Tim Leach: The Last King of Lydia

The first curls of smoke began to reach him, and he sucked at them greedily. It would be better if he were to fall unconscious before the fire touched him, but there was no hope of that — the dry wood burned cleanly and gave off little smoke, and he could hear the fire advance. It would reach him soon, kill him slowly.

He closed his eyes, his lips moving in prayers to the Gods in whom he might no longer believe. His face remained calm and unmoved, even as the flames rose higher and nearer. Then he flinched, as a memory struck him. A low groan escaped his lips.

Cyrus heard this cry and looked up. He saw the prisoner shuddering again, like a soldier run through with a spear, his head hanging low and his eyes open. For the first time that day, the blank mask that he had worn crumbled.

‘Solon,’ he said, as a coil of thick smoke ran up his body and wound round his neck like a noose.

‘Solon.’

558 BC

‘All hail Croesus, king of Lydia, son of Alyattes of the Mermnadae! Wise Leader, mighty Warrior, loving Father and benevolent Ruler! Know this, humble Lydians, know that you stand in the presence of the greatest king that these lands have ever known. Under his great leadership, we Lydians have truly become the most blessed nation on the earth. For who can match our nation in wealth? Our wondrous city for splendour? Our women for beauty? Our warriors for skill and valour? Even the Gods themselves might be humbled by our king’s treasuries, and his wealth is matched only by his kindness to his people, his nobility of spirit, his ruthlessness to his enemies, his. .’

Croesus sniffed, and yawned.

The king of Lydia was suffering from a slight cold, and would have preferred it if the herald could have been more concise. He was sweating under his heavy purple robes, for the room was thick with heat — a necessary ostentation to show that the king lived untroubled by the winter cold. He drummed his bejewelled fingers impatiently on the arm of his throne, producing a priceless clatter of gold against gold. He knew the entire speech by heart now, and had to stop himself from mouthing the words. He sometimes joked to his more favoured courtiers that he was tempted to try and conquer yet another nation, lose a city or two, marry another woman, just so the herald would have something new to say.

It was the first day of the new month, a day when any freeborn man or woman could attend and petition for his favour. Long before dawn, they would queue to cast etched stone tablets into golden urns, and a certain number would be drawn by lot to receive his royal favour.

Some invented elaborate stories to win a moment with their king. These impostors tended to be identified before they reached the court, but occasionally a particularly skilled liar would slip through. In front of the king, their stories invariably unravelled, and they would be thrown out as timewasters and fabulists. Most of those attending were genuine supplicants, many of them having travelled for days or weeks to have their plea heard. Some were tradesmen who sought relief from their creditors, others young men caught up in blood feuds. Some were widows looking for help raising their children, others criminals begging for clemency and absolution. Together they became an endless stream of troubled humanity, each hoping for the word of the king or the handful of coins that could transform their lives.

Croesus was usually no friend to the poor, for the fortunes of wealthy men always rely on the poverty of the many. Yet, when confronted with a supplicant face to face, he was invariably moved to pity, and would pronounce the most generous judgement that he could.

He listened attentively to the first visitors, but grew drowsy and distracted as the day drew on. The business of politics was mainly conducted after dark, at the dinner tables and in the private rooms of the nobles, and he had to be well rested to keep his wits about him at these late-night encounters. His illness fatigued him, and the heat from the braziers and the weight of his ceremonial robes proved too much. He was fast asleep for the last set of supplicants.

Yet judgement continued without interruption. As Croesus drifted off, a courtier stepped forward beside him. This courtier listened to the particulars of each plea, leaned down and pretended to listen to the king, and then gave the royal verdict. In mimicking his lord, he always erred on the side of generosity and clemency. The guards moved closer to the crowd and kept a watchful eye for any who might be tempted to point and laugh and spoil the illusion, but few ever did. They needed to believe in the benevolence of the king more than anyone.

The noise of the departing crowd woke Croesus. He had fallen asleep leaning on his left arm, and as he sat up he began to massage it back to life. Seeing that the hall was empty of outsiders, he took off the heavy ornamental crown and rolled his head back and forth to relieve the cramp in his neck. Beneath this gold headpiece, a narrow silver band remained in place tight against his scalp so that his royal status was not compromised. This hidden crown never left his head, even when he slept, bathed, or lay with a woman.

Croesus beckoned his personal slave forward, a short, powerfully built man with a shaven head.

‘I fell asleep again, Isocrates.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Were there any problems?’

‘No, master.’

‘I wish I could stay awake, but. .’ He shrugged.

‘The demands of state. It is understandable, master. But the system works — the people get their judgements either way.’

‘I’ve heard that in some of the kingdoms to the east, the king is considered a god that mere mortals are not permitted to see.’

‘The idea appeals to you, master?’

‘On days like this it does. I could build a wall of black obsidian with a terrifying face of gold — the face of a god king. I would hold these sessions as usual. Someone else could pass judgement and speak through the mask on my behalf, and I could sleep comfortably on a couch somewhere. What do you think?’

‘With respect, master, I doubt if it would go well for you.’

‘Oh? Why not? Speak freely.’

‘They don’t come this far just for your blessing. They come to see you.’

‘How touching.’

‘Besides, they are mostly farmers, wise to a showman’s tricks. They accept that you might doze off, but I would be careful of taking it any further.’

Croesus gave the slave an amused glance. ‘You make it sound as though it is the people who choose to keep me on the throne.’

Isocrates gave a low bow. ‘My mistake, master.’

‘That’s quite all right. But I suspect you may be correct, as usual. It is one of your most irritating habits. Try to be wrong more often.’

A smile twitched across the slave’s lips. ‘I will do my best, master.’

‘Well,’ Croesus continued, ‘if I do build my golden face, I promise that you shall speak for me. You’ve a much more kingly voice than I do. Deep, resonant, powerful,’ Croesus said, and ticked off each of these qualities on a finger as he spoke. ‘Your mouth was born to command, Isocrates, even if the rest of you is destined to serve.’ Isocrates politely bowed his head in acknowledgement of his master’s wit. ‘Now, why don’t you go see what that messenger wants?’ The king gestured towards the entrance of the throne room. ‘He has been hovering around for some time now, but hasn’t had the nerve to come forward and speak to me.’

‘I expect he is too intimidated to interrupt you, master.’

‘You’d better relieve him of his burden.’

The messenger delivered his message to the slave, shot a single brief glance at the king, then hurried from the chamber.