The Last King of Lydia (20 page)

Cyrus leaned back in his chair, and gestured to the servants around the pyre. He beckoned to another man on the balcony to bring him his parchments. He heard but did not see the fire being lit,
and at the same moment acrid incense filled his nostrils. Cyrus sniffed in distaste, and bent over the table to busy himself in the affairs of state.

Some of the messages he reviewed had travelled merely hours to reach him. Questions about supplying the army that now occupied Sardis, or the appointments of new local rulers for the conquered
towns and cities of the Lydian empire. Others were messages from the far side of his kingdom, which had taken weeks to arrive over mountains and seas, passing through a dozen hands before they
reached the attention of the king.

For these delayed messages, he gave commands in response to events that had yet to occur: on receiving news of a food shortage in Ecbatana, he sent an order to put down the riot that he knew
would have broken out by the time the message arrived in the east; learning that a fleet of merchant vessels was a day late in reaching Suhar, he sent his scouts to scour the coast for the
shipwreck he was certain had occurred. Ruling the future, Cyrus was fond of saying, was the last great skill for a king to master.

He had dispatched only a few messages when he heard a low groan from the pyre. Cyrus looked up in surprise; perhaps wood burned quicker in the west, he thought. But the fire had not yet reached
the prisoner. Cyrus saw Croesus’s lips move twice, but he spoke too softly for the Persian king to hear. Then he said the same word a third time, just loud enough to be audible.

‘Solon.’

Cyrus frowned. ‘What does that mean?’ he said to his interpreter.

‘I do not know.’

‘Ask him.’

‘My lord?’

Cyrus nodded towards the pyre. The interpreter bowed, and asked the question in Lydian.

Croesus raised his head and looked at Cyrus. ‘He is a man all kings should speak to,’ the prisoner said, his eyes streaming from the smoke.

‘Oh?’ Cyrus said, after the interpreter relayed this to him. ‘And why is that?’

‘He taught me that the Gods hate the fortunate,’ Croesus shouted over the rising roar of the fire, ‘and that I would die unhappy!’

Cyrus watched as Croesus threw his head back against the stake and bared his teeth. The fire had yet to touch him, but it would not be long before some straying lick of flame touched off the oil
on his robe. The smoke grew heavier and hid Croesus from view. Occasionally, Cyrus still caught a glimpse of movement through the thickening air, as Croesus writhed against the stake. Cyrus sat,
his chin resting against the palm of his hand, and listened to the hoarse screams of the dying king.

Cyrus had sat through many executions. Some swift, most slow. He knew the worst was about to come, the point at which the condemned man was beyond all chance of reprieve, was certain to die but
not yet dead. It was a terrible thing, to watch a man in those last moments, when there truly was no hope.

‘Put it out,’ he said.

Six men stepped forward, pouring sand and water. The fire, which had seemed so powerful and irresistible, was extinguished in a matter of moments. The guards came forward to free the prisoner,
but were driven back by the heat of the embers. They waited, their cloaks wrapped across their faces.

Eventually, one of the soldiers leaned forward and poked at the ashes with the shaft of his spear. Seeing the embers fade to red and grey, he stepped carefully over the pyre, the half-burned
logs breaking underfoot. Seeing Croesus slumped forward, he raised the prisoner’s head and rolled open his eyes. The soldier nodded, as if in satisfaction, and unlocked the chain that held
Croesus to the stake.

Croesus cried out as his weight came down on his feet, and curled up against the wooden chair. He looked up at the soldier who had freed him. ‘I can’t walk,’ he said. The guard
frowned. Irritably, Croesus jabbed at his feet with a finger. The soldier nodded in understanding, and, passing his spear to one of his companions, he knelt and picked Croesus up, one arm under the
crook of his legs, the other around his back. The Lydian closed his eyes against the shame of it, and put his arms around the Persian’s neck, letting himself be carried down and placed on the
cold ground.

Cyrus walked down the stairs and across the courtyard towards his defeated enemy. His pace was unhurried, like a man taking an idle stroll at dusk to enjoy the last of the daylight. He stood
over Croesus for a time, his entourage of advisors, slaves and bodyguards gathered behind him. The two kings looked at each other in silence.

‘So,’ Cyrus eventually said, in gently accented Lydian, ‘tell me about Solon.’

Croesus stared at Cyrus and then at his interpreter. Then he shook his head. ‘Why?’

‘Because I am curious.’ Cyrus glanced at the pyre, still pouring smoke into the air. ‘When they first lit the pyre, you had the face of a man hurrying towards death. When you
said that name, it seemed to me that you changed your mind.’

Croesus looked at the ground. He spoke slowly. ‘He was an Athenian who came to my court. I had been on the throne a year. I had my wealth, and my family. So I asked him if I was the
happiest man he had ever met.’

‘And?’

‘He said no one was happy until they were dead. Until then, you are just lucky. He claimed that it was only when he had seen a man’s entire life, and the way he met his death, that
he could say whether or not that man had lived a happy life.’ Croesus shrugged. ‘I thought he was a fool.’

‘I see,’ said Cyrus. ‘That is all?’

‘Yes. I thought of him, up there. I thought of what he had said to me, and thought what an awful thing it was to die, having wasted your life.’

‘Your life has been a waste, then?’

‘Yes.’

There was silence for a time. Behind him, Cyrus’s entourage began to fidget and shiver in the cold. The general, Harpagus, tried to catch his king’s eye, to seek some direction or
order, but Cyrus seemed to be in no hurry to do or say anything.

Eventually, Croesus looked up and asked, ‘What are your men doing in the city?’

‘I should think they are taking everything you own.’

‘No. I own nothing now,’ Croesus said, absently. ‘They are robbing you.’

Cyrus laughed. ‘True enough. I hadn’t thought of that. What should I do?’

Croesus looked up at the king, expecting to see a mocking smile on the other man’s face, but Cyrus seemed quite serious. ‘You cannot simply take it from them,’ Croesus said.
‘They might rebel against you. And you can’t let them pillage as they please. One of them might grow rich and powerful enough to be dangerous to you.’

‘A conundrum.’

‘Yes. So put some men you trust at each gate of the city, and as your men leave with their treasure, demand that they donate a tenth to the Gods who have given them victory. That is what I
would do. They can’t argue with giving a share to the Gods.’

‘And should I take this gold that they surrender at the gates for myself?’

‘That is your decision. I don’t know how pious you are.’

Cyrus smiled, a fractional lift of one corner of his mouth. ‘You chose poorly in going to war against me,’ he said. ‘But, still, I think you are wise.’

Croesus shook his head. ‘You are wrong. No wise man chooses war.’ He looked away. ‘In times of peace, sons bury their fathers. In times of war, fathers bury their
sons.’

‘Perhaps your war has taught you something, then. You could be of use to me.’

‘As a slave?’

‘We Persians aren’t as fond as you are of taking slaves. But there are exceptions. You are a danger to me as a free man.’ The Persian paused. ‘Perhaps one day you will
earn your freedom again.’

Croesus said nothing in response. Cyrus continued: ‘I will grant you a boon of your choosing.’

‘Why?’

‘It is the custom. I even granted Astyages a boon when he entered my service.’

Croesus looked up sharply, and Cyrus nodded to him. ‘Yes, when I overthrew your brother king, I spared his life, despite all he had done to my people. He too became my slave.’

‘I don’t see him with you today. Did he displease you? I don’t think I will last long in this court of yours. I would rather die now, than have you keep me like a dog and
murder me on a whim.’

‘You are mistaken. He did not die by my hand, but by his own.’ Cyrus shrugged. ‘I gave him no reason. So long as you are loyal to me, Croesus, you shall live. Come, what favour
can I grant you?’

Croesus thought. He thought of his treasury, that all those years before had once contained an infinity of desires. He had never thought he would be reduced to one command, to have the power to
perform just a single action before his freedom was taken. And yet, now it was offered to him, there was only one thing he found that he wanted.

‘Let my wife be spared slavery,’ he said eventually. ‘And take good care of my son.’

‘You would like her by your side, I presume?’

‘No. Let her go to the temples, or marry again if that is what she wants. I want her to be free. That is all I ask.’

Cyrus nodded, and conferred with his advisors. One of them glanced uneasily at Croesus, shook his head, and leaned in to whisper a message to the Persian king. Croesus watched, and covered his
face with his hands.

‘I will take care of your son, Croesus. Your wife is dead,’ Cyrus said.

‘How?’ Croesus said, without raising his head.

‘She jumped from the palace walls as the city was being taken.’

‘Yes,’ said Croesus slowly. ‘She would choose that.’ He shut his eyes against the tears, but they still flowed through.

Cyrus paused. ‘Have an hour. Then you may request another boon.’ The Persian king looked Croesus over. ‘Did the fire hurt you?

Croesus reached a hand towards his burned feet. ‘Yes, a little,’ he said.

‘Who was your personal slave?’

‘He is called Isocrates. I don’t know if he survived the fighting.’

Cyrus smiled. ‘Slaves are great survivors; they tend to outlive their masters in a time of war. That is how they became slaves in the first place – by living when they should have
died. I shall see if he can be found.’

Cyrus turned and spoke to his servants in Persian. One of them bowed, and pointed to the other side of the courtyard. Cyrus laughed, and turned back to Croesus.

‘He is here. You see? Already he is making himself useful to me. A clever slave indeed.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Isocrates!’

Croesus watched the slave come forward and bow at another man’s command. ‘How can I serve, master?’

‘Tend his wounds.’

Isocrates bowed again. ‘Yes, master.’

Cyrus turned to go, but looked back, snapped his fingers to one of his guards and beckoned him forward. He took the man’s cloak from him, tossed it to Croesus, and began to walk away.

‘Cyrus?’

The Persian king turned back. ‘Yes?’

‘What will you tell them? The people, I mean. As to why you put out the pyre. Won’t they take your change of heart as weakness?’

‘You are correct.’ Cyrus looked up at the clear sky and smiled. ‘We shall say a god put the fire out. Who could argue with that? I think it might even be true.’

Croesus wrapped the cloak tightly around him, for the comfort as much as for the warmth, and watched his new master walk away.

‘I shall not dress your feet for you,’ Isocrates said after the king had gone, ‘because I’m not your slave any more. Do you understand?’ Croesus stared sightlessly
at the smouldering pyre, and nodded.

‘You must learn to understand and to act quickly,’ Isocrates continued. ‘Things will not be repeated for you. If you make the wrong choice, or you don’t understand, you
will die.’

‘You make it sound like being a hunted animal.’

‘That is not far from the truth.’

‘What were you doing here, when Cyrus called for you?’

‘Pouring sand on that fire.’

‘So you saved my life?’ Croesus shook his head. ‘How touching.’

‘I also helped stack the wood this morning to burn you. So don’t be sentimental.’

Croesus looked down at the marks the heated chains had left on his arms. ‘Will I always be marked like this?’ he said.

Isocrates looked briefly, with little interest. ‘No. They will heal.’

‘But I will always be a slave.’

‘Yes. You serve at the pleasure of your master, now. Don’t forget it.’ Another man came with a poultice and bandages, and Isocrates took them from him. ‘Now,’ he
said to Croesus, ‘watch what I do.’

Croesus watched as Isocrates demonstrated how to apply the poultice and the bandage, listened as the slave described what herbs went into the wrapping and what they did. When the other man had
finished, he made a passable effort at wrapping his feet himself. The bandages were clumsy, but they did not unravel, and he repeated the effects of the herbs first time. He winced at the pain as
he wrapped his feet, but did not cry out.

Isocrates nodded in approval. ‘Not bad. And that is good enough. For now, at least.’

‘Cyrus thinks I am a wise man,’ Croesus said. ‘That is why he is keeping me alive.’

Isocrates said nothing.

‘I am not a wise man, am I?’

‘No, Croesus. You are not.’

‘What do I do?’

Isocrates stared at him, and shrugged.

‘Learn quickly,’ he said.

The Persian army slept.

From a distance, the torchlit gathering of men could be mistaken for a city. Eyes would play tricks, connecting the disparate points of fire to form impossible architectures, conjuring a city of
the mind out of nothing. It was only on drawing closer that one could see past the fires to the outlines of tents and sleeping pallets stretched out in every direction. A hundred thousand souls,
sleeping and dreaming in a land that was not theirs. Small fires ringed the edges of the encampment where sentries fought to stay awake, watching the stars and counting away the time until they
were relieved, and could rejoin the dreaming army.

At the heart of this gathering, this temporary city of the plains, Croesus, a torch dripping sparks in his hand, moved through the tents and sleeping men towards the place where Cyrus held court
that night. He looked warily into corners where men might be hiding in ambush, watchful of figures that might lurk in the darkness. In his first few months in service to the Persian king, some of
the servants had found pleasure in beating this slave who had once been a king. They called him to some quiet corner on a false errand, knocked him to the ground, and whipped him with their belts
until his tunic was stuck to his back with blood. He had learned to be cautious.