‘Go?’ said Sosibios. ‘No, seriously, I don’t think he can quite go. No, it would hardly be pleasant for us if he were to go—for instance, to King Antiochos.’
‘Not to King Antiochos,’ said Ptolemy, ‘but to King Serapis.’ He stared past Sosibios at a growing lily in the sunlight of the balcony. ‘A dark journey for this time of the year.’ And he laughed. ‘A dark journey for a young boy!’
Sosibios said: ‘I doubt if we can be too precipitate. One might create rather too much feeling among certain fairly influential Greek communities in the city. No, if we start with a modified imprisonment—oh, every comfort, nothing to complain of, a mere misunderstanding—that will allow me time to explain to the Greeks. Then it should pass off in the end—a month or so perhaps—without any unpleasantness at all.’
Ptolemy nodded. His heart was thumping at him heavily and thickly. He wanted Sosibios to go, and Agathoklea to come, and not make any fuss, or require any effort, but put his disturbed body right for him again.
All these days Berris was working on his statue of Love and Philylla. Waking in the morning he was often troubled, or going to bed unless he was properly tired out, or going out to buy things unless he kept completely overshadowed by his half-made shapes. But while he was at work he could see himself quite contentedly, watch his own fingers and his own mind, and he could watch with the same placidity the outside world and its joys or troubles. He remembered once in Athens seeing an old red-figured cup in somebody’s house. He had not regarded it much at the time, but now he recollected that it was painted with a Komos scene, gay and frank young men and women with torches and branches and flutes, half or thoroughly naked, following and dancing and making love round and round the cup; but under each handle, sitting with his hands clasped over his knees, there was a little man who was watching it all quite calmly, and who would have watched in just the same way if the cup had been painted with battle or murder or witchcraft, not moved or shocked or excited, but just pleasantly influenced. Thinking back to that, two things occurred to Berris. One was that the little man under the handle was the real Greek doing for once the essentially Greek thing; and the other was that he himself, while he was at work and essentially occupying his body most fully, was also that same little man. So that he, Berris Der, the sculptor and painter, in spite of Epigethes and all of them, he was the Greek!
That made him laugh, and standing back from his statue, he noticed that the process of recollection and comparison had taken him the time of deepening to its full sharpness the groove between Philylla’s arm and the Thing at her back, which was yet inchoate, only vaguely shaped into a great bird’s head, and on one side the elk horns drawn on the surface with charcoal. He was puzzled as to how to make Love tender and gay while yet keeping the severe and unbroken lines. Philylla herself—the flesh Philylla, not the stone one—was a little frightened of this Love; she wanted him to give it a human head and attributes, garlands and doves and what-not. That was silly of her. He wondered what was to happen to the statue. He had seldom done anything big before which was not an order for a definite place in house or temple or market-colonnade, indoors or out; and since he had been in Egypt all his carved work had sold very quickly. Sometimes he had thought of taking in one or two apprentices to quicken up his output, but was bored with the prospect of training them. Then the outer door banged and there were feet running up the stairs, and his sister burst in, white and wild-looking. ‘It’s happened!’ she cried. ‘Oh, we knew it would!’
‘What?’ said Berris, turning quickly from his work to her, ceasing to be the little man on the vase, and snatching with his heart at Philylla.
Erif was sobbing with breathlessness and distress. ‘King Ptolemy has imprisoned Kleomenes, and we don’t know what to do!’
‘Where?’
‘In a house.’
‘Are you sure he’s alive?’
‘Oh yes! But it’s the beginning.’
‘Very likely. Where’s Philylla?’
‘With the old Queen and the children. Sphaeros is there too.’
‘Much good he is! Let me think. Do you know what they’ve charged Kleomenes with?’ He began to wipe his tools and put them away. Work had been interrupted rather thoroughly by this time.
‘It’s all uncertain. Every one’s trying to find out. Shall we ask Metrotimé? Oh, Berris, I’m afraid of something happening to Philylla! Berris, I do love her so.’
Berris at that produced a jerky laugh. ‘So do I! Is Kleomenes imprisoned alone?’
‘Just with a few servants. Of course, it may be the others any moment. Some of them are trying to get at Ptolemy and some have gone to Sosibios. The poor old Queen’s terribly upset; most of the women are with her. Philylla was afraid she might try to do something stupid and violent, which would only make things worse. Berris, who’s going to help?’
The last remains of the statue-as-it-was-going-to-be let go their hold and slipped out of Berris’ mind. He said: ‘We’d better find Metrotimé.’
‘I suppose’—Erif hesitated—‘Berris, I suppose you trust her still?’
‘I’ve got to suppose so,’ said Berris.
‘We’ll go to the palace, then. There’ll be one or two others. What about that man—oh, what is his name?—yes, Ptolemy, the son of Chrysermas? He and Kleomenes have always been very friendly.’
‘You go,’ said Berris. ‘I must wait in case Philylla comes.’
Erif said slowly: ‘I saw her with the Queen. She didn’t say she was coming.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Oh, Berris, she didn’t speak about you! And she only told me to find out what was happening to the King. I think she’s altogether back with Sparta. She was only thinking about Panteus and her own first friends. We’re out of it now.’
Berris said nothing. He stood tapping with his fingers against the statue; then he picked up his cloak. ‘Come on, Erif; we’ll both go. The streets mayn’t be too safe. Though I doubt if many people in Alexandria care. If she comes—’
‘Berris darling, she won’t. The old Queen needs her, and the children. At least, she thinks so.’
There was very little to be discovered at the palace. Metrotimé kept them waiting for some time, and then came in hurriedly and told them that Sosibios had found out that a plot was being hatched against the Divine King. She did not know, but Kleomenes might be implicated. ‘You keep out of it,’ she advised the two. ‘Don’t get muddled up with these Spartans, who’ve got no ideas beyond their own grievances. Make us something splendid again, Berris. We all believe in you. I hear from dear Agathokles that there’s a new statue coming, and we’re all longing to peep. I wonder if I can guess why it’s kept secret?’ But Berris was as dumb and unsatisfactory as ever.
Coming out from Metrotimé, they found old Sphaeros, also trying to get information at the palace and rather ashamed of feeling so much concern. He kept on repeating: ‘He was my pupil,’ as though it would be justified by that.
‘Who have you seen?’ asked Berris.
‘I saw Lady Arsinoë’s head nurse, a sensible woman, though she had little to tell now. You know perhaps that the princess has asked me to come to her as her tutor? But of course that is impossible, as I have told her, so long as I have charge of Nikomedes and the others.’
‘Is Nikomedes very unhappy?’ Erif asked.
‘Yes. He appears not to be trying to face it reasonably. Even at his age I had hoped for better results, considering his training.’
‘He’s facing danger that may be real enough to his father.’
‘So they keep on telling me,’ said Sphaeros, with a queer little petulance. ‘As though his whole life had not been one of danger!’
At first it did seem possible that there was some misunderstanding, but as day after day went by and nothing was altered, that possibility had to be dropped. It was very hard for the others to know what to do. Any action might endanger the King. The twelve were constantly together, discussing what was to be done. Th
ey were allowed to see Kleomenes, and could talk to him privately. They supposed the Egyptian servants were all spies or possible spies, but he was not guarded at all obtrusively. The house was comfortable, and his ordinary wishes were regarded. The head slave took the greatest trouble over his food and drink, saw that his bed linen was fresh, and even suggested the possibility of a nice little companion for it. Kleomenes’ own two helot body servants were well treated too, and allowed to go in and out of the house, and bring him books or clothes, though they always had to report to the guard at the door. One of them, an intelligent youngish man, called Monimos, said he thought they were being followed. He had a mistress down by the docks, a brown dancer, and on his way there he often had suspicions. The King warned him fiercely never to say anything to the woman of what was going on, though Monimos assured him that she was absolutely trustworthy.
They decided that the best thing to do was to let the Peloponnesian mercenaries know what had been done to Kleomenes of Sparta and consult with their captains. But when Panteus and Phoebis came to the Sun Gate of Alexandria, the sentries who usually sat in the dust playing dice and eating sweets and joking with the market-women, shambled up and said politely but very firmly that this gate was blocked to them; the Spartans had been forbidden to take the Eastern road. That was the main gate out of Alexandria, but the others were forbidden too. They tried to hire a boat, but even at the most unlikely time of day there seemed always to be an official waiting to stop the boatman from taking them. The same thing seemed always to happen if they found a messenger whom they could trust with a letter. It was all extremely disconcerting.
Kleomenes began to think it very likely that he was going to be killed. He did not sleep very well, and most nights provided him with time to think it all out. Sometimes he was acutely conscious of wanting a woman, but he did not choose to be provided with Ptolemy’s spies. It was, on the whole, merely a matter of the flesh and could be dealt with on Stoic principles. Odd, though, if—as seemed likely—he was never to have a woman again! Odd, to think of the ending of the body, its queer wants and habits. It was possible to think of dying, but impossible to think of never chewing a piece of bread or going to ease oneself again, those automatic actions which were more essential than thought or love, though utterly forgotten in memory and neglected in hope. He thought of Sparta. Over there Spartans were going on doing these things, though their lives—what he had always thought of as their lives—had been utterly altered by the rule of the Macedonians and the ephors. What had been altered really? What was there in man that could be changed by liberty or hope or friendship or a great idea? Where was it in the body? Sphaeros had never shown him. He had taken it for granted that he knew. Could one man alone have this part? He thought probably not, that it was only possible in a community. Then, could it go on in a community, apart from the individuals? Again, he thought not. If it could, it would mean—what? Gods, perhaps. Apollo of Sparta. Apollo real after all. Well, he had made the vows and sacrifices that a King must make. He had not neglected the Gods.
He had never considered the thing so deeply before. Always he had been interested in some immediate object, some future he was going to make and see himself. Now that had dropped away. And suddenly, out of calm thought, he would be seized with bitter resentment that he had thought and acted so violently and with such ambition. If he had been sensible and far slower, and placated more people, and compromised wherever it had seemed necessary, he might have another twenty or thirty good years to live—to live in Sparta with his children growing up round him—and their children—and Archiroë or some other soft and lovely she-thing to play with, and Panteus and his children, and all his friends, and the air and earth he loved! Then his eyes filled with tears and he twisted about and bit his pillow and, going from one evil rapidly to another, remembered that Agiatis was dead and he would never see her again or be comforted by her. Even though he died, too, he would not see her again even in a land of shadows, for all that was lies and unworthy of a free man’s belief. The only thing that would happen would be that the memory of her which was still alive and real in his mind, would vanish too.
He talked of all this to Sphaeros, who agreed that it was so, and said that it must be faced and accepted, for who would choose to struggle foolishly and blindly when he might stand and look the Fates in the eyes? But Sphaeros was old; he could say these things calmly, meaning them, he was getting those extra twenty years which the King wanted so bitterly! It was time he did accept. But Sphaeros still did not consider the danger at all so certain. He had consulted with friends, yes, friends at the Library who went often to Court, and they were certain it would all be cleared up and explained away. All the same; it was as well for Kleomenes to have faced at last one of the realities, one which he had given to others, the only certain one.
Kleomenes spoke of it less to Panteus and the others, because they were still part of such hope and life as there still was. They had plans to make, conversations to report, the problem of whom in all Alexandria they could trust to help them if King Ptolemy decided finally to act—against them. He never spoke of it to his mother, and not to Nikomedes after the first time, because the boy had been desperately upset, Sphaeros said, for days. He would not speak, but went about looking as if he were not yet awake from some terrible dream.
One day Kleomenes sent a letter to his friend, Ptolemy, the son of Chrysermas, asking him to come and pay him a visit. The next morning the young man came, bringing with him a white kitten as a present; it managed to distract and dissipate the conversation a good deal. Kleomenes knew his visitor to be a great favourite at Court, good at playing any kind of game and admirably discreet at being defeated by his Divine Majesty; if the truth could be got at, he was likely to have it. He soothed Kleomenes a lot, producing all kinds of excuses and promises. The air of the place seemed to clear. Kleomenes began to take real pleasure in the pouncing grace of the kitten. The visit came to an end. They said good-bye very cordially, Kleomenes with the kitten on his arm; he was going to call it Lucky.
The visitor crossed to the door—the door which the King was not allowed to pass—and as he did so the kitten sprang and darted. Kleomenes grabbed at it, but it struck out with one claw, evaded him, and ran for the door with its tail in the air and Kleomenes in chase. The next moment it was sitting up in a corner, washing its face, and did not mind at all being picked up. But as the King began to fondle it again, he realised that his visitor was not yet gone, and with a curious feeling of impossibility, heard him say to the sergeant of the guards at the door, in a tone of extreme anger, that he would report him to Sosibios for their carelessness in guarding this wild beast, this danger to the State!
Kleomenes stayed quite quiet until he heard the door bolted again after Ptolemy the son of Chrysermas, and then walked back to his room, absently stroking the kitten. But for this accident he would still have thought the visit had been a most friendly and successful one, still have believed what Sosibios meant him to believe! He would have reported it happily to his friends. Now that was all finished. Yes, there was probably only one course open to them now. The Divine Ptolemy and his Court were moving to Canopus the next week; it was cooler and pleasanter there. Yes, that would be the time for them to do it.
Chapter Eight
WHEN KING PTOLEMY released a prisoner, especially a political prisoner found to be innocent, the custom was that he should send presents and garlands and the fortunate man would then hold a feast in honour of the King, his friend. That was well known. So when a quantity of fine things were sent to Kleomenes, robes woven with fine colours, jars of scent and honey, and ivory boxes of spice, there was no reason for the guards to disbelieve the message that all this came from King Ptolemy. They did not know that the last of the old Queen’s money was gone, and Philylla had given Panteus all the savings she had put together in case—and Leandris had sold her silver combs and Neareta the necklace which Phoebis had brought her from the sack of Megalopolis. So Kleomenes and h
is twelve friends made a solemn feast in honour of King Ptolemy, who had set him free, and gave handsomely to the guards—wine mostly, heavy wine of Cyprus, spiced with a free hand, and meat from the sacrifice he made before the feast. The only at all surprising thing about it was that actually King Ptolemy and most of his Court were away at Canopus. But perhaps he had heard something new there about the conspiracy, and had sent back word that the wild beast, Kleomenes the Spartan, was to be freed.
It was hot in the courtyard; the air smelt of over-baked dust and dust-dry dung, as the air does in a city. The King’s two helots brought bowls of tripe and ox-tail to the guards, seasoned with pepper and garlic, a good food smell to drown the other. They loosened their armour: no need to keep watch now. They had garlands of jasmine, cool over running sweat. In the shade of the trellis they stretched and belched and drank again languidly, and one by one went to sleep. The helots went back and reported, satisfied; their work was done; they could go. Monimos went off to his mistress at the docks, wanting to pass the hot hours there on cool pillows, watching her dance and shine and drip and wag her breasts at him.
But in the room the twelve and Kleomenes had eaten and drunk little. They had talked out their plan till it was clear. They were going to make one more attempt to rouse the Greeks in Alexandria against the palace—there might be a chance with Ptolemy away, the Alexandrians might be less in awe of the thing, they might remember they were men! Oh yes, it was possible. They would free the prisoners in the gaol. They would rush through the streets, storming, shouting people out of their houses; the Alexandrians might be fired by it, and if once they could get a foothold in Alexandria and send to the mercenaries—yes, it might happen! This might be the dark hour just before dawn—they would be able to look back on it and laugh—from Sparta. They had trusted their star, risked all, gained all. That was what they would say—in Sparta.
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 68