Tim Leach: The Last King of Lydia

‘What was our nervous friend’s message?’

‘Solon of Athens has arrived at the court, master, and requests an audience with the king of Lydia.’

‘Does he now!’ Croesus picked at his lips with his thumb. ‘I didn’t think the old man would ever respond to my invitation.’

‘In which room should we receive him?’

‘For an Athenian? The Marble Room, of course.’

‘Might it be better to show him something he has never seen before? Perhaps the Emerald Room?’

‘Oh, no. They are a proud people, the Athenians. They don’t think much of us. If we show him the Emerald Room, he’ll think it gaudy. Barbarous excess. Marble is the only beauty these people respect.’

‘I bow before your wisdom, master,’ said Isocrates.

He turned to the court, clapped his hands together, and as one the courtiers and slaves stopped what they were doing and prepared to move.

Many travellers came to Croesus’s court, and all testified to its grandeur, yet each returned to tell a different story. Some said the throne room was a splendid chamber where every surface seemed to be etched with gold, others that it was filled with crystal lamps and lined with polished stone so that the air seemed to catch fire with reflected light. When two such travellers met in a distant land, a fierce argument would inevitably break out, each insisting that he had seen the true throne room of Sardis and decrying the other as a liar.

In truth, the palace at Sardis held many throne rooms, and every few months, one would be stripped and redecorated. It was an endless, opulent carousel that each visitor saw but once. The stories spread, echoed and contradicted one another, and some visitors even described throne rooms that had never existed. They told of impossible architecture, doors that opened through magic or automation, thrones that hovered in mid air, the humblest courtier dripping in gold like a king. When these stories made their way back to Croesus, he was well pleased. He desired a place in myth, not in history.

Within a matter of minutes, the entire court had relocated to a starkly beautiful marble hall, the perfect white stone shipped all the way from Attica at colossal expense. Ministers sat at their desks hard at work, courtiers stood in groups and laughed and gossiped, sculptors and architects debated aesthetics, and slaves moved amongst them all, dispensing food and wine, listening closely for a chance item of gossip that might win favour with their masters. No one would have suspected, on entering this throne room, that they had all been there only for moments rather than for hours. The courtiers were accustomed to such changes. On busy days with many visitors, they would all move from room to room half a dozen times before the day’s work was done.

Croesus went into an antechamber to prepare himself. He changed into a robe the colour of bone, and his attendants pulled the emerald and sapphire rings from his fingers and replaced them with finely patterned silver bands. He waited patiently as one of his slave women powdered and repainted his face. Once he had inspected himself in a polished stone and found the reflection to his liking, he entered the new throne room. He took his place on the marble throne and made a small gesture to the slave at the door.

‘Solon of Athens! Philosopher, statesman, and poet!’

The doors opened, and Croesus observed a small, shrunken old man make his way carefully into the throne room. The king noted the way his visitor walked tenderly on his gout-ridden feet, took in the simple robes that he wore, the absence of gold at his wrists and neck. A man with no fortune, or one who had purposefully taken on the appearance of the sage, the beggar, Solon could indeed have been mistaken for a vagabond, except that his eyes were sharp and alive with thought, and he politely greeted the members of the court with a politician’s easy grace.

Croesus descended the steps of the throne with his arms outspread. ‘Such a distinguished visitor honours my humble court, Solon.’ He embraced the Athenian and kissed him. ‘You must be weary from your travels-’

‘Yes.’

Croesus blinked in surprise, but continued ‘-so rest with me at this table and take-’

‘Do you mind if I relieve myself first?’ Solon said.

Croesus stared. ‘What?’

The old man smiled. ‘My insides aren’t as spacious as they used to be, I’m afraid. They have shrunk, like the rest of me. As they command, so I must obey.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘Nature.’

A titter passed through the room. ‘Of course,’ Croesus said. ‘My apologies.’

‘My thanks, good king, my most humble thanks.’

Isocrates led the Athenian to a doorway at the far end of the throne room. Solon opened the door and put his head inside without entering. He shuffled back to the table and resumed his seat opposite Croesus.

Croesus frowned. ‘Is something wrong?’ the king asked.

‘Forgive my little deception.’ He smiled. ‘I have heard such stories of your wealth. I wanted to see if even your chamber pot was made of gold.’

Laughter again, and it showed no sign of abating. Croesus chose to smile magnanimously.

‘A good trick. Very fine. Will you sit and take some wine?’

‘I will. My thanks.’

Solon sat and drank, propping his tender feet on a stool, and Croesus waited for him to speak. To observe the splendour of the court, to enquire about the king’s family, or any of the other customary greetings. Solon said nothing.

Eventually, Croesus broke the silence. ‘I am honoured to have you visit my court. Truly honoured. They say you are the wisest man in the world.’

‘Do they?’ Solon said absently. ‘You see, I have always been puzzled by these people, “they”. They seem to hold all kinds of strange opinions, everyone claims to be speaking on their behalf, yet when you want to talk to them,’ he leaned forward, gesturing theatrically around the throne room, ‘they are never to be found.’ Croesus laughed politely. Solon continued, ‘“They” say you are the richest man in the world.’

‘If they say that, you can trust their opinion. They do not lie in my case, and so I assume they are truthful in yours. .’

Solon shrugged. ‘A flawed assumption. But a comforting one.’

Croesus cleared his throat. ‘You have had a long journey?’

‘Long and unpleasant. I’m really much too old for this sort of thing.’

‘Well, we shall try and keep you entertained.’

‘Oh, I am sure you will try.’ This provoked another little laugh, quickly stifled, from somewhere in the crowd.

Croesus said nothing in response. He leaned forward and looked closely at his guest, his eyes narrowed.

Solon bowed his head. ‘Perhaps there is a place where we could speak privately?’

‘There is a balcony with a fine view that I was planning to show you, after a tour of the treasuries. The tour is customary, but perhaps you would rather-’

‘No, no. My feet ache, but I would like to see your treasures. Please, do show me. I came here for two things — to see the famous riches of Lydia, and to meet the man who possesses that wealth. Would you indulge an old man?’

‘Very well.’ Croesus rose abruptly and walked towards the stairwell. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, and said, as though in a challenge, ‘You will not forget what you are about to see.’

They ascended the stairs to the upper levels of the palace, and passed through a set of silver doors, then a set of gold doors. Finally, they reached the maze of the treasuries.

The first room was given over to the treasures of lands conquered by Croesus — enormous gold bowls etched with the histories of nations, the crude crowns of barbarians and the intricate sceptres of richer peoples, all now overthrown and subject to Lydia. The second room was dedicated to the artefacts of Lydia itself — marble sculptures of gods and goddesses, carved ivories and intricate golden jewellery. At the centre stood a statue of a horseman with a scarlet breastplate and black braided hair, a member of the invincible cavalry that had won Croesus his empire.