Tim Leach - The Last King of Lydia

‘Oh, he has his moods, like any of us. I think I can read them now.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps that is presumptuous of me. I speak too much, master. Forgive me.’

‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘An interesting thought. I should have known you’d be clever, if Isocrates wanted you for a wife. You are a Hellene like him, are you not?’

‘Yes. From Phocaea.’

‘Do you need anything? Does my son need anything?’

‘No, master. We are well taken care of.’

She saw his eyes wander across her face without interest, then stop and fix on her cheek. He clicked his tongue in displeasure. ‘Did Gyges do that?’

‘Do what?’

He pointed, and she raised her hand, brushing over a small, dark bruise beneath her eye. She shook her head. ‘No, master, he would never hurt me. I fell in the courtyard. That is all.’

‘Ah. I am glad.’ He looked at his silent son. ‘It is an onerous enough duty that I have given you without you taking blows for it as well.’

‘Oh, not at all. I am happy to take care of him.’

‘Why?’

‘He makes me feel peaceful.’

The king cocked his head for a moment, as if he expected some trick. Then he smiled. ‘I want to reward you. For taking care of my son.’

‘I deserve no reward, master.’

‘Oh, but you’ll have one.’ He smiled broadly. ‘You can have children. If you want to. No better gift than that, is there?’

She stared at him, her mouth slightly parted.

‘I imagine you have refrained out of duty,’ he continued. ‘Fear, perhaps, of what I might say. There is no need. When I gave permission for you and Isocrates to marry, I meant for you to have that freedom.’

‘Thank you, master,’ she said slowly. ‘But I can’t accept.’

‘What?’

She paused for a moment then spoke again. ‘I am not able to have children, master.’

‘I see. I am sorry.’ He hesitated. ‘I must see to my wife. You will tell me if my son needs anything? Anything he wants, it shall be his.’

‘Of course.’

‘And if you need anything. You must tell me that as well.’

She bowed, and waited until his footsteps had faded away entirely before she straightened again. She turned back to her charge, and, to her surprise, found Gyges watching his father go.

Just for a moment, she thought she saw him smile.

On the second day in the Mysian forest, all the signs were that the boar was near.

The birds had ceased to sing, and they saw no mark of any other animal, for man and beast had both fled the creature in the forest. Sometimes close, sometimes distant, they would hear a splintering crash as a bush or tree was uprooted and torn aside; the sound of the alien animal clearing its path through a forest that was not its home. Soon the air was ripe with the tang of boar; some thought they could taste the rusty, faded scent of blood. The dogs howled and whined on their leashes, tormented by a creature they could smell but not see. The men were silent. None of them had spoken since the forest fell quiet.

They moved up to a small clearing. Adrastus went first, peering at the undergrowth. He saw nothing, waved his companions on, and went to step forward himself. Something compelled him to look again. His eyes picked over the trees and thick bushes, and fell on a large shadow in the darkness. It was so still that for a moment he took it for a trick of his eyes, his imagination giving a moment of life to a fallen tree.

The great shadow blinked at him. Two black eyes covered over with brown skin for a fraction of a second, then opened again. The boar stepped forward into the light, six cubits from tail to snout and tall as a man’s chest, a monster of muscle and scar. It screamed once, as though issuing a warrior’s challenge, and charged.

The first wave of spears flew forward in a moment of lethal motion, most splintering away from thick skin, some biting and sticking and making the boar’s skin run black with blood. The dogs followed, tearing and ripping at ankles and flanks, and for a moment, Adrastus thought the boar would surely stumble and fall to the ground under their weight.

But the boar stood firm. It shook the spears from its skin, twisting them loose against trees and hooking them out of its flesh. It turned first on the dogs at its side, crushing them beneath its hooves, spearing them on its tusks, breaking their backs against the trees. It moved slowly at first, then with gathering speed, as if performing some terrible dance repeated over and over at greater pace, each killing blow coming quicker than the last.

Atys watched, without fear, as the boar tore the life from the dogs. He held the spear high, the shaft balanced against his shoulder to conserve his strength, waiting for a break in the pattern, a second of stillness to see his weapon home.

It came at last — a moment’s hesitation, as the boar looked up from the dogs and towards the men, as it fixed its tiny black eyes on Adrastus. Atys let his spear fly, saw it split a leg open like a rotten log. The boar dropped to the ground and screamed.

From the other side of the clearing Adrastus marked the point high on the proud chest where a muscle of hate beat strongly, put there by the Gods to test the world of men. He lifted his spear and drew it back, then cast it into the air with a single turn of his body.

It seemed as though the boar watched the spear come, as though it had always been waiting to greet that piece of iron. It twisted aside and dropped its shoulder, one final movement of the dance, and let the weapon pass.

The spear sang through the air, its flight still strong and true, and found a different home in flesh.

They sent a messenger riding ahead with their two best horses to bring the news to Sardis. The hunters followed slowly, weighed with grief and marching in silence. The corpse was wrapped in hides, preserved with what spices they had. At the tail of the defeated party, Adrastus walked alone.

When they reached the sight of home, none of the party raised a cheer or made a sound. They could see the gathering at the gate to the city, the tall bronze spears of the royal guard glittering in the sun, and knew that Croesus was there to meet them.

On the day the messenger had come to him, Croesus did not weep. He had seemed puzzled, his mouth slightly open, like an actor in a play who hears a line that is not his cue, yet is still expected to speak, to respond appropriately to the unknown and unknowable. Waiting, as in a nightmare where death is inevitable yet endlessly deferred. Hoping that the messenger was mistaken, that some other man’s son had been taken, not his. Now the hunters returned with a corpse, not a miracle, the end of hope lashed tightly to the back of a horse.

Adrastus came forward when they reached the gates, the hunters parting before him. He took his dagger and cut the body loose, took the stiff, heavy weight in his arms and walked to the gates.

He stood before the king, and waited.

Croesus said nothing. He made a small motion with his hand, and Isocrates and another slave came forward to take the body away. The king looked back at Adrastus, inclined his head questioningly. Adrastus gave the dagger in his hand to Croesus, knelt and offered up his throat. The king’s hand gripped the dagger, went white. He placed his left hand on top of the kneeling man’s head.

Adrastus waited for the fingers to curl into his hair to hold his head back, for the blade to bite at his throat. He heard the dagger fall to the ground, felt the fingers moving gently over his face. The touch of a father.

‘It’s not your fault, Adrastus,’ he said. ‘It is my fault.’ He leaned forward and kissed Adrastus on the forehead, as he used to kiss his son. ‘You are welcome to stay in the city. I hope you do. But I shan’t see you again. You understand that, don’t you? I cannot stand to look on you.’