Tim Leach - The Last King of Lydia

The king leaned in close to his son, and stared at him in silence for a time. ‘I hate that you put me through this,’ he said. ‘I hate you for this.’ He turned his back on Atys. ‘You may leave.’

‘I’m sorry I displease you, Father.’ Croesus could hear the pain in his son’s voice, but he would not turn around.

‘Go then. And send Adrastus to me.’

He waited for a time, his mind empty, and listened to his son leave. Then he heard the sound of another pair of feet against the stone, and the soft noise of Adrastus’s robe as he bowed.

‘Adrastus,’ he said, ‘you did not volunteer for the hunt?’

‘No. A man with my poor luck has no place on a venture like this. Have I displeased you, my king?’

‘No, no.’ Croesus voice grew hesitant, absent. ‘Have I been kind to you, Adrastus?’

‘My lord, you have given me back my life.’

‘I see.’ Croesus dropped his head and looked at the ground. ‘I think you must be the most loyal man I know, since you owe me the most. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’

‘My lord?’

‘Go with the hunters, Adrastus. Protect my son.’

Once again, Adrastus bowed low. ‘With my life, my lord.’

Late at night on the plains of the north, the hunters gathered around a fire. They passed around a heavy wineskin, trading stories and crude jests. They were not too crude — Atys’s presence tempered their language. They sat and talked and looked at the stars for some sign or omen that might guide them, for there are few who need the luck of the Gods more than hunters.

After the wineskin had made its way around the circle several times, one of the men produced a small skin drum and began to beat a syncopated rhythm. The others, yelping and whooping, staggered to their feet and began to dance. Atys smiled and waved them off as they implored him to join them, but insistent hands dragged him up, and soon he was moved amongst them, his quick feet picking up the step.

The drum sang faster and faster, and the men danced with it, all knowing that the first man to stop dancing would be no man at all. They expected Atys would be the first to cry off, but he was strong and determined, and kept up with the best of them. They danced at a furious pace, until finally one man’s legs shook and gave way and he fell to ground. The others collapsed only a moment later, laughing and howling insults at the man who had fallen first. The drummer slowed his rhythm, allowing them to recover. Soon, the beat would bring them all to their feet again.

Out on the edge of the camp, Adrastus sat alone. He watched the dancing, waiting for the noise to die down so that he could return to the fire and sleep in the warmth, for he knew he would not be welcome at the camp until then. He looked out to the east, towards Phrygia. The distant home he would never see again.

He heard a noise behind him and turned, his hand reaching for the spear at his side. Atys threw his hands up in the air in mock surrender, a wineskin slung over his shoulder, his legs still unsteady from his exertions at the fire.

‘May I approach and sit, fearsome sentinel?’ he said.

‘Of course. My apologies.’ Adrastus spread his cloak out on the ground, knocking the dust from it with a few strokes of his hand, and Atys sat down beside him.

‘You should not talk to me, you know,’ Adrastus said. ‘None of the others do. They know I am bad luck.’

‘If you were bad luck, you wouldn’t have found your way to Lydia. You wouldn’t have had the fortune to have a man like my father take you in.’

‘And I wouldn’t have a man like you as my friend.’

‘That as well. Come,’ Atys said, ‘join us by the fire? It makes me sad to see you out here.’

Adrastus smiled. ‘No. I wouldn’t want to make the others uncomfortable.’ He looked over his shoulder. The music had ended, and the men sat watching them. ‘You see, they observe us. Don’t stay too long, or they will think that I am drawing your good fortune from you, like an evil spirit. But I thank you. You are kind to me.’

‘You are a friend to me, Adrastus. When I am king-’ He checked himself.

Adrastus laughed. ‘Don’t stop. There’s no harm in it. What prince doesn’t dream of being king one day? You would be a poor son indeed if you lacked ambition.’

‘No. It’s bad luck to speak like that. But there will always be a place for you at my side.’

‘Thank you, Atys.’

They sat in silence for a time.

‘Did you have a wife, back in your homeland?’ Atys said.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Do you miss her?’

‘A little. We were never in love. Not like you and Iva. But she was kind to me, and fond of me, I think. She wept when I left, and they were tears for me, not for her. You understand what I mean by that?’

‘Yes. You should marry again. There are plenty of women who would be honoured to have you for a husband. You are in the king’s favour. I could ask-’

‘No.’ Atys started at the interruption. ‘You may not believe that I am cursed,’ Adrastus continued slowly. ‘But I am glad that I have no children. I did a terrible thing, and that is my punishment. To live alone, and have no children to follow me.’

Looking at him, Atys suddenly felt like a boy again, a boy who knew nothing of grief. Adrastus gave him a companionable touch on the shoulder. ‘Good night, Atys. And don’t drink too much of that stuff, or you’ll feel rotten tomorrow.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind. Sleep well, Adrastus.’

In a dark, peaceful part of the palace in Sardis, Maia allowed herself the luxury of leaning against a wall to rest her tired legs; she watched Gyges as he knelt on the ground and traced patterns in the dust.

He had been at work for perhaps an hour, tracing a complex sequence of symbols, then standing and scuffing the marks out before kneeling and beginning over again. Once, many years before, Croesus had summoned scholars to examine the marks his son made in dust and sand. He had hoped that they might divine some trace of meaning there; the boy worked with such fixed intensity that it seemed impossible that the symbols he drew could mean nothing. For a time, the king had spoken of how he and his son would soon spend hours side by side, talking silently together in the dust, once his men had solved the riddle of the script.

The scholars studied the boy’s work for many months, trying to deduce what Gyges could possibly be drawing. From the images, they tried to extrapolate an alphabet, numbers, some sequence or sign. All had reached the same conclusion. There were no patterns there. They were simply the idle scratchings of an idiot child.

Maia became aware of a presence at one entrance to the room. She did not have to turn towards it to know it was the king. He came more often now, since Atys had left for the north. She sometimes wondered what strange need he satisfied when he came to see his second son; whether, in the lines of Gyges’s face, he saw some shadow of his other child.

Most days, he tried to remain unseen, though the king was not as adept at hiding as he thought he was. She always affected not to see him, unless he came forward to speak. She did not know whether Gyges mimicked her pretended ignorance or whether he genuinely did not notice his father, but either way, he never gave any sign that he registered his father’s visits.

‘Maia.’ The king spoke softly, but the sound of his voice, of any voice, was still startling to her.

‘Master.’ She turned to face the king, and kept her gaze to the floor.

‘You may look up. My son, he is well?’

‘Yes, he is,’ she said. ‘He misses his brother.’

‘Really.’ Croesus gave a pained smile. ‘How can you tell?’