Tim Leach - The Last King of Lydia

Then, he lay still and listened to his friends as they died.

He was alone now. Distant but growing closer, he could hear the thud of the boar’s hooves against the grass, the angry snorts that escaped its nostrils. He had pulled himself upright, his back against the tree. His skin was cold, cold enough to make him shiver in the heat of the midday sun, but he could feel a thick warmth seeping down into his groin and to the top of his thighs. Hesitant, he reached down to touch his wound. His fingers brushed against a hot wet coil. A piece of himself exposed to the air, and he pulled his hand back as though it had been burned, and turned his head away. He didn’t want to look at his wound.

His eyes fell on the high mountain that loomed in the distance. He wondered if that was where the boar had come from. He had heard it said that gods lived there.

As he lay dying, he hoped that the boar was a god. It would be a good thing, he thought, as the padding and snorting of the boar grew louder behind him, to have been killed by a god.

Again, he smelled the stench of the boar. He felt its hot breath against his neck.

Rumour travels faster than horses. By the time a delegation from Mysia had arrived in Sardis to plead for help, the city was already alive with stories of the boar.

It had killed a dozen men already, it was said, and every village and town for a hundred stades around lived in fear of it. Crops remained unplanted, and animals wandered wild in the fields whilst their keepers remained barricaded indoors. It was like a monster out of the old myths, and the people of Sardis argued endlessly as to whether it was merely an overgrown monstrosity or the child of a god. Auguries were taken by priests throughout the city to try and provide some answer to the mystery, but their results were inconclusive and contradictory, and each night the air in the city was alive with the scent of burning fat from a dozen different temples. The stray monster of a distant land had come to obsess the Lydian people. Perhaps, invincible as their empire was, they wanted an enemy to be afraid of, a threat against which to unite. If so, they found it in the beast haunting the woods in the north.

After the Mysians arrived at court, Croesus let them make their plea in front of a public crowd. After they had finished speaking, he threw up a hand to quiet the room.

‘My honourable subjects,’ he said. ‘I grieve for the sons that you have lost, and am dismayed that your people have been reduced to fear and terror. No doubt the Gods have seen our prosperity, the great wealth and strength of our kingdom, and have chosen to test us.

‘You all remember the story of Heracles, do you not? He fought against the Erymanthian boar. Perhaps this boar we hunt is a descendent of that monster. Heracles captured the boar, but we live in harsher times, and we will not be so merciful. This monster’s head will hang from the gate of the palace, and his pierced hide will become one of my greatest trophies.

‘I will dispatch my own hunters to kill the beast. Any man of Lydia may join them, as servant or huntsman. The man who strikes the killing blow will be awarded ten talents of gold, with another talent for each man who proves himself valiant. We will end this terror, and our country will be at peace once again.’

Croesus paused for a moment, looking out over the crowd to judge the impact of his speech. He could feel, in the air, the particular silence that the actor and the politician both crave. Whatever happened next, whether the boar were taken or not, his part in the drama would not be faulted.

‘Who will go with them?’ he said.

A voice, familiar and strong, came from the crowd. Croesus recognised its sound and tone, but his mind refused to believe it at first. Then a man pushed to the front and advanced beyond the others to stand alone, and the king could deny the truth no longer. It was Atys.

His son had grown into a striking man, skilled with horse and spear, and yet Croesus could not help but see a child standing there. And he fancied that in his son’s eyes he could still see a child’s desire, the desire to win his father’s pride.

Croesus said nothing for a time, his face impassive. Several times he parted his lips to speak, but each time he swallowed his words. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘You shall not go.’

‘Why not?’

‘It would not be fair to our people, to risk their future in this way.’

‘I will be protected by the very finest, travelling through the lands of our allies. There will be no danger.’

The king shook his head. In the past, whatever challenge confronted him, the words had always come without effort, entire speeches conjured from nothing. Now, no matter how eloquently he tried to shape his thoughts, they distilled themselves down to a single word.

‘No,’ he said again, not much above a whisper.

‘Why,’ said Atys, ‘then I shall sneak from the palace at night to join the hunters.’

‘My son-’

Atys turned to the people who packed the hall. ‘What do you say, people of Lydia. I will be guided by your will. Shall I go with them?’ A roar broke out from the crowd, loud enough to fill the throne room, and Atys turned to his father, triumphant. The crowd roared again, surging forwards past the guards towards the prince. They brushed the backs of their hands against his hair, placed their fingertips to his forehead and the nape of his neck. A few were bold enough to clasp his hand, all hoping for a touch of their champion.

Feeling the hunger of the crowd, knowing that now, truly, it could not be undone, Croesus descended the steps of his throne and advanced into the mob. The people parted before him, and he embraced his son tightly.

‘Atys, my brave son, let me congratulate you.’ His voice dropped. ‘But in private.’

‘Father-’

‘What were you thinking?’

‘My father-’

‘No, don’t tell me. I know it all already.’ Croesus paused to breathe, his face white with anger. ‘You think it a sport to humiliate your father.’

‘I meant no disrespect.’

‘It was very clever. Cornering me like that. Very sharp.’ He lifted a finger and held it in front of his son’s face. ‘But don’t ever do it again. Ever.’

Atys bowed his head and said nothing.

‘Why do this?’ Croesus said, his anger ebbing.

‘For glory, father. For the glory of it.’

‘Of course. Why else?’ Croesus hesitated. ‘I am afraid for you, Atys. I am afraid.’

Atys nodded. ‘There will be danger. But the prize is worth the risk.’

‘You talk like an epic’s hero. This isn’t you. Talk like my son.’ He paused. ‘Stay here.’

Atys said nothing for a moment, weighing his answer carefully, the way he had ever since he was a boy. ‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘when I was young, when we spoke in the garden after you had seen that man from Athens? Solon was his name.’

‘Yes. I remember.’

‘I said I must have been the happiest of us all. Because I had you as a father.’

‘Atys-’

‘How can I become a king like you when you hide me away in the palace like a woman? When you make me run from the sight of iron because of some dream?’

Croesus did not speak for some time. He had told his son of the dream, soon after iron had been banished from the palace, and as a boy Atys had believed it with the trust of a child for a father who cannot be wrong. Now, as a man, he did not. ‘Do not mock my dream,’ Croesus said.

‘Then think it through. This prophecy is a blessing. I cannot be killed by this boar.’ Atys tried a smile. ‘He isn’t going to come to battle with spear and shield, is he? That’s what your dream means, that I cannot be killed by a beast, no matter how terrifying it is. Please, let me go.’