disdallis must have been there too, a minute before. Kotka turned his head towards his Chief, but slowly and in utter weakness; he tried to raise his hands and failed. Tarrik came and stood beside him. The two women stayed very quiet, watching. He had not spoken to Linit, but she did not seem to be demanding it. He stretched his arms, and it did seem to me that when he did this he grew bigger, filled more of the space in the room. However, doubtless this was only a subjective impression. Then he stooped over Kotka and took his hands. He said: ‘I have risen. You rise too!’ He lifted Kotka’s hands, but I do not think he used much force, not enough to lift a man’s heavy body, certainly. But Kotka sat up in a series of slow jerks, his eyes held all the time by Tarrik’s eyes. Some of the rugs fell off him. A curious flush came and went and came again in his cheeks. Under the lower rugs his legs stirred. Tarrik moved sideways, so that Kotka must slue himself round to face him. The man’s legs came over the side of the bed. He stood up.

  Tarrik said again: ‘Walk. Come into the sun. You are healed. I have made you well.’ It was all as simple as that. Kotka took a step forward with one bare, bloodless foot. Tarrik walked backwards, still holding his hands, to some extent holding him up, but not much. Slowly they went out of the room and through another room to the open court at the back of the house where there were pot-herbs and cooped fowls. Disdallis drew back curtains and opened doors, silently, so that there was no check in their walking. I could see that Kotka was trembling a good deal, especially about the legs, but he did not seem to be in any pain. When they were outside Tarrik turned him round so as to face the sun and said: ‘Now sit and get warm again. You are healed, Kotka.’ Disdallis seemed to be expecting this, because she and one of the men had already brought out a large chair. He sat down in it, not exhausted, but like a man who has walked perhaps ten miles and is glad to rest for a short time. Linit had brought a coat which they slipped over him, for he was wearing nothing but a linen shirt.

  After that he and Tarrik talked quite ordinarily about a number of things, and laughed quite often. The women joined in after a time and so did I. It all seemed perfectly easy. When he left, Tarrik said he would be back soon, and for a few days he was there as often as he could spare the time. I usually went with him. The third day Kotka could walk by himself without help; the wound on his cheek skinned over. Now you would scarcely know he had ever been ill.

  I wish, of course, that I had been given the chance to examine him before all this. It is difficult to find out exactly from the women what was wrong with him, except that he had been very much battered about and there were several deep flesh wounds which had not healed nicely. I do not think any bones had been broken, except possibly a rib, which would normally have mended between the fighting and Tarrik’s return in any case. But certainly he was utterly strengthless and drowsy, though not able to sleep deeply, and he could not even feed himself. I suppose it was partly acute depression, but I am quite sure that a very great deal of it was physical. And now he is well.

  I wonder what you will make of this! It’s the kind of thing one must either make up one’s mind to or dismiss as a pure invention. Well, I shan’t be surprised if you simply put me down as a liar. Obviously, after all, these things don’t happen! But I saw it.

  There have been all sorts of other excitements, bullfighting and horse-racing and goodness knows what else, and any amount of feasts. Do I like the Marob food? Well, to be quite candid, no! And there’s some hunting, which is dull as the country is so flat, and hawking, especially in the marshes, which I enjoy. Oh, yes, and Tarrik took me down to see little Klint at Essro’s farm in the south. He was received with extreme ceremony, and Essro welcomed him, wearing the most amazing, stiff, embroidered dress and a cone three feet high on her head, like some very curious goddess come to life. I noticed that she did not touch him if she could possibly help it. They talked mostly about some road which the Chief is having built through the marshes; I gather her ex-husband had something to do with it. Klint was delighted to see his father again, but didn’t seem much distressed when he agreed to let him stay with Essro and her small boy—they were great allies, of course!—until the next spring.

  You won’t hear from me again this year, as the last ships are sailing for Byzantium and the south now, but this screed is long enough to do you for winter! But I’ll write again when there’s a chance of the letter being sent off, and perhaps I’ll be able to send you a copy of my play—I think I shall be able to get it copied here as soon as it’s finished. Of course, if you like to talk to one of the libraries about publication—? Seriously, I should be immensely grateful. And anyway, let me know what you think of it. My love to every one. I hope you are all well. I am! And tell the children I’ll bring them back some marvellous toys, lovely painted wooden beasts that one can make walk—and a doll in Marob clothes!

  Farewell.

  PART VI

  Dream on, who can!

  O the bush, the briery bush,

  It pricks my heart full sore.

  If once I get out of the briery bush

  I’ll never get in any more.

  O sweetheart, have you brought my golden ball

  And come to set me free?

  Or have you come to see me hung

  Upon the gallows tree?

  NEW PEOPLE IN THE SIXTH PART

  Greeks

  Nikagoras, a Messenian

  Kerkidas of Megalopolis

  Gyridas, the younger son of Phoebis and Neareta

  Macedonians and Others

  Alexander, commander-in-chief under

  Antigonos Doson

  Demetrios of Pharos

  Spartans, helots, Megalopolitans, Macedonians,

  Egyptians and others

  CHAPTER ONE

  NIKAGORAS THE MESSENIAN looked through the deed slowly, standing by the table, touching the table with the tips of all four fingers. Kleomenes sat, looking away, because if he had looked up it was quite certain that the eyes of Nikagoras the Messenian would have slid over the edge of the paper and met his, and he would have had to respond to them with some impossible cordiality. Yet why, after all, should he have this dislike for the excellent Nikagoras who had sold him the estate, saying he could pay for it after the war? He forced himself to look up at the deed being rolled and tied and placed by Nikagoras in the breast of his tunic, over the heart. Kleomenes had written his name on it. There was his name now next the Messenian’s heart! ‘Delighted,’ said the man, ‘delighted to have been of any service to the King of Sparta!’ And ‘Till we meet again!’ said Kleomenes heartily, and the door shut.

  He called, and she came in to his hand, his slave-girl, his mistress, lovely, lovely Archiroë in the dress he had given her, the very thin dress that hung and swayed from the tips of her breasts. Her long legs moved under the transparent web like a swimmer’s under water. He looked at them with gladness, beckoned her over to stand beside him close, where he could stroke and grip and feel the flesh quiver still as though again and always virgin. Not a Spartiate woman used to commanding and managing. He did not know he was thinking that. His eyebrows arched, his tongue stuck out between his lips, he pulled her about gently, a gentle swing-swong. When he was with her he was enclosed in bodily warmth and ease, the starting out of easy sweat in the pressing and wrestling of love, the sweet smell of hair and armpits, the long, close, dizzy meeting of lips. There was nothing to puzzle and disturb him. She was right for a soldier’s woman. He gave her his half of the deed and said: ‘I have got you this, for yourself, in case anything happens.’

  She looked at him with widenin
g, deer’s eyes. How lovely that she still flushed and paled when he spoke to her! She said: ‘What is it?’

  He answered: ‘A farm in Messenia. A dowry. To make you safe, you pretty thing!’

  ‘But you’re not sending me away!’ Her arms went out to him.

  ‘No,’ he laughed, ‘but if I die what do you suppose will happen to you? If the other women get you!’

  She said sadly: ‘I saw them again today. They came to take—to take some of her clothes out of the great chest to send to Egypt for the little princess. Your mother had asked to have it done.’

  ‘Which of them?’

  ‘Panteus’ Philylla and Milon’s Chrysa. I wanted to help them, but they wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Unkind things. They said them to one another for me to hear; they wouldn’t even notice me myself. I know I’m only a stranger and a slave here.’

  ‘As well I’ve got you the farm. Agh, you women!’

  ‘We have to be like that,’ she said softly. ‘It’s deep in us. They’re jealous. I know; I would be. Have you got to write letters now, my own master, or shall I sing? Shall I play my pipe? Shall I stroke your head? It was a waste to get me the farm. How should I ever want it? If you die, my King, there’s nothing left for me to live for.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why I got the farm. Now there is something! Rub down on to my shoulder, Archiroë. I’m stiff there.’

  ‘Turn a little—so, against my knee. Ah, you must keep quiet; how can I do it when you kiss me so hard? What would I want with a farm if you were dead? I should die too.’

  ‘It takes more than that to make one kill oneself, my dear! I want your hair loose. Take the pin out.’

  ‘But wasn’t it very expensive?’

  ‘Yes, and I haven’t paid for it yet. But there’s no hurry. When old Ptolemy starts sending me my money again.’

  Her oil-soaked, rubbing hands checked, let slip the shoulder muscle. ‘I didn’t know he had stopped.’

  ‘That’s not one of the things you’re meant to think about, pretty. Go lower. Hai, you little bitch, how your fingers walk about me like settling birds! Lower.’

  ‘Keep quiet, then. Don’t pull me! What, already? Oh, oh, come then, I’m yours. Ah, you do want me still!’

  All the same, it was a bad business that Ptolemy had sent nothing all that spring, nothing but letters excusing himself. He had put up a statue to King Kleomenes. God, when the mercenaries were all leaving because he had no pay for them! They went regretfully, for they were good professionals who valued a brilliant and capable commander. But men must live. So they went over to Antigonos and Aratos, both good generals too, though less daring and sudden and exciting to work with.

  It was incredibly hard raising money. He had nothing to pledge, not even Sparta, for, after all, he must always remember that he was not a tyrant, but the head of the revolution and constitutional King by acceptance of the citizens, with whom in the end it rested whether he should remain King and with what powers. Nowadays especially there were plenty to remind him of his position. It was difficult to know where to turn. Young King Antiochos of Syria was busy with his own rebels; besides, he was too far east to have any real interest in Greece. Kleomenes tried to get at him through his own illegitimate brothers, the two his father Leonidas had got, in his worst days, on a Persian concubine, a present from one of the governors of Asia Minor; now they were successful middle-aged courtiers and not prepared to disturb themselves over the distant affairs of their half-brother. So much for Syria. Then there was this new state, Rome, which probably looked on Macedonia as an enemy and might be prepared to help. Kleomenes did not much care to ask help from barbarians, but he had heard that they were sound and well-disciplined fighters. He would put a case against Macedonia, and, with Macedonia, her western ally Illyria, which would make it sound more plausible to the Roman Council of Elders. But Rome had her hands full fighting the Celts up north. It was not the time for Greece yet.

  Kleomenes raised what money he could privately, and lived more sparingly than ever. Sometimes he found himself suddenly and simply astonished at how little material good it was being a king. He would speak of that sometimes to Sphaeros, or Panteus or Therykion. The only thing he had was power. Yet after all what else does a man want? What else is the aim of life? What is worth buying? A man asks for power and for love. He had both. And wisdom—? The duty of a wise man—? Let it alone, Sphaeros, all that about right and wrong is sound enough for children, for a beginning, but a man must do the thing that comes to his mind and his hand, and do it well! What about the future? Let it alone, Therykion, I shall see my boys again. Antigonos has thirteen thousand Macedonians and eight or nine thousand League troops who are not all keen—perhaps we can persuade some of them—The Illyrians? Well yes, Therykion, they have a certain reputation. And mercenaries—Yes, my God, I know we are outnumbered—who better. But we’ve got the name and the fame, both; they’re afraid of us still. If we can once somehow, by the kind of chance that good commanders grab out of the Fates’ laps, if we can once snatch one victory out of them, get some booty—oh, a few chestfuls would do it!—we’ll tempt the mercenaries back again, I’ll have the world yet! It’s not only numbers that count. We’re on our own ground now; we shall have every advantage of position and communications and foraging. Our men know and trust their leaders; in the year-classes every man knows the others; they are all friends together, each confident of the strength and staying power of the man next him whose shield overlaps his body! The Macedonians aren’t like that, nor the rest of the League troops. Leaders—old Aratos again. Alexander the Macedonian? Not up to his name. No, Antigonos is the mind there. Demetrios of Pharos? Yes. But he’s mostly got his reputation in very different kind of fighting. What, the Megalopolitans and Philopoemen? There aren’t enough of them to count. All the same, that’s a man I hate, the kind of man the League likes listening to! He wants to smash me. He’s young; ah, God, he’s ten years younger than any of us! But he won’t, the traitor; however much he sells himself to Macedonia. No, Panteus, they won’t smash us; not yet!

  But at midsummer Antigonos began his invasion of Sparta. He marched solidly south from Tegea which he had taken, and over the pass. Kleomenes took up a position across the Oenus valley, a few miles north of the town of Sellasia and about twelve miles north of the city of Sparta itself. It was a good position, whatever happened. Antigonos halted and foraged and set up tents, and more and more brigades of his army came down from the pass and spread out in front of the Spartans. Each side could see the spears of the others, and a constant glitter of moving armour and little cloaks. The question was, what to do and which army was to do it first.

  Kleomenes and his officers stood on the spur of the right-hand hill, little Olympos. There was a continuous coming and going of messengers, reporting and saluting, and finery of gay crests and badges well polished into heartening their wearers to think they were on the winning side. But most of the men who understood the situation were rather markedly silent and constrained. Most of the King’s Mess were there, the commanders of the year-classes, Eukleidas who was in command of the hill on the left of the valley, and the captains of such mercenaries as there were. Neolaidas, who was particularly long-sighted, crouched against a rock, looking steadily across and along the valley towards the Macedonians. If anyone climbed little Olympos to the top and then looked over, he would be able to see and signal back south to Sparta itself. There was a big plan of the position, held down by stones, on the ground; the captains of the mercenaries were kneeling over it, pointing with sticks and discussing it with Panteus. They wanted to make quite sure how they were going to be used.

  ‘The left and centre are the holding forces,’ said Panteus. ‘I’m in command of the centre, right in the valley. We may have to deal with cavalry. It’s the only place they can be used. Eukleidas has Euas, the hill on the left; that shouldn’t be too hard to hold, even if they try to get round there. The King will b
e here on the right, behind the palisade. He will have the Spartiate phalanx, and all of you.’ The mercenary captains nodded. ‘Here and here are the springs, both fairly plentiful. You’ve seen to your rations. It is probable that the King will not need you to begin with. Rest and keep fresh and give us our money’s worth! You’ll need to go over the ground yourself.’ He hesitated, then said; ‘What sort of chance do you think we have?’

  ‘Shouldn’t like to say,’ said one of the mercenary captains, ‘but your King may pull it off yet. This is a nice position; yes, very nice. I take it the Macedonians are likely to have most of their valuables on their own left, where King Antigonos is?’

  ‘Our information says so. Oh, you’ll have some overtime due! And you‘—he turned to one of the others—’ what’s the betting?’

  ‘If you ask me,’ the man said pretty gloomily, ‘we’re right up against it. But I’m not a man to go back on my bargain.’

  Panteus picked up the map and took it across to another group. The mercenaries began talking to one another in lowish voices. ‘This looks like being the end of my job, ‘said the one who had spoken last.’ If Kleomenes loses this it’ll be the end of him.’

  ‘Antigonos will have it all his own way in Greece. We shall be short of work.’

  ‘If they lose this battle most of those Spartiates will go and get themselves killed. Queer, isn’t it! Nice young chaps too! We shan’t be planning ambushes with them any more.’