man looked up. ‘I knocked my head; they thought I was dead and left me. It wouldn’t have mattered.’
‘No,’ said Tarrik, amused.
‘But you see, when I found I was alive after all, the impulse was too strong for me. Besides I am still hoping to finish my journey.’
‘Where were you going?’ Tarrik asked, in Greek this time.
‘To Sparta, to King Kleomenes. I am his tutor.’
‘What do you teach him?’
‘Philosophy.’
‘You had better teach me; I am a king too.’
‘I do not know if you would be a good pupil; if you are, I should be glad to teach you. But Kleomenes needs me.’
‘I have been to Greece, but never to Sparta; they say it is a rich place, where a few have all the power, and most are poor and unhappy.’
‘It is like that now; but States may become better. Who are you, King, and what is your country?’
‘I am Tarrik of Marob; but my name is Charmantides as well.’
‘You are partly Hellene, then?’
Tarrik hesitated a moment, looking the philosopher up and down. ‘I do not choose to think myself Hellene,’ he said. ‘I am a barbarian.’
The little man laughed pleasantly and openly, half shutting his eyes. ‘Good!’ he said. ‘Now we have something real. I do not think Hellenes are good and barbarians bad, Tarrik of Marob. I think we are all citizens of one world. I think, too, that you have seen the worst sort of Hellene. Isn’t that true?’
‘Perhaps. They were not citizens of my world, anyhow. What is your name?’
‘I am called Sphaeros of Borysthenes. You see, I am not quite a Hellene either.’
‘You will come to my house,’ said Tarrik. ‘The blood is getting through that bandage. Does it hurt?’
‘Not much. It is of no consequence, anyway.’
‘Perhaps not to you. But I want you to teach me, I want you alive!’ He called: ‘Erif! Look: will you make the blood not come?’
Erif Der laid her fingers over the red patch on the bandage, then after a moment took them away sharply, and spoke low to Tarrik: ‘Who is it?’
‘Sphaeros: a Hellene: a teacher of kings. Make him well for me, Erif!’
She frowned and began muttering words and making little movements. Tarrik looked on anxiously, wondering what was the matter. Sphaeros sat quite still, feeling a little weak, only just sometimes lifting a hand to wipe away a trickle of blood from his neck. ‘I can’t,’ said Erif Der suddenly, ‘I can’t! It doesn’t work on him!’ She jumped up and called to the women for a bowl of water, needle and thread, quick. Then she undid the bandage. ‘This is the other way,’ she said to Tarrik, and took his sharp little hunting-knife and cut the hair all round the wound, and then sewed the edges of it together, with her lips pressed up firmly, and eyes fixed on what she was doing. Sphaeros twisted his hands between his knees and shut his eyes, but said nothing, only gave a little gasp when it was all over. Tarrik gave him a cup of wine; the bleeding had stopped; Erif Der turned away and made one of the women pour water over her hands till they were clean.
The next day the Council met; they had to decide what to do with the ship’s crew and the few passengers, a merchant with his clerk and two servants, and Sphaeros. The natural thing was to take them as a gift from the sea, and, after due thanks, enslave them or hold them to ransom. Three generations ago this would have been a certainty; but these were degenerate days. The Council discussed other possibilities. The Chief was being curiously reasonable, hearing both sides and then giving his own opinion, in a way that made Harn Der and his eldest son rather anxious. However, they comforted themselves with the thought of the bullfighting later on. Erif Der might have her own ways, but they could trust her to be loyal to her family.
In the end it was settled that such of the crew as had any money should have a sum fixed to be handed over in spring, whenever a ship came to take them away; the others would have to work for their living, and there would be correspondingly larger sums for the captain and passengers to pay. ‘But as to the Greek, Sphaeros,’ said the Chief, ‘I will pay his now; he is my guest.’ Any cargo, wood, baggage or provisions washed up from the wreck were to be distributed.
When the Council was ended, Tarrik found that his aunt had asked Sphaeros up to her room and was talking to him. Sphaeros sat on the edge of a chair, looking displeased and faintly uncomfortable; he had already refused offers of money, clothes, books, and exclusive friendship as between Hellenes in a barbarian country, from Eurydice, always with politeness, but still firmly. ‘I am honoured,’ he said, ‘but, as you must see, I cannot commit myself yet.’ He was a little curious to know more about Erif Der but was too discreet to ask. He had always liked Scythians, rather romantically, perhaps, but then he was more than usually sane and clear-headed over other things. He liked the hardness, the violent living of these riders and fighters, the carelessness of pain. The contrast in his mind was between them and the rich Greek—the kind of life that he saw reflected in this room of Eurydice’s—rather than the Wise Greek. The Wise Greek was so very rare, thought Sphaeros: one thought one had found him, but how often one was disappointed. And it seemed to him that this strong, questioning, bare-breasted Tarrik was a Romantic Scythian. But so far he could not quite fit in Eurydice. At any rate, it gave him no pleasure to eat caviare and white bread from golden dishes on an ivory table, and hear rather second-rate poetry read aloud. He did not really mind in the least that his clothes were slightly torn, and discoloured and shrunk with sea water; in fact, he had not noticed. His sandals were borrowed and on the large side, but he did not even know who was the lender, so he could not possibly fret about returning them.
Tarrik leant against the wall, with his thumbs hooked into his belt. ‘You’re going to stay with me all this winter,’ he said, ‘and teach me.’
‘But I must go to King Kleomenes as soon as I can,’ said Sphaeros. ‘There will be small ships sailing from harbour to harbour still; I can work my way south.’
It suddenly occurred to the Chief that he really had someone to deal with this time. ‘You won’t go till I let you,’ he said. ‘I have the power here, my philosopher.’
‘Yes, King of Marob,’ said Sphaeros, ‘but you cannot make me teach.’
‘I can kill you the moment I choose—and I will if you don’t do what I want.’
‘Yes, and how well I shall teach then!’
But Eurydice came between them, distressed at this scene between her Charmantides and a real Hellene philosopher. ‘This is all nonsense, of course! Charmantides, you mustn’t be rough. This delightful Sphaeros is my guest.’ And she smiled at him, feeling that there was something to be said for being a respectable age—though not, of course, old!—at the moment.
But Sphaeros did not respond properly; he had a hand on Tarrik’s arm, and was looking up at him earnestly. ‘King!’ he said, ‘I will tell you why Kleomenes of Sparta needs me, and then you will let me go to him. I do not think you are truly the sort of king who kills people without reason.’
Tarrik, unused to this particular
