Tim Leach - The Last King of Lydia

‘I see,’ said Cyrus. ‘That is all?’

‘Yes. I thought of him, up there. I thought of what he had said to me, and thought what an awful thing it was to die, having wasted your life.’

‘Your life has been a waste, then?’

‘Yes.’

There was silence for a time. Behind him, Cyrus’s entourage began to fidget and shiver in the cold. The general, Harpagus, tried to catch his king’s eye, to seek some direction or order, but Cyrus seemed to be in no hurry to do or say anything.

Eventually, Croesus looked up and asked, ‘What are your men doing in the city?’

‘I should think they are taking everything you own.’

‘No. I own nothing now,’ Croesus said, absently. ‘They are robbing you.’

Cyrus laughed. ‘True enough. I hadn’t thought of that. What should I do?’

Croesus looked up at the king, expecting to see a mocking smile on the other man’s face, but Cyrus seemed quite serious. ‘You cannot simply take it from them,’ Croesus said. ‘They might rebel against you. And you can’t let them pillage as they please. One of them might grow rich and powerful enough to be dangerous to you.’

‘A conundrum.’

‘Yes. So put some men you trust at each gate of the city, and as your men leave with their treasure, demand that they donate a tenth to the Gods who have given them victory. That is what I would do. They can’t argue with giving a share to the Gods.’

‘And should I take this gold that they surrender at the gates for myself?’

‘That is your decision. I don’t know how pious you are.’

Cyrus smiled, a fractional lift of one corner of his mouth. ‘You chose poorly in going to war against me,’ he said. ‘But, still, I think you are wise.’

Croesus shook his head. ‘You are wrong. No wise man chooses war.’ He looked away. ‘In times of peace, sons bury their fathers. In times of war, fathers bury their sons.’

‘Perhaps your war has taught you something, then. You could be of use to me.’

‘As a slave?’

‘We Persians aren’t as fond as you are of taking slaves. But there are exceptions. You are a danger to me as a free man.’ The Persian paused. ‘Perhaps one day you will earn your freedom again.’

Croesus said nothing in response. Cyrus continued: ‘I will grant you a boon of your choosing.’

‘Why?’

‘It is the custom. I even granted Astyages a boon when he entered my service.’

Croesus looked up sharply, and Cyrus nodded to him. ‘Yes, when I overthrew your brother king, I spared his life, despite all he had done to my people. He too became my slave.’

‘I don’t see him with you today. Did he displease you? I don’t think I will last long in this court of yours. I would rather die now, than have you keep me like a dog and murder me on a whim.’

‘You are mistaken. He did not die by my hand, but by his own.’ Cyrus shrugged. ‘I gave him no reason. So long as you are loyal to me, Croesus, you shall live. Come, what favour can I grant you?’

Croesus thought. He thought of his treasury, that all those years before had once contained an infinity of desires. He had never thought he would be reduced to one command, to have the power to perform just a single action before his freedom was taken. And yet, now it was offered to him, there was only one thing he found that he wanted.

‘Let my wife be spared slavery,’ he said eventually. ‘And take good care of my son.’

‘You would like her by your side, I presume?’

‘No. Let her go to the temples, or marry again if that is what she wants. I want her to be free. That is all I ask.’

Cyrus nodded, and conferred with his advisors. One of them glanced uneasily at Croesus, shook his head, and leaned in to whisper a message to the Persian king. Croesus watched, and covered his face with his hands.

‘I will take care of your son, Croesus. Your wife is dead,’ Cyrus said.

‘How?’ Croesus said, without raising his head.

‘She jumped from the palace walls as the city was being taken.’

‘Yes,’ said Croesus slowly. ‘She would choose that.’ He shut his eyes against the tears, but they still flowed through.

Cyrus paused. ‘Have an hour. Then you may request another boon.’ The Persian king looked Croesus over. ‘Did the fire hurt you?

Croesus reached a hand towards his burned feet. ‘Yes, a little,’ he said.

‘Who was your personal slave?’

‘He is called Isocrates. I don’t know if he survived the fighting.’

Cyrus smiled. ‘Slaves are great survivors; they tend to outlive their masters in a time of war. That is how they became slaves in the first place — by living when they should have died. I shall see if he can be found.’

Cyrus turned and spoke to his servants in Persian. One of them bowed, and pointed to the other side of the courtyard. Cyrus laughed, and turned back to Croesus.

‘He is here. You see? Already he is making himself useful to me. A clever slave indeed.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Isocrates!’

Croesus watched the slave come forward and bow at another man’s command. ‘How can I serve, master?’

‘Tend his wounds.’

Isocrates bowed again. ‘Yes, master.’

Cyrus turned to go, but looked back, snapped his fingers to one of his guards and beckoned him forward. He took the man’s cloak from him, tossed it to Croesus, and began to walk away.

‘Cyrus?’

The Persian king turned back. ‘Yes?’

‘What will you tell them? The people, I mean. As to why you put out the pyre. Won’t they take your change of heart as weakness?’

‘You are correct.’ Cyrus looked up at the clear sky and smiled. ‘We shall say a god put the fire out. Who could argue with that? I think it might even be true.’

Croesus wrapped the cloak tightly around him, for the comfort as much as for the warmth, and watched his new master walk away.

‘I shall not dress your feet for you,’ Isocrates said after the king had gone, ‘because I’m not your slave any more. Do you understand?’ Croesus stared sightlessly at the smouldering pyre, and nodded.

‘You must learn to understand and to act quickly,’ Isocrates continued. ‘Things will not be repeated for you. If you make the wrong choice, or you don’t understand, you will die.’

‘You make it sound like being a hunted animal.’

‘That is not far from the truth.’

‘What were you doing here, when Cyrus called for you?’

‘Pouring sand on that fire.’

‘So you saved my life?’ Croesus shook his head. ‘How touching.’

‘I also helped stack the wood this morning to burn you. So don’t be sentimental.’

Croesus looked down at the marks the heated chains had left on his arms. ‘Will I always be marked like this?’ he said.

Isocrates looked briefly, with little interest. ‘No. They will heal.’

‘But I will always be a slave.’

‘Yes. You serve at the pleasure of your master, now. Don’t forget it.’ Another man came with a poultice and bandages, and Isocrates took them from him. ‘Now,’ he said to Croesus, ‘watch what I do.’

Croesus watched as Isocrates demonstrated how to apply the poultice and the bandage, listened as the slave described what herbs went into the wrapping and what they did. When the other man had finished, he made a passable effort at wrapping his feet himself. The bandages were clumsy, but they did not unravel, and he repeated the effects of the herbs first time. He winced at the pain as he wrapped his feet, but did not cry out.

Isocrates nodded in approval. ‘Not bad. And that is good enough. For now, at least.’

‘Cyrus thinks I am a wise man,’ Croesus said. ‘That is why he is keeping me alive.’

Isocrates said nothing.