it the King you wish to see?’ she said with some dignity. They were so pleased at anything happening that they all said ‘Yes!’ in the same breath. A little confused herself, she smiled at them, prettily, mostly at Berris, who seemed to be more her own age. And suddenly Berris knew that everything was all right, and he had come this long way to Hellas for no vain hope.
As he realised this, he heard Sphaeros speaking, and saying who he was. The girl hugged the bundle of linen tight against her; her eyes were big and bright; she spoke in a whispered cry: ‘Oh, you’re Sphaeros at last! You’ve come to make us good again and bring the King’s time! Come—come to Agiatis.’ Berris, watching every least movement, saw her try to get one arm away from the bundle, and jumped forward himself and caught the linen as it slipped. She thanked him with a word and half a stare at his funny clothes, and took Sphaeros by the hand and led him through. The guards saluted her. They went down the passage and into a light, open court. Tarrik was the one of the three who looked about him now.
By and bye Kleomenes came, grave and hurrying, and took Sphaeros by both hands, then quickly bent and kissed him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I shall know what I am doing. Oh, Sphaeros, I see so crookedly sometimes!’ Then he became aware of the other two and frowned terribly. ‘Why are these barbarians here?’ he asked.
Sphaeros, seeing Tarrik elaborately pretending not to hear, stood back so that the two faced one another across his shadow: ‘This is Tarrik, King of Marob, Corn King of the Marob Harvest, who is also called Charmantides. Without him you would not see me here. I was wrecked on his coast, and he took me into his house and was my pupil as you were once. He brought me here in all honour and knowing that King Kleomenes of Sparta would use him and his men no worse than he used me.’ He laid some emphasis on ‘knowing’ because it was something real to him, an idea and a word not to be used lightly.
Kleomenes saw this, and for a moment he hated Sphaeros, first for bringing this barbarian and complicating what he had thought of as clear, and second for doubting him and his behaviour. His neck swelled, and the veins on his forehead; his eyes seemed to darken. Tarrik kept quite still, measuring his own height and strength against the other king’s. But suddenly the Spartan’s head jerked back, his hand out. ‘Welcome to my house, King of Marob!’ he said, with something surprisingly near sincerity.
Tarrik answered quickly: ‘Good words, King of Sparta. I take your welcome—I and my men—to a well-heard-of house! And if you need help, money, or swords, we will be your friends and allies.’
Kleomenes looked sharply at him: ‘How many are you?’
‘Twenty, and all free; some are my cousins. All young too.’
‘Mm,’ said the other king, ‘I might find a use …’ Then suddenly: ‘Where is Marob?’
Tarrik found it hard to explain; he had never exactly thought of this; Marob had always been, as it were, here, in the middle: other places, somewhere away north or south. Besides, if he knew about Sparta, then this other king ought to know about his country! But Sphaeros began to tell the whole story; it was better to have it clear. The three of them drifted off, Tarrik apparently admitted. But Berris had not been quick enough, nor for that matter quite bold enough, to follow his Chief. He stayed where he was, looking about him, enjoying the sunshine on his face and hands. The girl he had seen came up quietly from behind and made him jump when she spoke.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
He assembled his Greek as quickly as he could under the child’s disquieting eyes; he saw now that she was younger than he had thought at first. ‘I am Berris Der,’ he said. ‘I came from Marob with my king and Sphaeros.’
‘Is that your king?’ She pointed. ‘I see. He looks very fine. Are you his friend?’
‘Yes,’ said Berris.
Philylla nodded sympathetically. ‘What kind of man is he?’ she asked. Berris was not at all sure how he ought to answer. He began tentatively: ‘He can kill bulls and shoot through a man’s eye a hundred paces off. And— oh,‘—seeing this was the wrong thing—‘Sphaeros has been teaching him all the winter, and they read a great many Greek books! He is called Charmantides sometimes— his great-grandfather was a real Hellene from Olbia!’ Philylla was too polite to laugh outright, but she grinned a little, and he grinned back appealingly. ‘Words mean such different things!’ he said. ‘What kind of man is your king?’
Philylla looked at him hard and took a breath and said solemnly: ‘He is going to make our country great and wise and free. He never thinks of his own pleasure, only of that. And the Queen is the same, only more.’ Suddenly she remembered that he could not know who she was. ‘And I am Philylla, daughter of Themisteas. I am maid of honour to the Queen. Till she comes I am your hostess.’
She stopped short; it seemed to be Berris’s turn. He would have liked to say something impressive. ‘My father is one of the Chief’s councillors at Marob,’ he began, ‘and no one can give him orders but the Chief, the King, that is.’
‘Yes,’ said Philylla, ‘foreigners always have to obey their kings. We are free in Hellas.’
‘But your king—’
‘Oh, that’s different. Our king is a citizen like the rest of us under the ephors. If he told us to do something that was bad for the State, or unworthy, we would not obey him. But that won’t happen with King Kleomenes!’
Berris tried to think of something comparable to say about Tarrik, but couldn’t manage it. He said: ‘I’m a metal-worker. I make things out of brass and gold.’
Philylla drew back a step: ‘You said you were a noble!’
‘But I am! I work because I choose. I draw beasts and trees, and sometimes I carve, and sometimes I model in clay.’
‘Oh, then you’re an artist!’ said Philylla, slightly mollified, but still looking down on him.
‘I’ll make you a gold bracelet if you like,’ said Berris, ‘with any pattern you say! Shall I?’
She blushed, not sure for one thing whether he was asking for an order or suggesting a present. ‘The Queen doesn’t want us to wear many ornaments,’ she said. ‘Besides—oh—do you like being in Hellas?’
‘I came here because I was an artist,’ said Berris, finding the Greek came easier, ‘to see everything. People always told me that there was no art outside Hellas, so I had to know.’
Philylla had not considered art much yet; she looked quickly all round the courtyard and for the first time really noticed the marble groups of Laughter and War—coloured marble they were, and very expressive, given to Kleomenes by his father and much admired. These, of course, must be art. ‘Yes,’ she said proudly, ‘everything pretty comes here. I expect you’d like to look at the statues and things. They’re very beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘I am sure I shall find some beauty.’
‘But haven’t you yet?’
‘Well—not much. Not made beauty, anyhow.’
Philylla led him squarely in front of the war group, which was particularly tangled. ‘There! Now, what do you think of that?’
Berris looked at it and wanted violently to be truthful—and then smash it. It had no centre and no balance; it was all twisted and none of the twists were in the right place. There was no sense of marble about it, no sense even of the original clay it was modelled in. Berris felt himself getting swollen with annoyance and the inability to express it properly. At last he muttered: ‘It’s very nearly perfectly ugly,’ and left it at that.
Philylla stared at him, hardly able to believe her ears, but his clenched fists and scowling eyes told her the same thing. She chucked back her head, saying indignantly: ‘I think you’re mad!’
Berris had a moment of wondering guiltily whether Tarrik would have allowed him to be so truthful on the first