He had told the others that this was the best thing to do, but none of them chose to follow his advice, and after all, they were free nobles and could dress as they wanted. Only Berris was much as usual. He had been so thrilled for the last few days, while they were touching at one after another of the Greek Islands and getting nearer and nearer to the country of his dreams, that he had not thought about things like clothes; as far as he considered them he felt ashamed and inappropriate with his barbarian things—the solid stuff of coat and trousers, the thick boots and childish ornaments. He wanted to slip quietly ashore and creep into the heart of Hellas unobserved.
They had to wait about by the harbour for the best part of that day while their things were being unloaded; a good deal stared at, but still, nowadays there were so many odd foreigners going to Hellas that no one was really surprised. Probably they had come to hire officers for some infinitely remote war of their own. In the meantime the only problem was how much money was to be extracted from them here at Gytheum—before these robbers of inlanders could get at the pickings! Sphaeros managed to look after them to some extent, but a few insisted on making purchases. All of them could speak Greek fairly fluently and they liked showing it off. Two of the most sensible were sent off to hire riding and pack-horses.
That day they got about five miles, and filled the whole of the country inn. They were all excited about different things—the heat in the middle of the day already, the clothes, the food, the women, and the fact, which is always, somehow, so surprising in a foreign country, that even the smallest children could speak this difficult language. Berris had seen odd and brilliant flowers growing by the roadside—crocuses and irises and cyclamen—and the air had been intensely clear between him and the purple hills. These were the first really jagged and violent hills he had ever seen: the ranges west of Marob were low and thickly wooded all over.
It seemed to Sphaeros that Sparta was unchanged, so far. It was just as he remembered it—a rather disgusting place where wealth was the one real standard. Gloomily he thought that it would take more than one man, even Agis returned from death, to move this mass of a population gone bad. But as they got nearer the city of Sparta itself, things began to look better. He had seen one or two young men going about with a certain proud simplicity of dress and bearing, carrying spears. Perhaps he could ask one of the mule-drivers who they were.
‘Oh, the King’s friends!’ said the man, adding rather resentfully, ‘When you’re rich enough you can afford to pretend there’s not a penny in your purse!’ But all the same, there was something in his manner, Sphaeros thought—a touch of hope or pride, or nothing more than respect, but at least as if something was happening in Sparta.
When they were within sight of the Brazen House, Sphaeros asked Tarrik and Berris to go on with him dismounted, leaving the rest by the roadside with their horses and baggage. Before they had walked half a mile, they were all three violently nervous. With Sphaeros it was mostly physical; his mind was almost calm, and so was his outward appearance; he could notice with amusement the thick beating of his heart and the curious spasmodic contractions of his bowels, but except for an occasional deep sigh, he was in complete control of his breathing. The other two kept on looking at each other. Tarrik had been very reluctant to come, dismounted, without any armed following: how would this king know he was a king too? But still—if Sphaeros said it was the best way, well, he would be a Stoic and walk! So long as Sphaeros was quite right about Kleomenes being a philosopher too. But clearly, Sphaeros could not be quite sure. It was a comfort to be armed. He tried to make up his mind what to say to the Spartan King, something that would show who he was, short and decisive, but it was very difficult. He frowned and smiled, and frowned again, turning over the words, and stared stiffly ahead of him when children called after him in the roads, and did not really see any of the things Sphaeros pointed out to him.
Berris, on the other hand, was seeing everything, with a terrific hunger for detail and colour; he was full of a confusion of images, whirling round with them, only one still and central point of criticism saying: ‘So this is Hellas; now—is it as good as all that?’ This was worrying him desperately; he wanted to lose himself among fulfilled hopes, to find what had led him so far; and here was the clear air, here the beautiful outlines of mountains in an afternoon of winter sunshine. Here were a few at least of the Hellenes, the people living under Grace, the strong unhampered bodies, poised so after centuries of war and games and delight in all loveliness. But—Berris Der had not found it yet. And this King would perhaps talk to him and he would not be able to answer him properly. He wanted to be let alone and allowed to be clear water, for this dust of appearances to fall through and settle. Only kings were dangerous cattle, one had to answer them the way they wanted to be answered; he would have to wake up and think about that, or else Tarrik might be the sufferer. He pulled himself together, and said something in Greek to the Chief.
At the door of the King’s house, Sphaeros stopped for a couple of minutes, making sure that his mind was prepared for anything. Tarrik stood beside him saying nothing: he thought this was probably some ritual. Berris looked at the bronze knocker, which was very large and much worn, so that he could hardly make out the design, but it seemed to be a lizard with all its lines hardened into a form for metal. For all its age and roughness, he thought it was one of the best bits of work he had seen in Greece. Sphaeros, noticing him, smiled and said: ‘That belongs to the King’s house; it has always been there.’ And he lifted it to knock, shouting for someone at the same time. They stood back for the door to open.
‘I have come hoping to see the King,’ said Sphaeros.
‘Who are you? Strangers?’ the man said, looking from Sphaeros to the barbarians and back again.
‘I am a philosopher. I was the King’s friend—once.’ After another long look, the man led them along into the outer hall and left them there with a couple of strong-looking armed helots on guard.
It was a square, darkish room with four doors, and not too clean. In each corner there was a large bronze vase, cast and rather badly finished, with jagged-looking holes for the rings to go through, and a stupid and very much elaborated egg and dart pattern round the bulge; one of them had dried bulrushes in it. There were also two or three glazed pottery lamps, shaped into fattish sphinxes, and a trophy of arms, not very interesting. The walls were more pink than red, with a black stripe near the bottom, and imitation pillars painted at each side of the doors. Berris grew more and more depressed; he thought of home, of his own forge, and the clear live shapes of his own things, fire and anvil waiting for him, and the little girl Sardu sorting his tools and putting them away in their leather roll. He thought of Erif Der, her pale face and grey eyes between the plaits. He thought of the harvest—the heavy, gentle heads of the garlanded cows; the little fir trees stuck about with apples and coloured knots; the striped reeds of the flax-pickers; the thick blue and scarlet dresses of young girls running on the snow of Marob. His eyes wandered round the room again, and at last caught Tarrik’s and stayed there. Tarrik was laughing, but that made it no better. The helot guards looked at them suspiciously, their hands on their sword hilts.
After about ten minutes, when still nothing had happened, Tarrik began to fidget and suggested to Sphaeros that kings were sometimes difficult to see and he had plenty of Greek money with him. But Sphaeros