‘Then, as it came real to them, the people went mad with excitement and admiration and love for their king. And suddenly Leonidas saw that it was no mere boy’s game and that if it went on all his lands and riches would go too, and then and there he turned on Agis with bitter blame and anger. After that the State was divided into two, the poor and young following Agis, and the old and rich, Leonidas, who bribed and persuaded the Council of Elders to reject the new laws. But Leonidas was not the winner for long; the ephors attacked him, and his son-in-law Kleombrotos, eager to do as Agis had done, claimed the kingship, and he had to fly from Sparta. Some would have killed him on his way over the pass, but Agis heard of this and forbade it. The boys went with him, and so did Chilonis, for she was one of those who would rather be unhappy than happy. And I went north to Athens to Be with my teacher Zeno, for I was sick of rich men and their ways. Only I promised Kleomenes to come back one day.
‘Now Agis had all the deeds of money-lending burnt in the market-place of Sparta, and so far freed his people. He would have gone on at once to the division of land, but Agesilaus his uncle had other plans: he was a man with many debts and much land; now he was free of the debts, but hoped to keep the land. Agis did not understand this; he was too young to believe the worst of people. So he went marching to the wars, leaving half his work undone. Still all would have been well, but that the general of the Achaean League, whom he went to help, was jealous of him, and would not let him win a battle. These things happen and there is reason in them if one could see it. His army was all under the old discipline and he himself was the youngest there; they loved him, he was a flame to them, he would have led them to victory. But in the end there was nothing for them to do, and he had to bring them back ingloriously, and found that all was in disorder in Sparta, because of Agesilaus, who was still ephor and was using his power to oppress the people and get everything for himself. He treated his nephew Agis and the other young king as foolish boys, and gave out that there was to be no dividing of the land.
‘Then the people turned fiercely on those who they thought had tricked them, and sent to Tegea and brought Leonidas back in triumph. Agis knew that his army was utterly his and would fight for him, even against the rest of Sparta. But he would not let the army save him because that would have meant killing others of his fellow-citizens. Kleombrotos agreed. The two young kings fled for safety to the most sacred temples, yet I think most likely Agis knew that he was choosing death. Kleombrotos was saved by this same Chilonis, his wife, who stood between him and her father, and went with him to banishment, just as she had gone before with Leonidas. But Agis was not to be forgiven.
‘His enemies tried to persuade him to come from the temple; he would not listen to them. But again he was trapped by his friends—by his own pure heart that would believe good of anyone until, too late, their evil was proved. They lured him out of his refuge and dragged him to prison. Leonidas and his followers among the elders came there to accuse the king, to show some pretence of justice. He stood before them, bound and smiling, and happy because of the things he had tried to do. They sentenced him to death; there was such a glory about him that the executioners dared not touch him. It was those one-time friends who dragged him to his place of death!
‘But now his mother and grandmother had heard. They rushed about the city, stirring up the people, reminding them of all he had done and hoped to do. They came clamouring round the gates of the prison, saying it was for them to hear and judge him. That only brought him a quicker death. The officers of the prison wept for him, as once they did in Athens for Sokrates. He bade them not to mourn for him dying innocent and unafraid. He gave his neck to the noose.
‘Then these friends who had betrayed him, came out with fair words to the women, saying that there was no more danger for Agis. They brought in first the older woman, his grandmother, and killed her. Then his mother came in, thinking to have him in her arms again, and they were both lying dead. “Oh, my son,” she said, “it is your great mercy and goodness which has brought us all to ruin.” And they hanged her too, till she died.’
Sphaeros stopped suddenly and looked round at the Scythians. Eurydice’s white hands were quiet now, Tarrik was leaning forward with his hand on his sword. The other two were both in tears. Said Erif: ‘But what happened to the other, his wife—Agiatis? Did they kill her too?’
‘No,’ said Sphaeros, frowning a little. ‘They did not kill her. She was heiress to her father’s estates, so Leonidas married her by force to the boy Kleomenes. She hated that; she had a little baby, and besides, she had loved Agis. She did all she could to keep herself his, and his alone: she hated Leonidas. But she was in his power—as all Sparta was then.’
Erif Der drew a breath of pity. ‘Poor dear, oh, poor dear! Was she very unhappy?’
‘I think so,’ said Sphaeros. ‘The baby died very soon: and Leonidas was not kind to her. But my Kleomenes was gentle, and, as soon as he was old enough he began to love her so much that in time she loved him back. But she never forgot Agis, he was always in her heart, and by and bye she found that her husband was the one person she could talk to about him. I was in Sparta again some three years after this marriage (between-times I had been home again, in Olbia) and Kleomenes told me, as if it were something quite new, the story of Agis. He was all in a passion, flaring up and then crying like a child over it: he wanted to know what I thought of Sparta, as it was now under his father, a worse place than ever, rotten with luxury and idleness and the evil wills of the rich. He swore to me then, if ever he was king, with my help he would change it all and make it a place where men could be wise. And I swore too, that if, when the time came, he still needed me, I would come. Nine years ago his father died, worn out with desires and the vain image of pleasure. Kleomenes was still little more than a boy. He is a man now. He has written to say that at last he needs me.’
‘I see,’ said Tarrik, and got up, and began walking about the room, fidgeting with his crown, his belt, the edges of his coat. At last he came to a stand in front of the philosopher and looked hard down at him for a minute or two, as if he were trying to see through the man’s eyes into his mind and heart. ‘And so it seems as if you must go,’ he ended his sentence.
‘Yes,’ said Sphaeros gravely.
‘You may have difficulty in finding a ship.’
‘I know. His letter did not reach me till late in autumn. But you will help me, King of Marob.’
‘Yes,’ said Tarrik, ‘I will help you.’
Chapter six
ERIF DER LEANT OUT of her father’s window and watched them driving the bulls into the flax market. The openings of the streets and the house doors and lower windows were barred across, because of the half-wild beasts pouring in, tossing heads and tails, brown and white in the sunlight, not angry yet, but ready to be. From housetops and windows half Marob was watching. Snow had fallen the week before and been cleared away; now it was a lovely, sharp, windy morning. The well-head in the middle was covered over with hurdles to make a raised refuge place for the branders and killers. They stood about on it, some ten or twenty young men who wanted to show off to their girls and friends, all gay with coloured knots and leather fringes to their coats and boots. Tarrik was among them, standing right on top of the hurdles, with gold and red ivory scales sewn all over his clothes and the long, plaited whip hanging from his hand to the ground; he jerked his arm up and cracked it out over the bulls’ backs.